Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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“Technology,” exclaimed Dr. Elliot S. Bluefinger with considerable gusto, “is here to stay.”
I was in Bluefinger’s Buick, amidst a jungle of shopping centers and gas stations. We had just rolled off Interstate 90 from the airport. “It is senseless to try to change what the environment has become,” said Bluefinger, with a wave of his hand. “But man must live in his environment. So our solution is simple. We alter the digestive system, replace it with a treatment plant. Then anybody can eat cars, cement, you name it.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say. I am a staunch believer in the amazing things science can do.
Looming ahead of us is the stark silhouette of the International Technology Memorial Hospital and Retrofitting Center.
There is a faint aroma in the air of baking bread and burnt brakes as we spin into the parking lot.
Bluefinger takes me immediately to the cafeteria. I notice a newspaper stand and a headline, CHIMPS STRIKE.
“Asphalt with Chinese vegetables is on the menu today,” says Bluefinger proudly. There is a huge buffet of asphalt lumps tastefully placed on beds of what appear to be sprouted Mung beans. Hundreds of people, of all ages and dispositions, are gobbling away.
“For dinner we’re having transmission parts and marinara sauce and for those who prefer, sparkplugs and spaghetti,” Bluefinger says.
He walks me over to a vending machine, drops in a quarter, and out comes a can of enriched transmission fluid. “There’s more Vitamin C in this stuff than in a thousand orange juices. Would you like a sip?” It tasted very much like floor wax.
Bluefinger said I’d be interested “in a smorgasbord going on in our Family Suite upstairs” — an entire family gorging itself on a bus. “Busses are particularly tasty,” he said.
I had been interested in doing an article about International Technology Memorial ever since I came upon a young man on the streets of New York munching on a bumper.
It was a warm day in the city and I was most intrigued by Melvin’s comment that the bumper refreshed. Later, he began chewing on pieces of sidewalk.
“Our graduates,” said Bluefinger, “are not just city folk.” Indeed, he said, some people who’ve gone through digestive retrofitting live in the country and go hunting for wild Pontiacs, and after a day of searching return with a drive shaft on their backs for their family to eat.
We were back in Bluefinger’s office. He was having a coffee break, coffee and brakes.
“Yes, we must all again live off the land. Ecology is not a dirty word. It is the formula of any age.”
“In fact,” I confessed, “as a youth I liked to eat yellow crayons.”
“You may want to come here for an . . .” Bluefinger hesitated, “an adjustment.” I said possibly after I did my piece, although I explained I am of the Jewish faith and unsure as to whether cars are kosher.