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The Lost
a novel 
by P. H. Madorecopyright notice: DO NOT FUCKING STEAL MY WORK, I WILL KILLYOU. COPYRIGHT 2005-FOREVER P. H. Madoresee freemadore.info for more information about the author
 “
In any case, no regrets!”--Parisian Grafitti, May 1968
Chapter One
12/2/06
He knew it was a bad idea. Even as he thought it, he fought it. His body,though, was giving him no other option. He was in the middle of New YorkCity. He'd be in more trouble if he stopped and went in an alley. Few thingswent unnoticed anymore with cameras everywhere. Where there wasn'tsurveillance, there were cash rewards for all who reported crimes, varyingamounts depending on the crime. And he'd have to answer the question asto why he did not use a public restroom, they were everywhere. Which waswhat he didn't see a choice about doing.On 55
th
Street he stopped his little Honda outside a McDonald's, rushedin, and found on the men's room door a sign that read: “Patrons
must 
makea purchase before using this facility.” A little electronic slot near the knobsupported a much smaller sign: “Insert Receipt Here.” He felt his bladder beginning to explode in protest to this artificial delay.Pain danced through his veins. His legs gained an odd strength from jugularweakness. Digging into pockets, he whispered the serenity prayer quickly,hoping he had some cash having canceled all his credit cards two monthsbefore. Somehow he always managed to get by in spite of having committedthat unthinkable crime against consumerism, but right now money wasimperative. He came out with a bill, a five, which had been neatly folded sixtimes. He smiled at the irony of feeding the problem at hand further bypurchasing a soft drink.The shop wasn't busy and, as he'd hoped, the small drink was four-ninety-eight after more than a dollar in tax. He tried to walk calmly awayfrom the counter when he realized he'd not gotten a receipt to use for thebathroom. He nearly screamed hurrying back to the register where hereturned the sweating paper cup to the counter. The McWorker addressedhim in the same fashion he had before, as if he had not just purchased thedrink less than a minute before. “May I help you, sir?” 
 
 “I just told you, I need a receipt for this Coke!” he shouted, even thoughhe had not said anything. He was under a barrage of stressors, and the truthwasn't as important.The employee carried on his act of having never seen the man. He heldthe cup up and said, “I need
areceipt 
, any receipt,” then he heard himself shouting, as if an out-of-body experience were occurring: “so I can use yourfilthy bathroom you stupid sonofabitch!” He readied himself to toss the drinkif the kid did not comply, at least go out with some
real 
noise.The McWorker's eyes widened as he said, “Oh, you mean
that 
small Coke.Right. I apologize, sir, I'm tired is all,” he said, handing him a receipt.Not bothering to show false gratitude, he hobbled without his drink to thebathroom and jammed the receipt in the slot. The door buzzed and he pulledit, rushing inside.A sign posted above the urinal seemed to demand he read it, fearfully as hemay have during the long drainage that soon ensued.
In order to flush thisurinal you must hold your thumb pad down to the button located to theright.
He had no need to wonder why.A simple solution came to him as he zipped his pants and walked awayfrom the urinal, deciding not even to wash his hands, and made his way tothe door. He just wouldn't flush. Why hadn't anyone thought of this? It didn'tsay anywhere that one was obligated to flush, so do it when it was such asuperb risk?Except it did, he found in dismay, read exactly that on the inside of thedoor he had worked so hard to open.
Door will not open unless toilet hasbeen flushed and sink has been used.
 “Fuck,” he said, and did as was required, thinking as he left therestaurant of the two choices he now assumed were in front of him: fugitivestatus in this alien world he seemed to re-awaken in each day, or thestandard three-year prison sentence.
Chapter Two
7/13/06
He didn't have much time because there would soon be a knock on his door.Leaving McDonald's, he wondered if the DEA wouldn't be at his door whenhe got home. He'd heard that in the three years since the passage of the “Public Protection Act” that testing of urine samples had gone from takingtwelve hours down to taking less than three.Many of his friends had been nailed the same way he was sure he was aboutto be, by a lapse in judgment via the use of a public restroom. Obviouslythey would have him on use, barring a fluke. If he was quick enough hecould prevent the use charge from doubling up with one of possession.He had two options. He could go home, dispose of all his contraband (hislarge stash of pot, which he had been dealing on the side; his bag of coke;all his pipes and papers) and wait for the agents to arrive. The mandatory
 
sentence for use of any drug had become two years in prison and aminimum year in Narcotics Anonymous (a program which, through federalfunding, now had branches everywhere, and was anything butanonymous—one was required to surrender identification before beingallowed into the mandatory meetings). Two years for a stupid mistake, hefelt his heart sinking as he lit a cigarette on the drive home.Or, he could run. Go home, collect all the basics, and move to Canada. Rightthen he remembered the recent introduction, widely hailed as “the biggeststep toward a drug-free America since the start of the drug war,” of thenational watchlist database to which all people caught in the test net wereautomatically added. This meant that not only would they probably not lethim through the border, which had in recent years been securely bolsteredwith much weaponry, but that if he tried he would be asking to be caught. “Fuck,” he said aloud, thinking of the fake thumb prints he'd had a chance tobuy some months before. He had passed on these underground freedomaids, which only cost twenty dollars per box of ten, thinking,
I'm not stupid enough to get caught that way.
If only he'd bought some, he wouldn't beworrying right now. It was only a couple weeks later a rat had exposed theoperation and the local news had talked about the nabbing of “the least-common user's accomplice.” His apartment waited in Brooklyn, where the police had opened a station forevery two blocks since the re-bolstering of the drug war in '09. Arepresentative group of the DEA had been placed in nearly every policestation throughout the country, regardless of state drug laws or localfeelings about the war, since the organization had become the secondlargest piece of the federal budget pie under President Jeb Bush, topped onlyby the Defense Department. During that same term, the Department of Education had fallen a few more notches, now ranking higher than a selectfew, the Environmental Protection Agency being its closest competition.He parked his car next to a passed out junkie doomed for prison, aforeboding image he'd carry with him as the rain fell and he rushed into theground floor, got on the elevator, and was driven fearfully to his apartmenton the thirteenth floor. He fumbled his keys in the elevator, dropped themtwice. He bolted from it to his apartment at the end of the hallway, anddropped his keys again as tremors came over him in attempting to unlockhis door. He wanted to shout something as a means of release.Inside he set immediately to flushing his drugs down the toilet, deciding he'dsave one fat joint and smoke it before being detained. If they were going tonail him, he figured, he might as well make it worth the time. He felt quitesure it would be his last chance to feel good for the next six months. Hestretched the paper over a sweating left index and forefinger, crushed theplucked hydroponic buds with his right hand, rolled as a professional,carefully tucked it into his breast pocket as he watched the rest of the bagswirl down the toilet feeling relief and dismay.
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