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This flash fiction piece was featured in AACC’s Amaranth journal: Edition 47. I feel it’s a fitting time to release it to the masses since they don’t currently provide it online or plan on printing more.

The Next Right Thing

By Eric Levy

“Good morning, my angel!” I cheer, as I make my way down the steep, narrow staircase of our one-bedroom rental. Better try and set the tone for a good day early, I figure. “I’ve got some good news, something that could really help us out right now.”

“Can it wait until after the meeting? I had the same dream again,” Tracy says, as I make my way into the kitchen. Her voice, dull and deeply worrying—wrapped in a layer of disbelief. She stares around the room, trying not to relive it again by thinking. “How long until you start feeling better!?”

“It takes time, it will never leave you entirely; it most certainly gets easier, though,” I say, while picking up her chin and making eye contact. I steal a quick kiss to remind her that I’m right here. “But thankfully we’ve got that on our side, as well as a bit of luck! I got an email from Ms. Leslie, the boss’s secretary, saying that The President is going to direct deposit $1000 to each federal worker and each of their family member’s bank accounts if we provide him with proof that we’ve gotten a vaccine for this virus. I know, I know! We were going to wait to see if it turned everyone into zombies or not but $2000 could really help get us out of this hole we’re in,” I say in a hopeful voice, trying to be strong for her. Who knows what this vaccine will do to us?

“Can we just take our Suboxone, and I’ll think about it in the car?” she replies, not in the mood for, well, anything. She gets out a small, wooden lockbox with the date 11/26 scorched into it and takes out two tiny, flat, white and blue envelopes. I don’t fully understand why, but both Tracy and Richard haven’t touched the stuff since listening to me share my Truth on one of my anniversaries. They say you shouldn’t date others that are early in recovery; so, I denied her advances and kept things friendly for roughly 9 months before we even kissed. I’m terrified I’ll mess up and ruin her too. We watch each other take our medicine every morning; crossing arms while watching each other put the orange, toilet cleaner tasting strips under our tongues; it’s certainly not the way for everyone but it’s been working for us (although I have a lengthy clean time, I take a small piece so we both know I won’t use). We’re just trying to do the next right thing. Our usual meeting is about 15 minutes away, which gives us enough time to sit in silence and let the medicine absorb sublingually.

When we arrive in the parking lot, Tracy gets out to greet her friends without a mention of my proposal. On the way in I notice my sponsee, Richard, overtly get out of his car and speed-walk into the church—a raincoat with an oversized hood covers his face, as if he had just joined a school for witches and wizards. There is something about these “weirdos” that just feels so normal to me.

The meeting is filled with the usual banter, doughnuts, and one new member that will, statistically, never come back. On the way out, Tracy stops to talk to her friends; I walk over to Richard, who is already at his car. “Hey man, you got the runs or something?” I jokingly prod, “Where are you headed off to so fast? Not even a hug?”

He pulls his hood down over his forehead, leaving only a shadowy outline of his face available for public viewing—a mask covering what remained. “Hey Justin! The runs! You’re always joking, no-no! I’m fine, just feeling a bit anxious today. I’m sure it will pass over soon like everything else has. I’m looking forward to celebrating with you and Tracy—I couldn’t have done any of it without you, thank you for always listening to me blather about my crazy family and love problems, really,” he says, getting choked up a bit.

“That is amazing! But don’t ever forget, you took all the steps and made all the changes. You did all that my brother! I just got to help watch over you, we all help each other, the feelings are more mutual than I think you’re aware,” I say, as I give him an elbow-bump. “Tracy and I are about to grab lunch, come with us!”

“I’m going to have to take a raincheck, I’m going to take a nap and wait for this anxiety to pass, next Tuesday for sure!” he says with a nervous laugh, edging backwards towards his car.

“Okay, well…” I start to say, but stop, as our conversational awkwardness is blissfully halted by Tracy.

“Hey babe, ready to go?” she says, while waving bye to Richard as he backs up quickly and leaves. “What was that about?”

“I’m really not sure, I’m worried about him. We’ve all got an anniversary coming up soon and you know how that can be, thinking thoughts no sane entity would ever want to think.”

“He should be proud. I know I am! Of all of us!” she gleefully proclaims.

“Yeah, things aren’t always so simple. I just hope he doesn’t do anything stupid or hasn’t already,” I say, looking up at a beautiful cream-blue sky, then back down into the same color eyes; this is my home. My phone vibrates. “Well, I guess the boss was serious, they scheduled appointments for us today at three o’clock at the Naval Academy. I guess those are the perks of waiting to get the vaccine, $1000 each and no lines! Let’s get some lunch and then we will go over.”

After some heated discussion, we mutually agree on going to the Amish Market. After some pretzel logs, juice, and triangles of assorted cheeses and snacks to eat while we cuddle later tonight, we head over to the vaccination location.

Upon entering, we are separated by volunteers and asked basic health questions. We get the shot, take our card (and a sweet sticker), and sit down for 15 minutes to make sure we have no ill reaction. Tracy and I look at each other and roll our eyes at the same time. Upon the uncrossing of my eyes, I notice Ms. Leslie talking to some official looking gentlemen near the entrance of a tent, which leads to a small plastic through-way. She notices that I see her and motions for me to come over. I tap Tracy on the hand to get her attention and take hold of it as we walk over to see what this could be about.

“Greetings, I see the two of you had no immediate reaction? That’s great, we told you it was nothing to concern yourselves over,” Ms. Leslie nonchalantly mentions, as she waves her hand for us to follow her, the official looking men follow behind us all.

“We’re cool,” I calmly respond, my mind engaged primarily in taking in every bit of my surroundings. “May I ask what’s going on? I assumed they would direct deposit the money.”

“Right through here, please.” One of the black suits directs us with a bow, a fake kindness about his voice makes the hairs on my neck stand.

We enter a glass-walled chamber which fills with a thick smog that smells like a cherry cough drop. After a few moments, the cloud is vacuumed out of the chamber, and the next door opens. The President sits, feet up on the fancy wooden desk in front of him, and says, “Hello! My fellow Americans! Mr. Justin Bravo, I would like to personally thank you and your family for your continued service.”

I notice a flicker in his pants leg that looks a bit like when a computer lags; what did they just inject us with? What did they just spray us with?

“Please have a seat,” The President says with kind eyes, as he takes his ‘legs’ down and turns back towards a computer screen.

“The President is quite busy but has come here to personally offer you and Tracy full immunity and continued service within our government,” Ms. Leslie says, as she takes over the conversation without missing a beat; reminiscent of when the animatronics stop at Chuck-E-Cheese’s, and some poor soul came wiggling out of the back singing a most insincere ‘Happy Birthday.’ “The vaccine you and the rest of the US citizens have received is not as effective as advertised—essentially a test of your dedication to our great country and its cause, which we’re glad to see you pass with stars and stripes! The real matter at hand is we have an extremely limited number of a vastly more effective vaccine. We would like to offer you both a dose, as well as an added $25,000 each to remind you of the NDA you signed when you took on the job, and that it applies to your family.”

Tracy taps the inside of my palm with her ring finger. “What if we decline?” I respond, without fully thinking of my future or what that kind of money could do for our lives.

“You won’t be fired, but you won’t be able to come back to work tomorrow morning,” Ms. Leslie says, staring directly into the center of my eyes. Tracy turns to leave; I follow her lead. Ms. Leslie and two of the black suits tail us out of the back exit, and out into the parking lot. “We just want what’s best for you and your family, Mr. Bravo. I hope you’ll reconsider before the deadline,” Ms. Leslie half-shouts, as we get into Tracy’s car.

We pull out of the makeshift driveway marked by white tape, driving in silence for a few moments before Tracy breaks the almost ineffable stream of thoughts running through my head with, “That guy is an asshat!”

“The President?” I say, now even more confused.

“No, that gu…” She starts, but stops, eyes now squinted. “Is that Richard!?”

“RICHARD!?” I shout at a man walking fast, in a very familiar fashion—covered in hives, two silicone butt-cheeks secured firmly to his head with what one could only assume is superglue of some sort.

Richard reaches for his hood, realizes it’s way too late for that, and shamefully utters, “I, uh, lost a bet.”

“Get in the car you freak, we have cheese!” Tracy screams at him.

Maybe I’ll go back to college and finish my degree, who cares. If everyone in this world can’t have the same opportunities, us weirdos will shape our own.