The Celestra Variations by John Searcy
FIRST COMMERCIAL
We open on a montage of people from all walks of life. They are good people. American people. Although they are diverse in terms of ethnicity, no attempt is made to draw attention to their diversity. We sense that these are simply the types of people who are. Who exist. Who live in this country at this particular time in history. We see the lines in their faces, little details of their bodies. Their movements are steady, underscored by experience. We can project backward in time to picture younger versions of these people, imagine the lives that have been lived.
The people, we notice, are engaged in activities. Or rather, they are preparing for activities whose details are not yet clear to us. They are parking at lakes. They are preparing large breakfasts. We sense that these people have lives that are better than ours, but only slightly better than ours. In our hearts, we could be these people. These smiles could be our smiles. These hopes, these expectations. A woman laughs as she arranges fruit on a large ceramic platter. We don’t know why she is laughing. Her inner world is a mystery we can never quite penetrate. Her dreams, we can scarcely imagine.
As these scenarios unfold, a voice speaks to us about the benefits of Celestra. Celestra, the voice explains, is a new treatment for a formerly debilitating condition. The condition is not described in detail. It’s implied that those who have this condition are already familiar with its horrors, and in any case the entire point of Celestra is that we’re now moving past that, past the world of symptoms and check-ups, anxious thoughts, sleepless nights, and into a world exemplified by the people we’re seeing – who are now fully absorbed in their respective activities. A couple rows matching kayaks. A man swings a golf club. The breakfast, now prepared, is set outdoors on a table, lined by representatives of many generations. The old and the young. Democrats, Republicans. Everyone is joined together now. Everyone is talking, making jokes, passing salt and maple syrup. The couple kayaks toward the sunset. The man watches his golf ball arc a path toward the horizon. There’s a sense of deep achievement, extending beyond the game to life itself, this man’s ability to live it, free of pain, free of worry, doing the things he loves without fear or apology. Smiling lines crease his face. A friendly pat from his partner. We assume he has scored a hole in one.
SECOND COMMERCIAL
Again, we see people. They are not literally the same people we saw before, but they seem to be connected, part of the same story, the same general increase in happiness and well-being. A wave of vigor that is sweeping the land. As we’ve come to expect, the people are engaged in activities, but this time the activities are more intense and demanding. One might go so far as to call them extreme. A woman stands near a plane, getting fitted for a parachute. A man wades through a storm toward a course of muddy obstacles. A group of young people, bearing ropes, approaches a towering, sheer face of rock. We sense that these people engage fiercely with reality. They are not afraid of danger, do not shirk from confrontation. They seek always to challenge themselves, as if the ordinary challenges of life are not enough for them – are too easily overcome, too readily dispatched. These people crave more. More struggle, more sensation. The rough touch of clouds. The kiss of barbed wire as they push through a barrier. We do not share these urges, as we watch from our living rooms, but we respect them. We envy them. What would it be like to be so thirsty, so powerful? To grab the surface of rock like the skin of a lover, to mount it, to make it our own?
As before, a voice speaks in general terms about Celestra. The benefits it brings. The enhanced type of lifestyle it allows one to access. It’s implied that Celestra does more than simply cure you of ailments. It brings you into a state of elevated health, one that goes far beyond the simple absence of pain, the elimination of defects. This is an active health, a wild health – a health that is hungry to know itself, to feel itself. With Celestra, you too might wish to swing from this rope, to jump from this plane, feel the cold rush of death as the world surges toward you, the yawing patchwork of highways and farms. Will the woman pull the cord? At first, we’re not sure. Her face implies strange intentions. Perhaps she is seeking a greater thrill, a deeper thrill – the embrace of the void that others shy away from. She will become one with the earth, bones merged with soil, organs strewn across cornfields. And she wants it, how she wants it, this final smash and consummation. You can see it in her eyes, through the cheap plastic goggles. She wants the dark spice of life, which is synonymous with its ending. Close it looms, ever closer. Then, at the last moment, appears the lemon-colored parachute. She drifts slowly down. The earth lifts to meet her. We are witness to the release of held breath.
THIRD COMMERCIAL
There is something in the air. Things are the same, but they are different. We are confronted once again by a montage of humanity, but the people we see are somber, determined, as if saddled by some great responsibility. They march as if to war, bearing arms, bearing witness. A man packs a bag full of guns with high-capacity magazines. A pair of women fill a van with pipes and household chemicals. Engines start. Music swells. We sense that a reckoning is at hand. The people drive across the country. Through their windshields pass landscapes that are familiar yet strange—burned-out buildings, tortured skylines. Strangled trees clutching roots to stony soil. The people sigh and shake their heads, advancing slowly in their vehicles. Who has done this to the world? Who shall face their awful justice? Far away, not yet seen, lurk the objects of their anger: the frail and the weak. Those whose judgment is compromised by syndromes, conditions. These unhealthy people are the ones who have done this. Their illness has metastasized across the land.
Ask your doctor, says a voice. Ask them now, ask them often. Ask your doctor if Celestra is right for you. The voice discusses side effects, but we don’t concern ourselves with side effects. Such concerns are the province of the small and feeble-minded. We are concerned now with the fight. With the great wheels of history. We watch as these trucks, as these vans, roll through towns and broken suburbs. We see great waving flags. We see youths run to join them. Let all who are brave join this motley procession. Let these vans be a home for all good-hearted people. The voice speaks of a bright future, a better world waiting to have us. A kingdom of rude, endless life. One by one, vans descend upon the homes of the unhealthy. Doors are kicked in. Pills are forced into throats. Those who resist are dealt with in the way they must be dealt with – corralled into yards, lined up against walls, sudden blooms bursting red on aluminum siding, empty shells raining down onto grass. The scene is repeated in a range of environments: city parks, high-school gyms. Bodies piled upon bodies. On the streets of downtown, we see the face of the woman who was once making breakfast. She is angry. She is screaming, barely recognizable amidst the smoke and ashy ruin. By her hands, many fall. Many bones strike the pavement. As the vans travel on, we cower meekly in our living rooms, waiting for the pounding at the door.
John Searcy’s work has appeared in The Iowa Review, Beloit Fiction Journal, decomP, and First Intensity.