Don Hucks' fiction has appeared in Bartleby Snopes, Cerebral Catalyst, Ghoti, The Pedestal, and Pindeldyboz.
The Short Straw
He had drawn the short straw, fair and square. A great honor, drawing the short straw. And, clearly, there were advantages
to being a human sacrifice. There was the woman who had insisted on paying for his latte and bagel when she recognized him
at the coffee shop. And there was the man at the deli counter who weighed his pastrami and then tossed on a couple of
extra slices, no charge, with a grin and a wink. Everyone at the office had been especially nice, all smiles and "good morning,
Allen" and "how are you today, Allen?" and "great to see you, Allen" and "can I help you with that, Allen?" Even people he
would have sworn didn't know his name. Even the boss had made a point of stopping
by and complimenting him on his persistent punctuality and on the tidiness of his cubicle. Of course, the cubicle was only tidy
because he had already started clearing out his possessions, not wanting to leave a mess for his successor. But he didn't say
so. He just said, "Thank you, Mr. Allison. It's very generous of you to notice." And of course there were congratulatory
emails arriving every day from friends and relatives and business associates and old acquaintances, saying how nice it was to
have known him and how they had always been sure he was destined for greatness.
"Yes, it's a great honor drawing the short straw," the man from the Bureau was telling him, standing at the foot of the
hospital bed, in which Allen reclined against a mound of pillows. The man from the Bureau thumbed through a stack of pages
in a manila folder. "A great responsibility, too. I see that you are an educated man," he said, looking up from the folder to
gaze at Allen over the tops of wire rims, low on his nose.
Allen nodded sheepishly, having been raised to be humble.
"Cum laude from a solid, respectable, third tier university, yes?"
"Thank you," Allen offered, blushing. "It's very generous of you to notice."
"So I'm certain you understand the principle of the social compact."
Allen nodded, again sheepishly, having been raised to play along politely when nonplussed.
"Let's be candid, shall we?" He asked, closing the folder and cradling it against his charcoal lapels.
Allen again nodded, more eagerly this time, having been raised to be enthusiastic about candor.
"You and I are not a couple of ordinary hicks, who still believe in all that old-fashioned metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. You and I
are not the type who attach some grand, cosmic significance to rites and festivals and ritual sacrifice. Am I right? We're not
the sort, you and I, to believe in some fairy tale about the annual shedding of blood fending off demons and hobgoblins and
ghosts and ghouls and assorted comic book villains, who would otherwise spoil our crops and ruin the weather and wreak
general havoc on our financial markets."
Allen stopped nodding and looked at his interrogator, askance, having been raised to be wary of traps.
"It's alright, Mr. Smith," the man from the Bureau assured him with a smile. "You don't have to keep up appearances with
me. As I say, we're the same, you and I. I don't believe in any of that nonsense, either. You look surprised. The truth of the
matter is almost no one who works for the Bureau believes in these things, not in a literal, metaphysical sense. Certainly no
one in a position of authority. Sure, we get plenty of applications from very pious religious types, who want a career with the
Bureau for its cosmic overtones. But these applicants are easy to spot and are quickly weeded out.
"No, Mr. Smith, I don't believe in magic. But I'll tell you what I do believe in. I believe in the placebo effect. And I believe in
the power of shared delusion. I believe that when we send up a human sacrifice each fall, all those yokels out there who do
believe in magic, feel a little safer for another year. And that confidence does, in fact, keep economic hobgoblins at bay. If we
should ever fail to provide a suitable and willing sacrifice, what do you suppose would happen?"
"I don't know," Allen confessed, having been raised never to conceal his ignorance.
"I'll tell you what would happen. There would be panic. People would throw themselves off rooftops and out of windows.
People would expect divine retribution. They would expect disaster, and that expectation would surely bring it about. Our
markets would collapse. Our stock portfolios and retirement accounts would become worthless. Life savings would be
erased. Doom, Mr. Smith, that's the word that leaps to mind - doom.
"So you see, Mr. Smith, I take this business of redemption very seriously, just as seriously as any believer, I assure you. And
I consider it a grave and serious matter when someone attempts to avoid the solemn responsibility placed upon him in
drawing the short straw. Oh, yes, on occasion people try to get out of being the Short Straw. About six years ago, you may
recall, there was a man up in Bridgeport, a farmer, got his leg caught in a thresher. Hell of a mess, believe me. Ripped it off
at the knee. Damn near bled to death, poor bastard. And there was the mountaineer who got stuck in a blizzard a week
from the big day. Worst case of frostbite I ever did see. Lost half his toes and both his thumbs, plus an ear, and the tip of
his nose to boot. And there are others I could mention, but I don't want to bore you. Of course, the irony is that they could
have simply asked to be excused. We would never coerce a person into going through with it. Doesn't work, philosophically.
It has to be a willing sacrifice. That's the whole point, really. Otherwise, we could just pick some lucky death row inmate. Give
him a few days of glory, a few days to relax. Even on the inside, they respect the Short Straw, even on death row. Nobody'd
dare stick a shiv in that guy or try to rape him in the shower. Am I right?
"No, Mr. Smith, the rules plainly state the sacrifice must be willing, must be young, must be sane and in good health. It can't
be a terminal case or an old fart with one foot in the grave already or some guy who's depressed about losing his leg in a
thresher and being made impotent by the pain pills." He took off his glasses and tucked them into his coat. "But you're
wondering what all this has to do with you, am I right?
"I understand you have recently become ill, quite ill in fact. Something about your kidney?"
"Yes, well, an infection, actually, after the removal of a kidney."
"Yes, and why exactly was the kidney removed? Was it diseased or damaged in some way?"
"No. I sold it."
"Why?"
"To pay my rent."
"Don't you have a job?"
"Yes, but when my landlord found out about the short straw, he insisted I pay the remaining three months of my lease in
advance."
"A shrewd businessman, no doubt. And you didn't have the extra money?"
"No. I thought I did. I mean I should have. I've racked up twelve weeks' vacation pay, never missing a day's work in six
years. That would have been just enough to pay the extra rent. But, unfortunately, I was only able to give nine days' notice.
And the company requires a full two weeks' notice in order to release unused vacation pay."
"Now, Mr. Smith, the Bureau, as I'm sure you're aware, always informs the Short Straw a full two weeks in advance of the
sacrifice. This is specifically so that one may give satisfactory notice to one's employer."
"Yes, but there was a delay in the processing of my notice. As it happened, there was a birthday party for the H.R.
supervisor that Friday. And then it was the weekend. And then the clerk in charge of terminations was out for two days, at
home with a sick cat."
"They couldn't be persuaded to make an exception due to imminent death?"
"I'm afraid they're real sticklers on this point."
"Yes, well, I suppose they would be. Still, though, every citizen has an obligation to be prepared to be the Short Straw, just
in case. Just because it's one in a million, you can't assume you'll never be the one. And really, over something so trifling as
three months' rent? How long did you say you've been on this job?"
"It was six years in May, since just after I graduated."
"Six years. So, if you had managed to put aside just two weeks' pay per year... two over fifty, that's what? A couple of
hours' wages per week? You'd have no trouble setting your affairs in order and doing your duty on Harvest Day. Shameful
negligence, really."
"I know it is," Allen conceded, his eyes downcast, having been raised to be easily shamed.
"Yes, well, you're off the hook, Mr. Smith. I've spoken to your doctors and they tell me it's not at all unlikely that infection of
yours will kill you by the end of the week. That clearly renders you an unfit sacrifice. Besides which, the fact that you
apparently contrived the whole thing, the sale of the kidney and the appalling lack of financial responsibility, which necessitated
such a dramatic course in the first place, draws into question your status as willing sacrifice. I've submitted all the necessary
forms. You are hereby officially released from all obligations arising from having drawn the short straw. I'm supposed to tell
you that the free pass to paradise that is technically bestowed upon the Short Straw is also hereby rescinded, but as we have
already established, you weren't counting on that little perk, anyway. The ones who try to get out of it never are."
He took some documents from the folder and tossed them onto the white sheet, just below Allen's knees, just out of his
reach. Just far enough that he had to lean forward a couple of inches to get them, which was excruciating with the infected
wound in his back. He gave up and settled gently back into the pillows, leaving the papers where they lay. He would ask the
nurse to reach them, when she came around at two o'clock to empty his bedpan.
"Well, best of luck to you, Mr. Smith. You realize, of course, that, should you somehow manage to pull through, you'll soon
discover that your life has changed. For starters, that landlord of yours will surely evict you. And there will be no hope at all
of getting back your job. Your family will disown you. Old friends will forget your phone number and accidentally delete your
email address. Those kind and admiring glances you've no doubt been getting from strangers on the bus will turn overnight
to reproachful glares. Oh, and, if you have any interest in women, you can forget about that as well. You won't even be able
to buy it. Prostitutes have their principals, too, you know. And I suppose I should warn you about the high rate of suicide
among the ones who back out. Ironic, don't you think?
"Well, anyway, I have to be getting back to the office. If you have any questions at all, I've attached my card. Don't hesitate
to email me. But don't take it personally if you don't get a reply. I've already added you to my blocked senders list." The
man from the Bureau waved, smiling kindly, and said a quick goodbye, as he stepped through the doorway and vanished into
the hall.
Allen stared at the documents resting on his shins. The pain throbbed in his lower back. Meds must be wearing off, he
thought. He reached over, delicately, and pressed the call button on the plastic box attached to his bed rail. He waited for a
response. Several seconds passed. He pressed it again and waited. What was taking them so long to answer? Wasn't
there anyone at the nurses' station? Didn't they know he was in pain? He pressed it again, harder this time, annoyed, and he
felt a stabbing pain, deep in his back, which made him wince and grit his teeth. He let go of the call box and lowered his hand
gently to his side. He closed his eyes and felt tears roll over his cheeks. He lay perfectly still and waited. He tried to
concentrate on his breathing, slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth, as a distraction from the pain. It didn't
seem to help.
He had drawn the short straw, fair and square. A great honor, drawing the short straw. But, he was thinking, as he reached
for the call box and lightly pressed the button again, it clearly had its disadvantages, too.
He had drawn the short straw, fair and square. A great honor, drawing the short straw. And, clearly, there were advantages
to being a human sacrifice. There was the woman who had insisted on paying for his latte and bagel when she recognized him
at the coffee shop. And there was the man at the deli counter who weighed his pastrami and then tossed on a couple of
extra slices, no charge, with a grin and a wink. Everyone at the office had been especially nice, all smiles and "good morning,
Allen" and "how are you today, Allen?" and "great to see you, Allen" and "can I help you with that, Allen?" Even people he
would have sworn didn't know his name. Even the boss had made a point of stopping
by and complimenting him on his persistent punctuality and on the tidiness of his cubicle. Of course, the cubicle was only tidy
because he had already started clearing out his possessions, not wanting to leave a mess for his successor. But he didn't say
so. He just said, "Thank you, Mr. Allison. It's very generous of you to notice." And of course there were congratulatory
emails arriving every day from friends and relatives and business associates and old acquaintances, saying how nice it was to
have known him and how they had always been sure he was destined for greatness.
"Yes, it's a great honor drawing the short straw," the man from the Bureau was telling him, standing at the foot of the
hospital bed, in which Allen reclined against a mound of pillows. The man from the Bureau thumbed through a stack of pages
in a manila folder. "A great responsibility, too. I see that you are an educated man," he said, looking up from the folder to
gaze at Allen over the tops of wire rims, low on his nose.
Allen nodded sheepishly, having been raised to be humble.
"Cum laude from a solid, respectable, third tier university, yes?"
"Thank you," Allen offered, blushing. "It's very generous of you to notice."
"So I'm certain you understand the principle of the social compact."
Allen nodded, again sheepishly, having been raised to play along politely when nonplussed.
"Let's be candid, shall we?" He asked, closing the folder and cradling it against his charcoal lapels.
Allen again nodded, more eagerly this time, having been raised to be enthusiastic about candor.
"You and I are not a couple of ordinary hicks, who still believe in all that old-fashioned metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. You and I
are not the type who attach some grand, cosmic significance to rites and festivals and ritual sacrifice. Am I right? We're not
the sort, you and I, to believe in some fairy tale about the annual shedding of blood fending off demons and hobgoblins and
ghosts and ghouls and assorted comic book villains, who would otherwise spoil our crops and ruin the weather and wreak
general havoc on our financial markets."
Allen stopped nodding and looked at his interrogator, askance, having been raised to be wary of traps.
"It's alright, Mr. Smith," the man from the Bureau assured him with a smile. "You don't have to keep up appearances with
me. As I say, we're the same, you and I. I don't believe in any of that nonsense, either. You look surprised. The truth of the
matter is almost no one who works for the Bureau believes in these things, not in a literal, metaphysical sense. Certainly no
one in a position of authority. Sure, we get plenty of applications from very pious religious types, who want a career with the
Bureau for its cosmic overtones. But these applicants are easy to spot and are quickly weeded out.
"No, Mr. Smith, I don't believe in magic. But I'll tell you what I do believe in. I believe in the placebo effect. And I believe in
the power of shared delusion. I believe that when we send up a human sacrifice each fall, all those yokels out there who do
believe in magic, feel a little safer for another year. And that confidence does, in fact, keep economic hobgoblins at bay. If we
should ever fail to provide a suitable and willing sacrifice, what do you suppose would happen?"
"I don't know," Allen confessed, having been raised never to conceal his ignorance.
"I'll tell you what would happen. There would be panic. People would throw themselves off rooftops and out of windows.
People would expect divine retribution. They would expect disaster, and that expectation would surely bring it about. Our
markets would collapse. Our stock portfolios and retirement accounts would become worthless. Life savings would be
erased. Doom, Mr. Smith, that's the word that leaps to mind - doom.
"So you see, Mr. Smith, I take this business of redemption very seriously, just as seriously as any believer, I assure you. And
I consider it a grave and serious matter when someone attempts to avoid the solemn responsibility placed upon him in
drawing the short straw. Oh, yes, on occasion people try to get out of being the Short Straw. About six years ago, you may
recall, there was a man up in Bridgeport, a farmer, got his leg caught in a thresher. Hell of a mess, believe me. Ripped it off
at the knee. Damn near bled to death, poor bastard. And there was the mountaineer who got stuck in a blizzard a week
from the big day. Worst case of frostbite I ever did see. Lost half his toes and both his thumbs, plus an ear, and the tip of
his nose to boot. And there are others I could mention, but I don't want to bore you. Of course, the irony is that they could
have simply asked to be excused. We would never coerce a person into going through with it. Doesn't work, philosophically.
It has to be a willing sacrifice. That's the whole point, really. Otherwise, we could just pick some lucky death row inmate. Give
him a few days of glory, a few days to relax. Even on the inside, they respect the Short Straw, even on death row. Nobody'd
dare stick a shiv in that guy or try to rape him in the shower. Am I right?
"No, Mr. Smith, the rules plainly state the sacrifice must be willing, must be young, must be sane and in good health. It can't
be a terminal case or an old fart with one foot in the grave already or some guy who's depressed about losing his leg in a
thresher and being made impotent by the pain pills." He took off his glasses and tucked them into his coat. "But you're
wondering what all this has to do with you, am I right?
"I understand you have recently become ill, quite ill in fact. Something about your kidney?"
"Yes, well, an infection, actually, after the removal of a kidney."
"Yes, and why exactly was the kidney removed? Was it diseased or damaged in some way?"
"No. I sold it."
"Why?"
"To pay my rent."
"Don't you have a job?"
"Yes, but when my landlord found out about the short straw, he insisted I pay the remaining three months of my lease in
advance."
"A shrewd businessman, no doubt. And you didn't have the extra money?"
"No. I thought I did. I mean I should have. I've racked up twelve weeks' vacation pay, never missing a day's work in six
years. That would have been just enough to pay the extra rent. But, unfortunately, I was only able to give nine days' notice.
And the company requires a full two weeks' notice in order to release unused vacation pay."
"Now, Mr. Smith, the Bureau, as I'm sure you're aware, always informs the Short Straw a full two weeks in advance of the
sacrifice. This is specifically so that one may give satisfactory notice to one's employer."
"Yes, but there was a delay in the processing of my notice. As it happened, there was a birthday party for the H.R.
supervisor that Friday. And then it was the weekend. And then the clerk in charge of terminations was out for two days, at
home with a sick cat."
"They couldn't be persuaded to make an exception due to imminent death?"
"I'm afraid they're real sticklers on this point."
"Yes, well, I suppose they would be. Still, though, every citizen has an obligation to be prepared to be the Short Straw, just
in case. Just because it's one in a million, you can't assume you'll never be the one. And really, over something so trifling as
three months' rent? How long did you say you've been on this job?"
"It was six years in May, since just after I graduated."
"Six years. So, if you had managed to put aside just two weeks' pay per year... two over fifty, that's what? A couple of
hours' wages per week? You'd have no trouble setting your affairs in order and doing your duty on Harvest Day. Shameful
negligence, really."
"I know it is," Allen conceded, his eyes downcast, having been raised to be easily shamed.
"Yes, well, you're off the hook, Mr. Smith. I've spoken to your doctors and they tell me it's not at all unlikely that infection of
yours will kill you by the end of the week. That clearly renders you an unfit sacrifice. Besides which, the fact that you
apparently contrived the whole thing, the sale of the kidney and the appalling lack of financial responsibility, which necessitated
such a dramatic course in the first place, draws into question your status as willing sacrifice. I've submitted all the necessary
forms. You are hereby officially released from all obligations arising from having drawn the short straw. I'm supposed to tell
you that the free pass to paradise that is technically bestowed upon the Short Straw is also hereby rescinded, but as we have
already established, you weren't counting on that little perk, anyway. The ones who try to get out of it never are."
He took some documents from the folder and tossed them onto the white sheet, just below Allen's knees, just out of his
reach. Just far enough that he had to lean forward a couple of inches to get them, which was excruciating with the infected
wound in his back. He gave up and settled gently back into the pillows, leaving the papers where they lay. He would ask the
nurse to reach them, when she came around at two o'clock to empty his bedpan.
"Well, best of luck to you, Mr. Smith. You realize, of course, that, should you somehow manage to pull through, you'll soon
discover that your life has changed. For starters, that landlord of yours will surely evict you. And there will be no hope at all
of getting back your job. Your family will disown you. Old friends will forget your phone number and accidentally delete your
email address. Those kind and admiring glances you've no doubt been getting from strangers on the bus will turn overnight
to reproachful glares. Oh, and, if you have any interest in women, you can forget about that as well. You won't even be able
to buy it. Prostitutes have their principals, too, you know. And I suppose I should warn you about the high rate of suicide
among the ones who back out. Ironic, don't you think?
"Well, anyway, I have to be getting back to the office. If you have any questions at all, I've attached my card. Don't hesitate
to email me. But don't take it personally if you don't get a reply. I've already added you to my blocked senders list." The
man from the Bureau waved, smiling kindly, and said a quick goodbye, as he stepped through the doorway and vanished into
the hall.
Allen stared at the documents resting on his shins. The pain throbbed in his lower back. Meds must be wearing off, he
thought. He reached over, delicately, and pressed the call button on the plastic box attached to his bed rail. He waited for a
response. Several seconds passed. He pressed it again and waited. What was taking them so long to answer? Wasn't
there anyone at the nurses' station? Didn't they know he was in pain? He pressed it again, harder this time, annoyed, and he
felt a stabbing pain, deep in his back, which made him wince and grit his teeth. He let go of the call box and lowered his hand
gently to his side. He closed his eyes and felt tears roll over his cheeks. He lay perfectly still and waited. He tried to
concentrate on his breathing, slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth, as a distraction from the pain. It didn't
seem to help.
He had drawn the short straw, fair and square. A great honor, drawing the short straw. But, he was thinking, as he reached
for the call box and lightly pressed the button again, it clearly had its disadvantages, too.
Don Hucks
