Ulysses Lives!: A Dystopian Novel Set in the Very Near Future

By Markas Dvaras

It's 1984 meets The Odyssey!

Blake DeKalb is homeless and unemployed. His life is now a never-ending and fruitless job search. Everywhere he looks, a camera is pointed at him. Everywhere he goes, a security guard appears out of nowhere to inform him he can't sit there, stand there, or smoke there. He's constantly subjected to a distrust that is "institutionalized, inescapable, all-encompassing, never-ending, government mandated, and married to technology."

He also dreams of a date with an attractive volunteer he met at the soup kitchen. All his friends say she's out of his league. And everything happens against a backdrop of wailing sirens.

One day, a drug-induced vision allows him to communicate with both George Orwell and Ulysses.

"I told you so," is Orwell's message.

"What can we do about it now?" asks Blake.

"Do what I did," declares Ulysses. "I've been through this before."

And the two of them thrust Blake into a leadership role, one he doubts he can assume.

Will he lead the next American Revolution? Will he inspire hundreds to lash out against the "Camera State?" Will he rescue his city from the clutches of authoritarianism? But more importantly, will he get the girl?

If you're one of those who thinks, "Those cameras are there to make us feel safe. There's nothing anybody can do about them, whether we like it or not. That's just the way it is," read Ulysses Lives!, and you'll think again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638818021

Book preview

Title Page

Copyright © 2022 Markas Dvaras

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-63881-801-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63881-802-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

The following story happened next week. It may have happened in a city you know of, or maybe even your own. It may have happened to someone you know, or maybe even to you.

Blake DeKalb is a middle-aged well-educated American man. He stands six feet tall and has graying brown hair. He has a salt-and-pepper stubble on his face, only because he hasn’t shaved in five days. That is unusual for Blake; he doesn’t like to go even three days without shaving.

He’s also homeless. And even though he’s homeless, he doesn’t like to look the part and thus insists he does not have facial hair. Whenever he wants to shave, he must do it in a public restroom of some kind or at one of the various homeless service places in the city. But first, he must get his hands on some new razors, and he must get them for free.

Free because Blake is also unemployed. Not unemployed in the strictest sense, perhaps; he does do odd jobs, so he at least has a little money to his name. But some of that money was given to him through the generosity of either his mother or one of his friends. He’s not about to spend any of those precious funds on something as trivial as razors, especially when he can get them for free. He reserves most of his money for rent, which he pays to a local bunkhouse—when he can afford it.

He cannot afford to live in an apartment. The best he can do is a nine dollar a day bed in a dorm that he shares with ninety other men. Most are petty criminals or else panhandlers. Those who aren’t are in the same situation as him. They also do odd jobs, whenever they come along.

Even though Blake is the smartest and best-educated man at the bunkhouse, that doesn’t improve his odds at finding a long-term permanent job. Not that he hasn’t been looking either. But it seems to him, it doesn’t matter how many applications he fills out nor does it matter who he submits them to. He rarely gets a call from anyone. It doesn’t matter how little the job pays, how far beneath him he thinks it is, whether he smiles as he hands the application to the secretary, or how qualified he is or thinks he is—no one ever calls him for an interview.

Is he supposed to beg? If so, he’ll never find a real job. Begging is one thing Blake absolutely refuses to do. He figures it is his refusal to look homeless that makes him a target for all the other beggars in town.

But be that target he must! But why? Is it the fact that he likes to keep his hair short? Or neatly combed? Or is it the fact he is usually clean-shaven that makes him so attractive to the beggars? Or his insistence on wearing clean clothes? Or his insistence on bathing? Or maybe it’s the fact that he is seemingly the only one not covered with expensive tattoos?

For whatever reason, he can literally no longer walk even a mile without having to field multiple requests for the exact same amount of money. The answer is always in the negative, the same two-letter word delivered at high volume. Yet they never stop asking. They never stop pestering; they never stop begging.

He was already lying awake for at least a half hour, so he isn’t surprised when the lights come on at six in the morning. He lets his eyes adjust before he stands up, stretches, and throws on enough clothes for a walk to the shower.

He walks up to the window at the front desk and says, Towel, please, as he hands a dollar bill to the deskman.

By the way, your rent is due today. Do you want to take care of that now?

That’s right, I almost forgot. I do.

How many days?

Two, replies Blake. The deskman updates his records, makes out a receipt, and hands it to Blake, along with two dollars in change. Blake makes his way to the shower, where he joins six other men in their morning ritual.

Hey, Blake! says Bill, another showering resident at the bunkhouse.

Hey, Bill.

What you got planned for today?

Not a lot. Just the usual. I gotta go downtown again, I’ve run out of razors. I hate the way I look right now.

Yeah, I was gonna say, I didn’t recognize you with that stubble.

I’m gonna take care of that as soon as I can.

Got any Krash?

Krash is the name of the newest and most popular smokable and not-yet-illegal street drug of choice, so popular that he can’t walk downtown without seeing a Krash peddler on every street corner.

No, replies Blake. At least not yet. I’ll let you know if and when I do. And it’s not a good idea to talk about it in the shower, remember? The walls have ears.

What’s wrong with talking about it? It’s not illegal. We both know it.

Right. It’s not illegal. Yet. But management around here still frowns on it. They’ll kick you out for smoking it, even just for rolling it, so if you’re gonna roll it in here, do it in the restroom, where no one can see you. And there’s no camera.

Blake likes to smoke it every day, or at least every day he could afford to buy it. So does Bill. It’s so cheap nearly everyone can afford it, usually a dollar for a hand-rolled cigarette.

For many living on the street, selling it is their only source of income. It is not a deadly or addictive drug but arguably habit-forming. Definitely habit-forming for Blake and everyone he knows. He plans to acquire some today, after he solves his razor problem.

Okay, so I won’t talk about it. You might want to take your own advice. So…how’s the job search?

Oh yeah, that’s another thing I want to do today. I have a couple of applications to fill out. But I don’t expect much to come of either of them. It doesn’t matter how many applications I fill out, I never hear back from anybody. And I have a college education. Nobody cares!

Sounds about how my life is going, says Bill. And I have a college education too. Doesn’t seem to matter how many applications I fill out either. Nobody calls me. I’ve just about given up hope. I have a job for today through the temp company. I don’t know about tomorrow.

Yeah, I know how that goes, says Blake. I’ll probably check them out later tomorrow myself, I have a little too much on my schedule today.

Wait a minute. You drive cars, don’t you? Bill refers to one odd job Blake does on a semiregular basis—he drives cars to and from auction sites. It pays cash under the table, which means no taxes.

Yup. But it’s been a couple of days since I’ve heard from my main contact. I know I’ll hear from him again. I wish he’d call sooner. I’m a little hard up.

Aren’t we all?

After getting out of the shower, Blake goes to his locker and gets his best friend—his backpack. Within it, he keeps all his devices, including two cell phones, a laptop computer, and a tablet, all objects he procured during his more-prosperous days. Also, he carries with him several pens, pencils, a notebook, a sketchbook, some magazines, a book, spare lighters, a toothbrush, toothpaste—the sorts of things a homeless person might want to get through a typical day.

Also within his backpack are the applications he wants to fill out and submit. He’d written down in his notebook the addresses of the places he got them from, along with the names of the persons to contact.

Blake slips his arms through the straps, and seconds later, he’s wearing it. All the items total quite a bit of weight, but that doesn’t matter. He’s strong enough to carry it, and besides, he’s always glad to get the exercise, which he credits for keeping his weight down.

After making his way to the front door, he steps outside. He looks straight ahead and sees another person with long hair, full beard, disheveled clothes, and tattoos on his arms.

Is this my first beggar encounter of the day?

As soon as the other man comes within five feet of him, Blake hears the words he knows he would hear, Excuse me, sir, can you spare fifty cents?

No! shouts Blake.

Damn! It started already! And all I did was step outside! he thinks.

Minutes later, he sees something else he sees often—a pile of human waste. Homelessness has gotten so bad some people are using the streets as a giant toilet. Many times, he sees a pile near a bench, usually with a stained paper napkin next to it. Other times, he sees a brown archlike stain on the side of a building that takes months to disappear.

Well, there’s a new pile of shit. First one today, thinks Blake as he passes a public bench. I wonder how long it’ll take for that one to disappear.

He soon walks past another instance of what he terms horizontal humanity. That’s his nickname for another increasingly frequent sight—the campsites that have sprung up in the inner city. And as the nickname implies, he would recognize such a campsite by the people lying around at the entrances of vacant buildings.

Blake passes by the campsite without saying anything but is still angered, saddened, and sickened simultaneously. He shakes his head at the sight, just as he gets a whiff of the familiar odor of homelessness—that unmistakable blend of urine and sweat.

Blake notices something else familiar, but this time, a noise. A noise he noticed instantly upon hitting the outside air, but something he hears so often he doesn’t think about it anymore. He didn’t notice that he didn’t notice it—the siren off in the distance.

That siren’s been blaring the entire time I’ve been walking. Haven’t they found the fire yet? What’s taking so long?

He comes upon more evidence to support his giant toilet theory. He passes a little niche in the side of a building with a puddle in it. He knows it isn’t water. It hadn’t rained recently. It had to be human urine.

What a surprise, a puddle of piss. First one I’ve seen today. I wonder how long it’ll take for that one to disappear.

The siren sounds like it is getting closer to him. They still haven’t found the fire? I can’t find it either. I never do. I never see a plume of smoke on any horizon, ever!

It screams for more than ten minutes.

What’s with that stupid siren? At least there’s no chance it will scream just six feet from my ears.

Blake lied to himself. The sirens always end up driving down the same street he just happens to be walking along. And always blaring just six feet from his ears. Always.

He spies another niche. Only this niche isn’t someone’s toilet, it’s someone’s bed. In that niche is a layer of corrugated cardboard.

Gee, another surprise, a cardboard bed, first one today. I wonder how many more I’ll see.

That annoying siren keeps on blaring, and Blake can’t figure out where it’s coming from. It is obviously getting closer still.

Where is that stupid siren coming from? Where’s the fire? What’s taking them so goddamned long to find it?

He comes across another increasingly common sight. He sees one of his fellow Americans simply lying on the sidewalk, as if Blake was walking around in this guy’s living room the entire time. There’s no telling how long he’d been lying there, or why. As if he’d just come home from a hard day at work, stepped into his invisible bedroom, and plopped down on his invisible bed.

Wow. Some idiot just lying on the sidewalk. First time I’ve seen that. Not.

The sirens, still blaring louder than ever, get closer.

Gee, I wonder how long it will be before I lose my hearing.

Just as that thought occurs to him, the fire engine turns the corner and heads straight toward him.

Here it comes. What a surprise. He plugs his ears as the fire engine drives past him, it seems, in slow motion to him.

Right again! At least now it’s over with. Finally!

Blake is wrong. Ten seconds later, along comes the fire chief, following the fire engine, blaring its siren just as loudly.

He again plugs his ears.

What’s the point? Couldn’t this idiot ride in the same vehicle? Do they really need to take both to the fire? Do they really need sirens that loud? Wouldn’t one siren for the both of them do?

He feels a small bit of relief as the second siren passes by, leaving a little of his hearing intact.

Good. At least it’s all over with now. Good luck with your fire, blind assholes.

Wrong again. Ten seconds later, an ambulance rounds the corner and drives toward him in close pursuit of the fire chief, its siren blaring just as loudly as the other two. Blake, for a third time, plugs his ears.

Goddamn it! Is there no end to this nonsense? And where is that fire? The ambulance passes by Blake as he looks at the horizon they head toward. He fails to find evidence of a fire, certainly not one requiring three vehicles.

Well, I think the world is safe for my ears again.

He’s right this time.

The first item on his itinerary is The Caring Arms, a soup kitchen and homeless services institution a local church set up. If it wasn’t open every day for lunch, even on weekends, Blake and many of his homeless fellow Americans would have a hard time finding enough to eat. So great are the numbers of homeless people, The Caring Arms is always crowded.

They instituted a number system in response to the size of the crowd. Naturally clients covet the low numbers. It’s always to one’s advantage to get there early to get a low number, as long as you don’t mind the wait.

Finding a place to sit is always a challenge, so Blake and many others usually choose to get their number and wait elsewhere. A popular waiting area for all is the library. He usually goes there after he gets a number.

The Caring Arms always has free hygiene items available, and Blake needs more razors.

He knows he is getting close. He notices an increasing number of people who look homeless. He spies another long-haired, bearded, tattooed man walking toward him. The odor of urine and perspiration becomes stronger as Blake avoids eye contact.

It doesn’t stop him from hearing that digital-age American cliché, Excuse me, sir, can you spare fifty cents?

No!

Damn, there is no escape! Do they ever stop? he wonders. Why is it always fifty cents? What is so important about that particular amount of money? Why won’t they stop bothering me? Does it look like I’m passing out free quarters, two at a time, just for the asking? Is the stubble not enough to discourage them? Should I start wearing rags too? Would they leave me alone then?

After what seems like an hour’s journey, Blake arrives at The Caring Arms. Hundreds are there already. His nose told him he’s likely the only one who bathed recently. He takes his place in the already-long line, but that doesn’t bother him. He knows there are always enough volunteers there to make the line move quickly—another good thing about The Caring Arms.

Within seconds, Blake finds evidence that food is not the only concern here. He sees at least two young men move among the line, asking, Got any Krash? Just like Bill did back at the bunkhouse. Blake doesn’t take offense at this, because he knows he will be looking for some Krash himself later on. But his contact is usually selling it downtown, and Blake rarely sees him at The Caring Arms.

One of the young men walks up to Blake. Got Krash?

No, replies Blake.

A few seconds later, the other youngster repeats the performance. Got any Krash, buddy?

"No!" replies Blake, more emphatically.

The line slowly moves forward, and there really isn’t much to do while waiting other than to stand there and think. So think he does.

I can hardly believe what we, the people, have allowed to happen to our country. There was a time, not so long ago, when I could walk down any street and not have anyone pester me for any amount of money. Now I can’t even walk two blocks without hearing, Excuse me, sir, can you spare fifty cents? Why is it always that amount of money? Was there some marketing research done among beggars that determined that was the most effective amount of money to pester strangers for? Is there a beggar school somewhere teaching that’s the only acceptable phrase to use when begging? Was there a law passed I don’t know about?

Why are there so many homeless people in what is supposedly the greatest nation on earth, at a time that is supposedly the pinnacle of history? Haven’t we been told we are networked like never before? Don’t we all have a cell phone? Don’t we all have Internet access? Wasn’t that thing supposed to spit out a work-at-home job for every last one of us? Wasn’t it supposed to at least produce universal employment? Why hasn’t that happened yet? Why is there a beggar on almost every street corner? Are all those people simply unable to adapt to new technology? Are they all just too lazy to find a job? Am I really the only one asking these questions?

Blake continues this train of thought, like he had so many times in the past, and before he knows it, he’s