They Made Me A Criminal

Copyright (c) 2000 by Mike Resnick.
Reprinted with permission
(with apologies to John Garfield and Warner Brothers)

Years ago I co-authored a novel with Jack Chalker and George Alec Effinger called The Red Tape War. Though the whole purpose of the book was to show a tongue-in-cheek picture of an unbelievably over-regulated society, the one thing I never anticipated was that governmental red tape would actually have me contemplating a life of crime in my declining years.

But I am.

Bear with me. It's going to take a little explanation.

I'm used to the government getting into almost everything. I mean, hell, when I was a kid, you didn't need your social security number until you took your first job. If you were one of the idle rich, you could go from cradle to grave without ever getting one. But now your child has a social security number before he's a year old, because you can't deduct him on your income tax unless he's got one.

The government tells you what you can and can't eat. It tells you what medications you can and can't take. It tells you what countries you can and can't visit. It tells you where you can and can't smoke. I'm not thrilled with any of it, but I learned over the years to put up with this endless intrusiveness.

The straw that broke the camel's back was when the government entered our bathrooms.

And the wild part is, some of you don't even know that Big Brother is watching you at your most intimate and embarrassing moments.

It was all done with the best of intentions.

(It usually is.)

Desert states were short of water.

(They usually are.)

And politicians wanted votes.

(They always do.)

It used to be that all toilets were either 5.5 GPF (gallons per flush) or 3.5 GPF. Then one day Congress noticed that deserts still existed in America and passed a law mandating that all new toilets, from that day forward, could only use 1.6 gallons when flushing.

Makes sense if you live in most of Arizona or New Mexico, or large parts of Texas or Nevada, or Death Valley.

Some of us don't.

Like me. I live in Cincinnati. I'm 17 miles from the vast Ohio River. I'm closer to the Greater Miami River. And the Little Miami River. And the Licking River. None of them have ever gone dry. In fact, the Ohio floods every couple of years.

It rains about three days a week in Cincinnati. We have only two less days of total cloud cover than Seattle.

You want water in Cincinnati? You don't have to go to any of the nearby rivers. You don't have to wait for the omnipresent rain. Just go outside and dig a hole. Simple as that.

But the government didn't say that only toilets in desert areas had to use 1.6 gallons per flush. It said all toilets had to.

Funny thing about those 1.6 gallon toilets. They don't work very well.

Ask any homebuilder. Or homeowner. Or, especially, any plumber. They cost more than the old toilets. Lacking enough water, they clog the pipe lines more than the old toilets. In fact, many -- some say most -- of them have to be flushed twice each time, thereby using just about as much water as the old 3.5 GPF ones. Of course they require far more service than the old style toilets, which means far more money out of pocket.

So the homebuilders and homeowners of America went to Congress and said, at least give us a choice as to what kind of toilet we use. That's reasonable, isn't it?

Congress thought it was reasonable too -- until they heard from the toilet manufacturers, who were perfectly happy making just one kind of toilet (and making much more money than they would if they had to make a number of models) and threatened to vote the rascals out of office if they dared rescind the law.

And Congress, being Congress, suddenly decided that rescinding the law wasn't so reasonable after all.

And what's the result of all this?

I'm sure it's happening on hundreds of fronts, based on hundreds of idiotic red tape regulations, but this is one I can speak to. The Congress of the United States has created a new criminal class.

I have a friend -- he writes science fiction, he's been up for an award or two, and I don't dare mention his name -- who has a house that was built in the 1800s, and has been remodeled many times, most recently last summer. I was visiting him on the day he had his plumber in to replace an old toilet that had seen better days (and better decades, for that matter).

And what had he bought?

A black-market 5.5 GPF toilet. He paid the plumber extra. He promised never to tell anyone where he got it. He gave the plumber autographed books. Igave the plumber autographed books. He had a pizza and beer delivered for the plumber while the toilet was being installed. He did all this because his plumber, like mine, costs $50 just to knock on the front door, and one hell of a lot more to walk all the way to the bathroom and still more to look at things, and he figured to be doing a lot of knocking and a lot of walking and a lot of looking if my friend had ordered a 1.6 GPF toilet.

So, thanks to circumstance, I became part of what I suspect is a vast criminal conspiracy. (No, I don't know if it's right- wing or left-wing. What wing does one sit with?)

I know this much: if and when we sell our house, the washing machine, the dryer, the dishwasher, the bookcases, they will all go with it -- but not our made-in-1986 3.5 GPF toilets. Not unless a lot of money changes hands.

So what's the upshot of all this?

I can see the future clearly. (After all, I'm a science fiction writer.)

Maybe, if you try, you can too.

You're walking along the Internet, minding your own business, and suddenly an old guy in a trenchcoat steps out from behind a cybercorner.

"Psst!" he whispers is flashing letters.

You stop and stare at him. He bears a vague resemblence to a guy who used to write science fiction -- Saint Iago_, _San Diego, something like that.

"Hey, Meester," he hisses, activating his high-clarity virtual viewer. "Wanna buy some feelthy postcards?"

You look shocked, and shake your head.

He pulls out his next contraband item and stifles a cybernetic cough. "How about some cigarettes, made with real Carolina tobacco -- not that phony smokeless stuff?"

"Not interested," you say.

He looks around to make sure there are no cops in sight, then drags out the piece de resistance.

"Then how about a 5.5-gallon toilet?"

"Do you take credit cards?" you ask, and another criminal is born.

-end-