There are 51 piles of little
pieces, exactly as you planned. The 51 piles are all roughly the same size. You divided them just like
you planned: one has the toes to the heel of one foot, one has his bellybutton and the cylinder of
innards all the way to his back, one has the carefully sliced collarbones. You reach from your bag and
grab the 51 Ziploc bags you packed. They are the bags the size up from sandwich bags. Your mom
used to use them to store cookies when you were younger. You take each slice from the stranger, plac
them carefully in the clear plastic, and seal them with precision. You hold each bag under the cleansing
beads of water, and dry them before neatly stacking them in your bag.
You sleep until the early afternoon. You leave his room in a change of clothes from your black
bag, walk out their door, and check out.
You are still looking into your eyes in the mirror. It is all done now. You have never felt so
satisfied. The 51st bathroom of the 51st random restaurant as you drove randomly up the coast, staying
in random hotels each night, eating three meals a day in random restaurants. It was just as your perfect
plan went. Everything was planned more than you had ever planned before, and everything went
according to plan. It is done now. Everything was perfect. This dirty, grimy bathroom is the final
stage for you two and a half week vacation. The 51 st baggie is empty and disposed of, everything is
gone, the stranger is gone. The 3rd baggie of the 3rd restaurant of the 17th day is done with. Your normal
life is there waiting for you to return to it.
Your eyes are barely visible through filthy grey streaks that coat the mirror. Shimmering pink
filth drips from the soap dispenser. The wallpaper distracts your eyes from your reflection. The cracks
that run through the yellowed surface make it hard to see the skiers. You squint your eyes at your eyes.
You blink at your eyes. You secure your black bag on your shoulder, push through the heavy door, and
return to your table. You try to enjoy your meal. This is, after all, the last day of your two and a half
weeks of vacation.

Aldus Huxley, the writer of Brave New World, is a very pessimistic person. A reader
can easily tell from his bleak prediction of the future in Brave New World Huxley doesn't really
think the future will be much better than 1946, when he wrote a foreword looking back into his
ideas. The citizens of the world of Brave New World are grown in jars, brainwashed to have
certain principles, and guided to live their lives without motion. Many of the principles the
children are brainwashed to believe are pretty
similar to what we are almost brainwashed to believe in the world now.
