Rudy Rucker and Terry Bisson's "Where the Lost Things Are"

It's a hell of an sf story, about the advent of a life-extension drug and the ensuing ghettos of "geezers" who live on the margins of society, marching towards 100 and higher, avoiding armed teen vigilantes — and the parallel world they discover.

it's got pure Ruckerian weird physics dream-logic, Bissonian absurdism and Southern charm, and also a lot of bourbon.

I stared out across the plain. Each of the vast plain's ziggurats of pelf held a different category of lost items. A gargantuan haystack of long legs and platter-sized lenses—glasses. A cathedral of gold hula hoops—wedding rings. A ticking stack of menacing machines—watches. A mountain of single socks. Other less easily categorizable mounds stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see. But there, only a quarter of a mile off, was—

"A pile of pills," said Jack, pointing "We're here for my bluegene meds."

"Who are those people?" said Darly. "Look at them down there." Milling mournfully among the mounds were men and women in regular clothes, busy as ants.

"Stackers and sorters," said Chandler. "Missing persons, like me. People who let themselves disappear. We never talk. We spend our time arranging this crap. As if it might come in handy some day."

Where the Lost Things Are

(Image: Chris Buzelli)