“I would think we would be willing to offer much more than that, but no longer in the same fashion. No longer gargantuan amounts of borrowed money.” Susanna laughed for a moment. To hear the Nextron pronounce “gargantuan” was funny, but she knew it was time to end the meeting.
“I thank you for your time. The President is anxious to know how things went today, so let me report back to him and we can discuss this at a future date.”
“Madame Secretary, please understand one of the points I am trying to make. We are interested in providing the help you are looking for, just not in the same unproductive ways.”
“I don’t understand you exactly. What do you mean?”
“I think for that discussion my premier and your president should sit down together. This is beyond my, as you people like to say, pay grade.”
“You’re asking for a presidential summit?”
“I am authorized to tell you we would be happy to sit down at our highest level if you would really like to hammer out this issue.”
“And how would we do that, Mr. Vice Premier?”
“In ways neither you nor I are authorized to talk about.”
Now Susanna was intrigued. She had no idea what he meant, but he was obviously saying that when borrowing went this high, the two bosses needed to talk. She actually thought Bernstein would be amenable to that—after all, what choice did he have? “I will pass this along to the President, and I thank you for your time.”
“It was wonderful to meet you. I am a fan of your work. When The Card came to China it was a big hit. I had one of the first ones.”
Susanna smiled. “I know you did. I had to approve it.”
* * *
Max Leonard had never been to Kern County, but unlike most people he had at least heard about it. His uncle was a big country music fan and used to talk about Buck Owens and how he owned his own city called Bakersfield. Buck didn’t actually own Bakersfield, but he was one of its biggest landholders, and he had a nightclub there, the Crystal Palace. He certainly put Kern County on the map for a lot of people who would never have otherwise given it a second thought. Walter Masters did not live in Bakersfield; he lived about thirty miles west in a smaller town called Taft. And he was not a country music fan.
Before the earthquake, Max would have just taken a nonstop flight from Indianapolis to LAX and driven the rest of the way, but that was now impossible. Flying into L.A. was an ongoing nightmare, so Max took three connecting flights and landed at Meadows Field, the airport that serviced Kern County. He rented a car, drove to Taft, and thought he had entered a time machine.
This was one of those small towns that simply didn’t change, as if it had been set in stone. The Wal-Mart looked as though it had been remodeled maybe once in the last thirty years. The two shopping centers both looked exactly the same, as if they’d been built on the same day in the last century. And there was one movie theater complex. That was the only structure that looked relatively new.
Movie theaters no longer handled film or video. All products were sent by satellite and nothing was stored in the actual theater itself. This led to the disappearance of the traditional projection booth. The new projector, which was tiny, was built into the back wall. There was no longer any need for a room behind it, so some movie houses had taken on a different look. Many theaters had rows of lunch counters in the rear, where the equipment once was. You could sit at the counter, order food, and watch sports or entertainment. Everything was holographic or advanced 3D, requiring no glasses. That’s what people expected. No one was willing to pay sixty dollars to see flat images. Those days were long gone.
At the appointed time Max walked into Jennie’s, a small diner that had been there, as the sign said, since ’09. Walter had taken a table in the back where they could have some privacy. When he saw Max, he stood up to greet him.
“The funny thing,” Walter said, “is that modern communication takes away all the surprises. It used to be fun to guess what someone would look like. Have a seat.”
“I can only imagine,” said Max. “I’ve been looking at people on screens forever. I don’t remember it any other way.”
“It was interesting. It made you use your imagination.” They both sat down and Walter looked Max over for a few seconds. “So how can I help you?”
“Do you mind if I get something in my stomach? I’ll think better. I don’t want to waste your time by rambling.”
“Sure. They’ll send someone over if you want, but they like it if you just tell the kitchen yourself.”
“Is there a menu?”
Walter pointed to the wall behind him. Max turned around and looked at an old-fashioned menu board. “The tuna sandwich looks good. Maybe that with a dinner salad and a Coke.” Walter placed the order over the intercom; he ordered a peach cobbler and a coffee for himself.
“Do you want to wait until it comes or do you want to start now?”
Jesus, Max thought, this guy sure doesn’t waste time. You would think if you lived in a place like this you would want to waste time, but apparently not. “I can start now.” Max took a sip of water and gathered his thoughts. “It would be nice to find some common ground with you, so let me begin by saying that I also think there are too many old people taking up space.”
“Who told you I think that?”
“Well, no one told me, I just thought that one of the reasons you did what you did was that you felt older people were being kept alive against their will.”
Walter was intrigued. Young folks for the most part never had this discussion with him. “Part of what I do is so people do not suffer needlessly. I don’t make judgments based on their age.”
“Well, do you think people are kept alive beyond a reasonable time?”
“What do you mean, ‘a reasonable time’?”
“Are people living too long?”
“Some are, yes.”
“Mr. Masters, may I ask how old you are?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, whatever it is, you must know that the world has changed since you were my age.”
“I know that. But why don’t you tell me how it has affected you. Don’t talk in generalities.”
“It hasn’t affected me. I have money. But anyone who doesn’t is screwed. The debt on young people is too great to crawl out of. The girl I live with, for example, owes almost four hundred thousand dollars for a medical loan and her father is already dead.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“At a time when it’s harder than ever to get a piece of the pie, the world has decided to keep its older population going forever. Who the fuck pays for that? Excuse my language. I do. And my friends. And five-year-olds who don’t even understand it. I thought you also might feel the same way.”
At that moment the food arrived. A pleasant-looking woman who obviously had no interest in the fat pill put the order down and said, “If you need anything else, just buzz.”
Max scarfed down his sandwich and kept talking. “I lead a group of hundreds of younger people called Enough Is Enough.”
“What do they do?”
“I don’t know. That’s one of the reasons I’m talking to you. We need a plan. The olds are—”
“The what?”
“We call everyone over seventy ‘the olds.’ It’s just easier that way.”
“I’ll have to remember that. Go on.”
“The olds have all the power and access to the money. Something has to be done. Even if violence is part of the equation.”
“Mr. Leonard, I hear your frustration. And I agree with much of your thinking. But I don’t know what I can do to help you.”
“You could kill all of them.” Max hoped, really hoped, that Masters had a sense of humor. If not, this was the end of their lunch.
“I don’t have the time,” Walter said, “or the medicine. I can only kill half of them.”
Max was relieved. “Half would be fine, sir.”
&
nbsp; “Listen, my friend, I think you have real issues here and I think you are to be commended for trying to change a system that is impossible to budge. But unfortunately, I don’t know how I can be of any help to you.”
“So killing half of them was a joke?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“So why do you do this kind of work that no one else does? Are any of your reasons like mine?”
“No. You and I both have a revolutionary quality to our souls. If I was your age, I would be in your group. But my reasons are different. I abhor suffering. But I don’t do it to balance out the population. As a matter of fact, many times I have helped young people pass when there was no hope and the medical establishment would not recognize that.” Max was silent. He didn’t know what he had expected at this meeting, but it didn’t sound as though it was going to be as helpful as he thought. And then Walter asked him that exact question. “What did you expect when you came here?”
“I wasn’t sure. Maybe, I thought, if you felt like I did, you would help our group.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. In your mind you thought I might step up the pace, right? Start eliminating the enemy?” When Max heard it that way, he knew Masters was right. And he knew it sounded truly crazy. “Listen,” Walter said, “I understand why you wanted to talk. But you need to go in another direction. I don’t prolong life, I do the opposite. You need to talk to the people who keep it going. The doctors and lawmakers and religious nuts who want as many minutes as you can squeeze out of this existence, at any price. That’s where you’re going to find some answers. Not here. Does that make sense?”
And at that moment Max could not get the image out of his head of all those olds worshipping Sam Mueller. “I guess it does. Yes. It absolutely does.” Max got up and shook Walter’s hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“You’re a bright kid. If I were younger, I would be on your wavelength. Go change the world. I’ll pay for the sandwich.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The tent in Pasadena felt more and more like a minimum-security prison. Brad watched new people move in as others left, some finally moving out of state to live with friends or relatives and some trying something completely different, the retirement ships.
Decades earlier this trend had begun with people buying luxurious homes on cruise ships and living there part of the year. It was very expensive and reserved only for the ultrarich. Then, in 2021, Royal Swedish Cruise Line took the concept one step further and introduced the first affordable retirement cruise ship, The Retirement One. In order to keep the price down, luxury was no longer an option. The ship held over two thousand people and had plain rooms, average food, and some entertainment and activities, but basically it resembled a standard retirement facility. Some people even referred to it as “a nursing home on water.” Sometimes the ship wouldn’t even move for months: It would dock at a Royal facility in one of six countries and stay there for the summer or the fall. The residents were guaranteed only three months of actual cruising, but still people loved the concept, and Royal constructed another ship, The Retirement Two, and then their third, The Sunset.
Five years earlier this was something Brad Miller would have scoffed at. He remembered telling his friend Jack, “Those poor people are packed in there like sardines … except sardines don’t get seasick.” Now, as he stared at the brochure, he wondered if this might be the way to go. Except Brad didn’t even have the money to be a sardine. Everything was tied up in his condo, which was no longer there, and he couldn’t even borrow against it. Here was a man who felt so vital on his eightieth birthday and now he thought, more often than not, about dying.
Some nights he would lie awake and imagine the letter he would write to Walter Masters, asking for his services. It reminded Brad of when he was a child and wrote to Santa Claus. Other times he would lie in his cot and stare at the brochure for The Sunset. The ship was starting to look better with each passing day.
One morning Brad was playing cards with three new arrivals when he heard his name over the paging system, asking him to come to the office. He had never been paged before and he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of excitement. Maybe there was some good news.
When he walked outside he saw his son standing there, waiting for him. Tom hadn’t told his father he was coming; he wanted it to be a surprise.
The first thing that struck Brad was how bad Tom looked. He had a potbelly, which now was unnecessary unless you really didn’t give a shit about your appearance, and was balder than he remembered. His son looked defeated. Jesus, I’m the one who lost everything and he looks worse than I do.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“I don’t know. I thought I would just come.”
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, same here.” Tom offered his father a sandwich.
“What is this?”
“Cheese.”
“Jesus, couldn’t you bring something a little more exciting? Did you really think I wanted a cheese sandwich?”
And that little comment set Tom off. Years of suppressed feelings and anger and frustration just made him blow. “How the fuck do I know what you want? Can’t you just say fucking thank you instead of criticizing the sandwich? Do you know how long it takes to fucking drive here with no fucking roads? What the fuck’s the matter with you?”
Brad turned around and walked back to the tent without saying a word. His son ran after him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to say thank you. Please, Dad.”
Brad stopped. A wave of emotion swept over him. His son looked so sad, so crushed. What is wrong with him? He walked back to Tom and gave him a hug and apologized. He hadn’t hugged him for so many years that it felt strange, but he wanted to stop his son’s anger.
“Listen,” Tom said. “I know you don’t like it here. The only reason I haven’t asked you to live with us is that we have no room, literally. You’d have to share a bedroom with Melissa; that would be too strange, don’t you think?”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t want to bunk with my grandchild. I know you would put me up if you could.”
“Dad, I have made a lot of inquiries and I’m sure you’ll get your property back.”
“My property? Don’t you know there’s nothing on it? What am I going to do with my property? I don’t even own the property. I have nothing.”
“What I meant was I think you will get the money back.”
“How?”
“The government has to come through. They just have to.”
“And where is that written? In the Constitution or the Ten Commandments?”
Then Tom reached into his jacket pocket, and his father could not believe what he pulled out. A brochure for The Sunset. Brad acted as if he had never seen it before. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell his son that he was thinking about the same thing. “What is this?” Brad asked, trying his best to feign surprise.
“It’s a ship that you can live on and it’s affordable, and I’m willing to take out a loan to help you do that, if it’s something you think you might want.”
And that was it. Brad just started crying. He cried so much that his son got worried. “Dad. Stop it. I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”
Brad shook his head no, trying to say that he wasn’t crying because he was upset; he was crying for all the reasons in the heavens that made this moment happen. Finally, through his blubbering, he said, “You are very kind to offer me this. Can you even afford to loan me this money?”
This was the moment of truth for Tom. He couldn’t afford it; he was almost broke. He could barely keep up with his medical insurance, and every day he prayed that no one in his family got hurt or sick. But the whole point of this offering was to make some kind of amends with his father, and if he told him the truth, the entire gesture would be meaningle
ss. “Yes, I can afford it.”
Brad took the brochure, continuing the charade. The same way his son wanted his dad to feel as if this was a true act of the heart, Brad wanted his son to think this was his idea and he would be a hero if it worked out. Brad opened the brochure and tried to look surprised. “May I keep this and think about it?”
“Of course. Keep it, it’s a brochure, they don’t want it back. Yes, think about it. If you think this is something that would make you happy, I will make it work.”
“This is a grand gesture, Tom.”
“It’s okay, Dad. You would do it for me.” And even as Tom said that, he knew damn well that if he ever got to his father’s age, no one would do shit for him.
* * *
Paul Prescott was shopping in an actual store, something he almost never did anymore. There was a tchotchke store near his office at AARP and he had had an argument with his better half that morning, so he thought he would stop in and see if he could find something to ease his way home.
The security parrot was cute. It sat on a perch and looked very real and recorded everything it saw, and it could also make simple conversation. He also liked the virtual fishbowls. These had gotten so good that unless you knew, you would never suspect there were not six live guppies swimming around in a tank of water. They came to the side when you wanted to look at them, and they played and hid in the rocks and did everything real fish did.
Paul got neither. He bought a wine lamp, an art deco item that cooled a bottle of wine and used its contents to reflect light in a beautiful pattern. Supposedly it also made the wine taste better, but that was still up for debate. While he was paying, his watch vibrated. It was Jack Willman. “Hi,” Jack said. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, not at all. How are you?”
“Fine. I have some information I thought was interesting.”
“Wow. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m not comfortable giving it over the line.”
Paul thought a moment. “I’m on my way home; do you want to meet somewhere?”
“Yes, that would be great. Do you know where the Mediterranean is?”
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