There, she said it. Exactly what I knew she’d say. And like any red-blooded fiction editor out there worth his or her salt, I’d rather hang from the ceiling by my nipples than go into public relations. It’s like selling one’s soul to the devil. Or in this case, Everest.com (thank God Jacquie still can’t read minds, but I’m sure that’s coming one day soon).
I roll my eyes at myself.
“Yes, Jacquie,” I say, “very . . . fucking . . . satisfactory.”
“If you wouldn’t mind refraining from the use of crude language, Tanya,” Jacquie says.
Pulling my eyes away from the mirror.
“Sorry.”
The room goes silent for a long beat. I’m perfectly aware that Jacquie is still monitoring me, but I’m suddenly feeling very much alone.
“If I might be so bold as to suggest an alternative option for you, Tanya.”
“By all means,” I say. “Shoot, Jacquie. What the hell do I have to lose that I haven’t already lost?”
Again, she pauses for a moment, as though taking her own sweet time to load up her information.
Then, “Have you heard about Everest Primary Membership?”
Her question gives me pause. I’ve heard of Everest Primary Membership before. It was one of those rumors that ran through our publishing house that everyone pretended had no basis in reality. We shrugged it off as gossip. Just like when the Cradle was said to be coming and along with it, Cradle Direct Publishing.
“Yes, Jacquie,” I say, after a long pause, my mouth suddenly going dry and my pulse picking up. “I’ve heard of the Primary program.”
“Wonderful, Tanya,” she says. “Then you know that, if accepted into the exclusive program, you can not only change your life for the better, you can, in fact, never worry about money ever again. For the first time ever, you will truly enjoy a worry-free lifestyle.”
“Never worry about money,” I repeat, as though listening to myself say it will help me believe it. Which it doesn’t.
“Would you love never having to work another day in your life again, Tanya?” Jacquie goes on. She’s really digging into her sales pitch now, the words no doubt coming from a brilliant Everest Corp. mind of someone like Kate. “Wouldn’t you love to do what you want to do every day without worry? Don’t you want to pick up and go wherever you wish to go? Or spend your day doing nothing if you so choose? Don’t you want to sleep late every day, Tanya?”
I have to admit, the sleeping late part is enticing. But the signing up for life part isn’t. You heard me right. If I were accepted into the program, and from what I understand, anyone who applies pretty much gets in, you are expected to remain in it for life. No one leaves Everest Primary. They do so at their own risk. Did I mention the part of me that is noncommittal when it comes to something that can last a lifetime? I’m thinking marriage, children, and now, the Everest Corporation Primary Program.
“It certainly sounds lovely,” I say.
I’m not sure I want to piss off Jacquie. That is, she has the ability to get pissed off. But I’m not about to risk it one way or another.
“Here’s what I will do for you, Tanya,” the AI program goes on. “I am presently downloading a form for you to fill out at your leisure and send back as an attachment to Everest dot com support. Once the file is processed, I’m sure it will just be a matter of your following the proper protocols, the most important of which, is closing out your bank account, and transferring all cash into Everest Credits. Since all credit cards, besides those sponsored by Everest, are now a thing of the past, those will not be an issue. See, Tanya, easy peasy.”
“Easy peasy,” I say. “Thanks for thinking of me, Jacquie.”
But really what I want to say is, I hope you melt the fuck down. Pardon my French. On the other hand, how wonderful would it be to never have to worry about money again? Maybe it’s me who should melt down.
“The application form is downloaded. Please fill it out at your convenience, Tanya. Has our session been satisfactory?”
“Yes, Jacquie,” I say, my eyes now focused on my laptop which sits dormant on my nightstand. “Very satisfactory.”
“Great, Tanya. By the way, your mother is standing at the bottom of the stairs. She is about to call for you.”
Before I can get another “Thank you” out, I hear my mom calling my name.
“Tanya, dinner!” she barks.
“Oh my God, can things get any more like they were twenty-five years ago around here?” I say aloud. But then, we’d have to get rid of Jacquie and Everest for that to happen.
“Be nice to your mother, Tanya,” Jacquie says. “She’s happy to have you home again. So is your father.”
A roll of my eyes.
“Thanks, Jacquie,” I say as I go for the door.
“You’re welcome, Tanya,” Jacquie says. “Oh, and Tanya.”
I stop in the doorway, turn as if Jacquie is a real live woman standing inside my bedroom.
“Yes, Jacquie?”
“You don’t have to roll your eyes.”
A wave of ice shoots up my backbone.
Jacquie can’t see . . . she can’t read minds . . . or can she?
“My bad, Jacquie,” I say.
“I hope this conversation has been a satisfactory one.”
“Of course,” I lie.
I head down to dinner, just like I did when I was a child.
The house I grew up in is nothing special, architecturally speaking. But it’s still home, and it’s the most special place for me on earth. It’s what they call a Sears Home Kit. It’s a two-story cottage set among hundreds of other similar cottages inside Albany’s west end, Pine Hills District (vote Democrat via the Everest.com site or your garbage won’t get picked up). Back in the 1920s, you could get everything and anything your heart desired from Sears, from raw hamburger to entire home construction kits. I guess you could say, Sears was the Everest Corp. of its day. The century old home has got hardwood floors, three bedrooms and one bath (upstairs). The first floor contains a living room with a big brick fireplace, a dining room (oh the family dinner memories), a sunroom behind that, and a kitchen with a pantry. The kitchen is a bit too small for eating in, so we all settle into the dining room, just like we did when I was growing up. Like I said, this place holds a special place in my heart.
Speaking of special, I guess the time has come for you to meet the ‘rents.
My dad is already seated at the table, nursing a long-necked bottle of Budweiser Beer. He’s put on some weight in his middle-to-late years. His hair has grayed and is receding rapidly on his round head. He’s never entirely clean shaven, but always sporting some kind of gray stubble, now that he’s sold out and retired. At one time, he owned one of the most successful hardware stores in Pine Hills. He was the go-to Hardware Man. In fact, that was the name of the place. Bradly Teal’s The Hardware Man Store. It was a single-story brick and concrete block building set on the edge of the district. I used to work there on weekends along with Dad when I was in high school. I swear people came by on Saturdays mostly to chat it up with my dad than they did to buy anything.
But the store is gone now, thanks to Everest which purchased it from Dad. Why head out to a store when you can get all your hardware needs online with a less than one hour drone delivery service?
My mom used to be a nurse. She’s about my average height and still has her shape thanks to the Everest Gym she belongs to (Dad does too, but he refuses to use it. He got enough exercise in the U.S. Army, or so he says). She’s still got her thick black hair (it’s dyed now, of course), and it’s presently pulled back in a ponytail while she serves dinner. My mom loves to shop and when Everest first started pushing their women’s wears, she was all over it. She’d spend hours going over the new fashions the same way people used to go through the annual Sears catalogue way back when. Almost every day a box bearing the black Everest mountain summit logo would arrive at the front door. Inside would be a pair of new shoes, or a handbag, or a dre
ss, or all of the above.
If I had to guess, I’d say every stitch of clothing she and my dad wears comes from Everest.com. Mom has always enjoyed the convenience, even if I do keep encouraging her to buy stuff from the few mom and pop shops we have left in New York State (or the world for that matter). I mean, even the malls are gone, other than the ones the Everest Corporation have opened up, their brick and motor bookstores being their biggest attraction.
Dad sips his beer.
“Have a seat, Scout,” he says, while I lean down into him, allow him to kiss my cheek.
He reaches around, pulls my chair out for me, just like he used to do when I was kid. I’ve always thought my parents would have wanted more children, but they never did. Never have I approached the subject with my mother because I always figured if it was something she wanted to talk about, she would have spoken up about it by now (Even when I lived in NYC, Mom and I used the Everest Instant Video app just about every day).
I sit down to a placemat upon which is set some of Mom’s more expensive china.
“What’s the occasion, Mom?” I say, as she carries a roast into the dining room with both heat mitt-covered hands and setting it in the center of the table.
“It’s not often that our only daughter is home with us,” she says, pulling off her heat mittens, and setting them aside. Then, gazing at Dad, “Darling would you mind doing the honors?”
“Sure,” he says, standing and proceeding to slice the roast beef. “Looks like Everest set us up nicely tonight. Smells delicious.”
When he’s through he sets some meat, potatoes, and carrots on my plate. He then does the same for Mom. He takes care of himself last. Sitting back down, he raises up his beer bottle.
“What shall we drink to, ladies?” he says, forcing a smile.
“Of course, let’s drink to Tanya,” Mom says. “How wonderful to have you back, dear.”
Mom has opened a bottle of wine and there’s a glass of red already sitting out for me. I take hold of the wine glass stem, hold it up. I then clink both Dad’s beer bottle and Mom’s wine glass, making sure to look both of them in the eyes or else break the good luck spell of the toast. I drink some wine, set the glass back down.
“Not bad, Mom,” I say, “where’d you get the wine?”
Mom automatically gazes at Dad. He gives her a sort of, you know what to say, look.
“Sarah,” he says, his face deadpan, his tone emotionless, “where do we get everything we buy these days?”
“Everest dot com, darling, naturally,” she says, almost like she’s declaring her loyalty to Der Fuhrer or maybe North Korea’s Chairman Kim. “In fact, Tanya, everything we buy, from toilet paper to life insurance comes from Everest. It’s truly amazing. The food we’re about to enjoy comes from Everest. Dad’s new car comes from Everest, as do the new furnishings in the house. We also consult with our doctors on Everest Instant Video.” She laughs, but it sounds like a staged laugh. “Even the religious services we tune into via live stream on Sunday mornings comes from, you guessed it, Everest dot com. The corporation has really been a blessing.”
“And the Everest Corporation can’t thank you enough for your loyalty,” interjects Jacquie, seemingly from out of nowhere. “I hope you’re finding your dinner satisfactory.”
“Yes indeed, Jacquie,” Mom says, once again raising her glass. “Isn’t that right darling?”
Dad forces a smile, as if somehow Jacquie can see him. He drinks down the rest of his beer and gets up.
“Yup, Jacquie sure knows how to get us our stuff,” he says, not without a little sarcasm. “I’m gonna grab another beer. Anybody want anything from the kitchen?”
“No thank you, darling,” Mom says, getting up. “I can get it for you.”
Truth is, not only are they acting beyond weird, but my mother never used to call my dad, darling. It sounds like something out of a Leave it to Beaver rerun. Holy crap, now that I look at her, she’s even starting to dress like June Cleaver.
“Siddown, Sar,” Dad says, almost annoyed. “I can get my own beer for God’s sakes.”
He opens the refrigerator, pulls out another beer, pops the top, tosses it into the trash, and rejoins us at the head of the table. I steal another sip of wine and set the glass back down. Mom is quick to refill for me.
“Do you mind, Mom?” I ask, taking hold of the wine bottle.
The label is nice. It shows a vineyard with the sun setting on some ripe grapes. It’s a pinot noir and the name of the bottle is Orchard Grove. The harvest is 2026. Reading the back of the label, I see that it’s a New York State wine and that it’s bottled and distributed by the Everest Corporation. Go figure.
“I thought you might have bought this from Jen’s shop near the supermarket,” I say. Jen, being an old friend and local wine shop owner.
My mother clears her throat.
“Jen’s shop is closed now, dear,” she says. “The supermarket is there, but it’s an Everest Garden-Fresh Market store now. The wine store belongs to Everest too. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“It’s the way everything’s going, Scout,” Dad says. “It’s the way everything’s been going for years now. Look at the government, its military and law enforcement collaboration with Everest. Look at the churches, the mosques, the synagogues. Look at your publishing business, or what was your publishing business.”
Setting the bottle back down, I stare at my food. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite and apparently everyone else has too because no one is eating. Only drinking. I gaze at both my parents. They are the rocks I have come to depend on for my forty-two years on this planet. Sure, they have their quirks, especially when they drink. Like breaking out in some old song from the 1980s together, or reciting lines from an old movie called Top Gun. But now . . . right now . . . they are acting stranger than I’ve ever seen them act in my life. It’s almost like they are putting on a show for someone.
Jacquie . . . Primary Membership . . . never worry about money again . . . have Mom and Dad taken the plunge? They’re too independent. They would never sell their souls . . .
Taking hold of my fork, I pick at the roast, pull off a tiny piece, pop it in my mouth. I have to admit, it tastes pretty damn good. The meat practically melts in your mouth. Everest’s moto of Give the People What they Want, When they Want it, seems to be working like a charm. My parents just continue to stare at one another. It’s like they’re afraid of something, or someone, but too afraid to talk about it out in the open.
I put down my fork. Slam it down is more like it. They both gaze at me, startled.
“Is there any way to turn that damn Jacquie machine off?” I ask.
I know darn well that in a home wired with Jacquie, like my parent’s is, the AI system cannot be disabled. At least, not without going through electronic hoops. It’s not as simple as disabling a cable television wire. But it feels good to say it anyway.
A pall seems to descend upon the dining room.
“Oh my God, Tanya,” my mother says, “why would you suggest such a thing? Jacquie is our friend. She helps us with everything. Isn’t that right, darling? She gets us our stuff.”
Dad stares at my mother for a long beat or two. I know that gaze because I know my father. What he’s saying is, I hate Jacquie. But there’s a game being played here and I’m sensing he feels he has no choice but to play it.
“That she does, Sarah,” he says. “Jacquie helps us with everything. You should know that, Scout. I’m sure you had Jacquie installed at your apartment in New York.”
He drinks some beer.
“I did,” I say, recalling the now outdated tall narrow box. “But this is different. This feels different.”
Then, as if out of nowhere. “Do you have any specific questions for me, Tanya? I’m equipped to answer just about anything. Every day I get just a little bit smarter, so they tell me. Every minute of every day I’m getting to know you better.”
I feel my stomach tighten up. Both sets of eyes on Mom and
Dad grow wide, like I’ve just violated some sort of secret, sacred code by questioning the need for Jacquie. It’s like I’m living back in the time of the Spanish Inquisition and I’ve just openly questioned the existence of God.
“No Jacquie,” I say. “I just thought it would be nice to speak with my folks in private.”
“But you are speaking to them in private, Tanya,” Jacquie says. “Keep in mind that all conversations are considered private and confidential and would never be repeated to anyone else, unless explicit permission is granted. Do you find this answer satisfactory?”
My blood is beginning to boil. Because why do I get the distinct feeling my parents have signed up to live like slaves in their own home?
“Yes, Jacquie,” I say. “It is satisfactory.”
“Very good,” the AI says. “Then please enjoy your more than satisfactory Everest dot com dinner.”
I stand up.
“You know what, guys,” I say. “As delicious as this roast is, I’m not very hungry. I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Dad stands.
“Think I’ll join you,” he says.
Making my way out the front door, I cross over the wood porch, then down the set of wood steps (which need to be replaced) and down the set of cracked concrete steps to the equally cracked sidewalk (on second thought, everything needs to be replaced). I feel my dad on my tail and when he’s made his way down the steps, I turn to him quick.
“What the hell is going on, Dad?”
He gazes not at me, but into me. He sets both his hands on my shoulders.
“Things around here seem different, don’t they, Scout?”
I feel my hair blowing in the summer breeze. Soon, the sweet smell of fall will be here and all the leaves on the old oak trees that line the street, their roots heaving up the concrete sidewalk, will be turning red and orange and beautiful. The change of seasons . . . At least there’s one thing Everest can’t control.
“You and Mom are afraid of something,” I say. Crossing my arms over my chest. “You did it, didn’t you? You became Everest Primary Program members.”
Primary Termination Page 2
