He smiles shyly, gives both shoulders a slight squeeze.
“Come on,” he says, “let’s walk.”
Removing his hands he starts walking toward the center of the neighborhood. This is the very street where I played kickball with my friends, where I learned to ride a bike, where I’d sneak home late at night after staying too long at a high school house party, where Tony would kiss me for what seemed like hours. God, the entire neighborhood must have been watching, including Mom and Dad. A couple of kids are riding their bikes up ahead. Proof positive that an entirely new generation of people are raising their families here. Parents younger than me. A lot younger!
“Listen, Scout,” Dad says after a time, “I know it must seem strange to you that your mom and me would sign up for a program like that. A program where we’re married to a big corporation like Everest.”
“You’ve always been so independent, Dad,” I say. “You and Mom are the only registered Indies in the city. You’re lucky your trash gets picked up.”
He laughs as we pass by the two little scruffy kids riding their bikes. We hook a left at the corner and walk further into the old neighborhood.
“That’s true, honey,” he says, “and we’re still registered Independents. It’s just that things have been tight for us. “After the store was bought out, we were still left with nothing but debt.”
“But I thought the store always did great, Dad. It put me through college and writing school.”
He laughs a little.
“Ummm, loans put your through college and writing school, honey,” he says.
I stop on a dime, turn to him.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “All this time, I thought the Hardware Man paid for my education with cash.”
He looks into my eyes.
“That’s just what I told you, Scout,” he says. “You see, Mom and I didn’t want you to worry about being strapped with a whole bunch of debt when your schooling was over, like so many other kids of your generation. So we lied about how we paid for it. But it was a good lie. A white lie.”
We resume our walk.
“Jeeze,” I say after a long beat, “now here I am in my forties. No marriage, not even a boyfriend. No job and no prospects of a job. No money, and a whole bunch of debt.”
“Debt?” Dad asks.
“Everest credit card debt. It’s the only credit card in town, remember?”
We walk some more.
“You know, Scout,” he says, after a time, “when your mom and I finally agreed to the Everest Primary Program, you know what they did for us?”
“I can listen and walk at the same time, Dad,” I say. “Still got that going for me anyway.”
“They forgave our debts,” he says. “During that awful period when the socialists got hold of power and all the credit card companies and banks were failing, and Everest started buying out their debt, your mother and I were very seriously thinking about declaring bankruptcy.”
“So let me guess,” I say. “Everest Corp. comes along and offers you a deal you can’t possibly refuse.”
Dad cocks his head over his shoulder, like he’s admitting how right I am, even if he wouldn’t exactly put it like that.
“Let’s just say, they not only offered your mom and me a new start in life at our old age, but a more or less worry-free life, Scout. We never have to worry about money again.”
Up ahead is the small park Dad would walk me too when I was still in grade school. It’s a little run down, but as far as I can see, it looks the same. We head through the opening in the old chain link fence, and without a word, head for the swing set, like the year isn’t 2028 but instead, 1998. I take the empty swing on the right, and Dad takes the left. Together we begin to swing, thrusting our legs out and then tucking them in, building up the momentum that sends us flying forward and backwards, gaining altitude with every swing. I forgot how much fun a swing set could be. Non-electronic, simple fun.
After a while, we both come in for a landing, the two of us laughing like we used to do together all those years ago.
“I know the whole thing seems pretty weird to you, Scout,” he says after a time. “But do you have any idea how many jobs have been eliminated in the past five years alone? There are gobs of twenty, thirty, and forty-somethings out of work thanks to automation. They were warning us about it all the way back before you were born, but it all seemed like science fiction at the time. I mean, the internet was brand new back then. Then this company comes along that only sells books at first, but then starts selling lots of other things, and pretty soon, it’s selling everything you can imagine, just like Sears used to. And not just physical goods, but things like television shows, movies, music, food, and everything in between. We use it because they’re all about the consumer and they beat all the prices at the physical stores, and they deliver fast by drone. What more could a shopper want?”
He pauses for a beat or two like he’s trying hard to climb over a wall of sadness.
“The reason your mother and I were so weird at the dinner table wasn’t because of Jacquie necessarily,” he goes on, while gripping the vertical lengths of chain and staring down at the ground. “Like millions of other people, we’ve been living with Jacquie in one form or another for years now. Truth is, we were acting strange because we thought you might be disappointed in us once you found out the truth. Like you’d think we gave in, or worse, gave up.”
“I don’t think that, Dad,” I say. “I want you and Mom to be happy. I also want you to be secure. And I guess if Everest can do that for you, who am I to knock it? It’s just that I’ve heard certain things that make me nervous.”
“Like what, Scout?”
“Like the termination clause for instance,” I say. “I’ve heard of people disappearing even for the slightest infraction.”
My dad laughs, slaps his thigh.
“Those are just silly rumors,” he says. “If your mom and I want out of the program, all we need to do is put in the paperwork. Or, electronic paperwork, anyway.”
“You sure about that, Dad?”
He nods. But I’m not sure he believes himself. I’m also wondering if he and Mom were acting weird at the dinner table not because they were afraid of disappointing me, but instead afraid of pissing off Jacquie.
“As sure as I’m sitting on this swing inside this park,” he insists. “But here’s the thing. Why would we want out? There’s no future for anyone in private business any longer which is why I sold the store to Everest in the first place three years ago. A person can try, I guess, but greenbacks are being phased out, honey. Soon, U.S. currency will be either useless or even illegal, sort of like Confederate money after the Civil War.”
“So you’re sticking,” I say. “You and Mom.” It’s a question for which I know the answer.
“Not much of a choice the way I see it,” he says. He sets his hand on my leg, gives me a little pinch. “And I gotta say, Scout, I’m not sure you have much of a choice either. You’re up to your ears in debt—”
“—and how do you know how much debt I’m in, pops?”
We’re both glancing at one another.
“Jacquie,” I say, answering my own question.
“She’s just looking out for you, Scout. She suggested to us that we talk to you about joining the Primary Program. Joining it soon. Don’t you want to be worry free?”
My stomach sinks. It’s my gut speaking to me. This all seems wrong. Like giving up our freedom for the sake of convenience and guaranteed income which in my mind, isn’t all that guaranteed. What if they change the rules on everything, for instance? What if instead of offering a couple thousand Everest credits per week, they downgrade it to five hundred? What happens then? Or what if they decide to can the program altogether after years of being unemployed? Would I be considered unemployable by that point? Certainly my parents would be at their age. These are the questions I want to pose to my dad, but what’s the point of arguing with him anymore? What’s the
point of arguing with myself, for that matter? It’s like we’re no longer in control of our lives.
Standing, I stuff my hands in my jean’s pockets and kick at a couple of loose stones with the tips of my boots.
“I see the future, Dad,” I say, “and I don’t like it.”
“You see a future that’s very different from the one you and I envisioned twenty years ago, Scout. Maybe you’re angry because Everest put you out of a job.”
“I’m angry all right. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of editors just like me with Will Work for Food signs glued to their backs right now, thanks to Everest dot com.”
“If you can’t beat ‘em,” Dad says, “then at least beat ‘em at their own game. Join the Primary program and horde as many credits away as you can. You can live with us for a while, rent free. Just build up an account that will make you rich. Write books, publish them in the Cradle Direct Publishing program, just like Tony Smart is doing. Have you read any of his work yet?”
Just the sound of Tony Smart’s name makes my stomach go tight, my pulse beat a little bit faster than nature intended.
“No,” I say, a bit under my breath. “I haven’t.”
“He’s still around, Scout,” Dad says. “Bit of a local celebrity. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
I laugh, nervously.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “He’s probably married to some young hottie, with three rug rats running around.”
Dad shakes his head.
“I don’t think do, Scout. Word up is he divorced some years back. Not sure about kids.”
I glance at my dad and smile.
“I hate it when you give me love advice, Dad.”
He stands.
“Enough said,” he says. Then, taking a look at his watch. “Come on, let’s get back. Mom is probably wondering where we are and talking Jacquie’s digital ear off in the meantime.”
We start for the opening in the fence.
“Listen,” he says while we walk, “I’ll just say this one last time, Scout.”
I stop, turn, gaze into his face. It’s still the same face that I know and love but also a face that is getting older. And it makes me sad to know my dad is getting older and that I won’t have him forever.
“Let’s have it, Dad,” I say, not without a sly grin.
“Resistance is futile,” he says, in his squeaky, high-pitched, mock Nazi Germany Gestapo voice.
“Oh stop,” I say, not without a giggle.
“Okay, all joking aside,” he says, “you can either fight it and be miserable and jobless. Or, you can get with the future, have your debts forgiven, and never worry about money again. You were always a great writer before you became an editor. Now you can write your books and publish them and become famous like Tony. And hey, if in the end, the program isn’t right for you, just request voluntary termination. Nothing lost, but quite a bit gained, if you know what I mean.”
I guess, for the first time since we started talking about the Everest Primary Program, my dad is making sense. My dad has always made sense to me. He’s always been the practical one, the nuts and bolts man. He is Bradly Teal the Hardware Man, after all. The man everyone visited on Saturday not only for proper nuts and bolts required to fix their sinks and toilets, but also for advice on anything from the right material to refinish their kitchen floor, to a good lawyer who will get them out of a traffic ticket or even a bad marriage. I guess he is what they had in the place of the Everest Corporation.
“I’ll look into it after our dinner of Everest dot com pot roast, Dad,” I say.
“Promise?” he asks.
“Promise,” I say.
We walk home to Dad’s humming of one of our favorite old tunes, Where the Buffalo Roam.
Oh give me a home, where the Buffalo Roam, and the deer and the antelope play. Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day . . . Home, home on the range . . .
It’s one of my favorite tunes. A song about living free.
Okay so I gotta suck this one up and just come out and admit it. The Everest pot roast was delicious. The meat was so tender, it melted in my mouth. The wine was so good, Mom and I opened another bottle. Dad had a few more beers and suddenly, he and mom were singing in unison to some song from an ancient band called, Modern English.
“I’ll stop the world and melt with you . . .”
There’s nothing modern about Modern English. People had the worst taste in music back then. Even Jacquie was probably covering her digital ears with her digital hands. My folks kept singing while we cleaned up. I volunteered to do the dishes since they were having such a great time and it kept me from thinking too much not only about joining the Everest Primary Program, but from thinking about my ex, Tony Smart.
But it wasn’t working very well.
Maybe you’ve gotten the message by now that Tony and I had been quite the item for most of high school. We went to the dances together, the proms, the house parties. I spent the fall weekends at his football games (he was an offensive linemen and linebacker on defense), the winters watching him wrestle, and in the spring, his baseball games (he played catcher). At five-feet-eight or so, Tony wasn’t the tallest guy in school, but he loved to hit the weights, so he was most definitely one of the strongest.
His hair was thick and dark, and his eyes brown and shaped like almonds. His face was round, and his nose a little pugged from having broken it a couple of times on the football field. But he had an energy about him, a charisma that many taller, more classically handsome boys didn’t come close to. He was also gifted. Like me, he knew from day one that he wanted to be a writer, and he was determined to make it happen. Whereas most kids dreaded English class, Tony couldn’t wait for it, and he spent many hours on his papers, making sure they would not only receive A’s (an A wasn’t good enough for him or me), he wanted them to the best in the class. Often times, the teacher would point out what terrific work Tony did, and cite his paper or short story as an example of the kind of writing that could be accomplished, even at sixteen or seventeen years old, if you just put a little effort into it. I loved that about him.
But here’s the thing. His only competition in our English classes came from me. Just as often as his work would receive the kudos, so would mine. Thus began our little friendly feud. Whenever a short story was due in class, it was like watching a wrestling match to see which story was better. Sometimes he won the day and sometimes I would win. Sometimes we’d receive equal praise. But we had a blast competing with one another, and it was one of the things that bound us together. No one could write like we could and the entire school, including the faculty knew it, and respected us for it. To say the least, it was a magical time to be alive.
On occasion he’d write me poems . . . little two or three paragraph pieces that I would stuff into my dog-haired copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. That book is still on my bookshelf up in my bedroom and I can bet the poems are still there too. Could it truly be that Tony isn’t married anymore?
I’d seen his profile many times on Facebook, before all the social media giants were swallowed up by Everest. But there wasn’t a whole lot of personal information offered up. I think he used the site mostly as an advertisement for his Cradle books. Judging by his social media photos, which were mostly professional studio shots taken for his website and book dust jackets, he still maintained his rugged good looks and his muscular shape (I could never imagine Tony giving up the gym). Sure his hair was thinner and a little grayer, and he sometimes wore eyeglasses now, but he was still the same Tony.
As I dry the last dish and set it into the cabinet above the oven, I wonder how Tony would feel if I reach out to him. If he would feel horrified, or if he would welcome seeing me. Because here’s the sticky thing. Over the years, Tony would send me the occasional manuscript in hopes of striking a deal. Because he and I were so close once, I always passed without reading it. I know it sounds like a shitty thing to do, but listen, Tony was
my very first. I mean the first. First real kiss, first 1st base, 2nd base, 3rd base, and yeah, first nakeds (yup, that plural spelling is correct), first boy I ever slept with. That’s a huge deal when you’re only seventeen years old. After he dumped me just before we went off to different colleges in different states, I didn’t sleep with another boy until three years later. That’s how upset I was. And yeah, that’s how much I still loved him.
Stealing one of Dad’s beers from the fridge, I take it upstairs with me to my room, set it on my nightstand beside my lamp. Undressing down to my undies, I slip under the covers. It’s then I notice my twenty-five-year-old copy of To Kill a Mockingbird has been precariously placed on the bed, directly next to my pillows.
“Gee, I wonder who is responsible for that?” I ask aloud.
“Your mother thought it would be a nice surprise for you,” Jacquie says. “I hope this answer satisfies your query, Tanya.”
OMG, does the AI ever sleep?
I drink some beer, set the bottle back on the nightstand.
“Thanks, Jacquie,” I say. “I’m going to say goodnight now.”
In theory, once you say goodnight to the current generation of Jacquie, she’s not supposed to chime in, or bother you in anyway whatsoever, unless there’s an emergency like a house fire, a carbon monoxide leak, and/or a home intrusion in progress.
“Goodnight, Jacquie,” I say. “I’ll talk with you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Tanya,” she says. “It’s good to have you back home again. I downloaded your application for the Everest Primary Program to your email address, so please look it over at your convenience. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to never have to worry about money again? Wouldn’t it be lovely to live a worry-free lifestyle?”
The AI woman . . . if she really is a woman . . . just doesn’t stop, does she?
“Yes, Jacquie,” I say, “I’m looking forward to checking it out.”
“And all your debts will be forgiven, don’t forget. And you have quite a heavy load, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
If only I could toss my beer bottle at her. But she’s just a voice . . . a nothing . . . but a very powerful nothing . . .
Primary Termination Page 3
