This is the first chapter of inThrallMent. It took a lot of work to create this chapter, and of course, even more to finish the entire book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, but please, do not try to copy or download it. Thank you!
1
Seven Ways To Fail
The year is 2146
Jerry had been blessed with the gift of disappointment. Specifically, the delivery of disappointing news. Not the darn-it-all-oh-well kind of news, or the truly devastating news. Jerry excelled at the kind of hope dashing letdown that required sincerely false expressions of sympathy and positive spin.
This minor function of social etiquette had become a sought after skill because 99.9967% of the clients failed. The odds of success seemed equal with the odds of riding a unicorn to work. But hope never dies, (despite being slashed, pummeled, stabbed, shot and torched by reality) it just needs a soft pillow of empathy to fall on. This meant a lot of pillow fluffing: the clients were one billion hopeful souls, nearly every person in the United Syndicates of America.
Jerry was a Retirement Counselor.
A thin man with short legs and a long torso, he appeared taller when sitting than standing. Red hair–nicely trimmed with a part and a wave on the right side–gave his pale white face a boyish look in spite of the wrinkles. Never an ambitious man, his past jobs were mostly fast food, retail, and delivery. He never earned benefits and could never afford EverLife. As Jerry aged the stigma of poverty was slowly etched on his face.
As he neared the natural age of fifty, with death looming closer and the beautiful people making him ever shabbier by comparison, Jerry relinquished his last bit of pride and applied for the job no one wanted. That he might have a gift for it was far from his mind.
He was hired on the spot and within a few weeks became The Most Admired Man In The Room. His evaluations were excellent. Coworkers were envious and desperate for advice. The job included benefits; he now had EverLife. His self-esteem rose so high he would sometimes find himself giddy for no reason.
All because of something that didn’t happen. Jerry never suffered a blowup, when a client lost it and turned into a screaming lunatic. Every counselor experienced blowups at least once a week, or more often, several times a day. Except for Jerry. He did have close calls, when clients walked away simmering. Just luck he would think and try to use it as a reminder to stay focused. But other counselors would badger him with questions–How’d you deal with that guy? What’d you say?–and his humility would dissolve under an onslaught of admiration.
Jerry once requested a Days Without Incident digital counter, a small one, hanging in an inconspicuous corner of his cubicle, but management said no. So he made do by writing the number, in red pen, on each day of his paper wall calendar. Though it was early he had already written in today’s number: 1,136. Jerry had been on the job just over three years. The number was perfect.
His cubicle was the fifth of ten on the west side of Square One on the 33rd floor of Building Nine. Ten cubicles on a side, two squares on each floor. Forty counselors in a square taking on the anxious public, with one supervisor perched in a high round desk in the center. In Square One this was Imelda, a blonde beauty with the supple skin of an eighteen year old who barked orders with a voice like a cranky old lion with a nicotine habit.
Weird contrasts like this sometimes showed up in early EverLife generations. The gossips around the office claimed her first EverLife treatment had gone wrong and could never be corrected. Or the technology wasn’t as good then. Or some defects could not be fixed. Or she liked it that way. Who knew.
Imelda thought she had Jerry figured out.
“It’s because you’re hard,” she said, subtlety not being one of Imelda’s talents. “You’re a hardened man. You’ve been without EverLife, you’ve watched yourself grow old and inch towards death. Your fifty years of wrinkle-ravaged frustration more than matches their whiny complaining. You deliver the news nice but inside they know they can’t ever trump you.”
In Imelda’s world this was a compliment.
Jerry tried not to listen too closely when Imelda propositioned him. She was cantankerous, critical, mean at the best of times, bossy in an annoyingly nit-picky way, a woman who spread gloom and unhappiness with the ease of a cartoon fairy casting a spell. Jerry felt no real attraction and worried about the consequences of rejecting or accepting her come-on. Best to act dumb and try to avoid eye contact.
The compact printer on his left plunked out a new form. His next client, name of Roland V. Smalls. From the first generation. The character profile rated him 3 in temperament (amenable and compliant, easy-going, mild mannered) and 6 in work ethic (hard-working). Nothing unusual. Most clients fell into or near the three-six range. Last year’s counselor had noted an “inclination to frustration.”
Mr. Smalls had been at this a long time. “Inclination to frustration” was code for “watch out, this guy’s about to crack.” Mr. Smalls would be his biggest challenge of the day. Of course the ideal solution would be to help Mr. Smalls retire. Make him one of the lucky .0033%. Jerry knew better than to put any hope in this, but it lingered in the back of his mind.
A round faced man in a black overcoat and tie approached.
“Is this 9331510w?”
“Yes it is Mr. Smalls and welcome to your annual audit!” Jerry stood and offered his hand and a big friendly smile. Roland Smalls shook hands and looked at Jerry’s plastic name tag.
“Hello Jerry. Nice to meet you.” Mr. Smalls made an attempt at a smile and failed.
As they sat the high cloth dividers cut the conversational noise to a manageable grumble. Like every working day, and every working hour of every day, all eighty counselors were busy.
“First of all, let me thank you for coming in. I know it’s inconvenient and am grateful you took the time. This should only take a few minutes.
“Now the disclaimer. Yes, you hear this every year, but we’re required to say it: Only a small percentage of the population achieves retirement. When the number is published on New Year’s Day we sincerely hope this will be your year. If it is, then congratulations and enjoy yourself! We know you’ve earned it. However, if you are among the majority who must still work, you should look on this as an opportunity for self-improvement, a guide to help you make informed decisions that will help you achieve retirement in the future.”
Mr. Smalls nodded.
“Let’s start with your name. Could you spell it for me to make sure I have it correct? Last name first and first name last.”
Mr. Smalls spelled his name. As he wrote Jerry double checked the information against the computer screen on his right.
“Do you have a middle name?”
“Vaughan,” said Mr. Smalls and spelled it. Correctly, according to the computer.
“Your address?”
“8715 Mason Lane.” Confirmed by the computer.
“That’s a nice area of town, Mr. Smalls. You’ve done well for yourself. Married, divorced, separated or single?”
“Married.” The computer said Mr. Smalls had been married once.
“How many marriages?”
“Just the one.” Mr. and Mrs. Smalls applied for a marriage license in 2023. A long monogamous relationship and a good sign. So many people had multiple marriages. Jerry let his hopes rise. Finding an actual retiree was a goal he had yet to achieve.
“That’s really impressive Mr. Smalls, that you and your wife have been together so long. That makes me feel good, knowing there is still true love in the world. How many children?”
“Just one.” Confirmed by the computer, but…
“I’m sorry, my computer is saying this is an unlicensed child.” A possible crime.
“We run into this every year. Max was born before the Protection Laws. Just scroll down a little more…”
“Oh, I see it, a retroactive exemption.” Mixed possibilities here. The single child was good, and unusual for a couple from the “Reality Gap” years, between EverLife and the Population Protection Act, when humanity went on a procreation binge. The Smalls likely got their exemption by agreeing to limit themselves to one child.
Exemptions–the all-powerful bureaucratic tool for sweeping away indiscretions, procedural screw-ups, or any failure needing official absolution–didn’t always work. Roger, from Square Two, liked to tell anyone caught listening the story of his only retiree, a woman whose parameters were way over but somehow always fell short.
Previous counselors told her to expect to retire. When Roger said the same thing she had banshee-like blowup that brought the entire floor to a halt. Afterward, Roger took the time to get the full story. (That he hung by the woman as she was detained impressed Jerry the most.) Roger dug into the woman’s official past and found an exemption for a previous marriage–her first husband died in a bungee jumping accident–with the wrong marriage code, preventing her from retiring for a decade.
“What is the child’s gender and age?”
“A boy. One hundred and eight.”
“How old are you?”
“One hundred and forty seven.” This triggered one of Jerry’s mental bookmarks.
“You were alive during the war.” The Second Preservation War had been the only school subject to hold Jerry’s attention. Reminiscing over a historical touchstone was an effective icebreaker.
“Yes I was.”
“Wasn’t there some battle around here?”
“There were a thousand battles all over the country.”
“It was a big battle, so big they had to give it a name. Really horrible, really bloody.”
“The Turner Street Massacre.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“You know it better as The Battle of Old Town.”
“Yeah! That was it! Lots of people dead on both sides.”
“It was one-sided, more slaughter than battle.”
“Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Cool! I’ve never met anyone who was there. Was it as bad as they say? Blood running in streets? Body parts strewn on the sidewalk?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
“I sat on my couch and watched it on TV.”
That was a letdown. “Well…but that’s good. Must have been a terrible thing, a real…uh…what’s the word…tragedy. But you did the right thing.”
“The right thing? What was that?”
“You stayed out of it, at home. You didn’t get involved.”
Jerry looked up and involuntarily flinched back. Mr. Smalls was staring at him like a dog about to attack. “You don’t know what the word means.”
“I’m sorry? Which word?”
“Tragedy. You couldn’t even think of it. Had to work at it. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Mr. Smalls, I am truly sorry if I’ve offended you. I meant no disrespect. I do understand what you’ve gone through and how important the past is and would never take for granted the sacrifices of your generation.” Jerry used his most servile tone, hoping it would induce some guilt.
“You act like death is an exciting experience you’ve been denied.”
“No sir, I’m just trying to make conversation.” The humble tone was not working. “We should move on. Do you have your W2 and F3 forms?”
“Why do we meet like this?”
“Well, a yearly assessment is required by law–”
“Yes, I know that. What else besides the obvious?”
“The CEO of Paragon Retirement felt the process was becoming too impersonal–”
“Jerry, we both know everything is on the computer. The damn thing knows more about me than I do. There’s no reason for us to meet. And you have to know hand writing superficial information on a paper form is meaningless.”
“Mr. Smalls, I assure you our meeting is extremely important in the retirement process, essential actually.”
“I am required to be here. I don’t have any choice.”
“Mr. Smalls–”
“Call me Rolly. All my enemies do.”
“Certainly Rolly. At the very least your presence confirms that you exist, you’re alive and our records are up-to-date.”
“And the computers are infallible.”
“Absolutely. Backed up multiple times in multiple places. Stored at such high encryption no one, nor any computer, could possibly break in. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“It bothers me that you’re missing the point. If computers are infallible, why are we here?”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“I work for the insurance company.”
Control of the conversation was now in Mr. Smalls rhetorical hands. Best to keep him talking, vent off a little anger, try to lessen the looming tirade. “It not about the computers all the time. We are still human.”
“That’s true. The computers are a tool. So I’m forced to come here and suffer through another disappointment, handed out by warm-hearted human instead of an impersonal computer. I preferred the computer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Wasn’t there a time when your statement was a computer generated email?”
“About five decades ago, before you were born.”
“So you were unhappy when the counseling service was created.”
“I thought it was a good idea. At the time. An excuse to get out of work for a couple hours.”
“What changed your mind? Did you have a bad counselor?”
“Every counselor has been equally as helpful as you, Jerry. You are all very well trained.”
“Thank you.” A compliment, and a positive sign. “I appreciate you saying that. So what turned you off on counseling?”
“It’s the same rejection every year no matter who says it.”
“How many times has it been?”
“Sixty-seven.”
“You shouldn’t think of it as rejection. It’s nothing more than a con-vergence of numbers, a happenstance of addition and subtraction.” Straight out of the training manual. “Maybe this will be your year. We haven’t looked at all your info. Can I see your W2 and F3 forms?”
Rolly frowned and pulled two sealed envelopes from an inside jacket pocket. Jerry passed them under a blue light to break the electronic seal, then cut them open with a miniature medieval claymore.
There are seven parameters that determine eligibility for retirement. Two are tracked and compiled by Paragon Retirement Inc.: Marriage and Children. Two are reported and judged by the client’s employer: Length of Service and Productivity. The remaining three are compiled by the potential retiree’s financial provider, a summary of their current financial state: Assets and Debt for a total net worth, and the client’s overall Credit Rating.
These seven numbers are inserted into a mathematical formula, calculated by computer, to produce the client’s final tally for the year, called their Reckoning. If the client’s Reckoning is higher than The Number (the Corporament’s cutoff for selecting retirees, calculated using economic parameters such as market activity, profit margins, and overall productivity), the client can retire.
No amount of hard work, loyalty or social responsibility could make up for the tiny number sitting on Mr. Smalls’ financial form. Jerry understood this at a glance.
He said nothing, kept his facial expression locked, and began typing, entering Mr. Smalls’ numbers into the formula. In seconds he had a sum.
“This year your Reckoning is 425.31.”
Mr. Smalls looked shocked. “That’s the same as last year!”
“Really? I’ve never seen a no-change.” He checked the computer record. “You’re absolutely right. How about that.” Jerry smiled.
“Weren’t there changes to the formula this year? To make retirement easier?”
“Only for point zero-zero-zero-zero-one percent of the populace. But that’s only this year. Depending on next year’s change we estimate–”
“How many people is that?”
“About ten thousand.”
“And I’m not one of them.”
“I’m sorry Rolly, it’s not going to happen this year.”
“I knew that. In spite of everyone saying otherwise, I knew that.”
“I can help you sort out where the problem is. Looking at your F3 form your–”
“No.” Mr. Smalls raised his voice. “You’re not going to do anything. You’re going to put my file in that pile by the desk and by the end of the day you’ll forget we talked.”
“Rolly, I can help you–”
“You’re just a pencil pusher.”
“Mr. Smalls, Rolly, give me a chance to find some wiggle room.”
“Wiggle room. You know how many times I’ve heard that? Or some other synonym for the same vague promise? Find some leeway. Or space. Or a little extra in the nooks and crannies. You people need to update your training. Find new ways to say fail.”
“Rolly, you should try to be more positive.”
“Do you even listen? Is your brain already moving on to the next spin? Do you know how many times I’ve sat across from someone with that same fake positive attitude, and how many times I bought into it?”
“Sixty-seven times.”
“You do listen. That’s good. Let’s work this out together. How many different ways can we say ‘failure’ without actually saying ‘failure?’ You start.”
“I don’t–”
“Okay, I’ll start. We’re dealing with a failure to retire, in a society where everyone lives forever, so we could call it ‘permanent work.’ But that has such a depressing sound. Not much of a euphemism. How about ‘skill reassessment’ or ‘financial reassessment.’ I know! ‘Time management reassessment.’ Reassessing things makes it sound like a change for the better. That’s good. Your turn.”
“Mr. Smalls, I think it’s time to end our meeting.”
“But I’m just getting started! You want to make this personal. But you know,” the words now sodden with sarcasm, “personal isn’t good enough. It’s too polite, not positive enough. What else can we call it? How about friendly? Or maybe tolerable? Bearable? Survivable? Not a pain in the ass? Oh, here we go: ‘warm and cuddly.’ ‘We’d like to make the retirement process warm and cuddly.’ C’mon Jerry, let’s sit here and think up ways to spin this so it doesn’t sound pointless.”
“It’s not pointless.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-two.”
“God, you’re young. Not even up to pre-EverLife retirement age.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you Rolly. Maybe next–”
“What was The Number last year?”
“477.”
“Why does The Number always go up?”
“The general health of the economy, the population count, value of the dollar, more things than I can list.”
“But The Number always goes up. The economy goes up and down, but The Number goes up. The population stays the same, but The Number goes up.”
“It’s just the way things work.”
“Bullshit. It’s a bunch of rich bastards sitting in a skyscraper pulling a number out of a hat.”
Mr. Smalls had gone beyond frustration into paranoia. “That’s a farfetched notion. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet. The wealthy have more important things to think about.”
“Like controlling the Corporament.”
“We still live in a democracy.”
“A democracy controlled by corporations.”
“We still vote. We still elect representatives.”
“We vote for the candidate our company picked. The one they tell us to vote for.”
“It’s still your decision.”
“Is it? Really? A choice between a politician who represents Warburton Inc. or one who represents Knoll & Sons Limited? Is it my choice when the company says they’ll give you a raise if their man is elected? Or a cut if he isn’t?”
“You didn’t vote in the last election did you?”
“Yes I did and voted for my own sorry self interests!” Rolly’s voice raised enough to attract a few glances. Jerry could feel Imelda staring holes through his back.
“Mr. Smalls, we can help you retire. Just not this year. And please remember, cameras are recording everything.”
“Jerry, I have done everything the way I was supposed to my entire life. I worked at the same company, I stayed married to the same woman, I only have one child, I’ve been saving and scrimping…everything we’ve done is about getting retired.”
“I appreciate your effort but I can’t change The Number.”
Silence, for a split second, but in memory like a paused movie. Rolly gazed at Jerry, his expression unmoving when it should have been reacting. Jerry had never been to this point before, that was the downside of perfection, a lack of experience. But he would learn: this was the calm before the strike.
In an instant Rolly was up and lunging over the half wall and screaming inches from Jerry’s face.
“I HAVE BEEN WORKING FOR ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE YEARS AND I WANT TO RETIRE!”
Rolly sat back down, eyes wide, hands shaking.
One-hundred and sixty plus people stopped talking and turned to look.
“Rolly, I under–”
“Goodbye.”
Mr. Roland Smalls disappeared, like a fly jumping into flight before the hand swats it, leaving Jerry alone to stare back at the gawking faces.
The wannabe retirees looked at him warily. His fellow counselors were shocked; everyone stared. Finally, the tension broke and they turned away, muttering things he didn’t want to hear.
Jerry picked up a pen and buried the 1,136 he had written on today’s date in a violent obliteration of red ink.
“Shit,” he said.