It’s a Living
That’s it; I’m down to my last 3-scryp v-coin. Seeking inspiration, I lie back on my cot and stare at the Rorschach water stain on the ceiling (today’s shape: sand dune). The OLED in my desk lamp is bright, but my mood is dark. What the hell am I gonna do? Most jobs may have gone the way of dinosaurs, dolphins, and postage stamps— but bills are a tenacious species.
Used to be, your asshole of a boss laid you off, you’d fall back on unemployment. It wasn’t much, but a guy could eat, cover his rent garnishment, dodge eviction from his shitty government mod for another month. So when the aforementioned asshole let me go a few months ago, I dutifully went online to apply.
Great News! the walls of my mod proclaimed. The California Department of Labor has merged with the state lottery, the most successful state agency in history! Click “I Want To Be A Winner” to learn more!
Who doesn’t want to be a winner? I clicked. Cue fanfare, balloons, and a baritone voice booming “Welcome to Unemployment Insurance SuperLotto!”. The disembodied narrator went on to explain that participants can now claim their benefits as usual each week (like suckers is only implied), or leave the dough on the table for a chance at the Big Prize.
I know what you’re thinking: what kind of an idiot chooses a lottery ticket over cold, hard specie in the bank? But it’s not as simple as that. Go the easy route and your benefit never quite finds its way into your account as your landlord, your K-12 school loans, even your goddamn pay-per-view bill all get paid before you do. Meanwhile, there are holopromos looping constantly — in the subway, on the access panel to your mod — featuring happy winners gleefully reciting the program’s catchphrase: “UI SuperLotto: good for the state, good for you!”
Oh yeah? Not this week it wasn’t. Or any other week. I’ve never even won one of the lesser prizes; come to think of it, I’ve never met anybody who has. I begin to suspect the smiling idiots in those holos are actors… which gives me an idea. “Call Sandy,” I say.
“Are you sure you want to call Sandy?” the walls of my mod respond. “A second violation of your DNCO could result in a fine and extension of…”
Yeah, I know. “Yes. Call Sandy.”
“As you wish.”
I don’t want to call. I hate that I’m calling. But she’s earning, for sure. The public’s hunger for streaming holoporn is never satisfied; and in that world, Sandy is a bona fide celebrity.
She knows damn well who’s on the other end, but — do-not-contact order notwithstanding — she picks up anyway. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t violate you for calling me.”
“Sorry, Sandy; really, I am. But I don’t have a choice.”
“Sure you do. You can choose not to call. You can choose to move to another state. Hell, you make choices all the time. For example, as you may recall, you chose to boink Ashley.”
OK, we’re doing this again. “I remind you again that you were there too. Holding the holocam.” And then putting down the holocam, if you catch my drift.
“You had feelings for her. I could totally tell when I watched the holo afterwards.”
“Right, but when I watch your stream, you never seem to have feelings for the guy, right? Or girl. Or…”
Confession: Sandy is the main reason my pay-per-view bill is through the roof.
She changes the subject. “Whatever. Why are you calling?”
“I’m, uh, a little short of funds…”
“Oooooh no. No no no…”
I talk fast, hoping to get it all in before Sandy clicks me away like a glitchy app. She yells, calls me names, tells me I’m not getting a centiscryp outta her. I soft-talk her, remind her of the good times, drop a few hints that the press might be interested in some of the pics we took that night we broke into the zoo, remember, babe?
She sighs. “What’d you do with your share from the holo with Ashley?”
You mean the one I never agreed to let you stream? At least she’d had enough class to forward my share of the royalties.
“Had to blow most of it on a jury duty pass.” That was actually true.
“Look, if I do this — and I’m not saying I’m gonna — what will you do with it?”
Got her! I figure she’s good for a hundred—if I can come up with an answer. It won’t go far: couple of take-out meals (no hot plates allowed in the mod, naturally), quarter-gram of yottaweed, maybe a 2-hour beach access permit. Leave enough left over to stream a couple of holos — Sandy’s got a new one coming out.
Ashley’s in it, too.
I say, “The election next week. Lots of important issues, thought maybe this time I’ll pick up a ballot, make a difference.”
“Bull. Shit.”
Fine, she knows me. Still, she caves in the end, messages me fifty scryp. Sandy gets the last word, though. The specie transfer is accompanied by a brief bit of motherly advice: “Get a job, LOSER.”
I think she’s still got a thing for me.
Get a job. Like what? I used to work with my hands: carpentry, mostly. Some masonry. Not much call for any of that anymore, of course. Pretty much the only two jobs left now are writing software to do all the work for us, and shooting holos to distract us during the long, empty days. Given my skill set, my employment prospects are dim at best.
Unless… A thought begins to blossom. Those royalties: the jury pass they paid for was platinum level, good for ten whole years. Nice comp for something that — let’s just admit it — ain’t bad work if you can get it.
I order in a couple of chemoburgers, a half-gram of yotta, and an old-fashioned scratch-off while I work the idea around in my head for a while. I look in the mirror, and I don’t see a holostar looking back at me. But hell, people are bored enough, I guess they’ll stream just about anything, right?
Damn, I think I can do this! I just need to do some networking, get some introductions, you know — break into the biz.
I lie back, contemplating the options. The ceiling stain is shaped like a beach house on Maui.
“Call Sandy,” I say.
