Alone and Dying in a Once Glorious Land

Old Man Westport sits in the median of a busy intersection. In this heat, it’s virtually a suicide attempt. I recall my father, years ago, lamenting that old Westport had to sell the lakehouse his parents had left him, and what a shame that had been. I trudge across the parking lot into the Permaserve. The only grocers left within ten miles of this neighborhood. The shelves are half empty. You can tell everyone knows there’s a food shortage; they know enough to avoid talking about it out loud. After the gas panic last year, that kind of talk would be irresponsible.

Outside I spy Presten Godleigh, my old classmate at the academy. In his hand he clutches his mother’s gold heart-shaped locket. She died when we were kids when a freak cold snap knocked the power out at their condo. Miss Faith Godleigh-White allowed her children to sleep away the night in a crawl space with their one portable heater while she slept in the living room. In the morning she had pneumonia, and three days later she was dead.

“Mementos are nice,” says Presten, sullen, “but we’ve got to have water.”

On the way home I run into Penelope Leightskenne on the corner. She was an intern at my uncle’s law firm before the layoffs. We used to call her a caffeine addict back then as a joke. Then the price of cacao shot up 10,000%. So she turned to more affordable options. As I pass her she flails her arms. It’s doubtful she could even recognize me. On the television at home there are ads for employment in the many water park resort towns. The catch, of course, is that unless you can pay off the massive debt you’ll inherit within one year you’ll have consigned yourself, and effectively, generations of your family to come, to a lifetime of servitude.

“Come exercise your freedom to work,” says Stetson Godman, owner of the Fiesta Texas Integrated Community. There’s also public service announcements discouraging citizens from conducting business with unlicensed third party utility suppliers. Nothing new on TV tonight, then. I’ve got a few hours to sleep before going to work. It’s a decent gig, as far as gigs go. Twelve hours guarding an empty lot. The community keeps trying to surreptitiously turn it into some kind of “urban garden” as they call it. Profiting from land that isn’t even legally theirs. Despicable. So the city subcontracted a security company that one of the council members owns to provide round the clock security. That company decided the most cost-effective thing to do was to have two guards alternate twelve hour shifts. Of course, there was no point in actually hiring someone, training them and offering them benefits, so the job goes to a rotating cast of temporary workers hired from another agency where the mayor owns a considerable stake. These day-to-day operations of democracy may be mundane to some, but I take great pride in knowing I’m contributing something to society, unlike the Old Man Westports and Penelope Leightskennes of the world. May the Lord Bless and Keep Them Always, of course.

On the small portable television inside my booth, I listen to a rousing emergency press conference delivered by philanthropist and shipping magnate Richmond Lorde-Penney. He informs the nation that until the current crisis is resolved, he has drained both pools in his Virginia complex in solidarity with struggling American workers. It’s certainly more than any of our elected leaders are doing at the moment. It’s nice to know that people with a certain amount of money can still be humble. It gives me hope. My manager, Mr. Reince Priebus checks in on me about four hours into my shift. I’m asleep, but that doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t even necessarily have to be here. It’s more important that I keep him entertained while he’s here so he’ll want me back. He had to cancel a trip to Cancun because of how the situation is.

“Maybe next month,” Mr. Priebus laments. “It would be nice to be some place where they don’t get so worked up about a little water.” His associate, Miss Christian Fairchilde, comes by to pick him up, dressed for a night out.

“Give my regards to Mrs. Priebus,” I say to him. Nothing else to do all night except stare at a political advertisement. Some newcomer named Rudolph Sotheby running for sheriff, promising he’ll “fix the system”.

I’ve heard that one before.