Wouldn't It Be Nice

He was smiling into the cameras, waiting patiently. This was not his forte, public speaking had always been a weakness as far back as school. Oh, school, how simple the world had been when he hadn't known what was going on.

Well, the chattering buzz of conversation sparked by his coming on stage began to die down, it was only fair really. His parents had had to deal with crisis and managed to shield him from it. Most of the time, his memories were only rosy because they had intentionally kept them that way.

In some ways, this was his turn. "Give back," everyone always whined, or extoled themselves for doing while volunteering. "Give back!" But he had never fully grasped the concept.

Still smiling, he picked a reporter at random and hoped she would ask him about his reasons. They had taken a long time to put together and he was proud of them.

"Mr. Many Rivers, I understand that you have a plan to address the homelessness epidemic."

Reminding himself that this was no time for humour, and restraining a comment about cutting them in half, he responded, "yes. After years of planning and consultation, we have a program that we think will be instrumental in addressing the root causes of the crisis."

"Can you explain those root causes and how you'll address them."

Not even remotely interested in why, this irked him. He remembered why he avoided the public, and their stupid questions as though they hadn't read anything he'd published. Third grade, he reminded himself, aim for third grade.

"There are over two-hundred and thirty thousand unhoused and homeless persons in this country. A population that is only growing. The systems in place to alleviate the crisis are failing. What we're doing is giving people a home, medical care, and a job. If they want it."

He pointed out another reporter who asked, "can you tell us more about the jobs? What will they be and how will they relate to the housing you aim to provide?"

"Just to be clear, you mean will they still be allowed to live there if they don't work?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Um... ok; returning to the subject of jobs specifically, what kinds of jobs will they be, how will they be paid, and what about food? You didn't mention it."

Jordan Many Rivers gently struck the podium he was standing behind with the flats of both hands. "I am genuinely thrilled you asked me that. So, a quick word about food, it will be freely available at set times. Residents of the camps have a card that they scan for internal tracking, and anyone else who shows up is given a meal. There is an option to donate if the diner is of greater means."

Liking the reporter more and more, Jordan waited patiently for them to finish scribbling notes before going on. "As for the jobs, that will be determined by several factors that are listed in depth in the policy master document section..." he glanced through his notes, "thirty-four. In brief, the jobs are whatever we have that needs doing and suits their skills. Many labour outside, some work in-doors as administration, and many are enrolled in full-time education."

"I'm sorry, education? And you're using present tense. Care to explain?"

"Yes, education. A lot of people, due to circumstances beyond their control, never completed their standard education. There are limits to the necessity of some of it, and in full transparency, we are running iterative tests to determine what exactly adults need to be able to do in the modern world. Very few are genuinely illiterate, but many are below-level. We focus first on that, then follow it with a deep dive into media literacy and critical thinking. Once we get them reading, we want to teach them to be wary of propaganda."

"And the natural use of your own propaganda? Also, you didn't address my question about the present tense."

"I know. And the propaganda we use is directly explained to them in unit four, it's all explained in Annex... seven. I like your hat, by the way."

Before the reporter could respond, he had moved on and was now answering questions about compensation. But they were smiling, their friends hadn't been sure about the hat.

Questions about pay were the natural and extremely boring ones that had to land somewhere at this point in the interview. Once the reporters had taken a few warmup questions, it was time to talk money. Only politics left after this, and it was smooth sailing. This was not the first time he wished press conferences were governed by the same rules as holiday dinners.

"They are paid a standard wage of fifteen dollars an hour. We recognize that this is neither the current standard living nor minimum wage. However, our legal consultations inform us that with the inclusion of housing, meals, and clothing, this is a substantial compensation. Not to mention the fact that many of our resident-workers are used to a cup of coins and cold nights. I ask that you not forget differences in circumstance leading to difference in aspiration."

"Mr. Many Rivers," interrupted another reporter, jumping from her seat. "You've danced around the issue long enough, you continue to say 'are' not 'will be' and we've all noticed the special emphasis. I'll make it formal, sir, why are you speaking as though the project is already underway?"

"Because it is."

A cliche would be to say that a wave of murmurs rose across the room. Dramatic tension requires a stunned silence. And high drama would demand an explosion of questions. The truth, as always, was more chaotic and less spectacular.

Friend whispered to friend. The excitable shouted out elementary questions or just shouted out their surprise. And those in stunned silence sat like lonely stones amid a thrashing sea.

Jordan smiled broadly at them, allowing the chaos to endure for a moment before putting firm authority into his voice and saying, "yes, you there in red."

"Mr. Many Rivers, how long has this project been underway and why have you waited this long to share the news? It implies that you have something to hide."

"I recognize that. However, we decided to suppress information about the launch until we were satisfied with early progress. It has all been logged, and the full... I suppose you could call it a documentary will be released later this year. We've had residents on location for four months and they've been actively employed or enrolled in education for three months.

"Next month, once we confirm certain security precautions, press will have minimally inhibited access to the facility. Certain times of night are restricted for resident privacy, and facility escorts will have to be present for initial visits to accustom residents to your being there."

Another reporter won the race to ask his question, "Can you explain how the housing and employment process works? Some people might think badly of it, if they're seen to be getting special privileges."

"Yes, I can. How it works is, a person arrives at one of our in-take centres (at present only four are open) and asks for help. We then interview them, and if they demonstrate sufficient need and we have space, we offer them a home. This offer carries certain conditions, such as enrollment in gentle treatment for addictions, and a commitment to keeping the neighbourhood, and their living space tidy.

"After the offer, they then wait at the centre until one of our minibuses is ready to bring them to the facility. If you'll direct your attention to the screen, we have prepared a video demonstration."

Images flickered to life behind and above where he stood, music started playing and every camera and eye turned towards it. Behind the podium, Jordan took advantage of the lull in focus to stretch and yawn. Being the centre of attention was exhausting.

On screen, a woman was walking into a building in downtown while her voiceover described the experience. In the corner of the frame, white text read, "shots recreated after the fact for sake of narrative progression." Jordan had insisted on that, simply to annoy the sticklers online.

"I don't know what it was that pulled me in there. I was just... desperate, I don't know. Anyway, I saw the shop front and just thought, 'ah, what the Hell,' and went inside."

The woman opened the door and entered the building. The disclaimer still in the corner of the screen, and a young man behind the counter smiled at her, "how can I help?"

One screen-wipe later and the woman was sitting in an armchair, hair shorter and cleaner, wearing a non-descript black t-shirt and grey pants.

"Well, I tried to explain, it was hard to do that. But about five minutes in, he just asked if I had any ID. I said no, and he started typing. Asking me all sorts of questions about myself, then he reached under the counter and pulled out this card," she held up what looked like a student ID with no picture. "He told me not to lose it and said that any time the green light was on over the door, a hot meal was waiting for me at the rear of the building. Then he... well clicked at his computer for a few minutes muttering. Then actually printed something out and put it in a stack. Printed something else, handed it to me, and asked if I wanted a place to live."

Cutting back to the recreated shots, most of the audience only now realizing that the white disclaimer text had been missing from the formal interview, the woman recoiled. She was clearly distraught by the question, and her voice over confirmed it.

But the man behind the desk quieted her fears, produced a small collection of pamphlets, and began to explain in detail what was about to happen. Intermixed with true shots from security cameras at the time of processing, the resident's voiceover continued to explain everything that happened.

She was housed there for just under a week as a series of medical tests were done, alongside academic ones. She was certain she did poorly on both, but the staff simply explained her options. She took the recommended work, education, and treatment plans, as the voiceover ruefully recalled, out of sheer confusion.

"Never saw another soul the time I was there that didn't work there. Seemed a bit culty, if you ask me. Or maybe like joining the army, I don't know. But then the day came, and I had my ID card, now with photo," she held up the new card, "saying I would get to keep the old one for this series or whatever, and got on the bus."

In the audience someone gasped, and several people whispered. It was only a natural reaction to seeing an almost industrialized human process ending with a bus going to a camp.

The white text showed over the higher quality video of the resident on a bus, looking forlornly out the window. "I was dead certain they were going to kill me. I hadn't paid the most attention in school, but I knew all about what the government did to people on buses." On screen, a cut in of the security tapes showed the resident as she had been eying her new grey uniform warily and plucking at it.

"More than a couple days in and it didn't dawn on me till I got on that bus."

Hitchcockian suspense is a dramatic device where in the audience is informed of an outcome before it occurs. And Jordan smiled as he observed the crowd's reaction to his usage of it here. Rather, as he hadn't had the idea, the film team's usage of it.

They watched with bated breath as the resident got off the bus, hefted the grey canvas duffle bag she had been issued over her shoulder, and followed a cheery woman towards a collection of shipping containers.

"Other people started arriving later that day. They had been bused in from Toronto and Montreal and Kingston. All of the first ones to say yes. I think they weren't too picky about us, quite literally just the first one off the street that said yes, but that was the point. They were... experimenting. Testing the system slowly. I think it worked."

Slowly, the picture faded, and a lengthy string of credits and scholarly citations followed that exactly mimicked the complete documentary's replaced it. This of course included the official title and streaming release date on his own service. Before the contemplative silence could break, Jordan picked a reporter at random.

He said, "that looks like a concentration camp." It was not a question. It was not a statement. It was an accusation.

"It," Jordan caught himself again, reminding himself sharply that now was not the time for humour. Now was the time for wooing, something he had never been good at with crowds. One test, n plus one people grading it. "Does. It does, I agree. However, as you will all see next month, it is not. The persons currently housed there are in the process of building more of the units you saw in the video.

"At present, we are at capacity, but again next month things will change. The current plan is to begin allowing press teams into the camp as soon as those units are livable. This will take place before new resident arrivals and based on applications to be released to you all at the end of this month, press will be invited to observe the full induction process. And before you ask, the applications are to organize you all based on location and time, not in an attempt to gain points with anyone. We just can't have too many people, certainly not too many with cameras, around the vulnerable. It can frighten them off."

Clearly still a little dazed by the industrial relocation of human beings - and quite rightly so, Jordan made a mental note to invite this one for an interview so long as his publication was honest - the reporter tried again. "You're paying the unhoused fifteen dollars an hour to build a labour camp for other unhoused people to live and work in?"

"Pretty much."

"You understand how that could be seen as problematic? Even leaving aside the concentration camp similarities, this would clearly become a company town."

"At present we are not addressing those concerns. At present, our only interest is in housing as many people as possible. We understand that many of them are unwell, and many more simply unfortunate." Jordan smiled at his own simplistic pun. "By providing a home and employment we do two critical things that are critical to winning this centuries-long conflict against poverty we're fighting. Already we've had twenty persons leave for greener pastures. They're doing well and though their departure was unexpected, it's allowed us to induct twenty more persons. Already, progress.

"Yeah, you."

A woman wearing an outfit that he could have sworn contained hidden fantasy references stood up and said, "I want to understand what comes next. Based on everything you've shown us here today, I believe that we'll get all the access we want in one month." Jordan smiled, he appreciated the emphasis. "But what will happen to these people after they finish building their own living space?"

"Once they have their own places to live, we plan on redirecting their labour to other build sites around the city. Our investment in correcting the unhoused epidemic of this country doesn't stop moving people out of sight. We want homes and communities that everyone can enjoy. By using this, admittedly somewhat captive workforce until we find them permanent housing and other career opportunities, we will create the foundation of a new City.

"Phase three, which we expect to begin in under twelve months, though please give me some grace on that will require a much more significant workforce. To that end, we're planning to recruit directly from the Universities, College, and high schools (students sixteen and up with guardian-consent), to employ as many idle hands as possible."

An actual human wave rose through the mass of Press as they surged with questions. The sound and flash of lights rising to a terrible pitch before a tap on the microphone brought silence crashing down, dousing all exuberance.

"One more question, and I hope it's the right one. In fact, if you ask the one question someone in a position such as mine might whyne about not being able to discuss, I'll give a million dollars to CHEO. Deal? You, go."

Jordan smiled as he watched the man sweat. It was cruel, and no matter what he would make the donation. Not that the reporter knew anything about that, not that anyone watching at home knew that. Instead, he was simply creating drama for its own sake. Or, for greater media attention's sake, rather.

If he tilted his head just so, he could imagine hearing the flurry of posts circulating already. Hit pieces and fanatical hate speech. AI-sourced deep dives into him and his company. A million and one different ways to get attention, and a significant portion of that would be on him.

Or, a significant portion of the percent that mattered.

"Why are you doing this," the reporter looked a little green, the weight of a million dollars to a children's hospital on the line seemed to be rather heavy. But Jordan now got to enjoy the rare and decadent triple satisfaction. Media attention on this project, donation to charity, and explaining his reasons. What a lovely day.

"You found the golden ticket my friend," Jordan smiled warmly. "What's your name?"

"Edward Chung, CTV."

"Well, Mr. Chung, I do believe your name belongs on a new something worth a million dollars at CHEO. I'll see to it. But as to why, it's because I don't believe in charity."

He waited a full minute for the questions and chatter to die down. Yawning dramatically to signal his obvious intent to wait them out. After they quieted, he continued, "I do not believe that charity is a valuable thing. I could give a substantial sum to the different shelters, foodbanks, and out reach programs that are always in need of more funding. But those are reactive things. They address the symptom and not the cause. What I'm trying to do is use my wealth to push society down a path that doesn't require charity.

"I'm announcing now that my own internal calendar is changing. Tomorrow morning at nine-fifteen AM, we are going to release a redacted version the Master Plan to the public. This will outline not only our goals and projected timelines for the current housing/employment program, but also the development projects that we are currently in talks with city government about.

"Before anyone asks, yes I do stand to benefit from this. This is not me giving away my money. This is an investment that I am making in the future of this city, this Province, and this country. This is an experiment so audacious that I hope it will be iterated on and perfected by others around the world.

"In my hubris I believe that I am the best steward of the production potential of this fortune. I believe that I personally can accelerate the wheels of change faster than any government or charity in collection or isolation. Our plans are being developed right now in the architecture and urban planning departments of both universities. Already, we have sponsored students and apprenticeships through the colleges to bolster our ticketed and specialist labour force."

More muttering and he briefly explained the different between unskilled, low-skilled, medium-skilled, high-skilled, ticketed, and specialist labour. Though why he was always required to do that escaped him. The difference was so obvious in his mind.

From unskilled labour like, "stand here, hold this, turn it when I say," on road crews. Through low, medium, and high-skill which loosely lined up with apprenticeship years with some mixing of drivers and heavy machine operators. Up to ticketed which meant journeyperson credentials. And finally specialist, who were typically but not always craftspeople of various accreditations.

"And all of this because you 'don't believe in charity,' Mr. Many Rivers?"

"Precisely. We waste a lot of time on band-aid solutions, and that's what I believe most charity is. Rather than wade through the quagmire of figuring out which ones are doing work I most agree with, I instead decided to make the investments myself."