A GoodJob Day in America, 2009 - by Mr. D. Fatwa

[InvisibleBallots]

Haley frowned at the mirror. Her nose was the problem. There was no makeup trick (and Haley knew them all) that could camouflage that nose. No clever earrings, or hat, or artfully designed spectacle frames had any effect. It was impervious to all that, resolutely, steadfastly, even proudly there, right in the middle of her face, jutting out defiantly, bump and all, dominating her profile.

It was the only feature she had not been able to conquer. Haley sighed, and flipped out her blue contact lenses into their night-time bath, checked her honey-colored hair carefully for black roots, and smoothed pearl cream into her skin. Including the nose.

She went over the figures again. No way she could afford surgery, and if she was forced to get a GoodJob, even less chance she would ever be able to.

She had been pretty lucky, really. Only a couple of Security Forces had ever really noticed the nose enough to question it, and they seemed satisfied with her explanation of an Italian grandmother. Roman nose, she smiled at them.

Incredibly, in all this time, it had apparently never occurred to Homeland Security to ask people to remove their contacts. Or maybe it had, but it was just a question of funding, since so many people had them, and black eyes alone added only a few points to the Score. One could always claim an African-American ancestor somewhere, and any Security Force personnel who challenged that would automatically trigger the lengthy and annoying process of Testing Detention, and in yet another HSA convolution, the Hero points would go to the testor, not the officer that sent the suspect in.

Still, Haley worried about the nose. Since the last HSA procedural review, the Hero Points formula had been revised, and there was more pressure on Security Forces to increase their weekly General Detainee Production. As a General Detainee, testing would be recommended, but might not take place for months, even years, or never, since the only requirement for General Detainee was General Suspicion. It was not necessary to document what the suspicion was. The Wackenhut Provision, they called it, and it was expected to double the company's revenues in the first quarter alone. Acquisition of the behemoth Homeland Depot family of companies insured that streamlined Facility construction would keep up with growing demand.

As an Informally Employed, Haley was not Protected, and was subject to everything from wand search to seizure on sight. Haley preferred to take her chances. She was an unreconstructed Ninetenner. At fifty-five, she simply could not think of GoodJobs as anything but slavery and imprisonment, nose or no nose.

"It's not so bad," her niece had told her at last month's Vacation Hour. "In lots of ways, it's better than before. I mean I don't have to worry about rent any more, or food. And as long as I keep up my Conduct Rating, I get to see Josh every Family Hour."

Haley tried not to look at the remains of the Nutri-Loaf on Kristin's plate. Food? At least Josh and the other kids in the Family Friend Center got milk, veggies, a regular diet, Until they were 16.

For many mothers, seeing their kids only an hour a month was a small price to pay for the knowledge that they would have food, and could not be Selected, even for a few years. Something will happen before then, they told themselves.

Kristin's GoodJob was considered a plum. As a Wal-Mart Associate, she received a guaranteed bunk, a shower three times a week, one Nutri-Loaf for every eight hours worked, and treatment of minor injuries and ailments at the Health Center.
Illness or injury that required hospitalization or more than 24 hours off work invalidated the contract, but most GoodJobbers were young and healthy - they had to be to pass the extensive medical workup required for acceptance, and as the company pointed out, the injury clause of the contract did double duty as an incentive for workers to maintain good safety practices.

In return for her compensation of bunk, shower and Nutri-Loaf, Kristin worked "as needed." It averaged out to around 16-18 hours a day, usually, seven days a week, although occasionally she would be put on 36 on, 12 off for a couple of weeks. As a valued asset and member of the Wal-Mart family, Kristin's contract would be invalidated if she left the Associate Compound when off work, or left the Store while on duty, but the outside world had become a pretty dangerous place, so all in all, the Wal-Mart GoodJob was considered to be one of the better choices available for young people.

The GoodJob Haley was trying to avoid was with OneBanc. Since the Bank of America-Wachovia Merger, and the resultant WachovAmeribank's subsumption into CitiGroup, OneBanc had become one of the foremost GoodJob providers to Golden Boomers. Most of the jobs were sedentary, and took advantage of the education most of Haley's generation had, before the No Child Left Behind Acts and privatization had streamlined the public schools into a sustainable and lean worker-processing machine. In just five years, America's public schools now produced graduates more than twice as likely as their grandparents to be functionally literate, and with the arithmetical skills necessary to enable them to operate simple calculators and cash registers, but without the massive loads of half-learned and forgotten trivia that they would be unlikely to need in order to be useful and profit-friendly assets to their employers.

It was generally agreed by both Administration and Congress Committee that it was neither fair nor kind to subject most children to years of classes in subjects that would do neither them nor the companies that would one day employ them, as study after study had shown that this archaic practice had produced little but unrealistic hopes on the part of the children, and in many cases, their parents, which in turn led to rejectionism and insurgency that gobbled up HSA resources that could be put to much better use identifying genuine Suspects, and channel a robust stream of workers into GoodJobs.

The quality of Post5 education had also improved remarkably as a result, and it was not at all uncommon for children of the affluent to graduate from college at age twelve, and medical school at 16, and while rumors of bribes and corruption were rife, as they are anywhere, anytime, 80% of medical workers were employed at GoodJob Health Centers, and there were few complaints from patients. (And even fewer from foreign medical centers, where the affluent Americans obtained all but the most rudimentary of their own health care).

Haley put out the battery lamp and nestled in to her bed in the storage unit. Morning would come soon enough, and she would have to be up before dawn to secure a good spot on the street to get some morning sales before the Security Forces arrived to clean the area for the business lunchers.

Her store was a very simple, but very functional pushcart, containing her wares - rare books. Most of them were on one or another of the No-Read lists, which enabled her to charge a premium for them, which the more adventurous Professionals were happy to pay for the little frisson of rebellion it offered. Few actually read the books, most of them were old enough to have done so before they were removed from market, and had as little interest in reading today as they had then, but they enjoyed having them on the shelves in their homes. "Look at this one! It just screams 'leftist dissenter!'" exclaimed her excited customer, a trial lawyer who occasionally wore a tiny vintage lapel pin that read "Kucinich." Most of his clients, and almost all of his worthy opponents arguing for the state thought it referred to a little-known vegetable. The lawyer was also known for his dissenting dietary practices.

"No Dairy!" he would shout to the boy at Starbucks, and he didn't care who heard him. He was more than ready to invoke the First Amendment if anyone objected.

Haley gave him a friendly smile, pocketed the $500, and handed him the dog-eared, paper-back copy of "Chain of Command."

Not bad, thought Haley. From this sale alone, she could pay another week on the storage shed, buy batteries and two day's food. No way could she live like this with a GoodJob. All she had to do now was get her cart out of the area before PreLunch Clean and she just might sell another book or two before SafeDown.

It was her lucky day. A liberal security mom in a Hummerado V rolled down her tinted glass window a couple of inches to give Haley $200 for a copy of "The Handmaid's Tale."

"Sorry it doesn't have the covers," Haley stood on tiptoe to pass the book through and take the money.

"No problem, sister," said her customer, eyes darting around, "I'm a progressive!," she hissed in a dramatic whisper as the window hummed back up and the massive vehicle sped away.

Haley decided to call it a day. There was just enough time before SafeDown for a treat.

"Yo, Haley!" Rick shouted to his friend. Come on in hang a bit. Even when she had no money, Rick always gave her some tea, a bit of roti and raita, but today she was flush, and ordered a kebab and a large biryani.

"For your sunlamp treatments," Haley winked mischievously as she slipped an extra $20 into Rick's pocket. "I had a good day."

Red-haired, green-eyed Rick, whose mother had named him Rahim over sixty years ago in Lahore had never once seen a sunlamp, but the alibi worked for him and millions of others whose skin Suspicion Level was beyond the power of pearl cream to rectify. "The things people will believe," he had remarked to Haley once. "Sometimes it works against you, sometimes it works with you." That was the closest they had ever come to discussing their shared coping strategy. No one had ever questioned Rick's assertion that his Pakistani accent was Swiss.

"Rick, you're an artist," Haley said, her mouth full. Rick smiled and switched on the TV. The perky CNN anchor was recounting the latest details of the latest sensational murder trial, the victim, a pretty blonde affluent newlywed found shot in her Carnival Cruise stateroom. The crawl line at the bottom of the screen informed them that while the US preferred to exhaust all diplomatic channels, the European Union's continuing strategy of denial and deception was wearing thin..

The Four Notes interrupted both stories, and the Breaking News graphic filled the screen. "CNN has just learned that President for Life Jeb Bush will make an unannounced address to the nation from the Oval Office."

Rick turned the volume up, and he and Haley watched as Bush repeated after his earpiece the same thing about the EU, denial and deception, and announced that he had just signed an Executive Decree authorizing the Selection of GoodJobbers' children aged eleven and over.

"In authorizing this unprecedented Selection," the President for Life went on, "I am conscious of the brave sacrifices the nation now asks of both the young people and their parents, and as evidence of the transparency and honesty of our Democracy, I also acknowledge that there were those in the Cabinet who presented very sound arguments for lowering the Selection age to seven, but America is a nation that loves our children, they are our future, and we owe them a happy normal childhood."

Haley recalled the blank eyes of her friend Anna's son, a Selectee returned as Honorably Unusable. His burns and the loss of his legs had earned him Hero points good for three months' worth of pain relievers. He had taken the last weeks' worth at once, and cried when it didn't work. The Motivational Supplements Centcom had given him during his Service had left him with a tolerance for drugs that would have been unusually high in a large adult man. Scotty was a little fellow, only fourteen. He had hung himself the next week. No one knew how he did it, or if he had had help, and no one asked. The nature of the duties assigned to Juvenile Selectees required the Motivational Supplements, even the ones who had been through the full Know the Enemy course. Selectees who survived Service were usually warehoused, permanent custodial care, even if they had all their limbs. "Permanent" in this case meant a year. Studies had shown that it took a year for the family to adjust, the visits to drop off, and the news that the Honorably Unusable had passed away peacefully came as a relief, more often than not.

"...the Highest Form of National Service," Jeb finished, "in the words of my brother's worthy opponent in America's second Fair and Free election, and what better gift can we give these young people, our future, than the privilege of that Service in the Liberation of Europe, the continent that gave us our past."

Haley and Rick looked at each other. Finally Haley spoke.

"So," she said, "Do you suppose they'll be rounding up people with European appearance for Protective Detention?"

[InvisibleBallots]

1. Defense Secretary William Boykin

Defense Secretary William Boykin frowned. "Eleven?"


"The President for Life, um, misspoke, sir," Chief of Staff Rick Santorum looked uncomfortable. "The Selection applies to offspring of GuestJobbers, sir.. Not Goodjobbers. The media has already been alerted, and the correction is out now. If I may, sir," and without waiting for an answer touched a switch on Boykin's desk.

The screenbank came to life. Every screen had the correction in its crawl line.

Boykin sat back, relieved. "Ah, Mexican kids."

"And only in support positions sir. Kitchen and whatnot."

"Well that makes sense," Boykin grinned. "In their blood, isn't it?"

"Not that I object on the basis, but the logistics, you know, there are advantages to small troops in operations, but you can go too far in that direction, and what have you got? A C-130's worth of Honorable Unusables every couple of hours, and DOV will raise a stink unless you bring back actual remains for a Christian burial."

Although Boykin was a Man of Faith, his relationship with Secretary of Values The Reverend Jerry Falwell was not without friction. Both men attributed it to wartime tension.

Santorum, sensing his audience was over, collected his papers. Neither noticed the man with the cleaning cart outside the open door.

Roger pushed his cart down the hall and into the next office. Unlike Boykin's, it was empty. In this administration, it was only the bigwigs - and Roger - who were still around at 4 AM.

Roger had avoided GoodJob status by virtue of his long-time Federal employment. He was grandfathered in as a Federal Protected, and even assigned a Preferred card, which carried with it the privilege of living off-compound. It did not, however, carry with it the privilege of an Approval Exemption for MariLuz, and he had had to throw himself on the mercy of his boss and a long chain of higher-ups to get an exemption for Chuchito. "Jesus Rogelio," MariLuz had whispered to him, when their son was only a few minutes old. It seemed like another lifetime, but it was barely seven years ago. And barely three when they came for MariLuz.

"Approved," they called it. Approved for the GuestJob program. GuestJobbers did not enjoy the same luxuries as the GoodJobbers. Instead of bunks, they had thin foam mats, 100 to a cell, one communal shower a week, and one Nutri-Loaf for every twelve hours worked. Hours were steady, 24 on, 8 off. There were no Vacation Hours. Phone calls, letters, visits, were forbidden, and no Family Hours. The silver lining was, unlike GoodJobbers, GuestJobbers actually received a small amount of cash for their work, which they could either deposit into a bank account to take care of their final expenses, or opt for General Disposal when that time came, and have the money sent directly to family back home.

GuestJobbers' children were kept in cells identical to those inhabited by workers, the only difference being smaller mats for the younger children. Infants received formula for one year, then a gradual weaning to pureed, then solid Nutri-Loaf. At age five, they began their year of Intensive 3R, after which they were assigned cleanup and landscape tasks around the facility. Unless they were Selected, or Empowered as Givers. Few GuestJobbers voluntarily brought children with them. Almost all the kids in the facility were the result of Approval Roundups.

Roger's job required very little thought, so he was able to spend every waking minute trying to figure out some way to get MariLuz out of the Approval Facility to which she had been assigned, and be a father to Chuchito, who still cried for his Mami at night.

He had a ray of hope. A lawyer, an old friend from Back Then, had found some text in a forgotten corner of Patriot IV that could possibly be interpreted as a provision for Compassionate Deportation.

Roger didn't know much about subsistence farming, and had no illusions about the quality of life he was likely to find in the Mexican Semi-Autonomous region, where things were so bad people were streaming into the US to get jobs as GuestJobbers, but if men and women were not segregated at the Approval Facility, and he didn't have Chuchito, he would gladly have claimed to be Mexican and Approved himself, just to be with his wife again.

The Reverend Jerry Falwell bowed his grey head. "Thank you, Lord, for blessing the work of this great Task Force, and thank you for the gift of this miracle of technology, thy Blessed Rod of the Latter Days."

Falwell raised his head and smiled at the men at the conference table. Before him sat the newest revision of the Juvenile Tasering Guidelines prepared by the Task Force for Chastity and Godliness.

"Brethren, I commend you," the Secretary of Values smiled. The Task Force was one of his favorite projects.

"I don't mind telling you that I believe it is another Heavenly Sign that within the framework of the Constitution of the United States, remember, Congress has passed no law - that we have been able to bring so many souls to Christ."

"Sir, you know there's a new video -" began the man on Falwell's right.

"Yes, Mr. Reed, I have heard about it, the CIA has not yet confirmed its authenticity, but in any event, it was to be expected. That the enemies of America, the messengers of Satan, attack our every move toward bringing our Homeland to the Path of Righteousness is no surprise."

They were referring to a video received that morning by Al Jazeera, purportedly from the head of the European branch of Amnesty International. Now in its fourth year on the Pentagon's list of terrorist organizations, AI did little, at least publicly, besides issue communiques delivered by men in ski masks. This particular videotape excoriated the US for the routine use of Tasers on children and elderly people.

"Nobody takes these thugs seriously. Except the Anti-Terrorism Agency," Falwell chuckled.

"And our mortality rates in all tests were well within range," replied Reed.

"Richard, here on earth, our mortality rate is one hundred percent," Falwell rested his hands on the report. "I prefer to see the forgiveness of a loving God who rewards even these young sinners with Eternal Life. Now I don't know about you gentlemen, but I'm ready to accept some of God's bounty in the form of lunch!"

Haley was having a slow day. Buoyed by recent success, she had decided to try her luck on a new street. Apparently the Preferreds in this neighborhood were not interested either in reading or giving the impression that they did. She was just about to flip the tarp and move on when she saw the man and the little boy.

"Hey, is that what I think it is?" the man asked eagerly, pointing to a book whose cover was only partly visible behind some others.

Smiling, Haley took it out. "It's new," she said. "As you can see, most of them aren't."

"Chuchito, I think we've found your birthday present," the man handed the book down to the little boy. "He had one, well, Back Then," he said to Haley, his voice low. "It was his favorite." He shrugged. "Weird kid."

"DAD!" Chuchito shrieked, "This IS it!" He sat down on the sidewalk and began turning the pages. "There they are!" The blue people!" He looked up at Haley. "They are so cool!"

"Whoa, son," laughed Roger. "We haven't bought it yet. How much?" he looked at Haley, hoping he had enough money. No-Read books weren't cheap, and this one was new, not to mention...

Haley noticed the embroidered nametag on Roger's shirt. He might be a Preferred, but he was no professional, and if this was the kid's favorite book, so much so that he remembered it from Back Then...

"Twenty bucks," said Haley, grinning at Chuchito. "Birthday present."

"Thanks, but I can't let you do that," Roger opened his wallet.

"You just did!" Haley's hand darted out, grabbed a twenty, flipped down the pushcart's plastic tarp, and was halfway down the block before Roger was quite sure what had happened.

"Thanks, Dad!," breathed Chuchito, cross-legged on the sidewalk, happily re-acquainting himself with his Forbidden Book, "The Kid's Guide to World Religions."

[InvisibleBallots]

2. FCC Chair Ann Coulter

As chairman of the Federal Communications Commission, it was Ann Coulter's job to keep the media on Message. Thanks to the Media Responsibility Act of 2006, this was not a problem. Every licensed news organization received a daily memo from Washington, containing a list of the day's news stories, a statement from the White House or other relevant department relating to each story, and a corresponding list of guidelines, suggested tie-ins, and a longer list of topics that were under cover ban. A network, newspaper, or broadcast station either played it by the memo, or they didn't. If they didn't, they lost their license.

Thus, her meeting today with MSNBC's Programming Director was quite unusual.
Ann cut directly to the chase.

"OK, Sid, just tell me how it happened."

Rosenthal sighed. "It was a new guy on the mike. He's gone. And yes, I already made a full report to Homeland Security. He was apprehended, and he's in custody."

"Right, but let me ask you again, Sid. How did it happen?"

"Ann, I don't think he was even listening."

"Well, we both better hope that's the case. Because if HSA finds out he has Links, we need to be ready with a complete timeline, beginning with his first contact with the network. Who hired him anyway?"

"I'll find out, and I'll have that timeline on your desk in 48 hours."

The incident occurred during a popular morning show, hosted by network star Don Imus. The topic was the Melissa Ivey case, and during the viewer call-in segment of the show, a rogue caller had been allowed to go on for several seconds inciting terror.

No one should allow their daughters to be tasered, he said, in fact, no one should allow their daughters to be tested, and if the American people were ever going to grow balls and take their country back, being ordered by Washington to submit their daughters to strangers poking around their vaginas, and subsequently torturing them with Tasers was a damn good reason to hit the streets.

Imus let the young man have it, denouncing him as a terrorist and an idiot one, at that, and on the air, ordered the switchboard to trace the call and alert the authorities immediately. Off camera, he had demanded, in a much louder voice, to know who the hell had left that dirtbag's mike on.

There was no denying that Melissa's case had captured the public's attention, sparking lively debates around water coolers, dinner tables, and media discussion panels all over the nation, not to mention Sunday sermons.

Chastity and Doctrine Secretary Pat Robertson had put aside his momentary annoyance that Jones had called Falwell first, and risen to the occasion, preparing a comprehensive KODS (Keeping Our Daughters Safe) Testing Information Pak for schools and parents, and was currently directing production of a six part TV series that complemented the KODS Infopak, and went more in depth on the importance of Christian Punishment as the most effective Chastity Enforcement Strategy.

With Ivey and his family detained on charges of Violation of the Patriot Act, parents and educators with "questions" about the program were very careful in their phrasing. The position most popular with the "left" was that making an exception for judicial punishment of a rich man's child was exactly the kind of thing they had been fighting against all these years, and Washington's firm opposition to such an exception was a welcome sign that the administration was reaching out and seeking unity.

*********************

"Time for bed, penguin head." Roger had let Chuchito stay up surfing the net scandalously late. Watching his son, it hit him like an anvil to the head in an old cartoon. He was taking Chuchito to a place where not only was there no internet, there were no books. Not even the limited supply permitted in the US. No books at all. No TV, no radio, no movies. He, MariLuz and Chuchito would, in all probability be the only literate people in their new community, the only people with any knowledge of the outside world.

By the time he reached puberty, his son would have only faint, blurry memories of running water, electricity, buses and cars.

"You ok, dad?" Chuchito emerged from his father's unusually hard good-night hug to peer into Roger's face. "You bet, penguin brain," Roger smiled. "I just love you a great big bunch."

The next morning, Roger arranged to take a long lunch break. He returned two hours later, and placed a bag in his locker. In it were over a hundred used WalkMedia compatible EduDisks on every subject still legally sold, and a few, like the one on Greek and Roman mythology, that he was fairly certain were not. He would relabel them at home.

*************************

One unintended consequence of the Chastity Amendment was the flood of applications rushing in to the admissions office of every medical training institution in the country, from young men eager to train for careers as Official Testing Officers. Because only Preferreds were eligible for medical training of any kind, it became too difficult to establish a hierarchy of Preferredness, and in near-desperation, a lottery had been established.

*************************

"Winston Churchill* was a fine man. A man of faith, and his wisdom is as apt today as it was in his time." General Boykin could not hide his emotion when he spoke of Churchill, nor did he try to. He merely cleared his throat.

"So what's wrong with this new gas Defense Development was crowing about last week? Why can't that be used to clear a corridor for the pipeline. Do you realize we've been in that hellhole since 2001? Ken Lay over at Commerce is on my back now, says he's got 2 or 3 corps who are ready to jump ship if we don't get more funding AND a corridor, and Rove says we have to have something for him to fund. A plan. So why can't this new crap be our plan?'

"It can, sir," if we can get a General Contractor Waiver," said Sanchez, passing his own missive from Rove down the table to Boykin.

"Waiver? what do we need that for? Didn't they say this new shit turns into some harmless compound or some such seconds after payload?"

"Well, it did in tests, sir. But it's new, there are no long term studies, and our suppliers are not optimistic about a General Waiver. In fact, they say the Limited Waiver has cut their renewals in half."

"Oh really?" Boykin sneered. "So just where are they going to go? These guys are getting 6 figure incomes, and Dyncorp is telling you that they're all out of there and signing up for GoodJobs as Wal-Mart greeters?"

"Um, no sir." Sanchez wished he could get through one meeting with Boykin without having to tell the Secretary of Defense something that would turn his face red and cause a dangerous spike in his blood pressure. "They - I mean, some of them, are um, changing companies."

"What company are they changing to? Sandline? Bechtel?"

"Not exactly, sir. They're - well, like I said sir, just some of them, are signing on with, uh, smaller companies."

"We don't have any small personnel suppliers, Rico Suave. What the hell are you trying to tell me?"

"No, sir, we don't. I mean WE don't, but um - "

"The ENEMY? Our Dyncorp people are signing up with the goddamn TERRORISTS? What are they doing, offering 72 virgins with every year?"

Sanchez wished he could be anywhere but where he was. "um, no, sir. shares of oil futures."

Boykin was on his feet, standing over Sanchez, his face a giant overripe raspberry. "The hell they are!" He screamed.

"That's AMERICA's oil!"

**************

Haley shook out her newly silver hair and contemplated her reflection in the bathroom mirror of her new home. For once she was not thinking about her nose.

Having a real bathroom, being able to take a bath, even if only a cold one, since it was not really practical to heat large quantities of water on a battery operated hotplate, was a luxury. And ten months free rent was a windfall. At least ten, Rick had said. If the project runs into delays, could be longer.

Haley was not thinking that far into the future just now. She opened the package of Max Factor pancake, Fair #1, wet the sponge and swirled it around the pinkish-white cake, then carefully began coating her olive skin. And again. And again.

While waiting for the last coat to dry, she surveyed her wardrobe. She had discarded the few clothes she had, fearing that they might not work now. Instead of t-shirts, she now had long polyester overblouses in dull, muddy colors, ugly prints. Her jeans had been replaced by stirrup pants. Her new Nikes were older than their predecessors, vintage.

Her face now dry, Haley faced the mirror again, smiled. Grinned. Frowned. She relaxed her face and nodded approvingly at the results. The thick pancake makeup had obligingly cracked along every crease and line in her face. If before she had looked younger than her 53 years, she now looked at least sixty. And with her new corresponding hair color and formless style, she should be safe from Testing Sweeps.

The Department of Chastity and Doctrine was not overly concerned with the purity of old ladies.

******************************
*"I do not understand this sqeamishness about the use of gas. I am strongly in favour of using poison gas against uncivilised tribes."

Winston Churchill, referring to the people of Iraq and Kurdistan

http://www.globalresearch.ca/articles/CHU407A.html

[dweller]

3. D. as in

Ductape. This story's beginning was posted here a bit back, was that you that posted it?

dp