Unproductive
By T.W. Ambrose
Brigham was on the radio.
I tried to listen when I could, but it was getting more and more difficult. It wasn’t illegal for him to do his show, which was protected by the freedom of speech. But with the new anti-derogatory laws in place, it was illegal to listen. Most stations had dropped the anti big government talk shows, but somehow, Mike Brigham stayed on the air.
I turned down the volume as I pulled up to the checkpoint. Leaning out the window, I swiped my ID card, and then placed my thumb on the scanner. I waited as my information was retrieved the light over my car turned green, and the gate opened. I repeated this procedure two more times on my way to my assigned workstation and finally arrived.
I pulled into the parking lot, then to slot 9075211. That was me, at least as far as the state was concerned. My friends called me Alan, but to everyone else I was 9075211, which wasn’t so bad. If you think about it, there were hundreds of Alan’s in the world; only one 9075211. I plugged in my car and headed to the elevator. Floor thirteen, section three; I had worked there since finishing my degree and would probably work there until retirement or until the state deemed me no longer productive. Then I would simply disappear, like so many others.
While walking to my cubical, I passed by Amy. She was number 9075207, only four away from me. It was fate.
“Good morning Amy, I hope the day finds you well.” I put my back towards the security camera and flashed her a smile.
“Good morning Alan, it does” she glanced around and winked back at me as I moved down the aisle towards my desk.
I sat down and pulled up my e-mail on the screen. I had been waiting now for several months for my request-to-date form (RTD1703v6.2) to return from the Department of Personal Affairs. But spring was procreation season, so slowdowns were to be expected. It wasn’t there. I was getting used to it; I know it will come through eventually.
I minimized my inbox and opened Omni View. As I leaned back in my chair, my screen came alive with men and women scurrying about, dropping off progeny at Education Centers and heading to their work assignments. I enjoyed my job as a city monitor. I used the remote to flip through cameras and generated citations for those who violated the law. It wasn’t a bad assignment. My father had been important enough to get me an invitation to management level, but I turned it down. Who wanted the extra stress? It’s not like any position paid more then any other. I just wanted to clock in, clock out, and get paid.
I hated Brian. I could never tell him that; he was Asian and therefore protected by the new hate crime laws. Its not that I hated him because he was Asian. He was just one of those guys it was tough not to hate.
“No Brian, what’s the news?” I tried to sound like I cared.
“My papers came in…I’m going to ask Amy out!”
“Don’t hate the player, bro.” Brian always tried to sound retro my using language from the turn of the century. I hated that too.
A minute later I could hear Brian down speaking with Amy. She actually sounded interested in the date. I was going to put an end to this now. I picked up my phone and asked for the DPA. I knew it was against policy to make personal calls on government time, but it didn’t matter. I had been waiting months to date Amy.
“Hello. I’d like to speak with someone about my RTD form?”
“Thank you for calling the Department of Personal Affairs. Please press one if you know the extension of the party you are trying to reach; please press two for additional options”
“I hate automated menus!” I tried punching zero but it didn’t work. I tried again and again, but it kept going back to the start of the menu. Finally, I took a deep breath and hit two.
I continued to navigate the automated response system. I pressed seven to reach the Department of Dating, three to check on my form, one for an active form, 9075211, and then claim number 31942879012. I grew angrier and angrier with every number pressed. Finally, I was put on hold. I paced my cubical as the elevator music continued, then after when seemed like an eternity, a woman’s voice picked up on the other end. “I’m sorry, 9075211. Your claim had been denied. You should be getting an official notice in 15 to 30 business days.” She said in a monotone.
I hung up. My head was swimming. I couldn’t think. How could I be denied the woman I loved? I left section three without glancing at Amy. I got on the elevator, rode down thirteen floors, went to the parking garage and found my car parked at 9075211. I unplugged it, got in, and tore out of the garage. Mike Brigham was on the radio, complaining how the government was trying to control us; they didn’t really care about us, only power. I turned it up. Maybe he was right.
I pulled into the first checkpoint and leaned out my window. I swiped my card and placed my thumb on the scanner. I waited patiently, then the light over the car turned red. I looked over and the door was opening to the guard house. Mike Brigham was still blaring away on the radio and they’d heard. I went to turn it down, but it didn’t matter. I got out of the car and placed my hands on the hood. I knew what would happen now. I would be deemed an unproductive member of society.
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T.W. Ambrose is the managing editor of this magazine. He also does a lot of writing with a number of publications to his credit. You can check out all things T.W. at his not updated enough blog; www.twambrose.net .
Unproductive first appeared in Alien Skin Magazine October/November 2009
