His name is Alex and his eyes are the same color as his tuxedo. Alex’s long legs give way to an equally proportionate long torso. He’s an attractive man; waves of soft brown hair hang effortlessly against his shoulders. His skin is white, yet tanned. He is the grail sought by many a plastic surgeon; and he has the attention of the entire entranced room.
Rows of topless women bow to him in waves. Waterfalls of reds, brunettes and blondes fall like dominoes as they move downward and upward.
This could be you.
The television hadn’t any sound mind you. We had moved past the need for audio configuration sometime ago. Advertisements now spoke only in your head, but for the purposes of my story it’s necessary you hear what I do.
The famous “This could be you” catch phrase had been popularized by this exact commercial. I-Bots were the new it-gadgets. Still ridiculously high in price, only the very wealthy could afford them; butt still they were granted the same amount of advertisement time as the new value meal at McDonald’s Junior.
My name is not Alex and I doubt there is any chance it ever will be again; just as I’m sure that your name is not Adolf Hitler. In this universe your name makes you, your name is you. I’m a John, I’m now in the bottom most class of all classes. I go up next week for review at the Final Judgment Panel (which is just a fancy name for Death Panel). The ironic thing is that if I had the money to become an Alex then I’d have a sure shot at a few more years; but once you’re cast into the bottom class they make it impossible to manage up enough money to change your name. My only hope now is that I make something of myself by next Friday. If not, then I will be put down.
I’m spending the morning watching television. Last night I met John 33K77 for beer and am still intoxicated. I’ve known John 33K77 for as long as I can remember. We had both been Alex’s together right around the time that Reginald 22L78 went into office as our president. Once they make it that big they drop the number tag. There have been so many Reginald’s in office during my lifetime, all of them nearly identical in nature, I don’t even know which one is running the country now. Not that John’s votes count for much these days any way. But back then we had been Alex’s, we dined with the Reginald’s at hot clubs and went gulfing together.
The tag John 33K77 carries with him now was mine only one year back. I carried that tag for nearly a decade before I managed to push myself out of it with an incredibly lucky spree at the Golden
Egg Casino.
I moved up a bit in the name game for awhile there, until I fell in with some crooked Bill’s. Those scoundrels took me for everything that I had. I had won that money on my own, I did everything exactly by the book. Most guys get nailed by the tax part. I was smart, I paid everything on time. I had made a business out of being lucky and the money lenders weren’t having it. These Bills show up at my house, saying something about a promotion. They were still in the class above me, so I obviously gave them more credit than I should’ve. There was some mix up about me not paying my debts on time. They savagely beat me, taking every last bit of cash I had and torching my unit. I dropped down to where I am now that week. And just like that I’m a John again.
The phone is beeping. It’s been beeping since 0400. It’s probably my mother. She called last week to tell me that my youngest sister Jane (the only Jane in the family now) was going before the panel in Denver. I haven’t talked to my mother since. She doesn’t know my situation and I hardly think telling her at this point could make matters any better. Jane had let herself drop to that status. She said she was fed up with the game. If she should meet her death, so be it. Those were her words, not mine. Some people just lack that survival instinct I guess.
I should tell you a bit more about this Final Judgment Panel, for the sake of keeping my story as informative as possible. They say who will live and who will die. It’s the ultimate job interview; those who forget copies of their resumes might as well kiss their butts goodbye. When the panel calls your name you are required to make a case as to why society should keep you. The only people that are ever forced in front of this panel are John’s and Jane’s. Make a good impression and you can get anything from one to ten years. If you’re lucky you make it into this category; unless by one to ten years you are still a John or a Jane. No review panel for you. Poof! They make you disappear just like that. Lethal injection.
Who are these Final Judges you ask? They are the fittest and most wealthy of our society. Capable of being ruled over only by the President and Congress combined, these men maintain their positions indefinitely. Until last spring the panel was composed of eleven men and one woman. The woman had fallen victim to an unnecessarily grizzly death, a Great White tore her to tiny pieces while she was vacationing in the Barrier Reef. The panel was now all men, and unless any of the others were as careless as the last judge to perish, they would be presiding as Final Judges for quite sometime.
So far I have very few things on my resume likely to impress such patronizing social giants. I had been wealthy in the past; that little tid bit I plan on including to demonstrate my potential for becoming wealthy again. The only issue with drawing attention to my long and tumultuous social past, is that it also highlights how many times I’ve been a bug splat on the windshield of the American economy. It’s a toss up, but I am planning on keeping my fingers crossed.
At this point in time, ever since that run-in with the Bill’s, I am flat broke. My good looks always guaranteed me a spot in the gene pool before, but since my beating my face doesn’t quite have the same shine to it. I’m not ugly, even I know that, but I’m no Alex either. Sadly everybody today has good genes; that’s why they say the system works. Every grocery store and matinee has about as many good looking folks as an old time Hollywood movie premier. And if for some reason you’re born without the goods, you can get almost any plastic surgeon to fix you up for a reasonable fee. But if you’re a John or a Jane, born to a John or a Jane, you’re going to need a miracle to save your ass.
I’m seeing a sweet Jane down the street. I wonder how she’ll take the news. We haven’t been dating all that long; I mean in comparison to how long most people stay together. She had fallen from grace around the same time the Bill’s took me down. Her sister was a Jane and a junky prostitute who got caught shooting up in my girlfriend’s bathroom. They don’t just take the perpetrator down in a system like this one. Drugs are not allowed, having any drugs on your legal premises will get you an instant demotion. The sister was put down and my girlfriend is now a Jane; end of story.
My life’s on the very brink of annihilation so not only am I purposefully violently intoxicated, I’m also taking the downers and uppers I’ve had hidden since my position drop and rehabilitating operations. Those Bill’s belong in the deepest circle of Hell. I’m sure they’ll get there someday.
Monday.
I spent the weekend in a booze induced frenzy. I’ve locked myself inside and have been frantically researching loopholes and qualifications that may save me this Friday. I refuse to go find a job. I’ve done nothing but blue collar labor since my Alex days and I refuse to lift another finger for anything less than a class jumping salary. They expect us Johns to keep going to work, day in and day out, with no hope of ever moving up, only to come before the panel every few years and argue why we need to do it all over again. It’s a vicious cycle and though it may not happen right away, eventually they’ll all be put down. I will not be one of them, I struck it rich before; I can do it again.
The street is darker than my unit but I need to get back to the Golden Egg. If I can win anything it’ll improve my odds. I put on my jacket and head out into the street.
The street lights are pounding my back, I cannot look up or the UV may burn my fragile retinas. These night streets are not meant for those of us relatively new to being John’s. We’re used to good old-fashioned daylight, not the stuff they use at night. If I lose my sight then it’s really over. Insurance will not cover anything without a down payment and I don’t even have enough to be gambling with.
Two blocks in front of the casino I put the drop on an awkward Jane who’s all dolled up and glitter glazed; and trying to make a client out of me. I knock her on the noggin and steal her sequenced purse. There’s not much inside; but enough to put all on black.
I’m not the only John who shows up in the middle of the night at the Casino. It’s the one place both rich and poor mingle together, no matter the time of day. The light fixtures inside are some of the most amazing money can buy. Any one can look directly into the light and not be affected. The same goes for the dining options. Whatever your gullet can tolerate you will find at the Golden Egg. I’m getting the Singapore Street Noodles.
The guys and gals that run this particular Golden Egg actually own seven more. I heard that the chain was started by a Judge who resigned his post a long long time ago. The franchise has been around so long now, who knows what the real story is. But one thing is obvious when entering the spiraled onion entrance; these folks are incredibly wealthy. And with the house always winning, you won’t be seeing their faces around the panel any time soon. It takes money to make money, it takes money to save me honey, then we’re in the clear. That’s what my dad used to say. But no one really makes any money. You’re either born with it, luck into it or wind up dead.
I put down every cent I found on the Jane and cross my lucky fingers.
And it’s a win!
If I can double my profit, and then double that once more, I’d have something worth putting on the resume. If I could hold out through a few more exponential winnings I wouldn’t even need a resume.
I spend an hour at the table, sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down. By the time I start raking in the real gold some Bill’s come over and escort me into the back. Security doesn’t like winners, I often forget the rules when I’m on a winning spree. They tell you it’s time to pack it up and move on to the next casino. The only problem is that I’m so far into the hole with my money lenders that I’m going to have to win a whole lot more than is likely possible by Friday to save my pound of flesh. I move on without a fight.
By the time I’m back at my unit the phone has finally stopped beeping. Taking a can of lighter fluid from the fridge I slide over to the answering service. I can feel the alcohol wearing off. I am far too sober to handle this cloud of impending demise hanging over my tired head. Growing drunker and number, I listen to the messages.
BEEP.
“It’s your mother. I can’t tell you how I came across it, but I have the list. Call me now.”
BEEP.
I know what she means. And since this message is audible, she has sent a more detailed message over the private line. I click the answering service over and hear the rest in my head.
“I tried to wire you money, but Reginald 44H66 says it would be a waste. They can track any money we give you, then it’ll be all of us in front of the panel. The best I could do was to use my sources to track down one of the auditors. She gave me the tags that are on the list of John’s and Jane’s going before the panel with you on Friday.”
A chance to save myself! I pause her recording and toss the kitchen in search of a pen. I write down the tags she gives me and look them up.
Wednesday.
I stopped drinking on Monday, after I received my mom’s message. I researched the John’s and Jane’s inside and out. Nothing registered as a threat on any of their current resumes. The system required that every year you had to upload a new resume, or go before the panel; so it was a safe bet that this was each of their most current information. No former children of wealth and fortune. Things are looking up.
I’m currently updating my resume, including only my titles and skills that are greater than those of my competitors. In the olden days you could sometimes get away with lying on your resume. They catch you within seconds now, all of the information is so easily attainable.
During my investigation I happened upon my sister’s case in Denver. There was no current picture, but from her stats I doubt there is any way she will survive. No job, no money, no esteemed or influential boyfriends...
Name: John 99A92
Past Work Experience:
Model
Architect
Independent billionaire
Victim of robbery
I don’t know how to update this thing and make it look good. I settle for focusing less on my brief professional history and talk mostly about how I spent my money when I had it.
Skills:
Collector of fine wines
Purchaser of expensive automobiles which ran on even more expensive gasoline
Frequenter of five star restaurants and hotels
Spending millions on fine clothes and linens
The list goes on. My pocket book was good for the economy, people like me kept things going. These people still turn the screws and spin the wheels of the American economy; now I’m just not one of them.
I take one last swig of the lighter fluid; the same bottle I started on Monday which shockingly I’ve managed to make last. This drive to survive has forced sobriety on me for the first time in my long life. At least for as far back as I can remember.
The last section of the resume is always your personal statement. Sometimes some ingenuity here can get you on the safe bus even if nothing else is in your favor. Reworking something I had come up with long time ago I start jotting down what could potentially be my final words. They read this statement at your funeral if the panel denies your life extension; so there’s a lot of pressure to make it good. I’m spending the rest of my last few nights working on this statement. It’s almost all I have.
Friday.
This morning the carriage came for me. They send this helicopter like device to your front door step and if that wasn’t enough to tell the neighbors what your status was, they assisted you on board with about seven to eight secret service agents as well. The few people that tried to escape the airlift to the judging center always wound up as splattered meat against the pavement. They let me have a cigarette on board, I’m sure only because one of the agents was a smoker. Soon I found myself here, in the green room waiting to go on. They let you watch the panel from the green room on large flat screens. It was only helpful if you weren’t first to go on.
I’m lucky number 30 today; 30 out of 40, so it’s not as bad as it could be. Several of the Jane’s aren’t on the list my mother had given me. That was to be expected however, because sometimes transfers are necessary. It was unlikely I’d be in competition with a Jane any way. The only ones that usually posed a threat were the astoundingly beautiful ones; but they all found husbands to pull them out of social destruction any way.
Number 29 was up, Jane 22K55. The tag sounded vaguely familiar; but I knew it wasn’t from the list.
An excruciatingly exquisite woman makes her way to the podium. Her graceful legs float with the stride of a magnificent swan. My heart is pounding. This lovely creature could be a problem.
“What would you like to share with the panel before judgment?” The resumes were already in, so the judges were now only awaiting personal statements. The gorgeous woman, hair a flurry of sun roasted hazelnut, skin sublimely soft and dewy and face more exotic than Cleopatra, opened her mouth.
“I have nothing to say to this panel. I am here of my own freewill. Every cent I have ever earned has been donated to charity and hospital, I am simply too tired to continue working. I hope that one day these judges will see how they are unfit to judge any human being, even themselves. I am sickened by the system and now refuse to participate in it. Murder me if you will but my hands will remain clean.” She tossed her plentiful hair across her even more plentiful chest.
Under usual circumstances I would safely assume that her statement would be the end of her. Yet this woman was so undeniably attractive and now the panel was entirely male..
My fears sprang to life when the judges made no crude comment toward her bold and accusatory statement. My phone began to beep again, in my pocket. There was no time to answer it, I needed leverage over this woman.
I waited until she was in the green room entry way before I made my move. I knew I had to be quick, I was expected in front of the panel by the end of the break. She carried herself with such elegance and dignity; with a phony smile of perfectly pouty lips running from cheek to powdered cheek. I knew she was a fake, she knew she could woo the panel with her ravenous good looks. I knew better.
She paused, smiling at me. She knew she was going to win and was now holding it over my head. People like her didn’t deserve to get years. I did the only rational thing I could to take her down. I hit her. Then I hit her again. There was no way a useless Jane was going to win out over me, regardless of how talented her features were.
With my left fist I pummeled her smug smile into a messy frown. No looks would grant her immunity now. Now she would be even lower than I was.
I scrambled out in front of the podium and read them my spiel. Thank God I can be incredibly charming. If my judges were only women I can grantee you I’d be alive indefinitely.
* * *
We’re waiting for the panel results now. The Jane I took out of the running had already been carted away. I managed to peak at my phone one final time. My mother messaged that my sister had been transferred. Baby Jane was here somewhere, although I certainly hadn’t seen her. The loud speaker is starting up. For the first time since all of the ills and viruses’ of the human system had been eradicated I was infatuated by the unknown. Scared that I would be put down, but infatuated nonetheless.
“We choose number 30: John 99A92 formerly James 96G41 formerly John 33K77 formerly Alex 66F78 formerly…”
I tuned out at the calling of my own past personal identities. They picked me! I am going to live. I am going to get rich again. I’ll find a way to make it happen.
“For your previous spending and selling, in favor of the American economy, we grant you a four year life extension.” The oldest judge leaned down from the short balcony and looked me in the eyes. Then he spoke.
“That’ll make you 435 years old by the next time you come before us. You better have your act together by then.”
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