by G.R. Carter
*****
THE RUSTY BUCKET PUB AND GRUB
FEDERAL DC
Stuck in the worst offices in the Capitol building, the tiny Libertarian coalition usually chose to meet at a small bar a few blocks over from the main government campus, far away from the spies and surveillance always following dissidents like themselves. It was a risk considering the violent crime rate in DC. The opportunity for an “unfortunate incident” trailed them anywhere outside of the Free Zone set up for the government employees and elected officials. The cameras and constant police patrols made it possible for the FZ to be essentially crime free. Crime free if you didn’t count the theft perpetrated by the well–educated and impeccably dressed.
“Well, that’s it then. It’s over,” a dejected young Congressman from Indiana said to himself as he viewed NewsWatch coverage on his tablet. “There’s no way we get America back from being 500 trillion in debt.” The number didn’t sound right, even to a trained accountant like Keith Trimble. Even back in 2015, America already had between 20 and 200 trillion in unfunded liabilities, depending on who was counting. So adding just a little interest each year alone made the numbers impossible to imagine. Keith had joined Congress just a few years back as a small business owner who knew what it was like to make bills and payrolls. His experience recognized when a commercial enterprise couldn’t be fixed.
“I’m afraid that’s right. And what we have to do now is figure out next steps,” the voice approaching from behind said as Julia Ruff walked up. Julia was the junior Senator from Illinois, and the emotional leader of a small but committed national coalition of Libertarian thinkers.
“We just didn’t have enough time. And that Judas, Reed, fed the political party dupes right to the lions. I’m sure it wasn’t for silver either,” Ruff said, disgusted.
“It wasn’t just Reed, Julia,” Trimble said. “My moles in the Interior Department said that even Jacobs from Florida already submitted a project list to Interior.”
“Oh man, if he was in on it, too… I think I’d rather just head straight for home. I’m not sure it’s safe to be out here anymore” Ruff said, only half joking. “By the way,” she continued, “where’s everyone else?”
“Two text messages saying ‘can’t make it’ and two calls saying ‘not worth it.’” Trimble sighed, “I’m telling you, Julia, I think it’s over.” Swirling his drink in front of him, he stared at the bubbles that floated to the surface, released by the motion. Cause and effect, he thought.
“I’m resigning today and heading back to the farm. I’m wasting time and money here. I just want to go home and be with the family. Start making plans on how to survive whatever is coming.” Trimble looked away for a moment. Strapping farm boy types were taught not to cry in front of ladies.
Trimble pushed the wooden chair back and stood to walk away for the last time. He turned back, face filled with resolve. “It was worth a shot, and I’m happy to call you a friend. I hope we can stay in touch, and I’ll pray for you and your efforts.”
Julia smiled the sweet smile that had won the hearts of voters before they got to know the computer-like brain resting just behind the pretty face.
“Keith,” she said, “you’re right, as usual. And I’m heading home, too. I plan to be there by tomorrow night. Maybe the Administration will quit spying on us if we’re living back in the boondocks.”
After the two hugged and Trimble walked out, Julia sat back down to finish the soda sent to her by Rusty, the pub owner. Rusty was a sympathizer, a small-business man in a land that had once celebrated the entrepreneurial spirit. No more. This was now a land that looked on the self–employed as an anomaly not to be trusted. Business owners were someone who couldn’t get a real job and likely cheated the government or some poor employee.
She really enjoyed this bar. Her band of constitutional crusaders used the Rusty Bucket as a base of operations and common sense think tank. The wood walls, random historical pictures, even the smell of someone sneaking an illegal cigarette in the hallway made her think of the comfortable little places back home. Each community had one, and she naively imagined the common bonds she could form here with her fellow countrymen, no matter where they were originally from.
She could face herself in the mirror; she did her best to set things right. The America that Julia Ruff once hoped to help save didn’t exist anymore here in DC. She knew that now. What she could do was return home to her family farm and the little small-town college that could use her help. With that she could build a community and help the remaining rural folks that once made the country great prepare for the trouble ahead.
Had an exceptional America ever really existed except in the minds of a few? The books she read told her that it did at one point in history. This was the land that gave birth to John Deere and Henry Ford and Thomas Edison; an America that fed the world, gave it the freedom of mobility and gave light to pierce the dark. Excessive debt and cultural rot ruined the Shining City on the Hill. Despite the best efforts of Senate Leadership, Julia managed to get ahold of documents detailing the real economic projections facing the country. If the figures were only half right, the Solar Storms had just been the coup de grace. The fact that no country in the world was in any better shape was no relief. There was nothing to win in this game.
With today’s new bill, the CRP they were calling it, trillions would flow into the major cities. That meant everything would be settling there, and the small towns and cities of America would be emptied out for once and all. Inflation would have to skyrocket because too many dollars would be chasing supplies and qualified contractors to do the work the bill called for. Few workers still possessed the training to do actual infrastructure work. Only the most influential would get their projects accomplished. Union leadership would love the extra funding because of the inflation adjusted wages. Unfortunately the rank and file would soon realize that huge increases in hourly wages would be trumped by even larger increases in the cost of food and shelter.
According to the reports, state capitals would become Regional Capitals and resettled into the major metro areas within a year. Homeland Security made the suggestion, and everyone on Capitol Hill agreed. Communication problems caused by the storms made securing a few larger metros easier than protecting several smaller cities spread out across the country. Everyone was best served by making the Albanys, Springfields and Frankforts irrelevant, a relic of a bygone age. All that would matter would be the New Yorks, Chicagos and LAs.
Julia called to tell her family that she was coming home for good, but she didn’t have the heart to tell them why. Her husband knew the reason. Just time to go home and get to work preparing their community for the inevitable. As long as they could feed themselves and their family, that would be something to build on and she couldn’t wait to get started.