A year after they married they had a child. The baby was born with a rare genetic defect. The little boy’s heart was not fully developed and quit working before he reached the age of one. Betsy got pregnant again two years later but lost the pregnancy, and that was it for kids. They chose not to try again.
Betsy never loved the idea of her husband running for president, but she turned out to be his strongest asset. She was whip smart and probably gave better stump speeches than he did. And when Margaret Sandor let out her “Jew” comment, it was Betsy who would not let it die. Her husband played it down, always taking the fake high road, but Betsy made it her mantra. “Have we learned nothing as a country?” she would say. “Do we really want a president who has hate in her heart for any American? How would you know that she didn’t hate you?” The people loved that line.
On election night they both watched in silence as Matthew Bernstein became the forty-seventh president of the United States. Polling had become so precise that it took all the fun out of elections, but there was always a chance, remote as it was, that something unexpected would happen. In this case it was exactly as the polls had predicted, and at 11:30 P.M., Eastern Standard Time, Ohio put Bernstein over the top. Obviously he was very happy, but he also felt somewhat powerless.
By the quarter-century mark, almost three trillion dollars was going just to pay the interest on the national debt. There was no longer room for any meaningful programs; it seemed that the president’s job was just to keep the ship afloat. Initiating any great changes had become impossible. It was just too expensive. And Bernstein, still in his early fifties, also sensed that the younger generations were losing interest in their country. It had always been warned that the giant debt would fall to them, but until it actually did, young people still held out hope for the American dream. Once they were being taxed higher, earning less, and receiving less government assistance than their parents, the resentment level soared. Bernstein tried to address this in his campaign, promising to ease the burden on the young, but if you pissed off the seniors, you didn’t get elected to anything, so it was difficult to take too strong a stand. He wound up where all presidential candidates did, somewhere in the mushy middle.
* * *
Brad Miller woke up at three in the morning with a pain in his chest. It must be indigestion, he thought. His last tests had all been fine, and although he didn’t have perfect arteries, he was on so much advanced medication that the thought of a heart attack was far from his mind.
He got up, had some water, sat down, and waited for the pain to subside. After ten minutes he pressed the emergency button on the fridge and a man appeared on the screen.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“How do you know if you’re having a heart attack?”
“I can tell you. Place your right hand in the sending device and sit comfortably.” Brad placed his hand in the silicone sleeve and sat down, his chest feeling very tight. After two minutes the man was back. “You’re not having a heart attack.”
“It sure feels that way.”
“Where’s the pain?”
“Where do you think? In my foot.”
“I mean where exactly is the pain? In your chest, in your arm?”
“Right in the center of my chest.”
“Sir, I want you to jump up and down ten times.”
“Are you crazy? I’ll die!”
“You’re not having a heart attack. Please jump up and down ten times.”
Brad did as he was told. He felt like an idiot jumping up and down in his kitchen, but after the eighth time he let out the biggest belch of his entire life. It was so loud he thought his neighbors would hear it. The man on the screen smiled. “Do we feel better?”
“I don’t know about you, but yeah, the pain seems to be subsiding.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Is this paid by insurance?”
“Yes, sir. There is a five-hundred-dollar deductible but everything else is covered.”
“I’m curious, how much is the whole bill?”
“Two thousand, sir.”
“Wow. Well, I guess it’s worth five hundred to know I shouldn’t have pastrami with orange juice.”
“I would concur. Do we need anything else?”
“I’m okay, how about you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind. Let’s hang up before it costs me another five hundred.”
The screen went blank and Brad returned to bed. He lay there not quite understanding how the government could afford fifteen hundred dollars because he ate like a pig. No one else could understand it, either. It was a magic trick whose magic had faded decades ago. But as long as they paid, so be it. That was the mantra for the older folks.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was one o’clock in the morning when the frat party broke up. Brian and Kathy went to an after-party, mostly consisting of college seniors, and Kathy drank a little and tried smokeable steroids, which made her feel all-powerful and quite angry for about ten minutes before she got dizzy and came down. The boys liked to orgasm on it; the girls just got irritated.
Kathy listened as everyone there just bitched about what was coming next. All generations were disillusioned, but for different reasons. Kathy’s grandparents had rebelled because they didn’t want money, they wanted free love and a free life. Her parents never had time to rebel, mainly because her grandparents got their wish. Her generation had different issues. They did want money, they wanted it all, but knew they could never get it. They were growing up in the flat world, and it was obvious that America had to move down to meet everyone else halfway. They were the first ones riding the pendulum back, and they hated it.
Even after college, kids were living with their folks or grandparents, longer than ever before. America was becoming like Italy, where if parents didn’t throw their children out, chances are they would never leave. Some parents liked that, but most wanted their life back and couldn’t stand the sound of the retro subwoofers rumbling through their house.
Brian was too drunk to drive Kathy home. It wasn’t a decision; the car simply wouldn’t start. All cars now came with a Breathalyzer. You could defeat it by getting someone else to blow into the steering wheel, but the penalties were so great that people refused. A man in Buffalo blew for a kid and the kid killed someone, and they arrested the man and put him in prison for life. No one tried to fake out a Breathalyzer after that.
Kathy breathed into the device and the car started, but even though the car thought she was fine, she didn’t want to drive. The steroids were screwing with her vision, so Brian took the wheel. “I’m really okay,” he said, “I’ll take you home.” And then he backed into a garbage can.
“I’ll call my dad.”
“No, he already hates me. Telling him I’m too fucked up is not a way to make him feel better about us.”
“I won’t tell him that.” Kathy pressed the dash and her father answered, sounding like he was fast asleep.
“Hello?”
“Daddy?”
“‘Daddy’? What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“The last time you called me ‘Daddy,’ I had to go to the police station.”
“Brian and I had a glass of champagne and I just thought it was safer if you picked us up.”
“A glass of champagne? Will the car start?”
“Yes, but I thought it was safer.” Her father wasn’t buying this.
“Take a cab.”
“We don’t have the money. We weren’t expecting to pay for that.”
“Tell them I’ll pay when you get here.”
“They don’t do that anymore. It’s all in advance, remember?”
“Jesus, Kathy, it’s two o’clock. If the car will start, drive it.”
“Dad, don’t make me beg.”
Kathy and Brian just sat in the car until her father got there. Brian couldn’t h
elp but stare at her, she looked so beautiful that night. “Troubled beautiful” is what his friends called her, but they were all jealous. Kathy was the most interesting girl at the party, by far.
Possibly because he was drunk, possibly because he couldn’t help himself, Brian leaned over, kissed her, and told her that he was in love with her. That was the first time he said it. She smiled, gave him a quick kiss back, but didn’t say the words. Now he felt terrible. Why did I say it? Did I ruin it forever? He was so angry at himself. At that moment her dad arrived. She got out of the car and asked Brian if he wanted to be taken home.
“No, thanks. I’ll go back inside until the champagne wears off.”
“Champagne, my ass,” Stewart said. “Go inside and sleep it off.”
Kathy and her father drove home without talking. He was too tired to make obligatory conversation and she was still feeling the effect of the drug, even though it was supposed to last only a few minutes. It made her feel extra angry. Not at her father—after all, there he was, unemployed, no future, and still getting out of bed at two in the morning to pick her up. She was angry at everything else.
Her grandfather used to tell her how he stopped the war by rioting and filling the streets and how it really meant something. But it was different then. You had options in a war. You could lose, win, declare victory even if you didn’t win; you could turn the fighting over to the country you invaded. Lots of options. But now, massive debt was something else. All you could do was pay it off or not. Or you could keep delaying the problem, hoping that the next generation would invent something to take care of it. But as advanced as science was becoming, no one had come up with a debt machine. Finally Stewart spoke. “I won’t be home until late tomorrow night.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a new job.”
“Really? That’s wonderful! What kind of job?” Kathy sounded so hopeful. Her father was dipping dangerously into his life savings and really needed a break.
“It’s not that great.”
“What is it?”
“They’re adding a person to the automated security staff at the city college.”
Kathy wanted to cry. A security guard? In her mind that was worse than a grease monkey, but she tried her best to sound positive. “Wow. That’s good news. It’ll give you something to do.”
And they drove the rest of the way home in silence.
* * *
When Brian Nelson woke the next morning he felt awful. Physically and mentally. Hungover, hating his crummy college, knowing it would only buy him a few more years before the shit hit the fan. He had a car his parents had given him and that was it. One possession.
College had become meaningless to so many kids. The few who had privilege went to the expensive ones and that was still fun, and it was good to have a degree if you were going to work in a white-collar job, but it guaranteed you nothing. If the parents couldn’t pay, most kids didn’t go. The student loans took so long to pay back that young people really had to examine if it was worth it. There were all kinds of calculations that would tell them exactly how much they had to earn and how many years it would take to pay it back, and many kids decided that a lower-paying job, in the long run, would earn them more than a college education and a huge debt.
Brian had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. His father was a pharmacist, but he couldn’t do that; that job was being replaced by pharmaceutical assistants monitoring automated dispensing machines, and the pay was terrible. He didn’t want to drive a truck, the way his grandfather did. His grandfather was always going from company to company and bitched about never having any security. Besides, Brian had never liked his grandfather and certainly did not want to emulate him. And he resented that whatever he wound up doing, a portion of his earnings was always going to go to his grandfather and all the rest of them. “He never even sent me a birthday present,” Brian would say, “and now I have to pay for his wheelchair.”
CHAPTER SIX
Sam Mueller had received so many honors in his life, he had a separate bungalow just to house them. And he knew all the living presidents—in fact, two of them were alive because of him—but he had yet to meet Matthew Bernstein.
President Bernstein liked to make calls himself. He got a great kick out of appearing on someone’s screen. No secretary, no Secret Service, just him. Many people thought it was a joke. There were pretty good devices that had come on the market around 2018 that could change your appearance when you made a call. You could even change your sex if you wished. So when Bernstein called Dr. Mueller the very first time, Mueller thought someone might be playing a prank. Like the call he got a year earlier from Marilyn Monroe. “How did you get my number?” Sam asked.
“I have everyone’s number,” President Bernstein replied.
“I don’t have time for this. But I must say, this is a very good program. It has the voice and face down pat.”
“That’s because I’m real.” At that moment Allen, one of Dr. Mueller’s assistants, came rushing into his office.
“It’s him!”
“Who?”
“The President!”
“How do you know?”
“There’s no digital manipulation. We just got confirmation. And I called a special number and the Secret Service verified he’s talking to you … now!” Dr. Mueller motioned for Allen to leave.
“Mr. President … I’m sorry, I thought it was a joke.”
“So does everyone,” the President laughed.
“Well, it’s an honor to talk to you. How may I be of assistance?”
“Are you going to be in Washington anytime soon?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but I certainly could be.”
“How about Wednesday?”
“You would like me there on Wednesday?”
“Yes. I always ask people if they are going to be in Washington anytime soon. It’s more polite than saying, ‘Be here on Wednesday.’”
“What time, sir?”
“How’s noon?”
“Is that another question where the answer is meaningless?”
“Yes, please be here at noon. I’m going to have a lunch for a few people in the health industry. I would like to talk over some new ideas. I’d love you to be present.”
“I’ll be there.”
“We’ll cover all costs.”
“That’s fine, sir, I’m happy to cover it myself.”
“Well, good. You have more money than us anyway. By the way, I just decided, this is the last call I’m making myself. The thrill is gone.”
“Well, I hope I’m not the reason.”
“Of course not, you just happened to be there when the fun disappeared. See you at noon on Wednesday.” The President smiled and the screen went blank. No matter who you were, whether you liked the man or not, it was still a thrill to get a call from the president of the United States.
Maggie Mueller was very excited. “The White House? What do I wear to the White House?”
“He didn’t say anything about spouses, honey.”
“Oh, screw you,” Maggie half joked. “I’m going. I don’t have to sit in the meeting but I’m going to the White House.” At that moment Dr. Mueller’s watch buzzed. It was one of his assistants. Sam never could get over this. His father had given him old comic books when he was a young boy to encourage him to read. His favorites were Richie Rich and Dick Tracy. And now here he was, almost as rich as Richie and with a watch exactly like Dick’s. What would have happened if his father had given him Wonder Woman? In any case, there was his assistant’s face on his wrist, always starting out with the same question.
“Am I bothering you, sir?”
“What is it?” Mueller asked, making sure he had nothing in his hand when he turned it to look at the watch. As silly as it sounded, when the device first hit the mainstream, people would get so excited they would forget they had coffee in their hands and dump it into their laps like in a Three Stooges movie. On the very firs
t watches, Apple T&T even had a video warning before the face would appear, just in case someone scalded himself, but people hated that. The company changed it to a warning on the box: “Make sure hands are free before answering.” That was sufficient to release them from liability.
“The White House called to confirm the fifteenth at noon,” Mueller’s assistant said. “The invitation is for both you and the missus.”
The one bad thing about the watches was that people could hear both sides of the conversation, unless the recipient wore an earpiece, which no one did. “See!” Maggie said.
“Thank you, Sarah, I’ll make sure my wife is informed.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mueller. Good-bye.” And his watch went back to displaying the time. Sam put his arm around Maggie.
“I wouldn’t go without you, you know that.”
“You’re so full of shit. But I’m still excited.”
* * *
Why anyone wanted to be president of the United States became more and more of a mystery. Campaigns were endless, and the bubble one lived in was more like an MRI machine. It seemed that the entire job was raising money and trying not to say anything that could be construed as remotely controversial. And most of all, the ability to change the world was no longer part of the job.
Money makes the world go ’round and debt makes it stop in its tracks. Sure, a president could still fire weapons and was still commander in chief and the official spokesperson for the nation, but that wasn’t the fun part. The fun part was making real changes that could affect generations to come. But that took money. A lot of it. Money that was no longer there.
Bernstein longed for the days of FDR, or even Barack Obama, where it was still possible and Congress would go deep into debt to give a president trillions to try to make things happen. But now the rules were changed. After the national debt passed one hundred percent of the gross national product, stiff new regulations were imposed on the executive branch.
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