2030

by Albert Brooks

  Bernstein had addressed the world currency issue in his campaign, but it seemed to scare people. The official demise of the dollar, too many people felt, would end the United States as a power once and for all, even though that demise had already taken place. But the very idea of the word “dollar” leaving the language was too much for most people to handle. And economists could not be certain that a world currency would make Americans richer, though the President strongly disagreed. Bernstein felt that if all of these currency conversions were eliminated, trillions of dollars could be saved. He kept telling anyone who would listen that if there were a single currency, the trading in money would be stopped forever. The President hated that a few people around the world could decide each day what the dollar was worth. Why should money be traded as if it were coffee or sugar? But once the President got into office, a cascade of issues fell on his head, as they do on every president’s, and the world currency campaign took a backseat. He still wanted to revive it.

  As he sat down, his chief of staff opened the meeting. John Van Dyke was smart. He knew a little about everything and in many areas he was an expert. He hated the debt that America’s engine ran on, but like everyone else, he had no idea how to solve it. The debt affected every single person now, not just the rich or the old or the young or the poor, but to solve this problem, everyone’s life would have to change so radically that no one wanted to deal with it. And the worst thing about the debt was that it was now accepted as part of American life. When it finally surpassed the gross national product, people running for office stopped saying, “It’s time to wipe out the debt.” Now all they said was, “Elect me, and I will keep it from going higher.”

  One candidate in the 2016 election actually came up with a World Forgiveness Day, a day when the entire world would forgive all debt and everyone on the planet could start from scratch. It got some traction; people loved the idea, and it made for rousing speeches. Until, that is, someone actually analyzed it and came to the conclusion that the rich people would lose the most as banks would go out of business, since banks made all of their money on debt. Ideas that put banks out of business generally went nowhere and this one was no exception.

  The President turned to his secretary of the Treasury, Morton Spiller, and asked him to begin. The President thought Spiller was smart, but the more they worked together, the less he liked him. He was impressed by Spiller’s career in finance as head of GoldmanSachsofAmerica (GSofA) for six years, during which time the company had made more money than any other financial institution in the world.

  Spiller had never worked in government but could not refuse when the president of the United States asked him to take the job. He had one request: He wanted to work four months of the year from his farm on Nantucket. With communications being so sophisticated, the President agreed, but began to resent it when everyone else was suffering through the summers in Washington and Spiller was relaxing at home in his pajamas.

  Bernstein had so many meetings where Spiller was on a screen dressed in a sharp blue suit that he became sure the suit was fake and Spiller was really naked or at best in his underwear. Before Spiller spoke, the President said, “Good to see you’re actually here, Morton. Where’s that suit?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing. Just making conversation. How’s the farm?”

  “It’s doing well.”

  “Good,” the President said. “Give my best to the family. How long you here for?”

  Spiller could hear the sarcasm in Bernstein’s voice and didn’t want to get him more annoyed than he was going to be after their meeting, so he played dumb. “I’m here for a long time, unless you need me to go somewhere.”

  “That’s fine,” the President said. “I like seeing you in the flesh. So what’s up?”

  Van Dyke answered. “We’ve run numbers on California. They’re not good.” Bernstein turned to Spiller.

  “Spiller the beans, Morton.” It was a joke he had used before, but the people in the room chuckled. A lot had changed over the course of the history of the United States, but the one thing that always remained the same was that people laughed when a president made a joke. A bad joke, an incomplete joke, a repeated joke, it didn’t matter. It was the original form of ass kissing. Bernstein would even comment on it to his wife. “They laugh at everything. I bet all leaders go through this. I’m sure when Moses made a bad joke they stopped working on the golden calf and chuckled.” His wife laughed at that and he even wondered if that was fake, too.

  When Morton Spiller was finished with his presentation on the dire economical state of postearthquake California, he sat down and waited for the President to speak. All Bernstein said after looking at the charts and graphs and a screen full of numbers was, “What does this mean?”

  “It means we can’t fix it,” Spiller said. “We have never had a disaster of this kind. Never before has a city even close to the size of Los Angeles been basically leveled. It’s worse than a war. Even a nuclear device would not have done this much damage. To rebuild would cost twenty trillion dollars, and that might be low-balling it.” The President let this sink in.

  “Twenty trillion? What about the insurance companies?”

  “No insurance company can come up with money even close to this,” Spiller said. “They’ll all go out of business unless we bail them out. There is no way people will get reimbursed from their insurance.”

  Someone else at the table gave an example. “It’s as if every vehicle in the United States had an accident on the same day. No insurance company ever figured that into their equation.” Bernstein got angry.

  “Bullshit. Insurance companies knew damn well this would happen. It was always predicted. They just didn’t give a shit. They should never have insured these people to begin with if they had no intention of paying. That’s against the law, isn’t it?”

  “It might be, sir,” Spiller said, “but I’m afraid that’s not the issue. They do not have the money. We don’t have the money. Courtrooms at this point are not going to help anyone. We need to figure out a way to deal with this.” The President turned to the secretary of the Interior.

  “What’s the current situation at this moment?”

  “We’re just trying to keep everyone’s head above water now, sir. Tending to the really sick, leveling buildings that are on the verge of falling, supplying water and food—that’s all we can do right now.”

  “And even that is costing five billion a week,” Spiller said.

  The President rubbed his forehead with his right hand and let out a groan. “So what the hell do we do?”

  Van Dyke had a thought. “We should first rebuild the hospitals so the people can get better treatment over the long run. Right now all we have are the triage units, and the best they can do is sew someone up or help with the spread of disease. We need better facilities.”

  “I understand that,” the President said. “I’m asking about the larger issue. How do we rebuild our West Coast?”

  There was no answer. Finally, after what seemed like five minutes, Spiller said, “Maybe we don’t.”

  “What?” the President asked.

  “Maybe we don’t fix it. Maybe it returns to the way it was before they built it up.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You want fifteen million people to roam around orange fields? That’s a joke, right?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t mean that. But maybe we relocate people to other states, and return to an era of a much smaller population out West with far fewer structures. Something like that.”

  “Good, Morton,” the President said. “Can you take a hundred thousand people on your farm?” Everyone laughed except Spiller. He looked away. He was angry, but certainly was not going to show it in front of the others.

  “I’m just trying to help, sir.”

  “I understand,” the President said, “but we can’t move millions and millions of people and build them homes and provide a life for them. Wouldn’t that cost the
same as rebuilding the city?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t run those numbers.”

  “Well, run them if you like, but I think we have to concentrate on how to restore Los Angeles. Our other major cities are crowded enough and we’re not going to send everyone to a desert island, so let’s start thinking of ways to rebuild. Maybe there are ways to do it for less, or use some kind of new construction or something we’re not thinking about at this moment. John’s got the best architectural minds in the country working on this. How’s that going?”

  “They need more money, sir.”

  “Of course they do.” Bernstein got up. “Listen, I wanted to talk more about the world currency but I don’t think today is the best time. Let’s break for now. Los Angeles will remain the top priority. We need more ideas. From everyone. Morton, come to the Oval Office for a minute, please.”

  And with that the President left the room. Spiller walked over to John Van Dyke. “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know. Believe it or not, he actually makes decisions on his own.”

  When Spiller walked into the Oval Office, the President was seated on the couch. “Have a seat,” Bernstein said. “Morton, you’re a good man, but I don’t want to do the farm thing anymore.” Morton knew instantly what the President meant, but acted as if he didn’t.

  “The farm thing?”

  “I need my secretary of the Treasury here, permanently. A vacation now and then is fine, but four months away is too much. It’s setting a bad example.”

  “Well, Mr. President, you did make the agreement as part of bringing me on.”

  “I did,” the President said, “but I don’t want to anymore.”

  “Well, sir, I have to talk to my family. May I have a few days to think about it?”

  “No. We are in a serious crisis and I need people here who are putting the country first.”

  “That’s not fair, sir. I love this country.”

  “And you should. You have more money than God. But possibly you are in a period of your life where your farm beckons you, and that’s okay. But I need twenty-four seven.”

  “I’ve always given you that, sir.”

  “I need twenty-four seven here, in Washington.”

  “So you want me to resign?”

  “I want you to make a decision now.”

  “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “I know,” the President said. “I’ll tell you what, take two hours. You know what’s ahead for us. Only stay if you think you can run another marathon in your life. I will understand if you can’t. And if you leave, you and John will craft something that sounds reasonable. I don’t want people to get more scared about their money than they already are.”

  “I understand. I’ll make my decision before dinner.”

  “Thank you, Morton.”

  * * *

  As Shen Li continued to watch the news of the devastation in Los Angeles, he was amazed that the nation that had for so long been the leader in everything now looked like it was handling one of nature’s worst disasters as if it were a third-world country. Seeing people lining up for food and medical care, it looked to him like a disorganized version of what he did much better. Being a concerned citizen of the world and someone who also loved making money, Li wondered how he could get involved in this. Branch out, so to speak.

  The one area where Li thought he could really contribute was mental health. He had learned a long time ago that when people who were not used to trauma or even regular medical care needed attention, the emotional component that went with that was substantial. Calming people down became a science, and if done right, would make their treatment much easier.

  For example, Li had had scientific studies done of what kind of music worked best, although he knew he might have to alter that for the Western world. He knew what colors and temperatures worked, he knew the perfect things to say to people who were in great stress, and he knew how to recognize when someone was so far gone that it was best to administer psychiatric drugs immediately, before anything else was even attempted.

  One of the things that the Americans did not do was “work the line,” as Li called it. In times of great stress there were always lines of people trying to get whatever help was needed. Li had done many studies that proved the effectiveness of having trained people make physical and verbal contact with patients waiting on line. It might have sounded simple, but before Li it had never been done, not in China or anywhere else. People were only attended to when they finally got in the door. But crowds could create terrible conditions for themselves if left alone, and Shen Li figured that out. Simply having people working the line made everything go better.

  Li didn’t know how he could export an entire program or philosophy to the people of Los Angeles, especially since he wasn’t asked, so he started with something small. Something for the children to do while they waited with their parents. He had created small handheld devices with hundreds of problem-solving puzzles that were not just for play, but were designed to take a child’s mind off of the calamitous world they’d been thrown into. The child not only was occupied, but the device communicated with other children in the same line or in the immediate area, so a communal effect was generated, starting with the kids. And it worked wonders. Instead of having hundreds of children who were all strangers and more scared than their parents, a community was immediately hatched simply by having them interact. This—along with line counseling and the right music and feeding people, and a magician or two—well, it made waiting for help almost fun.

  Li donated the handheld devices. He had them programmed in English, found out what department in the U.S. government would accept such a gift, and then shipped one million of them to Los Angeles at a cost of approximately a dollar each. And this was how he got his foot in the door of America. The largest provider of private health care in China was, for the first time, talking to the American government. Li saw this not only as an opportunity to do more business with the United States, but also as the first real test of his Eastern methods working successfully in the West.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Brad Miller looked at his one piece of luggage and couldn’t really grasp that eighty years of living was coming down to this. He did not want to leave his condo. No one would tell him what was to happen with his property. This was his biggest investment. How could the government just ask him to leave without giving him a check, or a promise, or something?

  He opened the door for the last time and walked out to where a bus was waiting. He watched as some men put up police tape around the entire complex, signifying that people were not to cross—the structure was unsafe, and to enter would be punishable by a fine or jail, or both. He had to laugh. What jail? There is no jail. That collapsed in the first minute. Where are they gonna put me? Jail. What a joke.

  He boarded the bus and looked back one last time at the place he loved. He then took a seat and that was it. He didn’t want to think about it again, but he could think of nothing else. He wanted money. Were they going to rebuild and let him move back in? Were they going to offer him a check in Pasadena?

  As the bus pulled away, Brad noticed that it was only a third full. But soon enough it stopped at one place, then another, and another, until it was packed, all with people carrying one suitcase.

  A fat older man sat next to Brad. He had body odor. Thank God we’re just going to Pasadena, this guy smells like a salami. The fat man immediately fell asleep and snored loudly. Brad looked at the man’s belly sticking out from his golf shirt. He couldn’t afford the pill? Maybe he had a rare condition and couldn’t take it. Maybe he took it and decided he liked being fat better. Brad started to laugh. This was what his life had come to. Guessing about a fat guy on a bus. He laughed so loud, the man woke up.

  “What’s so funny?” the fat guy asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just the way I deal with stress.”

  “Tell me about it,” Fatty said. “This is beyond stress. Th
e only thing that makes me feel better is to eat.”

  “Really? Have you ever taken—”

  “Of course I have.” The fat guy stopped him; he was used to the question. “You know the one-tenth of one percent it doesn’t work on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re lookin’ at him.”

  “Really? I’ve never met anyone it didn’t work on.”

  “Well, I lost weight, but the side effects weren’t worth it.”

  “What were they?”

  “Paranoid thoughts, sweating, heart palpitations, interrupted sleep, the whole nine yards. Everything it said on the package, I got.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? That I’m fat?”

  “No. Sorry you had side effects. I’m sure being paranoid was not fun.”

  “Listen … what’s your name?”

  “Brad.”

  “Brad, being overweight is the least of my problems. I’m divorced, I don’t see my kids, they moved back East and what did I do? I chose to stay on the goddamn San Andreas Fault. So now I have nothing. And I’m going to some concentration camp.”

  Brad got scared.

  “What do you mean? Where are we going?”

  “I heard it was like where they put the Japanese in World War Two.”

  “You’re kidding. What do you mean?”

  “You know, barbed wire, that kind of thing.”

  “Who did you hear that from?”

  “Someone on line at the food bank.”

  “They can’t do that! They don’t have the right to put us there!”

  “I don’t know, we’ll find out soon enough. Do you have a protein bar or some cake or something?”