by Calvin Wolf
The Socialist
by
Calvin Wolf
The Socialist
Calvin Wolf
Copyright 2015 Calvin Wolf
Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
This book is dedicated to the presidential campaign of U.S. Senator Bernie Sanders (I-VT) and its supporters.
Discover other titles by Calvin Wolf:
The College
The University
The City
The State
Daylight Stealing Time
Coming soon: The Singularity
Table of Contents
Chapter One: The Corporatist
Chapter Two: The Capitalist
Chapter Three: The Worker
Chapter Four: The Proletarian
Chapter Five: The Deviant
Chapter Six: The Rebel
Chapter Seven: The Plaintiff
Chapter Eight: The Witness
Chapter Nine: The Judged
Chapter Ten: The Unknown
Chapter Eleven: The Progressive
Chapter Twelve: The Socialist
Chapter Thirteen: The Victor
Other Titles by Calvin Wolf
About the Author
ACT I
The Corporatist
1.0
I have two meetings this morning. The first is an intake meeting, where I explain how our tuition insurance works. There’s a new kid who has just moved to town, and his parents have badgered their way into a meeting with me. Sometimes I just wish they would pay out of pocket. They get government vouchers, don’t they?
Everyone gets vouchers, you see. That happened when the government decided to close the public schools. They had grown into big, bloated monopolies that couldn’t teach kids anything. The system needed a healthy jolt of competition, and the good Republicans in Washington gave it in spades. Voucher it all out, courtesy of tax credits. You got a school-age kid? You get a tax credit! Oh, and no more school district property tax. Homeowners and businesses practically came all over the place.
My father was one of the insiders on that bill, and he invested wisely. He knew that the big education companies would get tons of investment once the bill passed, and he bought up stock like a madman. Now he’s super rich. He owns a healthy stake in Educorp, which I work for. I’m a head principal.
No, I didn’t come up through teaching. That was part of the problem with the old public school socialist monopoly - no respect for outside talent! I got my start after Harvard in defense contracting, then health insurance administration. I went back to school for an MBA, then did a stint on Wall Street. The course to get certified as an education administrator was quick - only a semester - because we finally convinced the state that we didn’t need half that mumbo-jumbo.
Part of my job is to sell stuff. I mean, every kid has to go to school, unless they’re homeschooled, but Educorp’s got to make a profit. The government vouchers cover the tuition. Okay, most of the tuition. We had to raise rates to stay competitive, you know? New books, new infrastructure, cleaning staff, et cetera. It ain’t cheap. Congress is supposed to increase the vouchers, but they always foot-drag. Still, kids have to go to school, am I right?
Anyway, sometimes you get parents who don’t want to pay out of pocket. Even with the voucher, they still bitch and moan. That’s why Educorp, and all the other education corporations, offer tuition insurance. I don’t work for that branch, but I’m pretty good at explaining it. I got a bonus last year for helping my school sell more Educorp Edusurance than ever before.
This kid’s an incoming freshman, age fourteen. Mom and Dad light in with the blah blah blah about how they didn’t have much money. But they obviously have enough for Dad to be wearing a name-brand polo shirt, so let’s talk about that. They’re afraid the school’s going to nickel-and-dime them beyond the value of the voucher. “We’re interested in the education insurance, just to be safe,” the father says.
My office is nice, very nice, relaxing as hell, and I always go for the soft sell. I buzz my assistant to bring them some refreshments. I smile and smooth my suit - a six thousand dollar MBA graduation gift - and assure them that my school operates perfectly above board. “But insurance is a nice thing. Life is unpredictable. Let’s take a look, shall we?”
To be honest, you want the insurance. If your kid screws anything up, we make you pay for it. Vandalism, spills, scuffs, worn textbooks, you name it. To be competitive, we’ve got to be ship-shape. Kids are always messing things up, and we’ve got to fix it. And don’t expect us to replace it with the old stuff, like it used to be! You think my staff shops for school stuff on Craigslist? Ebay?
Oh, and we fine the bejesus out of your kid for misbehavior. This isn’t Lord of the Flies. You put my staff through stress, you will compensate us for it. We aren’t running a charity.
“The green package is the starter package. A hundred bucks a month, and it pays eighty-five percent of any unexpected education expenses beyond basic tuition after you’ve reached your three hundred dollar deductible.”
Dad gets upset and wonders what the hell could cost so much money beyond the basic tuition. I have to tell him about sports, extracurricular activities, school trips, class parties, and then any costs for misbehavior or abuse of property. “None of that is covered by tuition?!” he asks, all incredulous. He’s so naïve, and I almost sympathize. Almost.
“Every student is different. We can’t budget for everyone’s unique desires as a learner. Some might want to take band, some might want to be on the football team, and so on. Unfortunately, those activities do cost a lot of money. The insurance limits your exposure. For example, what if the team goes to state? That’s a lot of money out of pocket.”
Mom gripes about school not being this way when she was a kid. “And it only covers eighty-five percent beyond the deductible? What is the out of pocket max?”
The max is twenty grand per year, and I assure her that few people have ever reached that cap. “Ninth grade isn’t that bad,” I say with my trademark smile.
“Are there plans with a lower out of pocket max? And a higher coinsurance?” dad asks.
“Green plus covers ninety percent beyond deductible and lowers the out of pocket max to eighteen thousand. Green star covers ninety-five percent and lowers the max to sixteen,” I say, being helpful.
Mom and dad shake their heads, their eyes shell-shocked.
“Now, the silver plan covers a hundred percent beyond the deductible, but the deductible is a bit higher. And the out of pocket max goes back up to twenty thousand.” I forgot to hand them the laminated card, and so I find it on my desk and hand it over. It goes over all the premiums and coinsurances and out of pocket maximums.
“What’s this about preexisting conditions?” they ask. I have to explain that many students have special needs, which require corresponding accommodations. These accommodations are expensive, and thus have to be compensated for.
“So if my kid is struggling and needs to go to tutorials?”
Ugh. These rubes are sooooo picky. “Well, our teachers must be compensated for their time. Every educator here at Educorp Midtown High School has at least a Master’s degree and a proven track record with Educorp and Intellicorp standardized test results. They can’t well be expected to donate their time.”
“But aren’t they already being paid, as teachers?” Dad snaps.
; “Of course, of course. But the tuition vouchers do not cover tutorial times. The going rate is seventy-five dollars an hour.” Mom doesn’t look happy about this, but what can you do?
“Okay, so say we get the most basic insurance package,” Dad begins, sweat beading on his brow. “What happens if we move? My job might transfer me again.”
“You can use your Educorp Edusurance with any school in our network,” I reply proudly. We have operations in thirty-four states and the District of Columbia! In those states, we have high schools in most major cities. But then Mom finds the information on the card about out-of-network costs and nearly shits a chicken.
“Everything doubles or triples!” she cries out. “What if we get transferred to California? You aren’t in that state at all!”
“We have a deal with Intellicorp where you can transfer our coverage to one of their policies. It’s only a one-time payment of five hundred dollars. They operate in California, and in ten other states, too!”
“So you’re in thirty-four, they’re in eleven. What about the other five states?” dad grouses. I neglect to inform him that Educorp and Intellicorp overlap in six states, meaning there are eleven states where neither of us has operations. The Midwest, I think, is this area. But who wants to live there?
“We have a one-time policy cancellation fee of eight hundred dollars,” I say, trying not to mumble. Talk about being tough customers!
Mom and Dad look like they are about to cry.
“Does the voucher cover the cost of uniforms, or lunches?” dad croaks. I calmly explain that we have outsourced those duties to other private vendors. I decide that it’s not the time to mention that, if his kid has a wardrobe malfunction, we give him a whole new uniform...and add the cost to the tuition bill. The clothes are expensive, but very high-quality. And quite fashionable!
“It costs too much,” Mom complains, tears starting to run down her cheeks. I try to turn things around by asking what price you can put on a good education.
In the end, they buy green plus.
The second meeting is some rich old lawyer friend of my parents. Apparently, his youngest daughter is graduating next week and is the only kid of his to go through the new, privatized education system. I think she’s the kid he had with his third wife. She was way younger than the others. The lawyer’s name is Preston. He comes from old money.
Preston comes in looking happy, but I can tell he’s pissed off underneath his veneer. I press the button to have my assistant bring in some booze. Rich old guys love the hard stuff. We do the handshakes and weather and family talk. Then Preston says he’s gotten an unexpected bill and is downright confused by it. He pulls a folded sheet of paper from inside his suit jacket. I think our suits cost about the same amount. Preston once worked in banking, but now is a privatization consultant for some U.S. Senators. He loves sticking it to big government.
“It says I owe nineteen thousand five hundred dollars,” he huffs. “This must be some mistake.” Fortunately, I have anticipated this.
“I understand that it’s an unpleasant number, but I assure you that our accounting department does top-notch work,” I reply, grabbing a martini as soon as my assistant arrives.
“It’s an outrageous figure! I have always paid my daughter’s tuition promptly, and then I get hit with this?! It’s unconscionable!”
The daughter’s an obnoxious little hoochie princess. Lots of vandalism, rule-breaking, truancy, et cetera. The fines have been racking up. Call it senioritis. Rumor has it that she’s picked up a smorgasbord of STDs, too.
“I apologize for the confusion. Did they forget to send you an itemized bill?”
Preston shakes his head and gives me the sheet of paper. It’s got everything listed, and is very easy to read. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do,” I say, trying to make him know that I’m not the bad guy. I mean, word will get round if I cut this gentleman some slack. My father may be a bigwig investor of Educorp, but they’ll fire me quickly if I don’t make mission. Under capitalism, you have to perform.
“You’re charging me for every class my daughter skipped?! And for those standardized test prep classes?! Why?!” Preston may be a smooth operator in civil court, but he’s losing his cool in here. I press a hidden button to turn on the video surveillance system, just in case he starts trouble.
“I’m afraid that when a student skips, it places additional pressure on the teachers. They have to take time out of class to prepare make-up work for absent students.”
“But at a hundred and twenty dollars per hour?!” Preston seems appalled that our teachers make so much money. But, hey, he wanted to send his daughter to a school where all the senior teachers had Master’s degrees and real-world experience. You pay for quality.
“She did skip seven days of school this last grading period, and that’s forty-two class hours. I’m afraid it’s not an error.”
Upset, Preston demands to know about the test prep classes, and I have to explain that he or his daughter must have missed the fine print. “They weren’t free, sir. After all, the teachers were holding them after school.”
“And what are the charges for ‘additional specialists’?!” he practically roars. His kid is no brainiac, you see, but she wants to go to Yale. When her test scores and grades came back too low back in the fall, he asked for her to be tested for various aptitudes and for us to develop a customized curriculum to suit her needs. We do all that, obviously, but it certainly is not cheap. I guess he didn’t see the full cost until today.
“Sir, the aptitude tests were created and analyzed by outside consultants and contractors. And we split the customized curriculum development half between them and half between her usual teachers. It was a lot of man-hours.”
“But it didn’t help! She didn’t get into Yale!” snarls Preston, now practically foaming at the mouth.
“Yale is tough to get into,” I acknowledge. “But we do have an Educorp Midtown High School networking mixer coming up this weekend that features faculty and admissions staff from several Educorp and Intellicorp universities. She should come. It’s for juniors and seniors.” I know, of course, that she has yet to already be accepted to a college. We hold student transcripts until their bill is paid in full! We’re not stupid.
Wheezing with rage, Preston demands to know how much this event will cost. It’s one of our more marketable events, with student tickets going for a thousand bucks a pop. Hey, you have to spend money to make money! Shaking the right hands can get you into the right college, which gets you the right degree, which gets you the right job.
“But, in light of this unpleasant bill, I think we can halve the price,” I soothe. So now Preston owes only twenty grand even, which isn’t too bad.
“This is insane. Insane!” he roars. “How can you get away with this? I won’t pay it.”
“If you do not pay, I cannot release your daughter’s transcripts. She won’t be able to go to college,” I reply softly. “And I will have to report you for felony theft of service.”
I have done it before, and I’ll do it again. You have to play hardball with some people.
Enraged, Preston opens his checkbook. “There ought to be goddamn regulations on you people,” he hisses. “Nobody should have to pay through the nose like this to you swindlers! They’re children, for God’s sake!”
Well, what price can you put on a good education?
1.1
Preston likes to bitch, but we do keep costs lower than they might be. At least, that’s what corporate demands. I look at the clock and realize that it is time to do another HR report for HQ. They’ve been griping at me to increase my use of substitute teachers to reduce overhead costs. While we advertise that all of our teachers have Master’s degrees or better, which is indeed true, we don’t tell them how many substitute teachers are working full-time for us. Educorp spent a whole bunch of money lobbying Congress to
increase the allowed percentage of subs on campuses, and the CEO went out and bought a European yacht when the vote went through.
Out of a hundred and twenty teachers, thirty are subs. And one of them, some kid named Panamus, is causing trouble. I check my tablet and see that he’s in the English wing, room 314. It’s lunchtime, so I call him in.
I watch on screen as the little dot leaves the room and starts heading toward the office. The surveillance program is supposed to be for student safety, but I use it to keep track of my teachers. It helps things run smoothly. Or, when two teachers are fucking in the break room, it helps me cut overhead and collect my bonus. Live and let live may have flown fifteen years ago, but there’s a new sheriff in town. You better be here to work, damn it. Schoolteaching isn’t a government jobs program anymore.
Panamus comes in, his face shiny with sweat. I suddenly recall that I had the physical plant raise the temp in the classroom wing by two degrees this week in order to save money. We principals get to keep twenty percent of the savings we generate for Educorp, and I’ve got my eye on a new car. My company car is nice, but corporate won’t go higher than economy plus.
“Yes, sir?” the kid asks. He looks about twenty-seven.
“I hear you’ve been petitioning to be moved into a full-time job here,” I begin.
“Well, that’s true,” he says. He looks nervous. We burn through a lot of subs and have high turnover.
“You’ve been trying to get an exemption for not yet having a Master’s degree?” I scowl.
“I’ll have it in a semester,” he stammers. “I know everything I need to know to teach the students, sir, and I’m just not making enough money as a sub. If I could become a full-time teacher, well, that would really help me out.”
“Our parents demand quality. I can’t break my promise that all full-time teachers have Master’s degrees. We’re in competition with the other corporations: Intellicorp, HumanCapital, Neuron, MindWeb, you name it.”
Panamus looks distraught. “But you’ve been cutting my pay!” he practically wails. “I now get paid by the hour, instead of per day. You’ve been having so many early release days this semester that I’m struggling to pay my bills!”
1.1.1
Let me take a detour here. Yeah, it sounds bad to be cutting worker pay, but we have to play the hourly game now. It’s these new apps, you see. WorkFlow, JobFill, et cetera. They let anyone do hourly work at anything, practically. You sign up, they test your quals, and they approve which jobs you can take. If you’re sitting at home, bored, you can schedule to pick up an hour, or more, at a job you qual. Most college grads can qual for most jobs like secretarial work, manual labor, bartending, cleaning, taxi driving. Pay for a background check, and you can qual for babysitting and running personal errands.
A lot of the young college grads, still young and full of energy, pick up a bunch of extra hours. They work for cheap, even down to the minimum wage. To make sure we can access talent, we have to play the game. Educorp now draws hourly subs through WorkFlow, JobFill, and two or three more apps. Within a few years the apps will all be one company, anyway. It looks great to parents, too - I can fill the campus with hourly workers during drop-off and pick-up. Ground crew, janitors, crossing guards, all that. Parents think their little angels are always surrounded by young, professional, caring employees!
Since the community college became a university some years back, the city’s been chock full of spoiled college kids who can work for cheap for an hour or two at a time. We’re lobbying Congress to drop the CDL requirements for school buses so that we can use these apps to fill our transportation needs. Maybe if we dropped buses for vans, which don’t require a CDL, we could…
Sorry, sorry, back to the kid.
1.2
“I’m sorry about that,” I say, and in the moment I mean it. Panamus is about to cry. “I can’t afford to pay subs per day, not when there are people who are willing to work for less, and per hour. The gig economy is tough on everyone.”
Panamus asks if he can pick up more hours, then. I tell him to get on WorkFlow and be watching for gigs as the school day ends. I usually hire janitors and ground crews from four to five and from five to six. “Those are two hours,” I say proudly. “Twenty-three dollars. I’ll make sure you get something easy, like cleaning in the admin offices. They’re not too dirty.”
Panamus nods glumly, and leaves.
I go through the rest of the subs on my roster and then look at our new app, Bids. Those who qual as subs can bid for jobs online, and it looks like some recent college grads are willing to do eight hours a day, for all five days next week, at ten bucks an hour. Using my finger, I replace three older, less attractive subs with three cute young women.
We have an image to uphold here at Midtown High, and parents like teachers who look like they come from a fashion catalog. No doubt their teenage students have an influence! Fortunately, the surveillance program helps me prevent these young subs from being alone with teens for too long. If I have another goddamn teacher sex scandal, I’ll probably shoot myself.
That reminds me - I better check the social networking profiles of these young women. If they’re sluts, they don’t work here. One of the three turns out to be a slut, so I move her back out of the rotation and return one of the old subs to the slot. When the automatic texts go out at six-thirty, they’ll know who got hired.
One young guy on Bids says he’s willing to work for minimum wage in the mornings, for two hours, before starting his Master’s classes, and I replace our crossing guard with him. The young guy is handsome and will make the soccer moms smile. I keep Midtown High stocked with eye candy, and damned if it doesn’t work. The old crossing guard will he pissed, but he’s fat and thirty-three, and he just got out-bid. Competition, you know?
“Hey man,” says a voice, and I look up to see one of my assistant principals. It’s John Gunderson. He’s on his phone, like always, checking his HumCap app. The man is obsessed with his share price. He got incorporated at twenty-three, when he was a senior in college, and his stock’s not doing too hot. I guess it peaked too early.
“Gunderson,” I acknowledge with a smile. I don’t want to get too nice, since most investors will only buy stock in one Education Management prospect at a time. When the rich parents swing by the school, I want them to see me as the dominant one. Gunderson’s gotta know who the real boss is. I’ve gotten eight new investors in the past year, so I’m doing something right. As Gunderson checks his mailbox, I pull out my phone and check my own app. I’m up forty-five cents a share.
That’s an extra nine thousand for my net worth, ladies and gentlemen.
“You excited for the Educorp quarterly report?” Gunderson asks, returning from his mailbox. He’s counting up the receipts from the weekly fines. I don’t care much for Gunderson, but he does bring in revenue from fines. He can hear a curse word from down a hallway. While the rules say we need to speak to the students directly about their misbehavior, we usually just use our tablets to give ‘em a fine. The richer students have set it up to pay automatically from a parent’s account.
Oh, and we’re supposed to call parents about disciplinary infractions and the fines, too. But someone at Educorp decided to make the direct lines to administrators pay lines, so that parents would have to pay per minute to talk to us about their little hoodlums. Genius! Only the wealthier parents are willing to shell out six bucks a minute to prattle to us about their kids. A secret memo from corporate says to call during a time when parents are unlikely to answer, leave a message, and hope they call back on the pay line. This has boosted revenue noticeably.
Gunderson loves the secret memos from corporate, especially since he signed up for stock options instead of a higher salary. Me, I opted for a bigger monthly check. Old habits die hard, I guess.
“I saw Panamus in tears out in the hallway,” Gunderson says. He’s sniffing
around, wanting to see if I’m getting a bonus for terminating the poor bastard.
“We’re paying by hour now, and he’s not happy about it. I offered him some four-to-five and five-to-six slots, though.”
“Did he go through Bids? A number of our seniors are willing to work those slots for minimum wage. I heard the superintendent is trying to lobby the state to let us use seniors at a sub-minimum wage. A special minimum wage for teens, you know? Seven bucks even, I think.” Gunderson’s always up on the latest gossip.
2.0
The radio has a news report from president Trump. He is proposing to amend the U.S. Constitution to outlaw any use of a minimum wage. “If you’re willing to hire someone to do good, honest work, why should the government be able to tell you how much to pay? In America, we have the freedom to pursue and accept the jobs we want. Bureaucracy should not get involved!”
I turn off the satellite radio and use my smartphone to buy a hundred and fifty shares of Bids, Inc. That app will be smoking hot now, especially since Trump’s got the clout to pass this proposed amendment. It may take a while, but it’s where we’re heading. And when we get there, finally ending the ridiculous minimum wage laws, Bids will a corporate giant. And I’ll have a bigger piece of that pie.
Speaking of pie, I wonder what’s for dinner. My wife should be fixing a nice meal. She doesn’t work, you see. She got incorporated at twenty-four, while she was in law school, but decided to stay home and raise the kids. Her investors were pissed, and some even contacted her directly, in violation of the law, but we have to do what works for us. She threatened to sue the angry investors who called our house, and we got a nice little peace settlement out of that brouhaha.
The investment companies later countersued for a bait and switch, insisting that my wife knew all along that she wasn’t planning on having a full-time career as an attorney. That was true, but they had no proof. A judge threw out the suit, and we got to keep the investor’s money. She still owes them thirty percent of her income, the max amount you’re allowed to sell, but thirty percent of zero is zero.
When I arrive home, I see my kids in the front yard. My son, Max, is looking taller and stronger every day. He should - growth hormone is expensive!
“Hey Max,” I say when I get out of the car.
“Hey Dad.” Max is playing around with a football, tossing it up in the air and catching it. He looks at me and I smile.
“You have a good day at school, champ?” I ask.
“Kids were making fun of me, calling me a science experiment. They said it wasn’t fair that I get to have the growth hormone, that I was a freak.”
I sigh. The injections are expensive, and the other kids and their parents are just jealous. Ever since the government ended all subsidies for health care, people have been complaining. I know that good health is an investment. Automatically, a percentage of my HumCap capital gains go into my health care savings account. Now that the government has gotten rid of those ridiculous bioethics restrictions, I can do what’s right for my family. We need to be the best that we can be.
“They’re just jealous, Max. You know that.” I tell him to go inside and get his daily injection from Mom. We all take injections. Mine help keep me strong and vigorous. I’m forty-eight now, and I might be in the workforce for another thirty years. With all those new college graduates depressing wages, I’ve got to combine experience with vigor. I can’t let Educorp think I can easily be replaced by a thirtysomething.
Max heads inside with his football. The HealthFirst Corporation promises that he’ll grow to be over six feet tall, and I took out a HealthFirst Insurance Policy to that effect. If he’s not over six foot by his nineteenth birthday, the corporation owes me big money. Critics say the stuff they peddle is unregulated, but I’m seeing results. Secretly, I’m wagering that Max gets a football scholarship to a top college. Now that the government has legalized most gambling, I’m thinking about going online and putting down some money to that effect.
I head inside to get out of the May heat. Despite having the best pharmaceuticals money can buy, I’m not about to just stand around outside when the mercury is in triple digits. Maybe it is global warming at work, but I’m certainly not going to say so in front of my friends.
“Love you, cutie!” my wife calls from the kitchen as I set down my briefcase. I walk into the kitchen and see her using one of our countless, disposable, pre-measured syringes to give Max his daily dose of HGH. Max is a tough kid and doesn’t mind the needles.
My phone rings and I take the call in my bedroom. It’s one of my neighbors, Floyd Jenkins. He knows about Max’s HGH treatments and has made some unflattering comments. After the initial pleasantries, he tells me about a new app.
“It’s a new income sharing app, old guy,” Jenkins says. He refers to me as “old guy” since he’s only thirty-seven. “But you can sign up your kids. HumCap’s only for adults, but this new app lets you get investments for your kids.”
I am admittedly interested. Though I have enough money, it would be great to get some more to help Max go to college. All the universities are privatized now, and expensive as hell. Even as amazing as Max is, I worry about him getting into a top school. My wife and I have Ivy League dreams.
“What type of investments? Is it buying and selling shares?”
“No, it’s old school ISA. For athletes. It pays for health products, coaches, gear. The app is just called Trophy. They pay now, help you afford that HGH, and then they get a cut of his college earnings.”
I fume at his mention of Max’s HGH, but I say nothing. Jenkins is a broker, so he knows the inside stuff before it drops. I’ve read about Trophy in the news, but didn’t know it was active. “Sounds like good stuff,” I tell Jenkins, flipping off the phone.
“So, I’m calling because I know some of the people high up at Trophy. The app drops tomorrow at noon. I want to get Max on there,” Jenkins says, oblivious to my bird.
“That’s very generous of you,” I say, my voice kind but my face sneering.
I realize that Jenkins wants Max on there so that he can invest in him. Jenkins knows that Max gets HGH, which is definitely not common knowledge. Right now, HGH is kind of don’t ask, don’t tell at the K-12 level. The whole thing smacks of insider trading, but Jenkins has serious money. I would love a cut of it.
“I’ll put him on there. Just send me the details,” I say. Jenkins knows we have a mutual understanding, and promises to send me an email within the hour. I turn off the phone and grab my tablet. I look up the pay scales for college athletes, and find that Division I football players are now raking in six figures per semester. Everyone loves buying college apparel.
What price can you put on a good college?
2.1
Dinner is good and bountiful, and my wife announces that everything at the grocery store was even cheaper than last week. Ever since president Trump opened the borders, costs have been plummeting as competition drives wages lower and lower. Even American citizens are now migrant farm workers, scrambling for pay. With no minimum wage, farm work brings in about six bucks an hour.
“It’s cheap, but is it healthy? I heard that they’re reducing all the cleanliness regulations on produce,” I complain. The lettuce looks okay, but I’ve heard some horror stories. My wife turns on the television and Max and Madison immediately clamor for a popular sitcom. “I’m in education, so I should probably watch the news,” I chide. The family groans, but my wife dutifully turns the holographic display to national news.
A private prison corporation is under investigation again, allegedly for underfeeding prisoners in order to improve their budget figures and boost stock prices. “This is news once a quarter,” my wife sighs. “You know they’re never going to prosecute. Every federal prosecutor and judge has a portfolio with those corporations in it.” I nod because I have those investments as well, though my wife does
n’t know. PenalCorp has been a great stock to own, and the company now has operations in forty-one states.
You can even invest in soon-to-be-paroled prisoners, who are like junk bonds. Many will prove worthless, but a few can make you rich. PenalCorp lobbies hard to ensure that it gets a nice influx of white collar convicts, disgraced pro athletes, and fallen media figures. Enterprising drug dealers are natural entrepreneurs and hustlers, and I usually drop several hundred a month on those stocks. It’s sort of like Vegas.
I don’t tell my wife about investing in the parolees. She wants to renovate the kitchen.
“You’d think those corporations would start to outsource those prisons,” I say, opting to start with my steak rather than my salad. “Build ‘em in Mexico or Southeast Asia. Gotta be cheaper.” My wife looks appalled, but she’s sort of a bleeding heart liberal. She supported those protesters last month who said that family members should be able to see convicts in person, not just via video chat. We’ll let the Supreme Court decide. President Trump just nominated a new Justice two weeks ago, so the Court will probably say video chat jibes with the Sixth and Eighth Amendments.
The steak is delicious.