Economic Relief

by Jason P. Preu

             Jim Eddy looked at his wife, Frannie, before he shut off the chirping alarm. Her red hair spilled and spread out over the pillow. It was 4:30 in the morning. He rolled out of bed, stretched his thick arms over his head, and went into the bathroom to shower and trim his beard. Jim Eddy had to be at work in an hour.

            Finished with his shower and downstairs in the kitchen, Jim filled up the cat’s food bowl. “Heavy D,” he called. “Come and get it.” A fat, white cat ambled around a corner and plopped itself down in front of the bowl. “Inspirational,” Jim smiled and stroked his beard. Then he made himself a bowl of cereal. It was too early for even the morning paper to have arrived. Jim instead turned on the radio, a space-saving model that hung from under the dish cupboard.

            Jim listened to the sports, the weather, and other metropolitan news.  He chomped and swallowed his cereal’s crisp, moist dichotomy. Then the national news came on:

            "And in a move that no party will yet take responsibility for, Congress has, for the second time in less than a year, raised the bar for sustained economic viability. The news came when, after a late night emergency meeting of the Committee on Sustained Economic Viability, Committee Chair, Republican Senator Robert Wright from Massachusetts said, 'It is with great trepidation and heartache that I must announce that, in an effort to stimulate our country's economic growth, this Committee has made the decision to raise the individual bar for sustained economic viability from $55,000 per year to $65,000 per year. We know this decision will affect millions of our nation's families and our hearts and prayers go out to those individual families..."

            The Chairman went on speaking but Jim no longer paid attention. $65,000, he thought. Christ, that's so close. He wiped milk from his lips and stood up from the table. He washed his bowl and stared at the wall behind the sink. There Frannie had tacked a drawing that her niece gave them the last time she’d visited. The drawing was of a couple of trees in what Jim supposed was a jungle. From the branches of one of the trees swung a blue monkey by its tail. The monkey swung toward the center of the page, in the direction of the other tree. From the branch of the other tree hung a bunch of bright, yellow bananas. Jim wondered why the monkey didn't just crawl down the one tree and up the other instead of risking the fall.

            Jim put away his bowl, picked up his briefcase, and went out to the garage. He got into his car and flipped on the radio, hoping to catch some more news about the SEV Committee's decision. No luck. He did however happen upon a story about the city's growing problem with stray felines. There goes one now, Jim thought as he pulled onto the highway. The cat's eyes reflected feral brightness. The animal watched Jim's car turn onto the highway then went back to hunting mice under the overpass. It was 5:05 in the morning.

*          *          *

            Jim arrived to work fifteen minutes later, with ten minutes to spare before he had to log/clock in. He fixed himself a cup of generic coffee and went back to his sparsely decorated ovacle to begin his workday. The company only allowed two personal items per ovacle. Jim had a photo of Frannie and a small, U.S. flag hanging on his ovacle walls.

He turned on his computer. The screen flashed with the One World Consulting, Inc., logo: the words slithering around a 3-D globe like a serpent strung from letters. The computer finished booting up and the concave monitor embedded in the back of the ovacle demanded Jim’s password.

            Jim first checked his email. There were a few random newsletters, a ton of spam, and only one business-related message. It came from Jim's boss. Jim clicked the email open and read the message:

            Jim laughed/coughed. He picked up his phone and dialed the extension for his boss, Mr. Apson. It was too early for Apson to be in the office so Jim left a voicemail:

            "Mr. Apson, Jim Eddy here. Just got into the office and received your email from yesterday afternoon. I'd really like to speak with you about this pay cut in person, sir. Thanks." He put down the phone.

            Ah, man, how am I gonna tell Frannie? he thought. Just then an "email waiting" window popped onto his monitor. Jim went to his inbox and found there a message from One World's Corporate Communications department. Bloody hell. Jim clicked on the message:

            Jim pushed his chair back from the monitor. He stood up and threw a pen at the screen. It bounced off and landed on the floor at Jim's feet. He didn't stoop to pick it up but instead kicked the blue ballpoint. It landed under his desk. Jim ran to the bathroom.

*          *          *

            Jim held his head over the toilet. He was now only dry retching after already filling the toilet with half-digested milk and cereal. He pulled a length of paper from the roll at his side and wiped his mouth with it. He lay his head down on the arm that rested on the bowl's lip. Inhale, exhale, inhale. Quick and labored.

            Jim zoned out for a while and time lost him. He drifted outside of the past, present, and future, staring ahead, fixated on the bathroom wall's tile pattern. He had no problems, no fears, no ownership, and no responsibility. The grout between the tiles was a dark, beige, eternal moment that composed Jim's world.

            The dark beige eye blinked. Once, twice. “Let’s go to Mexico.” “Frannie, baby, I just started this job. I don’t have any vacation built up yet. Next year, I promise.” “No, Jimmy, I mean let’s moooove.” “Wha?” “I’m serious, let’s just go.” She caressed his cheek. “And not tell anybody? Just go?” Jim grabbed her hand and held it tight.           “No. We can tell everybody! Tell them we’re outta here. See ya and I wouldn’t wanna be ya’!” She giggled.        “But my job…” “Buhmiejawb…,” she mocked. “We’ll go to Mexico, baby. We won’t move to Mexico, but we’ll visit.” Jim stared into Frannie’s brown eyes, trying to will himself inside, to know her. Her eyes blinked once, twice.

Slowly his focus retracted and Jim became aware of the tiles themselves, then the lip of the bowl, the roll of toilet paper that spat its sheets from the wall, and finally the stench of his own digestive mess. He spit, wiped his mouth again, and stood up.

            Jim walked to the sink and turned on the cold water. He let it run for a second then cupped his hands underneath the chilly tap. Jim rinsed out his mouth with the first handful and washed his face with a second. He dried his face deliberately, making sure no drops remained, and went back to his desk. His voicemail message light blinked an insistent, warning red. Message waiting:

            "Jim, Apson. Got your message. I hadn't planned on coming into the office today, Jim. The exterminators are making a visit to the house - got a nasty cricket problem, basement's a mess. So, the wife and I are going up to the winery for the day and probably won't be back until Thursday. I'm sorry about that email from last night, Jim. My hands were tied and the Company had no idea Congress would be raising the bar again. I mean, twice in a year? Weren’t you surprised? Anyway, I'm sorry, Jim. Real sorry. These are some bloody tough times."

            And that was it.

Jim deleted the message. He felt like deleting Apson and the whole goddamn Company. What in the hell am I gonna tell Frannie? He decided to just try and let the day unfold as close to normal as possible. He had plenty of time to think and figure out something to say/do. He wasn't below the poverty line, no matter what Congress mandated. He and Frannie lived more than comfortably. Granted, they had a fair amount of debt, but...damn it, they were nobody’s burden, let alone a burden to an entire country. He didn't know what to do. No matter where he turned, the bar had been raised and that made Jim and his wife officially "poor" and candidates for federally-mandated help.

            He supposed they could try to go to another country, start over. Millions attempted every time Congress raised the bar; some with success. They'd flee to Canada or Mexico, and try to carve out a life there. It wouldn’t take much to convince Frannie, though she might be surprised at the suddenness of it all. Jim picked up the phone to call her:

            "Hello, you've reached Frannie’s phone. I’d love to record a message of yours for Frannie. So talk to me."

            “Frannie, honey, it's me. Call me at the office as soon as you can. I need to talk to you right away."

            Jim hung up the phone, placed his hands behind his head and reclined in his chair. He closed his eyes for a moment while trying to keep from frothing over the panic that bubbled within him. Could he get another job by this evening? Unlikely. At least, not one that paid enough for him and Frannie to survive on. Could he speak with Apson about getting his salary re-raised? That seemed a more likely possibility - but Apson already knew what Jim's situation was. He'd said so on his voicemail. Apson could have suggested something then, but he'd just apologized instead. Still, it might be worth a shot.

            Jim looked at his monitor. Another email waiting; this time from Human Resources:

            Jesus Christ, he thought. Efficient little bastards. Jim no longer felt like working. They wanted him out by noon - he'd be out by seven. HR would notify the Feds of his new status sometime before their given deadline. It was 6:43 in the morning.

            By ten after seven, Jim was out of the office and inside of his car. On the way out of One World's building he ran into several people on their way in to work. None talked to him and he talked to none. Now he gripped the steering wheel, palms cold. All he had to do was get home, get Frannie, and run like hell. He quickly scanned the parking lot for signs of government vehicles; none, good, go, go, go.

            Tempted as he was to speed, Jim drove home without committing any moving violations. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over. The cops would scan him; he’d come up unemployed, and hold him until Economic Relief showed. But he safely made it to his neighborhood, his street, and his house. Jim clicked the garage door open and drove too fast into the bay. The first thing he noticed was that Frannie's car was gone.

            He panicked, ran inside. "Frannie?" No answer. Jim ran upstairs. Frannie's purse was gone. Good. That meant she left of her own free will. Jim prayed that she might make it back the same. He tried not to worry about what she was doing or to where she'd run off. Instead, he focused his attention on throwing together some things they might need for the road: clothes, mainly, and cash. But there wasn’t much cash lying about. Twenty bucks in his wallet. Please, Frannie, have some cash. We won’t make it to the bank before they freeze our accounts.

            The phone rang. Once, twice, then Jim picked it up. It might be Frannie. A too crisp voice spoke on the other end:

            "Hello. This is a pre-recorded phone call from the Federal Office of Economic Relief. It has recently come to our attention that your household no longer meets mandatory minimum salary requirements as mandated by FEC code #314(a)(b) § 2.13. Please be advised that a Relief Team has been dispatched to 382 Huntington Place. Should this residence be unoccupied upon the Team's arrival, they are prepared to establish themselves on-site in anticipation of your return. Expect the Relief Team to arrive within the hour. To prepare for their arrival, please secure all pets to a confined area, open your garage doors and window coverings, and keep your family together in the central living area. Our Relief Teams consist of efficient professionals. Please help them do their jobs be first doing yours, thank you."

            There was a slight pause at the end of the recording, then a click, pause, and finally a dial tone. Within the hour, thought Jim. His legs began to tremble. It was the garage door opening. Soon Jim felt the sound of an active engine under him. Frannie was home.

            Jim ran downstairs to meet her at the door. She carried a half-gallon of milk, a plastic bag full of fruit, and a steaming cup of coffee. "What the hell are you doing home?" Frannie asked, out of breath. "You drank all the milk, poopsicle. What? What is it, Jim?" Jim didn’t smile or reply right away. "I lost my job today, Frannie." Frannie sat down the groceries and reached over to hug her husband. "It's OK, Jimmy. We've got a few weeks, right? You'll be able to find work. I can find work." Jim shook his head. "You didn't catch the news this morning?" Now it was Frannie's head’s turn to shake. "The new Economic Relief Act passed into effect this morning. There're no grace periods allowed anymore to single income households." "What the shit does that mean?" "It means we gotta run, Frannie. And we gotta go now. I hope you have some cash." "Are you kidding me, Jim? We can't just run. I’m sure we can file for an extension, an exception. We-" "We can't just sit here and wait for Economic Relief to show up, Frannie. We can plead our case from somewhere else. I've got some bags packed. Let's load up the truck and go. How much cash have you got?" Jim asked. "I don't know-where’s Heavy D?-ten, fifteen bucks. Jimmy, I don't-" The sound of several car doors slamming cut Frannie short. A bullhorned voice came muffled though the house:

            "Residents of 382 Huntington Place. This is Economic Relief. We have you surrounded. Please come out through the front door with your hands on your head. If you are not a resident, please come out with your ID held out in front of you and proceed to the white van for inspection. Residents, you have one minute to comply or we will be forced to enter the premises. I repeat..."

            The voice droned on in repetition. Frannie said, "Jim, I'm going out there. This is ridiculous. We can't run away now anyway. I'm going to do what they tell us. We’re an exception. We’re not poor." Jim grabbed Frannie by the hand. "Frannie, you can't. Please..." "What the hell else are we supposed to do, Jim?" With that she turned away from him and walked to the front door. Jim followed her. "Frannie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't go out there." "It'll be OK, Jimmy. They're pros."

            Frannie opened the door and the bullhorn sounded:

            "If you are a resident, please place your hands on top of your head. If you are a non-resident, have your ID out in front of you."

            Frannie complied. She placed her hands on her head and got one foot out the door when a snap rang out like the crack of a wet towel in an empty auditorium. Frannie's head jerked back and everything inside of it exploded to cover the off-white colored door a sticky scarlet. Jim instinctively jumped back while his wife's body slumped down in the entranceway. He stood in shock, watching her, wanting her body to move in reverse, right itself, and eventually gather its brains into its head with a swift forward nod. Instead, Jim heard footsteps running up the driveway. He took a few steps back away from the door and crashed down into the far corner of the foyer.

            The front door burst wide open and two heavily armored members of the dispatched Economic Relief Team stood over Frannie's dead body. One of them pointed a massive assault rifle at Jim and spoke, a woman's voice:

            "If you are a resident, please place your hands on top of your head. If you are a non-resident, have your ID out in front of you."

            Jim didn't look at anything but Frannie. He began to stammer, "P-p-puhlease, give me a day. I-I can find work. I just need-"

            "Sir, are you a resident of 382 Huntington Place?"

            Jim now looked up at the agent asking the question and pointing her weapon at him. He nodded once and slowly began to raise his arms above his head. Jim lifted his elbows to shoulder level when both agents shot him in the face. Jim's body slumped to rest in the corner of the foyer.

            "Fucking unemployed," said the agent, lowering her gun. "Always begging for one thing or another." The two turned around and walked away, leaving the door wide open behind them. A fat, white cat nimbly walked through the remains, careful not to dirty itself on its way out the door.

 

THE END