Job: A Comedy of Justice (21 page)

Fifty-one dollars and twenty-seven cents.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Uh, I had expected twelve-fifty an hour.”

“That’s what I paid you. Eight hours at minimum wage. You can check the deductions yourself. That’s not my arithmetic; this is an IBM 1990 and it’s instructed by IBM software,
Paymaster Plus…
and IBM has a standing offer of ten thousand dollars to any employee who can show that this model IBM and this mark of their software fouled up a pay check. Look at it. Gross pay, one hundred dollars. Deductions all listed. Add ’em up. Subtract them. Check your answer against IBM’s answer. But don’t blame me. I didn’t write those laws—and I like them even less than you do. Do you realize that almost every dishwasher that comes in here, whether wetback or citizen, wants me to pay him in cash and forget the deductions? Do you know what the fine is if they catch me doing it just once? What happens if they catch me a second time? Don’t look sour at me—go talk to the government.”

“I just don’t understand it. It’s new to me, all of it. Can you tell me what these deductions mean? This one that says ‘Admin,’ for example.”

“That stands for ‘administration fee’ but don’t ask me why you have to pay it, as I am the one who has to do the bookkeeping and I certainly don’t get paid to do it.”

I tried to check the other deductions against the fine-print explanations. “SocSec” turned out to be “Social Security.” The young lady had explained that to me this morning…but I had told her at the time that, while it was certainly an excellent idea, I felt that I would have to wait until later before subscribing to it; I could not afford it just yet. “MedIns” and “HospIns” and “DentIns” were simple enough but I could not afford them now, either. But what was “PL217?” The fine print simply referred to a date and page in “PubReg.” What about “DepEduc” and “UNESCO?”

And what in the world was “Income Tax?”

“I still don’t understand it. It’s all new to me.”

“Alec, you’re not the only one who doesn’t understand it. But why do you say it is new to you? It has been going on all your life…and your daddy’s and your granddaddy’s, at least.”

“I’m sorry. What is ‘Income Tax’?”

He blinked at me. “Are you sure you don’t need to see a shrink?”

“What is a ‘shrink’?”

He sighed. “Now I need to see one. Look, Alec. Just take it. Discuss the deductions with the government, not with me. You sound sincere, so maybe you were hit on the head when you got caught in the Mazatlán quake. I just want to go home and take a Miltown. So take it, please.”

“All right. I guess. But I don’t know anyone who would cash this for me.”

“No problem. Endorse it back to me and I’ll pay you cash. But keep the stub, as the IRS will insist on seeing all your deduction stubs before paying you back any overpayment.”

I didn’t understand that, either, but I kept the stub.

Despite the shock of learning that almost half my pay was gone before I touched it, we were better off each day, as, between us, Margrethe and I had over four hundred dollars a week that did not have to be spent just to stay alive but could be converted into clothing and other necessities. Theoretically she was being paid the same wages as had been the cook she replaced, or twenty-two dollars an hour for twenty-four hours a week, or $528/week.

In fact she had the same sort of deductions I had, which caused her net pay to come to just under $290/ week. Again theoretically. But $54/week was checked off for lodging—fair enough, I decided, when I found out what rooming houses were charging. More than fair, in fact. Then we were assessed $ 105/week for meals. Brother McCaw at first had put us down for $l40/week for meals and had offered to show by his books that Mrs. Owens, the regular cook, had always paid, by checkoff, $10 each day for her meals…so the two of us should be assessed $l40/week.

I agreed that that was fair (having seen the prices on the menu at Ron’s Grill)—fair in theory. But I was going to have my heaviest meal of the day where I worked. We compromised on ten a day for Marga, half that for me.

So Margrethe wound up with a hundred and thirty-one a week out of a gross of five hundred and twenty-eight.

If she could collect it. Like most churches, the Salvation Army lives from hand to mouth…and sometimes the hand doesn’t quite reach the mouth.

Nevertheless we were well off and better off each week. At the end of the first week we bought new shoes for Margrethe, first quality and quite smart, for only $279.90, on sale at J. C. Penney’s, marked down from $350.

Of course she fussed at getting new shoes for her before buying shoes for me. I pointed out that we still had over a hundred dollars toward shoes for me—next week—and would she please hold it for us so that I would not be tempted to spend it. Solemnly she agreed.

So the following Monday we got shoes for me even cheaper—Army surplus, good, stout comfortable shoes that would outlast anything bought from a regular shoe store. (I would worry about dress shoes for me after I had other matters under control. There is nothing like being barefoot broke to adjust one’s mundane values.) Then we went to the Goodwill retail store and bought a dress and a summer suit for her, and dungaree pants for me.

Margrethe wanted to get more clothes for me—we still had almost sixty dollars. I objected.

“Why not, Alec? You need clothes every bit as badly as I do…yet we have spent almost all that you have saved on
me.
It’s not fair.”

I answered, “We’ve spent it where it was needed. Next week, if Mrs. Owens comes back on time, you’ll be out of a job and we’ll have to move. I think we should move on. So let’s save what we can for bus fare.”

“Move on where, dear?”

“To Kansas. This is a world strange to each of us. Yet it is familiar, too—same language, same geography, some of the same history. Here I’m just a dishwasher, not earning enough to support you. But I have a strong feeling that Kansas—Kansas in this world—will be so much like the Kansas I was born in that I’ll be able to cope better.”

“Whither thou goest, beloved.”

The mission was almost a mile from Ron’s Grill; instead of trying to go “home” at my four-to-six break, I usually spent my free time, after eating, at the downtown branch library, getting myself oriented. That, and newspapers that customers sometimes left in the restaurant, constituted my principal means of reeducation.

In this world Mr. William Jennings Bryan had indeed been President and his benign influence had kept us out of the Great European War. He then had offered his services for a negotiated peace. The Treaty of Philadelphia had more or less restored Europe to what it had been before 1913.

I didn’t recognize any of the Presidents after Bryan, either from my own world or from Margrethe’s world. Then I became utterly bemused when I first ran across the name of the current President: His Most Christian Majesty, John Edward the Second, Hereditary President of the United States and Canada, Duke of Hyannisport, Comte de Québec, Defender of the Faith, Protector of the Poor, Marshal in Chief of the Peace Force.

I looked at a picture of him, laying a cornerstone in Alberta. He was tall and broad-shouldered and blandly handsome and was wearing a fancy uniform with enough medals on his chest to ward off pneumonia. I studied his face and asked myself, “Would you buy a used car from this man?”

But the more I thought about it, the more logical it seemed. Americans, all during their two and a quarter centuries as a separate nation, had missed the royalty they had shucked off. They slobbered over European royalty whenever they got the chance. Their wealthiest citizens married their daughters to royalty whenever possible, even to Georgian princes—a “prince” in Georgia being a farmer with the biggest manure pile in the neighborhood.

I did not know where they had hired this royal dude. Perhaps they had sent to Estoril for him, or even had him shipped in from the Balkans. As one of my history profs had pointed out, there are always out-of-work royalty around, looking for jobs. When a man is out of work, he can’t be fussy, as I knew too well. Laying cornerstones is probably no more boring than washing dishes. But the hours are longer. I think. I’ve never been a king. I’m not sure that I would take a job in the kinging business if it were offered to me; there are obvious drawbacks and not just the long hours.

On the other hand—

Refusing a crown that you know will never be offered to you is sour grapes, by definition. I searched my heart and concluded that I probably would be able to persuade myself that it was a sacrifice I should make for my fellow men. I would pray over it until I was convinced that the Lord
wanted
me to accept this burden.

Truly I am not being cynical. I know how frail men can be in persuading themselves that the Lord wants them to do something they wanted to do all along—and I am no better than my brethren in this.

But the thing that stonkered me was the idea of Canada united with us. Most Americans do not know why Canadians dislike us (I do not), but they do. The idea that Canadians would ever vote to unite with us boggles the mind.

I went to the library desk and asked for a recent general, history of the United States. I had just started to study it when I noted by the wall clock that it was almost four o’clock…so I had to check it back in and hustle to get back to my scullery on time. I did not have library loan privileges as I could not as yet afford the deposit required of nonresidents.

More important than the political changes were technical and cultural changes. I realized almost at once that this world was more advanced in physical science and technology than my own. In fact I realized it almost as quickly as I saw a “television” display device.

I never did understand how televising takes place. I tried to learn about it in the public library and at once bumped into a subject called “electronics.” (Not “electrics” but “electr
on
ics.”) So I tried to study up about electronics and encountered the most amazing mathematical gibberish. Not since thermodynamics had caused me to decide that I had a call for the ministry have I seen such confusing and turgid equations. I don’t think Rolla Tech could ever cope with such amphigory—at least not Rolla Tech when I was an undergraduate there.

But the superior technology of this world was evident in many more things than television. Consider “traffic lights.” No doubt you have seen cities so choked with traffic that it is almost impossible to cross major streets other than through intervention by police officers. Also no doubt you have sometimes been annoyed when a policeman charged with controlling traffic has stopped the flow in your direction to accommodate some very important person from city hall or such.

Can you imagine a situation in which traffic could be controlled in great volume
with no police officers whatever
at hand—just an impersonal colored light?

Believe me, that is exactly what they had in Nogales.

Here is how it works:

At every busy intersection you place a minimum of twelve lights, four groups of three, a group facing each of the cardinal directions and so screened that each group can be seen only from its direction. Each group has one red light, one green light, one amber light. These lights are served by electrical power and each shines brightly enough to be seen at a distance of a mile, more or less, even in bright sunlight. These are not arc lights; these are very powerful Edison lamps—this is important because these lights must be turned on and off every few moments and must function without fail hours on end, even days on end, twenty-four hours a day.

These lights are placed up high, on telegraph poles, or suspended over intersections, so that they may be seen by teamsters or drivers or cyclists from a distance. When the green lights shine, let us say, north and south, the red lights shine east and west—traffic may flow north and south, while east and west traffic is required to stand and wait
exactly as if a police officer had blown his whistle and held up his hands, motioning traffic to move north and south while restraining traffic from moving east and west.

Is that clear? The lights replace the policeman’s hand signals.

The amber lights replace the policeman’s whistle; they warn of an imminent change in the situation.

But what is the advantage?—since someone, presumably a policeman, must switch the lights on and off, as needed. Simply this: The switching is done
automatically
from a distance (even miles!) at a central switchboard.

There are many other marvels about this system, such as electrical counting devices to decide how long each light burns for best handling of the traffic, special lights for controlling left turns or to accommodate people on foot…but the truly great marvel is this: People
obey
these lights.

Think about it. With no policemen anywhere around people obey these blind and dumb bits of machinery
as if they were policemen.

Are people here so sheeplike and peaceful that they can be controlled this easily? No. I wondered about it and found some statistics in the library. This world has a higher rate of violent crime than does the world in which I was born. Caused by these strange lights? I don’t think so. I think that the people here, although disposed to violence against each other, accept obeying traffic lights as a logical thing to do. Perhaps.

As may be, it is passing strange.

Another conspicuous difference in technology lies in air traffic. Not the decent, cleanly; safe, and silent dirigible airships of my home world—No, no! These are more like the
aeroplanos
of the Mexicano world in which Margrethe and I sweated out our indentures before the great quake that destroyed Mazatlán. But they are so much bigger, faster, noisier, and fly so much higher than the
aeroplanos
we knew that they are almost another breed—or are indeed another breed, perhaps, as they are called “jet planes.” Can you imagine a vehicle that flies eight miles above the ground? Can you imagine a giant car that moves faster than sound? Can you imagine a screaming whine so loud that it makes your teeth ache?

They call this “progress.” I long for the comfort and graciousness of LTA
Count von Zeppelin.
Because you can’t get away from these behemoths. Several times a day one of these things goes screaming over the mission, fairly low down, as it approaches a grounding at the flying field north of the city. The noise bothers me and makes Margrethe very nervous.