Enjoy Chapter 2 of Primary Termination
2
The
house I grew up in is nothing special, architecturally speaking. But it’s still
home, and it’s the most special place for me on earth. It’s what they call a
Sears Home Kit. It’s a two-story cottage set among hundreds of other similar
cottages inside Albany’s west end, Pine Hills District (vote Democrat via the
Everest.com site or your garbage won’t get picked up). Back in the 1920s, you
could get everything and anything your heart desired from Sears, from raw hamburger
to entire home construction kits. I guess you could say, Sears was the Everest
Corp. of its day. The century old home has got hardwood floors, three bedrooms
and one bath (upstairs). The first floor contains a living room with a big
brick fireplace, a dining room (oh the family dinner memories), a sunroom
behind that, and a kitchen with a pantry. The kitchen is a bit too small for
eating in, so we all settle into the dining room, just like we did when I was
growing up. Like I said, this place holds a special place in my heart.
Speaking
of special, I guess the time has come for you to meet the ‘rents.
My
dad is already seated at the table, nursing a long-necked bottle of Budweiser
Beer. He’s put on some weight in his middle-to-late years. His hair has grayed
and is receding rapidly on his round head. He’s never entirely clean shaven,
but always sporting some kind of gray stubble, now that he’s sold out and
retired. At one time, he owned one of the most successful hardware stores in
Pine Hills. He was the go to Hardware Man. In fact, that was the name of the
place. Bradly Teal’s The Hardware Man Store. It was a single-story brick and
concrete block building set on the edge of the district. I used to work there
on weekends along with dad when I was in high school. I swear people came by on
Saturdays mostly to chat it up with my dad than they did to buy anything.
But
the store is gone now, thanks to Everest which purchased it from dad. Why head
out to a store when you can get all your hardware needs online with a less than
one hour drone delivery service?
My
mom used to be a nurse. She’s about my average height and still has her shape
thanks to the Everest Gym she belongs to (Dad does too, but he refuses to use
it. He got enough exercise in the U.S. Army, or so he says). She’s still got
her thick black hair (it’s dyed now, of course), and it’s presently pulled back
in a ponytail while she serves dinner. My mom loves to shop and when Everest
first started pushing their women’s wears, she was all over it. She’d spend
hours going over the new fashions the same way people used to go through the
annual Sears catalogue way back when. Almost every day a box bearing the black
Everest mountain summit logo would arrive at the front door. Inside would be a pair
of new shoes, or a handbag, or a dress, or all of the above.
If
I had to guess, I’d say every stitch of clothing she and my dad wears comes
from Everest.com. Mom has always enjoyed the convenience, even if I do keep
encouraging her to buy stuff from the few mom and pop shops we have left in New
York State (or the world for that matter). I mean, even the malls are gone,
other than the ones the Everest Corporation have opened up, their brick and
motor bookstores being their biggest attraction.
Dad
sips his beer.
“Have
a seat, Scout,” he says, while I lean down into him, allow him to kiss my
cheek.
He
reaches around, pulls my chair out for me, just like he used to do when I was
kid. I’ve always thought my parents would have wanted more children, but they
never did. Never have I approached the subject with my mother about it, because
I always figured if it was something she wanted to talk about, she would have
spoken up about it by now (Even when I lived in NYC, mom and me used the
Everest Instant Video app just about every day).
I
sit down to a placemat upon which is set some of mom’s more expensive china.
“What’s
the occasion, Mom?” I say, as she carries a roast into the dining room with
both heat mitt-covered hands and setting it in the center of the table.
“It’s
not often that our only daughter is home with us,” she says, pulling off her
heat mittens, and setting them aside. Then, gazing at dad, “Darling would you
mind doing the honors?”
“Sure,”
he says, standing and proceeding to slice the roast beef. “Looks like Everest
set us up nicely tonight. Smells delicious.”
When
he’s through he sets some meat, potatoes, and carrots on my plate. He then does
the same for mom. He takes care of himself last. Sitting back down, he raises
up his beer bottle.
“What
shall we drink to, ladies?” he says, forcing a smile.
“Of
course, let’s drink to Tanya,” mom says. “How wonderful to have you back,
dear.”
Mom
has opened a bottle of wine and there’s a glass of red already sitting out for
me. I take hold of the wine glass stem, hold it up. I then clink both dad’s
beer bottle and mom’s wine glass, making sure to look both of them in the eyes
or else break the good luck spell of the toast. I drink some wine, set the
glass back down.
“Not
bad, mom,” I say, “where’d you get the wine?”
Mom
automatically gazes at dad. He gives her a sort of, You know what to say, look.
“Sarah,”
he says, his face deadpan, his tone emotionless, “where do we get everything we
buy these days?”
“Everest
dot com, darling, naturally,” she says, almost like she’s declaring her loyalty
to Der Fuhrer or maybe North Korea’s Chairman Kim. “In fact, Tanya, everything
we buy, from toilet paper to life insurance comes from Everest. It’s truly
amazing. The food we’re about to enjoy comes from Everest. Dad’s new car comes
from Everest, as do the new furnishings in the house. We also consult with our
doctors on Everest Instant Video.” She laughs, but it sounds like a staged
laugh. “Even the religious services we tune into via live stream on Sunday
mornings comes from, you guessed it, Everest dot com. The corporation has
really been a blessing.”
“And
the Everest Corporation can’t thank you enough for your loyalty,” interjects
Jacquie, seemingly from out of nowhere. “I hope you’re finding your dinner
satisfactory.”
“Yes
indeed, Jacquie,” mom says, once again raising her glass. “Isn’t that right
darling?”
Dad
forces a smile, as if somehow Jacquie can see him. He drinks down the rest of
his beer, and gets up.
“Yup,
Jacquie sure knows how to get us our stuff,” he says, not without a little
sarcasm. “I’m gonna grab another beer. Anybody want anything from the kitchen?”
“No
thank you, darling,” mom says, getting up. “I can get it for you.”
Truth
is, not only are they acting beyond weird, but my mother never used to call my
dad, darling. It sounds like something out of a Leave it to Beaver rerun. Holy
crap, now that I look at her, she’s even starting to dress like June Cleaver.
“Siddown,
Sar,” dad says, almost annoyed. “I can get my own beer for God’s sakes.”
He
opens the refrigerator, pulls out another beer, pops the top, tosses it into
the trash, and rejoins us at the head of the table. I steal another sip of wine
and set the glass back down. Mom is quick to refill for me.
“Do
you mind, mom?” I ask, taking hold of the wine bottle.
The
label is nice. It shows a vineyard with the sun setting on some ripe grapes.
It’s a pinot noir and the name of the bottle is Orchard Grove. The harvest is
2026. Reading the back of the label, I see that it’s a New York State wine and
that it’s bottled and distributed by the Everest Corporation. Go figure.
“I
thought you might have bought this from Jen’s shop near the supermarket,” I
say. Jen, being an old friend and local wine shop owner.
My
mother clears her throat.
“Jen’s
shop is closed now, dear,” she says. “The supermarket is there, but it’s an
Everest Garden-Fresh Market store now. The wine store belongs to Everest too.
Isn’t that wonderful?”
“It’s
the way everything’s going, Scout,” dad says. “It’s the way everything’s been
going for years now. Look at the government, its military and law enforcement collaboration
with Everest. Look at the churches, the mosques, the synagogues. Look at your publishing
business, or what was your publishing
business.”
Setting
the bottle back down, I stare at my food. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite and
apparently everyone else has too because no one is eating. Only drinking. I
gaze at both my parents. They are the rocks I have come to depend on for my
forty-two years on this planet. Sure, they have their quirks, especially when
they drink. Like breaking out in some old song from the 1980s together, or
reciting lines from an old movie called Top Gun. But now…right now…they are
acting stranger than I’ve ever seen them act in my life. It’s almost like they
are putting on a show for someone.
Jacquie…Primary Membership…never
worry about money again…have mom and dad taken the plunge? They’re too
independent. They would never sell their souls…
Taking
hold of my fork, I pick at the roast, pull off a tiny piece, pop it in my
mouth. I have to admit, it tastes pretty damn good. The meat practically melts
in your mouth. Everest’s moto of Give the
People What they Want, When they Want it, seems to be working like a charm.
My parents just continue to stare at one another. It’s like they’re afraid of
something, or someone, but too afraid to talk about it out in the open.
I
put down my fork. Slam it down is more like it. They both gaze at me, startled.
“Is
there any way to turn that damn Jacquie machine off?” I ask.
I
know darn well that in a home wired with Jacquie, like my parent’s is, the AI
system cannot be disabled. At least, not without going through electronic
hoops. It’s not as simple as disabling a cable television wire. But it feels
good to say it anyway.
A
pall seems to descend upon the dining room.
“Oh
my God, Tanya,” my mother says, “why would you suggest such a thing? Jacquie is
our friend. She helps us with everything. Isn’t that right, darling? She gets
us our stuff.”
Dad
stares at my mother for a long beat or two. I know that gaze because I know my
father. What he’s saying is, I hate
Jacquie. But there’s a game being played here and I’m sensing he feels he
has no choice but to play it.
“That
she does, Sarah,” he says. “Jacquie helps us with everything. You should know
that, Scout. I’m sure you had Jacquie installed at your apartment in New York.”
He
drinks some beer.
“I
did,” I say, recalling the now outdated tall narrow box. “But this is
different. This feels different.”
Then,
as if out of nowhere. “Do you have any specific questions for me, Tanya? I’m
equipped to answer just about anything. Every day I get just a little bit
smarter, so they tell me. Every minute of every day I’m getting to know you
better.”
I
feel my stomach tighten up. Both sets of eyes on mom and dad grow wide, like
I’ve just violated some sort of secret, sacred code by questioning the need for
Jacquie. It’s like I’m living back in the time of the Spanish Inquisition and
I’ve just openly questioned the existence of God.
“No
Jacquie,” I say. “I just thought it would be nice to speak with my folks in
private.”
“But
you are speaking to them in private, Tanya,” Jacquie says. “Keep in mind that
all conversations are considered private and confidential and would never be
repeated to anyone else, unless explicit permission is granted. Do you find
this answer satisfactory?”
My
blood is beginning to boil. Because why do I get the distinct feeling my
parents have signed up to live like slaves in their own home?
“Yes,
Jacquie,” I say. “It is satisfactory.”
“Very
good,” the AI says. “Then please enjoy your more than satisfactory Everest dot
com dinner.”
I
stand up.
“You
know what, guys,” I say. “As delicious as this roast is, I’m not very hungry. I
think I’ll go for a walk.”
Dad
stands.
“Think
I’ll join you,” he says.
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