workathomejob

Work at Home Job

I had just come home from work, if you could call it that. Work for me meant the five-by-five closet down the hall, third door on the left. There was nothing in the room; I designed it that way to keep me from distractions. The desk alone took up most of the space in there, and the computer didn't connect to the net anymore, thank God. When it still had access, I can't tell you how many days I'd find myself drifting. And, of course, unlike most jobs, there's no one to lean over my shoulder and keep me working except myself. That wouldn't be so bad except for the fact that I only get paid by the project. Not that that's a bad thing; I get paid very well.

And what do I do for a living, you ask? I'm a writer, of sorts. You know what they say out there on Mars: Don't bother trying to make a living on Earth anymore unless you're an artist, a musician or a writer--everything else is handled by robotics. That's kind of an overstatement if you ask me. There are plenty of undesirable jobs still out there. But the only people who take those are people who aren't qualified to do anything else.

As I said, I'm a writer of sorts. Not an actual writer-writer. I don't write novels or short stories or poetry. I write scripts. Not movie scripts or television scripts, scripts for the robots. You know all those friendly things that your automated postbox, or your check-out machine, or all those customer service reps say that make “him” or “her” sound happily human? Well, someone has to write all those words. Someone has to anticipate all the possible human questions and responses as well. Simple things like “May I take your order?” don't work too well anymore. And who gets to come up with all those words and phrases…me and anyone else fortunate enough to have my position.

And I do mean I'm fortunate to have my position. No sarcasm intended. After all, how many years did I take those courses just to get my undergraduate degree? How many butt-cramps did I get sitting in that chair? How many headaches from staring intently at the computer screen waiting for the teacher to come back from wherever the hell she was in her own house to look at my work. How many hours was I up late listening to those lecture files? It takes a lot of discipline. Maybe that's the hardest part…the discipline.

Anyway, the first thing I did after work was check my messages, like I always did. There weren't any, as usual. I clicked on the television: It was the news, which I guess is my default channel. I don't pay much attention to it anymore though; it's always some mumbo-jumbo about Mars colony and how much progress is being made there. More and more stories about how it's the gold rush of the new age and how many ships take off from Earth every day--spreading more of the human population out into the galaxy.

Since it was nearing lunchtime, I headed into the kitchen to get the chef to make me something. Walking up to the counter, towards the huge combination machine, I pressed the button on the screen to see the words “Lunchtime!” I clicked off the tired old dialogue that was about to come next and looked through the menu, scrolling down until I found the dish I wanted. Knowing nothing about cooking myself, I clicked on the reference section to find out which ingredients were needed, and did the manual work of moving said ingredients from my refrigerator towards the appropriate places inside the chef-machine. Then he or she, or it rather, gets the pleasure of slicing and dicing, cooking, assorting and serving--if by serving you mean managing to get it neatly on the plate I provide in the dish outlet. Some restaurants have chef-machines that are hooked up right to the refrigerators. I'm not quite sure how they get the food from the fridge into the machine automatically--something to do with suction and tubing. The whole concept is pretty fancy if you ask me, but those machines are way too big to fit in my apartment. Not to mention completely outside my budget range.

The timer indicated twenty minutes until I'd get my food, so I went back to my living room to occupy myself. Turning off the news I switched channels from main stream television to my recorded library. I scrolled down the sections--documentary, television series, movies--looking through the whole list on screen trying to find something fun to watch. I remembered the days when people had video disks they used to watch and store on shelves like books. That all died out when the concept of an unlimited storage library came for anything shown on television. I have forty documentaries, nine hundred and twenty-three sports games, eighty-eight complete television series, and three hundred and eleven movies. Imagine how much space that would take up with discs. Combined with my bookshelves, there would never be enough room.

As I was scrolling down my list the pop-up came for new movies available. The ones that just made it to the big screen were already available. Of course, they were forty dollars apiece now. If I waited a few months, I'd get them for at least half the price. Heck, they had movies on that list that were selling for less than five bucks each, which of course helped supplement my own personal library.

As I was searching, I couldn't help but stare past the television at the window. It was a nice view, the window-saver I'd chosen. The sun was high: noontime. But it wasn't the sun that interested me. I could see the jungles of India . Huge trees all around, exotic plants and wildlife, even bits of ancient ruins could be seen in the background. I just changed it this morning, and was happy with my choice. Some people, so I've read, like to have the window-saver on a daily rotation. Some people wake up Mondays to the Sahara, Tuesdays to the North Pole, Wednesdays to Niagara Falls . Maybe I'll use the rotation at some point too. Change is good, after all.

When lunch was finally ready, I brought it to my living room table, turned off the television and ate my food while reading a good book. In the middle of the meal I heard a bell ding from my living room computer. With a sigh I put down my book and walked over to my desk, opening the new mail. It was from my “Literature of the Advanced Age” class, telling me there would be no open-forum discussion that night, and to download a new lecture file.

I've been trying to get my Higher-Writing Certification for the last three years. They say if you study full time, you should be done in two years or so. But after getting my undergraduate degree, with working on the side, I don't have the capacity to work the full course load. So I've been taking one or two courses every term. I can't stand to take more than that, since it's at least three hours a day of just the reading for each class, not including papers. And I have a lot of my own things I want to read! I figure at the pace I'm going, I have at least another year and a half before I have enough credits to take the test to become a CW, or “Certified-Writer.” It'll be well worth it, though. The money novelists make these days? Forget about it.

While I was at the computer I thought I'd sign into my banking system and see if my paycheck from the last project I completed had arrived. It did, all credited to and available in my account. So I paid my rent with two clicks of my mouse.

After lunch I like to do my other errands before getting to my schoolwork. So after dropping my plate in the auto-washer, and realizing earlier that I was running low on certain foods, I decided to take a walk to the grocery store. So I headed out the door without bothering to set the electronic lock. What's the point of locking the door anymore?

The hallway on my floor was lined with a large window as well. I'd set it up with the same window-saver as the one in my living room. There was no one else on my floor who would mind. Actually, there was no one else in my building at all. I was the lone resident. But the rent I pay is apparently enough to keep my landlord in business. He probably has business elsewhere: How else could he leave a four story building practically empty?

To the left of the elevator was my floor's postbox box. As soon as I ran my key-card through the slot, the electronic voice greeted me by my first name.

“Any new mail?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, a small package came for you today.” Of course it was a package. No one sends letters by snail-mail anymore.

“Send it up,” I said.

“As you wish, sir,” it replied as the mail elevator did its work. “Here you go, sir,” it said as the slot opened, revealing my small brown package. “Enjoy your delivery.”

“Thanks,” I said reaching in to grab it. The slot closed shortly after I retrieved my item. I ripped open the package to reveal what I already knew it to be: the book I ordered off the net. Yes, a real book, pages and everything.

Publishers have been pushing the idea of E-Books for years. The net made it possible to get music, videos, pretty much anything entertaining into your house without having to leave it. But E-books never did it for me, or for a lot of people. I guess one could get an electro-pad or try to read the whole thing at the computer screen…but for me, there's nothing like the feeling of a real book in your hands. Of course, it takes a couple of days to get it in your hands after ordering it. I guess that's just the price you pay for wanting things the old way. I had a strong desire to return to my apartment and start reading it immediately, but it would be far too easy to forget about the rest of my chores if I did that. But that didn't stop me from reading the introduction in the elevator on the way down.

About a half hour later, I headed to the checkout counter at the food store. The food store is one store that stayed relatively the same over the years, even if hardly anyone visited it anymore. Most people had their food delivered the same way they used to back in the 1950's. But I didn't like that idea. Besides, if I didn't go out for my food shopping, I might never leave my house.

So I spent about ten minutes scanning the items, watching the price accumulate on the screen, and listening to the robotic voice telling me the weekly sales. Whoever designed that part of the checkout were idiots; like I really want to go back through the store for something when I'm done with my shopping. If they had half a brain they would have had something telling me the sales when I walked in.

When the belt was done dropping my items into bags, and the price flashed on the screen before me, I swiped my card and got the “Thank you for your payment. Have a good day!” that we've all seen and heard a million times. I left the store.

Bags in my hand, I walked down the street back to my apartment. There were no cars on the road, only the electronic tracks where the bus came back and forth automatically every hour. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen a car in years. I'm not exactly sure what I was thinking as I started wandering back and forth in the middle of that city street, but I was looking for something. I saw nothing, nothing but buildings.

I headed down one street, one street out of my way…it was just as empty. When I reached the end of that street I turned down another, still out of my way, and saw nothing there either. I went down a third street, saw the bus drive by on the track, saw a robotic garbage truck extract the condensed packages from a building's garbage shoot, but nothing else.

I became frantic, dropped my bags and started running. I looked down every street I came across, seeing nothing everywhere. It was dead, all of it.

I exercised every day at the gym in my building, but after a little while I couldn't run anymore. Running on real pavement is a lot different from running on the treadmill; it takes a lot more out of you. When I came to a halt I leaned over, panting, sweat dripping from my hair. It was a few minutes before I was able to look up again. I was staring at a hillside, a tiny bit of slanted forest on an extreme angel between two streets. It was in places like these that the only forest in the city remained preserved: areas where you couldn't put anymore road even if you wanted to. I ran over to it.

I grabbed tree branch after tree branch pulling myself up the slanted angel, trying to get enough height to expand my vision. Dirt and rocks slipped out from under me, my arms scraped and scratched against the sides of the tree trunks as I pulled myself higher and higher until I was almost even with the road above me. I turned awkwardly to look behind me, getting a better view of the city blocks I had been running through. I saw above the buildings and through the streets a decent way. Five or six square blocks were visible to me--only at the far end did I see anyone. Two figures were walking--a couple in their twenties, taking a nighttime walk. I waved my free arm at them, and screamed as loud as I could…they didn't hear me.

I don't know why; whether it was fatigue or mere frustration, but my grip on the branch I held loosened, my foothold gave, and I fell sliding down the side of the forest patch. My arms and legs flailed, slamming into the sides of branches and tree trunks, and when I hit the ground, my head slammed hard against the pavement. I knew right then I wasn't bleeding--at least not from my head--but I could feel the bump forming already there. My vision blurred. Almost immediately I heard the sirens, almost immediately I saw the white vehicle heading towards me. I laughed out loud, and then all I saw was black.

White, only white shone through my eye lids. I heard talking, lots of it, all around me.

“Honey?” I heard as I felt a pressure on my hand.

“Mom?” I asked.

“Honey!” she said.

“Mom!” I repeated, my vision finally clearing.

“How's your head, honey?”

“It hurts like hell,” I said, looking around me.

“Don't worry, you're in the hospital. You had a minor concussion, but you're going to be fine.”

“Oh…”

“Daddy's on his way, he'll be here soon.”

“That's nice,” I said smiling, relishing in my first real human contact since Christmas.