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  Lo noticed. “Cold?” she asked.

  “No, sorry,” I said. “Just thinking about something.” I motioned toward the board. “So, what now? Do I pick one of these jobs?”

  “Not quite,” Lo said. “I’m showing you all of these jobs so you have an idea of the scope of the city’s need for labor.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I said.

  “Good,” Lo said. “Now, what I’m going to do next is plug in your aptitude test results into this matrix of job openings, and see which ones they qualify you for. First, the results from your first day of testing—the recap of your knowledge from your education.” Lo tapped her tablet screen.

  I watched as roughly ninety percent of the job openings disappeared from the wall. I spent the next minute or so opening and closing my mouth to no real good effect.

  “I think there’s something wrong with your wall display,” I said, finally.

  “The wall display is fine,” Lo said. “The problem is that overall you scored in the 35th percentile for your aptitudes. Look.” She held up her tablet display and showed it to me. My test scores were on a trio of lines, showing my ranking relative to others who had taken the test the same days I did, in the same year as I had, and since the beginning of the tests, just a few years after the founding of New St. Louis.

  “Actually, the 35th percentile is for the historical chart,” Lo said, pointing. “You scored lower among the people who took it with you, and who have taken it in the last year. And most of the people who did worse than you were people who were taking the Aptitudes from outside the city.”

  “Maybe there was a mistake in the scoring,” I said.

  “Probably not,” Lo said. “The tests are triple-scored by machine to catch errors. You’re more likely to get hit by lightning than suffer an incorrect Aptitudes score.”

  “I can take them again,” I said.

  “You could have taken them again if you had taken them earlier,” Lo said. “But the next set of Aptitudes isn’t scheduled until after your twentieth birthday. So for the purposes of your first job, you’re stuck with these scores, Mr. Washington.”

  I slumped back into the chair. Mom was going to kill me. Lo looked at me curiously. I began to resent her, or at least what I figured she thought of me. “I’m not stupid, you know,” I said.

  “You don’t appear stupid, no,” Lo said, agreeing. “But I’d be willing to bet you didn’t pay very close attention in school, and taking time off before you took your Aptitudes certainly didn’t help either.”

  Okay, that sounded exactly like something mom would say. And like with mom, I really didn’t want to have that discussion right now. “Fine, whatever,” I said, and pointed at the wall. “So now I pick from these jobs?”

  “Not yet,” Lo said. “Because now I have to plug in the results from your second day of testing: the evaluator’s reviews of your attitude and psychological fitness. The good news here is that a good score can put back on the board some of the jobs that you might have lost before. There are a lot of jobs that the city feels a motivated worker could do even if they don’t have the academic Aptitude test scores.”

  “Okay, good,” I said. I felt slightly encouraged by that; I think I’m a pretty personable guy.

  “Here we go,” Lo said, and tapped her tablet again.

  All but three jobs disappeared from the board.

  “Oh, come on!” I yelled. “That can’t be right!”

  “Apparently it is,” Lo said. She gave her tablet to me. I took it and looked at it. “You scored even lower on the evaluator’s reports than you did on the academic testing. It says there that you struck them as arrogant, bored, and defensive. One of them actually called you ‘a bit of an asshole.’”

  I looked up from the tablet for that one, appalled at what I was hearing. “You can’t say that on an official report,” I said.

  “They can say whatever they want,” Lo said. “They’re trained to evaluate everyone’s fitness as an employee and they’re required by law to write their honest impressions. If one of them called you a bit of an asshole, it’s because that’s what you are. Or at least what you come across as.”

  “I’m not an asshole,” I said, thrusting the tablet back at Lo.

  Lo shrugged. “You came in here with some attitude, didn’t you?” she said, taking the tablet. “That ‘joke’ about the monitor and your mom, for example.”

  “I really did mean it as a joke,” I said.

  “Maybe you did,” Lo said. “But it comes off like you’re just dropping your mom’s name to hint to me that you should be given a cushy job. Whether you mean it that way or not, that’s how you present. And it is more than a little annoying. I can believe you came across as an asshole in your testing. And I can believe you probably weren’t even aware of it at the time.”

  “Can we talk about something else, please?” I said. This was not a good day so far. “Like what jobs are available?”

  “Okay,” Lo said. She tapped her tablet. The three tiny squares remaining on the wall disappeared, replaced by three very large job listings.

  “The general feeling about you is that you’re best off not working a job that requires any interaction with the public, or that requires a great deal of technical competence,” Lo said. “So basically we’re talking some form of back-end job with a heavy physical component. And among those types of jobs we have three openings: Assistant Greensperson at park tower number six, Composting Engineer, trainee level, at the East End waste transformation plant, and Biological Systems Interface Manger at the Arnold Tower.”

  “‘Composting Engineer”?” I said, leaning forward in my seat.

  “That’s what it says,” Lo said. “It’s a polite way of saying you’ll be shoveling shit. Although as I’m sure you remember from your studies, there’s more to industrial scale composting than just shit.”

  “I’m not doing that,” I said, recoiling a bit.

  “Well, you have to do something,” Lo said. “If you hit your twentieth without a job, you lose your citizenship, and not even your mom will be able to help you then.”

  I was beginning to get annoyed at her bringing up mom all the time. “‘Assistant Greensperson’ doesn’t sound so bad,” I said.

  “That would be my choice,” Lo said. “The park towers are nice. I go to the one down the street here on my lunch break sometimes. The greens keepers are always tending to the trees and flower and bees. It’s physical work, but at least you’ll be in pretty surroundings. And remember, this is only a first job. If it’s not to your liking, you can always get more training and education, and try for a different sort of job. The important thing is you have a job.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll take that one.”

  “Good,” Lo said. We both looked up at the listing.

  It disappeared.

  “Whoops,” Lo said.

  “‘Whoops?’” I said. “What ‘whoops?’”

  Lo accessed her tablet. “Looks like someone else just took the job. It’s gone.”

  “That’s totally not fair,” I said.

  “Other people are having their assignment sessions just like you are,” Lo said. “If you had taken the job first, someone else would be saying ‘no fair’ right now. So now we’re down to two jobs: Composting Engineer, trainee level, and Biological Systems Interface Manager. Pick one. I’d suggest you pick quickly.”

  I looked up at the wall and my two remaining choices. Composting Engineer just sounded vile; I wanted no part of it. I had no idea what “Biological Systems Interface Management” meant, but, you know, if it was management, that probably meant a good chance that I wouldn’t be hunched over with a shovel or tiller in my hard, aerating solid waste and food scraps.

  “Mr. Washington,” Lo said.

  Oh, who cares anyway, I thought. I’ll talk to mom about this and get it all sorted out. Because while mom was a hardass about me taking a job, I was willing to bet there was almost no chance that Josephine Washington, execut
ive council member, would let her only son spend any significant amount of time doing menial labor. She expected better of me, and I thought she’d help me live up to her expectations.

  “Biological Systems Interface Manager,” I said.

  Lo smiled. “Excellent choice,” she said, tapping her tablet and securing the job. “I think you’ll be perfect for it.”

  “What is the job?” I asked.

  She told me, and then laughed when she saw the expression on my face.

  “So, let’s recap,” mom said to me at dinner. I’d explained my situation without quite telling her the job that I’d gotten. “You want me, a member of New St. Louis’ executive board, a highly visible public servant, to pull strings for you so you can get a better job than the one you’re qualified for.”

  “Come on, mom,” I said. “You know I’m qualified for lots of jobs.”

  “Do I?” mom said. “I know you didn’t read your Aptitude scores when they came in, Benji, but I did. I know what you got. I know you spent most of your education screwing off and screwing up because you didn’t think any of it mattered. I told you to do better, but you were happy just to do well enough.”

  Oh, God, I thought. Here we go again.

  “Look, mom,” said Syndee. “Benji’s got his ‘I’m not listening anymore’ face on.”

  “Shut up, Syndee,” I said.

  “Well, you do,” Syndee said.

  “Kiss ass,” I said. She was sixteen and a model student, and a little too smug about it for my taste.

  “Benjamin,” mom said.

  “Sorry,” I said, shooting a look at Syndee. “And anyway, mom, I’m listening to you. Really.”

  “Good,” mom said. “Then you’ll hear me fine this time: I’m not going to lift a finger to get you another job.”

  “Why not?” I said. It came out more of a whine than I would have preferred.

  “First off, because the last thing I need right now is for the news blogs to be talking about how I used my influence to get my son a job. Honestly, now, Benji. You think people wouldn’t notice? This isn’t like me asking the school to switch your class schedule around, and you remember how much crap I got for that.”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “Or maybe you don’t,” mom said.

  “I do,” Syndee said.

  “Hush, Syndee,” mom said. “That was bad enough. Actually yanking you out of the assignments queue and handing you a job you don’t qualify for is the sort of thing that will get me kicked off the executive board. It’s an election year, Benji, and I’ve already got a fight on my hand because I’m for technology outreach. You know how many New Louies hate that idea.”

  “I don’t like it either,” I said. “Technology Outreach” was a plan for NSL to help the people in The Wilds by offering them some of the city’s technology and support. It amounted to basically helping a bunch of people who had intentionally gone out of their way to fail in creating a sustainable civilization. “I think it’s a dumb idea.”

  “Of course you do,” mom said, acidly. “You don’t want us to share technology with the folks in The Wilds because then we wouldn’t have something over them. And then you wouldn’t be a precious little snowflake, like all the other smug precious little snowflakes in here. Keeping technology bottled up isn’t why New St. Louis was founded. Quite the opposite, in fact. And these days it’s more important than ever. Cascadopolis had the right idea: Develop useful technology, send it out into the world.”

  “Look where it got Cascadopolis,” I said. “It doesn’t even exist anymore.”

  “You spent too much time with those idiot cousins of yours in the Portland Arcology,” Mrs. Washington said.

  “Whatever, mom,” I said. My cousins weren’t idiots, even if they were snobbish enough that even I noticed it. “I just don’t see what it has to do with you helping me.”

  “That’s my point,” mom said. “You don’t appreciate what the consequences of my ‘helping’ you like that would be. All you know is that you don’t want the job you’ve been assigned. What job have you been assigned anyway?” Mrs. Washington reached for her iced tea.

  I shrugged. No point keeping it from her now. “Biological Systems Interface Manager at Arnold Tower,” he said.

  Mom choked on her tea.

  “Mom, tea just came out your nose,” Syndee said.

  “I’m fine, baby,” mom said, and reached down into her lap for her napkin.

  “See,” I said, accusingly. “Now you know why I want another job.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the job,” Mom said.

  “You just spit tea everywhere when I told you what it was,” I said.

  “I was just a little surprised, is all,” mom said.

  “Come on, mom,” I said. “There’s got to be something else out there. Something better than this,” I said.

  “The job is fine,” mom said, and pounded her chest to get the remaining tea out of her lungs. “In fact, I think the job will be great for you.”

  “Well, great,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Just what I need. A learning experience.”

  “That’s right,” mom said. “You do need a learning experience. To get back to the list of reasons why I won’t help you change your job, the second reason is that you need to understand the consequences of your choices, Benji,” Mom said. She dropped her napkin back into her lap. “Somewhere along the way you decided that you didn’t need to work all that hard for things, because you figured that I would always be there to bail you out, and that my stature would help you get the things you wanted.”

  “That’s not true at all,” I said.

  “Please, Benji,” mom said. “I know you like to think it’s not true, but you need to be honest with yourself. Think back on all the times you’ve asked for my help. Think back on all the times you’ve given just a little less effort to things because you knew I could back you up or put in a good word for you. If you’re honest about it, you’ll recognize you’ve relied on me a lot.”

  I opened my mouth to complain and then flashed back to Will in the pod, telling me how “happy” he was that I wasn’t going to rely on my mom to get me through things. I shut my mouth and stared down at the table.

  “It’s not all your fault,” mom said, gently. “I’ve been always telling you to do things for yourself, but when it came down to it, I let you slide and I bailed you out of a lot of things. But that has to change. You’re an adult now, Benji. You need to be responsible for your actions. And now you’re learning that the actions and choices you made before make a difference in your life now. I kept telling you about this, and you kept not listening to me. Well, now you have to deal with it, so deal with it.”

  “You could have told me a little harder,” I said, and poked at my dinner.

  Mom sighed. “Benji, sweetheart, I told you almost every single day of your life. And you did that smile and nod thing you do when you decide you’re hearing something that doesn’t apply to you. You can’t tell someone something if they don’t want to listen.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Look, mom,” Syndee said. “He’s got that face on again.”

  On the way to the Arnold Tower the next day, to start the first job of the rest of my life, I saw what looked like a protest at one of the entrance gates to New St. Louis.

  “Do you know what that’s about?” I asked my podmate, an older man.

  He looked over at the protest as we glided by and then shrugged. “Some of the folks in The Wilds have been demanding we help them out with their food crisis,” he said.

  “There’s a food crisis?” I asked.

  The guy looked over to me. “It’s been in the news lately,” he said, pointedly.

  “You got me,” I said. “I haven’t been watching the news.”

  The guy motioned out toward where the protest had been. “The drought is bad this year. Worse than usual. Outside of The Cities, there’s been a run on staples and prices are up. Someone’
s been telling the folks in The Wild that we’ve got food surpluses, and technology to increase food yields, which is how we got the surpluses. So we get protests every morning.”

  “Do we have food surpluses?” I asked.

  “No idea,” the man said, and went back to his reading. I looked back in the direction of where I saw the protest and wondered what it was the protesters were doing—or not doing—that they could take time out of their work schedules to protest on a daily basis. About two seconds after that, I recognized the irony of me, who was going to his first job more than a year after most of my class had gotten their first jobs, wondering how other people could be slackers.

  A minute later I was at the Arnold Tower. I walked over to the receptionist.

  “Benjamin Washingon,” I said. “I’m here to start work.”

  The receptionist eyed me up and down. “Oh, honey,” she said. “You shouldn’t have worn good clothes.” She shooed me away to sit down and picked up her phone. Shortly thereafter a door opened and a very dirty man came out of it. He looked around until he saw me.

  “You Washington?” He said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Come on, then,” he said. I got up and followed him. He smelled terrible.

  “Nicols,” he said as we walked down the corridor, by way of introduction. He glanced at my clothes. “Tomorrow you should probably dress more casual,” he said.

  “I thought we might have uniforms,” I said, nodding at Nicols’ blue uniform. I was trying to keep my distance from Nicols. He was beginning to make me gag.

  “We have coveralls,” he said, “but the smell still gets into everything. You don’t want to be wearing anything nice around here.” He glanced down. “You’ll probably want to get boots, too.”

  “Boots, casual clothes, got it,” I said. We approached a pair of doors. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Nichols said. “Noseplugs.”

  He opened the doors and a wave of stink rolled over me and I very nearly threw up my breakfast. Instead of retching, I looked out into the vast room to doors opened on to. There were pigs on almost every square inch of it. Pigs eating. Pigs sleeping. Pigs milling about. Pigs farting. Pigs pooping. Pigs generally making astounding amounts of stink.