Dollar For Your Thoughts, Part 1/14

            The following story documents everything pertinent to my situation. It may be lengthy, but I feel that every detail is important.

            On the morning that it all began, I was called into Imno regional headquarters on a special case. That’s what I do. You see, I specialize, and I am always mobile. In fact, I am the most mobile resident in my conglomerate region. A captain called me in on this particular case. A man who seemed otherwise stable and lucid had neglected to join the Value Club during the enrollment period.

            When I arrived, the captain took me aside and showed me the man’s latest effort. He had made an attempt to register at the silver level. A sharp-eyed cleric had spotted the discrepancy between the man’s name and the consumer level that the man declared. The man should have selected the gold level. Already, he was in deep trouble. The captain was hopeful that I would simply allow a declaration of state, but this perpetrator seemed to have his wits about him. I wouldn’t let the man get off that easy. I am better than that. That’s not what Imno, our fine corporate nation is about. So, I was determined to both keep the man out of any institution, and in the proper consumer grade. I entered the cell, was introduced by the captain, and began.

            “Membership in the Imno Value Club is not required, although opting out results in the denial of many benefits…”

            “They’ve told me all that,” the man said, jerking his head toward the captain. “And I’ve been getting the mailings. Hundreds of them. I put that on the bottom of the form…”

            “How did you get that in there?” The captain shouted.

            “I have to finish,” I said, interrupting them both. The man sighed an exasperated sigh, and said that he knew. What he knew was that he was beaten, but he still didn’t quite know what he had lost. That was up to me. What I knew was that it hadn’t been necessary to take this man from his shift at soy milk routing. The precinct was sloppy. I continued.

            “There may be a total denial of services. Enrollment at the level commensurate to your position as worker and consumer insures proper distribution of products and services throughout the conglomerate region.”

            “Copyright 2127, Imno Glom,” he responded.

            “Huh?”

            “You didn’t finish. That’s how the statement ends.”

            I looked to the captain and he executed the required eye-roll. We had to get a bit rougher.

            “So, to insure the proper distribution of goods…”

            “There aren’t many.”

            The captain shouted- “Shut up!”

            “…in the future, I kindly request…” I approached the table… “that you register at the gold level on this hard-copy form.”

            I smiled.

            “And it will be the last form you see.”

            “But Imno doesn’t have consumer goods.”

            “What,” the captain barked. “you spend all day routing nothing?”

            The man shrugged.

            I took the walkabout gambit, like some professor, around the cell, as I issued my rebuttal.

            “We can argue about the current scope of goods later, and no, I’m not saying that when you sign, a living room suite and TV will magically appear. But there is a myriad of consumer product prototypes, I assure you. This is simply a declaration of intent.”

            “I have simple tastes, Major LaVon, and I believe I’ll always be that way.”

            “You shouldn’t even be able to downgrade!” The captain shouted. “The system was supposed to be foolproof!”

            “You don’t have simple tastes,” I told the perpetrator, “you have gold tastes. Don’t fool yourself.”

            “Well, some of my tastes aren’t so simple.”

            I saw what I thought was a breach. What’s sad is that this guy was the perfect example of gold. Of course, not platinum, like myself, but a candidate for it, to be sure. He was sharp and able. His records showed that he routed soy milk well. This guy was just happy to stay at a certain level. I’d seen his type before, and it takes all kinds. I wouldn’t say such things out loud, though. All of those at my level have such felonious thoughts from time to time. We’re trained to keep it to ourselves.           

            “Well,” I asked him, “To what tastes do you aspire? Name them. It’s your right.”

            He hesitated.

            “It’s your duty,” I told him.

            He grinned.

            “I’d like a turkey breast, please.”

            “HAWW!” The captain shouted and spun about, sharing his dismay with the interrogation crew, cell décor, even the walls themselves. You see, Imno West Region has millions of live turkeys, but cuts don’t transport well. There were turkey breasts to be had, but for platinum level and above. The captain seemed ready to take the initiative and ship this generic level wannabe off to wherever bad. I went to him and whispered:

            “Watch and learn.”

            Then, to the table and the perp.

            “Ground turkey is easier to transport at this developmental phase. You should know that fact yourself, working the soy milk pipeline. Of course, I wouldn’t choose a bucket of beans over two liters of soy milk...”

            “Apples and oranges,” he told me readily.

            “Yeah. We’ll get to those later.” I got a smile from him. “But that’s the phase we’re in. Together. Yeah.” I nodded. “But roasted soynuts, for example, are easier to transport than turkey, and are a good food source.”

            He grinned and nodded.

            “Well, there you are!” I proposed. “Tell them that. You’re in position. They’ll promote you to platinum, and you’ll have Turkey Kiev.”

            He responded by putting his head on the table and chuckling.

            “You do your duty- and consume to potential,” I instructed him, although he’d heard it enough in high school. “At platinum, the upgrade to diamond’s optional. You won’t be dragged back in here.” I slid the hard copy form squarely, but discreetly before him, then left the bait there and walkedabout.

            “Platinum,” I told him, “is the most eccentric demographic. So much is forgiven. Supply and demand.”

            He grinned tired and wistful. I had him. I don’t take all the credit, though. The captain had softened him up.

            “I’m platinum,” I told the perp. “I have nearly all of the prototypes. I have the Intellitoaster. Toasts a bagel and tells you what glom produces the most selenium. I have a satellite screen with interglom access programming and an Imno coupe.

            He tilted his head at that. I nodded toward the tiny window in the cell.

            “Out there in the street.”

            “The world shrunk quite a while ago,” he told me. “But that doesn’t mean that we have to hide beneath a pile of regional prototypes, waiting for it to grow again.”

            “Haw!” the captain guffawed impressed. “See? He’s babbling again.”

            I turned to the recorder in a dark corner.       

            “Strike that.”

            And the recorder was just perfect. He waited for the captain to nod to him, and he pretended to press a few buttons.

            “And this,” I told him. I leaned close to the perp.

            “I hear you.”

            The guy shrugged again. I asked him:

            “If you and Imno weren’t one and the same, though, would you be attracted to the gold level products?”

            He gave his head a little shake.

            “Wait,” I told him. “With my assurance that they do exist, and will be available to the public within a year.”

           He sighed and admitted that he would want some of what he had seen. I asked him why he hadn’t said so sooner, modified the form and placed it back within his reach. The reporter tapped rapidly and the man knew what to do, initialing and signing. I welcomed him to the club, and the captain uncuffed him from the table. The consumer stood, rubbed his wrists, and, funny, asked the captain if my Imno 400 could really be seen from the window. I was heading for the door, away from that stink, making a mental note to tell my portable digital assistant to keep an eye on that man. He would go up, or he would go down.

            When I got out to the street, I looked up to the window, and there he was, slobbering over my champagne Imno 400 (sport). There was another face beside his, the captain’s, I guess. As proud as the internee was, he sure looked stupid right then. He was a consumer despite himself. I disagree with these draconian edicts, which I have to enforce, that coerce consumers in ways such as this. If that guy wants to shun the herd and live in a yurt in Aledo, that should be his business.

            His job was a challenge, that captain back in the center. I know that because interrogation used to be part of my job. Now they just bring me in on the tough cases- the recalcitrant shoppers. My presence and my role in the mix helps, as does my appearance in the field, among the normal consumers. Of course, we all have normal impulses, even that tightwad holdout. I could still see him at the window, out of the corner of my eye, with the captain alongside, less impressed. I slipped into my Imno 400.

            With a champagne exterior, push-button gravitronic sound system and personal assistant (optional). Problem was, the warranty didn’t cover options. The assistant already had problems. She was a pre-owned Tenger chip that we had bought in bulk in one of our first Interglom exchanges with that glom neighbor to the north. So, it’s not that she was a lemon, she was just 100 years old. But we are now in a period that calls for a change of thinking. Going from the distribution of imported products to actually designing and making them.

            My Imno 400 Sport (with cosmetic spoiler) was the seventh off the line, and still had that pleasing interior scent. Now I had to use it to rush to my end of week audit. I had to account for my week.

            What is it that I do? To have this Imno 400, my pride and joy? I troubleshoot on my own recognizance, or go out on assignment to insure that the Glom mission statement is adhered to properly. This week, my mission was to pass word along that we weren’t taking ‘advantage of a chance’, but ‘seizing on an opportunity’ to present goods and services in a positive light. This was reflected in my actions at the jail, for example. I wear a major’s cluster on my lapel. Granted, I’m only an economic enforcement major, but it’s something. I also wear the necessary laminated identification badge on a lanyard, with the Imno logo prominently displayed; one that is recognized around the world. It’s a sledgehammer, which I think is a bit much, but my opinion counts less. A ball-peen would serve the purpose better.

            As I drove to the audit, I read a memo into my personal assistant, but received only an acknowledgement from her. Then I coaxed her along, taking her through information routing actions, and she succeeded in telling me the time. This was on 6^th avenue, rolling through the college grounds.

            The main thing about untangling cords is that if you had no part in the tangling, it can be a pain in the ass when you’re the one called upon to untangle it. But I worked quickly, finding one end as I raised the rest from the table on which it lay. That’s the way you find the knots. I worked one end through a few tangles then found the other end and laid it roughly aside from the wad of cord, and just when I was halfway through, I felt a thump. My chest was against the steering wheel.

            Me and my precious Imno 400 (LE) were up on the curb, against a no parking sign which now was leaning forty degrees. I realized that I should have paid more attention to driving and less to untangling that cursed cord. Then I understood that the cord had been imaginary and that I’d had some sort of syncope- some sort of seizure.

            “Are you alright?”

            The expression of the young woman on the sidewalk didn’t match the inquiry, but it wasn’t her asking, it was my personal assistant. The woman out there was speechless, with a bookbag over her shoulder and wavy hair mushed beneath a small grey-lavender knit cap. She didn’t know what to say. As if she were afraid of blurting out the wrong answer. My personal assistant asked again if I was alright. I was. My Imno 400 had gotten the worst of it.

            Replacement of right front tire: $700

            Wheel rim: 200

            Front fender replacement: 500

            Alignment: 70