“Even if we can do that, I would still recommend cuts wherever possible.”
“I agree, but we can’t cut anyone who contributes to revenue. We can delay scheduled renovations. We can cut from the maintenance division, public relations, and marketing.”
Ramesh winced and ran his hand over his thinning hair. He looked like he was about to pull out the rest of his hair by the roots. “Renovations are already way overdue, which adds pressure to maintenance, which is another big problem. We are dangerously behind on repairs and scheduled maintenance. Nearly half of our air-conditioning systems were out for at least a week this past summer. Don’t forget. We had three deaths attributed to heat stroke. These people were all old and in poor health, but it was a PR nightmare.”
“I know,” Jacob said, nodding. “We’ll find the funding. I have a meeting scheduled with Zhang Jun.”
Ramesh wagged his head. “Congress may not let us borrow from the Chinese, especially if the Chinese want equity interest, which I can guarantee they will.”
“Congress will either let us borrow, or maybe this’ll encourage them to increase our federal funding.”
11
Summer’s Hope-for-the-Best Baby
Summer’s autonomous vehicle dropped them off in front of a twelve-story concrete apartment building. The concrete was a drab off-white, giving the impression that the building needed a bath. It was low-income subsidized housing. Summer and Connor entered the lobby. Two old men played chess at a table. No screens, no holograms. Just a chessboard with wooden pieces. Summer and Connor approached the reception area, where a young man tapped on his phone behind the desk. They stood in front of the man for a few seconds, but his eyes were still buried in his tiny screen.
“We’re here to see Patrick Fitzgerald,” Connor said.
The young man looked up. “So?”
“Do we need to sign in?” Summer asked. “We signed in last time.”
“You gonna steal somethin’, break somethin’, or hurt somebody?”
“No.”
“Whatcha want then? A red carpet?” He went back to his phone.
Summer and Connor approached the elevator bank. A sign was attached to both elevators that read OUT OF ORDER. They entered the stairwell, immediately confronted with a strong urine smell.
“I don’t know how your dad can live here,” Connor said, as they climbed the stairs.
“He says it’s cheap,” Summer replied.
“You mean, he can afford to live somewhere else?”
“I don’t know. He’s never asked me for money. I know he does some freelance computer programming, but I don’t know how steady that is.”
They exited the stairwell on the seventh floor. Summer knocked on apartment number 708.
Patrick answered with a big grin. “Come in,” he said, motioning with his hand. He hugged Summer as she entered the apartment. “How are you?” Patrick asked, as they disengaged.
“I’m good.” Summer said the words, but her inflexion told a different story.
Patrick narrowed his gray eyes. “You sure about that?”
“Of course,” Summer replied with faux pep.
Patrick shook Connor’s hand. “What’s new, Connor?”
“Not much,” Connor replied.
The smell of garlic and onion wafted into their nostrils. The one-bedroom apartment would’ve felt cramped, but Patrick was a devout minimalist. Only the bare necessities. He had a couch but no television, which wasn’t out of the ordinary as many people streamed their entertainment in VR or on their personal devices. Apart from the couch, Patrick had a single bed and a dresser in his bedroom and a small table in the kitchen. The walls were eggshell white and empty. He could pack his place and leave in under an hour.
Patrick led them toward the kitchen and gestured to the square table for four. “Have a seat. We’re almost ready.”
Summer and Connor sat at the table.
Patrick checked the pot on the stove top, stirring the contents. “This is one of your mother’s recipes. Beef and Irish Stout stew. Well, she didn’t exactly make it up, but she used to cook it all the time.”
“You didn’t have to,” Summer replied. “Beef is so expensive.”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Patrick flashed a grin toward Summer.
Patrick was in his mid-fifties, average height, thin, and in good shape—once a college track athlete, like Summer. His brown hair was mixed with gray, his face clean-shaven and narrow.
Patrick served the stew with a piece of garlic bread. They sat around the table, enjoying their stew.
Halfway through the meal, Patrick glanced at Summer’s engagement ring, then looked at the couple. “So, you two have a wedding date yet?”
Summer frowned at her father. “We haven’t been engaged that long.”
“I’m not gonna be around forever. I’d like to walk you down the aisle, and I’d like to see some grandchildren before I’m sent to Valhalla.”
Connor looked away at the mention of grandchildren.
Patrick stared at Connor but addressed them both. “You two do want kids, right?”
Connor swallowed his food. “Uh, yes. It’s just we’re still young and not financially secure, especially if we want a designer baby.” He glanced at Summer. “Sorry, enhanced baby.”
“You don’t need a designer baby. You’re both smart, good people. You already have good genes.”
“We still have plenty of time.”
Patrick nodded, then looked to Summer. “Don’t wait too long. You’re no spring chicken anymore.”
Summer glared at her father. “Dad. I’m thirty.”
“Exactly.”
Summer raised her hand. “I vote for a subject change.”
“So, Patrick, what do you think of Naomi Sutton?” Connor asked, also desperate to change the subject. “I heard she might run for President in 2052.”
“She’s dangerous.” Patrick took a bite of his stew.
“Really? You mean, to the establishment?”
Patrick swallowed and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Her ideology is dangerous because it’s exactly what people wanna hear. But she won’t fix things because, no matter how well-intentioned, more government control never leads to more prosperity.”
“Maybe we need someone like her to shake things up?”
“Maybe we have to see the horror of totalitarianism firsthand to get it through our thick heads.”
“She doesn’t want totalitarianism. She just wants the wealthy to pay their fair share. I’ve seen her talk about the banking system and the Federal Reserve. I think she would actually end the Fed. Imagine how much more money we’d have if we weren’t perpetually in debt to the Fed and the member banks.”
“Let’s assume she does run for president, and she wins, and she does abolish the Fed. Then what? You think she lets us use whatever form of money we want? Or does the treasury control the monopoly on money, money that they can debase and create from thin air as they see fit?” Patrick leaned back in his chair. “We end up in the same place. We just took a different path to monetary slavery.”
On the way home, Summer was quiet, looking out the window as her autonomous Hyundai drove toward Arlington.
“We’re hosting another Resistance meeting next Tuesday night,” Connor said.
Summer turned from the window to Connor, who sat next to her on the rear bench seat.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything.”
“That’s fine,” Summer replied, her voice barely audible, her eyes hooded.
“You okay?”
“Just tired. I have a long day tomorrow. As much as I love my dad, I really didn’t have the energy to visit tonight.”