1
Civilization
"Corporation, noun: An ingenious device for obtaining individual profit without individual responsibility." Ambrose Bierce
Casual conversation, fused with the soft aroma of food, drifted throughout the restaurant. Echoes of an enduring and lively civilization filled the floor. Conversations and carefree laughter clashed and intertwined midair: the voices of the mothers and fathers pleased with and at ease with life, and the giggling of children too young to have any worries. A calm and familiar song played for all the customers of the restaurant, a song neither too boring to lull the people asleep nor too raunchy that may fall under the category of offensive. Within the confines of the orange-lit room, nothing in life could be better.
Customers lined up to place their orders. For some it was simple: a burger, some fries, and a soda. For others, not quite so: four, no, six, no, eight burgers, two medium fries, four small sodas. Damn, a dollar short. Make that just two small fries, then. And then they would be irritated anytime they were politely asked to repeat their confusing order. Then there were those with special needs: no onions, please—and a please was rare—hold the tomatoes or no lettuce were common as well.
Taking the orders were those wishing they could be elsewhere, all wishing they could have it better. The high schooler, the least experienced of the bunch, was always assigned with the cleaning tasks so that he would never be in the position to spit into the burgers or pocket a few dollars in the collective blind spot of the cameras. The college students, all in need of four years' work experience before being eligible for an entry level position, dealt with the loud, hungry crowd. The college graduates were here only because nowhere else would pay. They were the most skilled of the unskilled: they knew at which precise temperatures and at which exact angle to handle the meat. All employed to do menial tasks for meager earnings, and at the mercy of the dollar, they were locked in place for the foreseeable future.
But they deserved their earnings because they were unskilled, and this was the best way to get started. And they were employed by good, kind people, with worthy, noble intentions. They ought to be grateful for this opportunity and for this income, it was the same job and pay their grandparents had. Besides, business was booming this quarter, with profits on the rise and labor aplenty. Never worry about the lack of labor: should we be in need of any, simply hire the next schmuck to enter the doors. You want a job? You need a job? Come one, come all, anyone can do this work, welcome aboard. It is important to always have a crew expendable.
No…necessary.
No…crucial.
No…vital.
It is vital to always have a crew expendable.
All those struggling to make it by need to figure things out on their own: their struggles are their own fault, no one else's. Don't come crying to us for a raise. We're in the business of serving food and making profits, not providing living wages. Don't be so selfish. Think of the company's wellbeing. Don't like it? Door's right there. Next!
The men and women behind the counter scurry about, performing their mind-numbing jobs to the laziest of their ability. The clock was the only thing keeping them sane, and each time they peered in its direction, they would be absolutely certain that each second had passed by twice as quickly as the one prior. Only three hours left until there's only one hour left before the half-hour left before my designated five-minute break, then just another hour before the last hour of the work day. All the while orders flooded in. The faces of the cashiers were bombarded with dialects and accents and teenagers and coins and profanity. The food was prepared and served and taken without so much as a thank you muttered in return.
But it was payday and they would finally reap the minimal fruits of their labor. The workers received a blue card with all of their earnings in it. Using the card would result in a fee. A fee each time they would check their remaining balance, each time they would withdraw funds, a fee for transferring funds from the card to any other account. But it was worthwhile because it saved the company paperwork and signatures and time and money and thus, in the long run, brought in more profit. It was a good move, an intelligent business decision, made by the intelligent, wealthy, educated men running the company who are never to be doubted.
Those who were done for the day walked out the doors of the restaurant and saw their evening counterparts entering to complete the work yet to be done. And evermore the cycle continued.
Exiting the doors onto the packed and busy streets, the workers dispersed and became part of the crowd. Upon steel pillars and platforms, metallic trains came to screeching halts. On the roads, vehicles of all sizes and of all purposes sped about in all directions as pedestrians flowed around them like water. A unifying song, a song without rhythm or melody, emanated from the drivers who honked their horns every chance they got. Every few blocks the city's anthem of emergency sirens reverberated across the streets and most people stopped in place and looked both ways before crossing at the red light.
People on the sidewalks were of all ages and creeds and dreams, but the things they most valued were not theirs. All cars on the street, and all that education they had earned, and all the homes in which they lived, still had to be paid off. All the vehicles parked at every street, all the local businesses who advertised their services on billboards and public transportation, all was debt. And best not let anything default else our education go out of business, else our public transportation no longer drive in profits, else our hospitals bleed negative income.
And of course the banks would be closing at precisely the same time the standard work day came to a close. The hours of operation were somehow always set to inconvenience those who worked steady jobs for questionable pay.
And of course, whenever it just so happened to be rush hour, the homeless would just so happen to be camped out in front of the restaurants and the bus stops and the subway stations and the jewelry stores and the bakeries and the markets.
Of course.
They would shake their cups so that their coins would ring, and please, they would plead, and God bless you, would say the more patriotic ones, and evermore until no one watched. Meanwhile the world walked on without even the slightest of a damn. But they only ignored the homeless because every penny donated meant another penny shy for food or water or rent, and another penny closer to end up like them.
As the employed made their way home, they would bear witness to the state of their crumbling neighborhoods. Countless streets housed entire apartment buildings boarded off with blue plywood and overgrown in foliage. Homes were colored of Rooms for Rent, and shaded of Price Reduced, and tinged of For Sale By Owner.
The evicted and derelict homes became canvases for graffiti artists, and had become plots of land solely for the purpose of garbage disposal. Three, four, five homes per block.
Outside the homes, parked cars read 4/S with ten digit numbers posted underneath. Six, seven, eight cars per block.
They closed the door behind themselves, the cold air faded away, and finally they were home, safe, and all the troubles of the world seemed to dissipate.