Max Barry - Jennifer Government

JENNIFER GOVERNMENT

by MAX BARRY (2003)

[VERSION 1.1 (Mar 22 04). If you find and correct errors in the text, please update the

version number by 0.1 and redistribute.]

For Charles Thiesen

Who really, really wanted me to call it "Capitalizm"

With money we will get men, Caesar said, and with men we will get money.

--Thomas Jefferson, 1784

...a wise and frugal government, which shall restrain men from injuring one another, which

shall leave them otherwise free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and

shall not take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned. This is the sum of good

government. --Thomas Jefferson, 1801

Author's note

There are a lot of real company names and trademarks in this book, most in situations you are unlikely

to see on the covers of any annual reports. That's because this is a novel, and the things that happen in it

aren't true. This may seem obvious enough to you, but some people (whom we shall call "lawyers") get

very uptight when you describe large corporations masterminding murders. So let's be clear: this is a

work of fiction. The actions depicted are not real nor based on real events. Any resemblance to actual

people is coincidental. And the use of real company and product names is for literary effect only and

definitely without permission.

PART ONE

1 Nike

Hack first heard about Jennifer Government at the water-cooler. He was only there because the one

on his floor was out; Legal was going to come down on Nature's Springs like a ton of shit, you could bet

on that. Hack was a Merchandise Distribution Officer. This meant when Nike made up a bunch of

posters, or caps, or beach towels, Hack had to send them to the right place. Also, if someone called up

complaining about missing posters, or caps, or beach towels, Hack had to take the call. It wasn't as

exciting as it used to be.

"It's a calamity," a man at the watercooler said. "Four days away from launch and Jennifer

Government's all over my ass."

"Jee-sus," his companion said. "That's gotta suck."

"It means we have to move fast." He looked at Hack, who was filling his cup. "Hi there."

Hack looked up. They were smiling at him as if he was an equal -- but of course, Hack was on the

wrong floor. They didn't know he was just a Merc Officer. "Hi."

"Haven't seen you around before," the calamity guy said. "You new?"

"No. I work in Merc."

"Oh." His nose wrinkled.

"Our cooler's out," Hack said. He turned away quickly.

"Hey, wait up," the suit said. "You ever do any marketing work?"

"Uh," he said, not sure if this was a joke. "No."

The suits looked at each other. The calamity guy shrugged. Then they stuck out their hands. "I'm

John Nike, Guerrilla Marketing Operative, New Products."

"And I'm John Nike, Guerrilla Marketing Vice-President, New Products," the other suit said.

"Hack Nike," Hack said, shaking.

"Hack, I'm empowered to make midrange labor-contracting decisions," Vice-President John said.

"You interested in some work?"

"Some..." He felt his throat thicken. "Marketing work?"

"On a case-by-case basis, of course," the other John said.

Hack started to cry.

"There," a John said, handing him a handkerchief. "You feel better?"

Hack nodded, shamed. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't worry about it," Vice-President John said. "Career change can be very stressful. I read

that somewhere."

"Here's the paperwork." The other John handed him a pen and a sheaf of papers. The first page said

CONTRACT TO PERFORM SERVICE, and the others were in type too small to read.

Hack hesitated. "You want me to sign this now?"

"It's nothing to worry about. Just the usual noncompetes and nondisclosure agreements."

"Yeah, but..." Companies were getting a lot tougher on labor contracts these days; Hack had heard

stories. At Adidas, if you quit your job and your replacement wasn't as competent, they sued you for lost

profits.

"Hack, we need someone who can make snap decisions. A fast mover."

"Someone who can get things done. With a minimum of fucking around."

"If that's not your style, well... let's forget we spoke. No harm done. You stick to Merchandising."

Vice-President John reached for the contract.

"I can sign it now," Hack said, tightening his grip.

"It's totally up to you," the other John said. He took the chair beside Hack, crossed his legs, and

rested his hands at the juncture, smiling. Both Johns had good smiles, Hack noticed. He guessed

everyone in marketing did. They had pretty similar faces, too. "Just at the bottom there."

Hack signed.

"Also there," the other John said. "And on the next page... and one there. And there."

"Glad to have you on board, Hack." Vice-President John took the contract, opened a drawer, and

dropped it inside. "Now. What do you know about Nike Mercurys?"

Hack blinked. "They're our latest product. I haven't actually seen a pair, but... I heard they're great."

The Johns smiled. "We started selling Mercurys six months ago. You know how many pairs we've

shifted since then?"

Hack shook his head. They cost thousands of dollars a pair, but that wouldn't stop people from

buying them. They were the hottest sneakers in the world. "A million?"

"Two hundred."

"Two hundred million?"

"No. Two hundred pairs."

"John here," the other John said, "pioneered the concept of marketing by refusing to sell any products.

It drives the market insane."

"And now it's time to cash in. On Friday we're gonna dump four hundred thousand pairs on the

market at two and a half grand each."

"Which, since they cost us -- what was it?"

"Eighty-five."

"Since they cost us eighty-five cents to manufacture, gives us a gross margin of around one billion

dollars." He looked at Vice-President John. "It's a brilliant campaign."

"It's really just common sense," John said. "But here's the thing, Hack: if people realize every mall in

the country's got Mercurys, we'll lose all that prestige we've worked so hard to build. Am I right?"

"Yeah." Hack hoped he sounded confident. He didn't really understand marketing.

"So you know what we're going to do?"

He shook his head.

"We're going to shoot them," Vice-President John said. "We're going to kill anyone who buys a pair."

Silence. "What?" Hack said.

The other John said, "Well, not everyone, obviously. We figure we only have to plug... what did we

decide? Five?"

"Ten," Vice-President John said. "To be safe."

"Right. We take out ten customers, make it look like ghetto kids, and we've got street cred coming

out our asses. I bet we shift our inventory within twenty-four hours."

"I remember when you could always rely on those little street kids to pop a few people for the latest

Nikes," Vice-President John said. "Now people get mugged for Reeboks, for Adidas -- for generics, for

Christ's sake."

"The ghettos have no fashion sense anymore," the other John said. "I swear, they'll wear anything."

"It's a disgrace. Anyway, Hack, I think you get the point. This is a groundbreaking campaign."

"Talk about edgy," the other John said. "This defines edgy."

"Um..." Hack said. He swallowed. "Isn't this kind of... illegal?"

"He wants to know if it's illegal," the other John said, amused. "You're a funny guy, Hack. Yes, it's

illegal, killing people without their consent, that's very illegal."

Vice-President John said, "But the question is: what does it cost? Even if we get found out, we burn a

few million on legal fees, we get fined a few million more... bottom-line, we're still way out in front."

Hack had a question he very much didn't want to ask. "So... this contract... what does it say I'll do?"

The John beside him folded his hands. "Well, Hack, we've explained our business plan. What we

want you to do is..."

"Execute it," Vice-President John said.

2 McDonald’s

Until she stood in front of them, Hayley didn't realize how many of her classmates were blond. It was

like a beach out there. She'd missed the trend. Hayley would have to hotfoot it to a hairdresser after

school.

"When you're ready," the teacher said.

She looked at her note cards and took a breath. "Why I Love America, by Hayley McDonald's.

America is the greatest group of countries in the world because we have freedom. In countries like

France, where the Government isn't privatized, they still have to pay tax and do whatever the

Government says, which would really suck. In USA countries, we respect individual rights and let people

do whatever they want."

The teacher jotted something in his folder. McDonald's-sponsored schools were cheap like that: at

Pepsi schools, everyone had notebook computers. Also their uniforms were much better. It was so hard

to be cool with the Golden Arches on your back.

"Before USA countries abolished tax, if you didn't have a job, the Government took money from

working people and gave it to you. So, like, the more useless you were, the more money you got." No

response from her classmates. Even the teacher didn't smile. Hayley was surprised: she'd thought that one

was a crack-up.

"But now America has all the best companies and all the money because everyone works and the

Government can't spend money on stupid things like advertising and elections and making new laws.

They just stop people stealing or hurting each other and everything else is taken care of by the private

sector, which everyone knows is more efficient." She looked at her notes: yep, that was it. "Finally I

would like to say that America is the greatest group of countries in the world and I am proud to live in the

Australian Territories of the USA!"

A smattering of applause. It was the eighth talk this period: she guessed it was getting harder to work

up enthusiasm for capitalizm. Hayley headed for her seat.

"Hold it," the teacher said. "I have questions."

"Oh," Hayley said.

"Are there any positive aspects to tax?"

She relaxed: a gimme question. "Some people say tax is good because it gives money to people who

don't have any. But those people must be lazy or stupid, so why should they get other people's money?

Obviously the answer is no."

The teacher blinked. He made a note. That must have been an impressive answer, Hayley thought.

"What about social justice?"

"What?"

"Is it fair that some people should be rich while others have nothing?"

She shifted from one foot to the other. She was just remembering: this teacher had a thing about poor

people. He was always bringing them up. "Um, yeah, it's fair. Because if I study really hard for a test and

get an A and Emily doesn't and fails" -- renewed interest from the class; Emily raised blond eyebrows --

"then it's not fair to take some of my marks and give them to her, is it?"

The teacher frowned. Hayley felt a flash of panic. "Another thing, in non-USA countries they want

everyone to be the same, so if your sister is born blind, then they blind you, too, to make it even. But

how unfair is that? I would much rather be an American than a European Union... person." She gave the

class a big smile. They clapped, much more enthusiastically than before. She added hopefully, "Is that

all?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Relief! She started walking. A cute boy in the third row winked at her.

The teacher said, "Although, Hayley, they don't really blind people in non-USA countries."

Hayley stopped. "Well, that's kind of hypocritical, isn't it?"

The class cheered. The teacher opened his mouth, then shut it. Hayley took her seat. Kick ass, she

thought. She had aced this test.

3 The Police

Hack sat in traffic, biting his nails. This had not been a good day. He was beginning to think that

visiting the marketing floor for a cup of water was the worst mistake he'd ever made.

He turned into a side street and parked his Toyota. It rattled angrily and let loose a puff of black

smoke. Hack really needed a new car. Maybe if this job paid off, he could move out of St. Kilda. He

could get an apartment with some space, maybe some natural light--

He shook his head angrily. What was he thinking? He wasn't going to shoot anyone. Not even for a

better apartment.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor and let himself in. Violet was sitting cross-legged on the

living-room floor with her notebook computer in her lap. Violet was his girlfriend. She was the only

unemployed person he had ever met, not counting homeless people who asked him for money. She was

an entrepreneur. Violet was probably going to be rich one day: she was smart and determined.

Sometimes Hack wasn't sure why they were together.

He dropped his briefcase and shrugged off his jacket. The table was littered with bills. Hack hadn't

bargained very well in his last performance evaluation and it was really biting him now. "Violet?"

"Mmm?"

"Can we talk?"

"Is it important?"

"Yes."

She frowned. Hack waited. Violet didn't like being disturbed during her work. She didn't like being

disturbed at all. She was short and thin and had long brown hair, which made her look much more fragile

than she was. "What's up?"

He sat on the sofa. "I did something stupid."

"Oh, Hack, not again."

Hack had missed a couple of turnoffs on the way home lately: last Tuesday he'd gotten himself onto a

premium road and eaten through eleven dollars in tolls before he found an exit. "No, something really

stupid."

"What happened?"

"Well, I got offered some work... some marketing work--"

"That's great! We could really use the extra money."

"--and I signed a contract without reading it."

Pause. "Oh," Violet said. "Well, it might be okay--"

"It says I have to kill people. It's some kind of promotional campaign. I have to, um, kill ten people."

For a moment she said nothing. He hoped she wasn't going to shout at him. "I'd better look at that

contract."

He dropped his head.

"You don't have a copy?"

"No."

"Oh, Hack."

"I'm sorry."

Violet chewed her lip. "Well, you can't go through with it. The Government's not as pussy as people

think. They'd get you for sure. But then, you don't know what the penalties in that contract are... I think

you should go to the Police."

"Really?"

"There's a station on Chapel Street. When are you meant to... do it?"

"Friday."

"You should go. Right now."

"Okay. You're right." He picked up his jacket. "Thanks, Violet."

"Why does this kind of thing always happen to you, Hack?"

"I don't know," he said. He felt emotional. He shut the door carefully behind him.

The station was only a few blocks away, and as it came into view he began to feel hopeful. The

building was lit up in blue neon, with THE POLICE in enormous letters and a swirling light above that. If

anyone could help him out of this situation, it would be someone who worked in a place like this.

The doors slid open and he walked up to the reception desk. A woman in uniform -- either a real cop

or a receptionist dressed in theme, Hack didn't know which -- smiled. Playing over the PA system was

the song from their TV ads, "Every Breath You Take."

"Good evening, how can I help you?"

"I have a matter I'd like to discuss with an officer, please."

"May I ask the nature of your problem?"

"Um," he said. "I've been contracted to kill someone. Some people, actually."

The receptionist's eyebrows rose a fraction, then settled. Hack felt relieved. He didn't want to be

chastised by the receptionist. "Take a seat, sir. An officer will be right with you."

Hack dropped into a soft blue chair and waited. A few minutes later, a cop came out and stopped in

front of him. Hack rose.

"I'm Senior Sergeant Pearson Police," the man said. He shook Hack's hand firmly. He had a small,

trim mustache but otherwise looked pretty capable. "Please accompany me."

Hack followed him down a plushly carpeted hallway to a small, professional-looking meeting room.

On the wall were pictures of cops escorting crims out of buildings, in front of courthouses, and busting

protestor heads outside some corporate building. As Pearson took a seat, Hack caught a glimpse of

handcuffs and a pistol.

"So what's your problem?" He flipped open a notebook.

Hack told him the whole story. When he was done, Pearson was silent for a long time. Finally Hack

couldn't take it anymore. "What do you think?"

Pearson pressed his fingers together. "Well, I appreciate you coming forward with this. You did the

right thing. Now let me take you through your options." He closed the notebook and put it to one side.

"First, you can go ahead with this Nike contract. Shoot some people. In that case, what we'd do, if we

were retained by the Government or one of the victims' representatives, is attempt to apprehend you."

"Yes."

"And we would apprehend you, Hack. We have an eighty-six percent success rate. With someone

like you, inexperienced, no backing, we'd have you within hours. So I strongly recommend you do not

carry out this contract."

"I know," Hack said. "I should have it read it, but--"

"Second, you can refuse to go through with it. That would expose you to whatever penalties are in

that contract. And I'm sure I don't need to tell you they could be harsh. Very harsh indeed."

Hack nodded. He hoped Pearson wasn't finished.

"Here's your alternative." Pearson leaned forward. "You subcontract the slayings to us. We fulfill your

contract, at a very competitive rate. As you probably know from our advertisements, your identity is

totally protected. If the Government comes after us, it's not your problem."

Hack said, "That's my only alternative?"

"Well, if you had a copy of the contract, I'd tell you to go talk to our Legal branch. But you don't, do

you?"

"Um, no." He hesitated. "How much would it be to..."

Pearson blew out his cheeks. "Depends. You don't need specific individuals done, right? Just people

who buy these Mercury shoes."

"Yes."

"Well, that's cheaper. We can make sure we don't take out anyone with means. For, you know,

retribution. And you need ten capped, so there's a bulk discount. We could do this for, say, one-fifty."

"One-fifty what?"

"Grand," Pearson said. "One-fifty grand, Hack, what do you think?"

He felt despair. "I'm a Merc Officer, I earn thirty-three a year--"

"Come on, now," Pearson said, looking pained. "Don't start that."

"I'm sorry." His vision blurred. Twice in one day! He was falling apart.

"Look, final offer: one-thirty. You can go talk to the NRA but you won't get better than that, I

promise. Now do we have a deal?"

"Yes," Hack said. He wiped angrily at his face as Pearson began to draw up the contract.

4 Mitsui

The alarm clock said: "--and rumors of strong profits. Microsoft tumbled to twenty-two after the

company announced shipping delays would..."

Buy couldn't breathe. His chest ached. He thought: I'm having a heart attack! Then he remembered.

No. Not a heart attack.

He staggered into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His face stared back at him. It didn't look

impressed. He said, "I am a great person. Today is a great day."

Taped to a corner of the mirror was a piece of paper. It said:

I AM A GREAT PERSON TODAY IS A GREAT DAY EVERY OBSTACLE IS

AN OPPORTUNITY

It was Monday, October 27, and therefore the fifth-last working day of Mitsui Corporation's financial

year. Buy was an Account Manager, Competitive Accounts Group, Southern Region, which meant he

was a stockbroker, which meant he was a salesman. He had a $4.2 million quota. That hadn't looked

like a problem after an outstanding first quarter and a solid Q2, but in Q3 they'd reorganized some

accounts away from him, and Q4 had been terrible, a catastrophe. Buy had five days to find half a

million dollars.

He showered and padded out to the living room. His apartment looked over the ExxonMobil

Botanical Gardens and beyond that the city of Melbourne, USA (Australia). It was a little after six, and

the office towers were flaring orange in the dawn sun. The sky was a solid blue expanse. Buy had

stopped seeing it in Q3.

He ate toast and washed it down with juice. He dressed and caught the elevator to the parking lot,

where his Jeep was waiting for him. Jeeps were one of the safest vehicles on the road, Buy had read;

safe for people in the Jeep, anyway. He roared out onto the street.

The cheap roads were clogged, even at six-thirty, but he was only four blocks from a premium

Bechtel freeway and that was eight lanes, two dollars a mile, and no speed limit. He sped past office

buildings and factories with the needle on 95 mph.

He pulled into the Mitsui parking lot and caught the elevator to the sixth-floor cube farm. Brokers

didn't get proper offices, or even walls above shoulder height, at least not in Competitive Accounts. In his

first year here, Buy had been grateful for that, because it was so easy to turn to a coworker for help.

Now it annoyed him, for the same reason.

Hamish, who ran the night shift from Buy's desk, was pulling off his headphones. "Hey, Buy."

"Hey." Hamish looked relaxed and happy. Buy felt a flash of jealousy. "How's the market?"

"Even jumpier than you. Take it easy, buddy. You'll get there."

"Yeah, I know." He tried to sound sincere. Hamish patted him on the back and left for what was no

doubt a day of lying on the sofa watching football, or activities equally casual and stress-free. Hamish had

made quota six weeks ago, and Buy was finding it harder and harder to not hate him.

Buy slid into the seat, plugged in his telephone headset, and dialed. Taped to his cubicle wall was a

note he'd written in Q1:

SUCCESS = 500 CALLS PER DAY

He stared at it while his client's phone rang. Buy was starting to think that success was a big

crapshoot.

In France, he wouldn't be in a position like this. Of course, in France he wouldn't have received last

year's paycheck of $347,000, either. That was why he'd left: the EU was a socialist morass, with taxes

and unemployment and public everything. Until recently, Buy had thought that moving to a USA country

was the best move he'd ever made, with the possible exception of changing his name from Jean-Paul.

"You've reached Michael Microsoft, Project Manager Business Solutions Division. Leave a

message and I'll get back to you."

Buy started rambling about market indicators pointing to increasing volatility, clicking through his

e-mail at the same time. There was a message from a friend who now worked for US Alliance, one of

the big customer loyalty programs:

Buy--

A priest and a stockbroker meet at the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter

gives the broker a golden harp and silk robes and lets him into

Heaven. Then he gives the priest a rusty trumpet and some old rags.

The priest says, "Hey, how come the stockbroker gets the harp and

robes?" And Saint Peter says, "Because while you preached, people

slept -- but his clients, now, they prayed."

--Sami.

P.S. We just passed 200 million subscribers at US Alliance and

are about to sign on the NRA (still hush-hush). But I guess that's not

as exciting as making monkey trades for Mitsui, huh?

Buy looked at his watch. It was noon in L.A. He hung up on Michael Microsoft's voice mail and

dialed.

"Sami UA."

"Are you serious about NRA?"

"Buy! How you doing?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yeah, I'm very serious. You have no idea how fast things are moving here."

"You know what will happen to NRA's stock price if they sign with US Alliance?"

"Gee, I don't know, Buy. I'm not a stockbroker anymore."

He felt a rush of gratitude. "Thank you, Sami."

"Wait. You can't use this information. It's company confidential."

Buy paused. "Are you--"

"Come on," Sami said. "You know I have to say that. You've had a rough year, right? Maybe things

will turn around for you." He hung up.

For a second, Buy felt paralyzed. There were too many things he needed to do at once. Fifteen years

ago, this would have been insider trading, but that quaint concept had disappeared a decade or two ago

when so many brokers were doing it that it was impossible to jail them all. Now it was called smart

trading.

He tucked the phone under his ear, hit SPEED DIAL 1, and started tapping out an e-mail.

"Jason Mutual Unity."

Buy said, "I'm calling because you're my best client. I have some information that's going to make a lot

of people a lot of money and I want you to be one of them." At the same time, he tapped out:

IF YOU WANT TO RIDE A WAVE CALL ME RIGHT NOW

He dragged his entire client list into the address field and hit SEND.

"Buy, I just stepped out of the shower."

"Tell me you've got liquid."

"What am I, a day-trader? Which company?"

"National Rifle Association."

"The NRA? Are they even listed?"

"Jason," Buy said, "everyone's listed."

"I don't know... I'd have to sell out of another position. Look, tell you what, leave it with me--"

"There's no time. You know how this works. The first fish to take a bite will stir up the sharks."

"I'm sorry, Buy. We don't operate like this."

He heard himself say: "I'll forfeit the commission."

"What?"

"If the stock doesn't rise, I'll eat the commission." He swallowed. He was pretty sure he wasn't

allowed to do that. He was pretty sure that if the NRA ticker price fell, Mitsui would both fire and sue

him. "Give me at least twenty million and I'll take no commission unless you make money."

"Are you serious?"

The commission on twenty million dollars was four hundred thousand. He thought, October 27,

October 27. "Very serious."

"Well, fuck," Jason said. "You've got yourself a deal, buddy."

"Thank you," Buy said. He closed his eyes. His chest still hurt.

5 Wal-Mart

"I found your presentations to be uniformly disappointing," the teacher said. He was leaning against his

desk, arms folded. Every time he turned his head, his glasses reflected sunlight at Hayley, as if he was

shooting rays of disapproval. "I recommend that you all improve the level of your critical thinking."

He began walking between aisles, dropping papers onto desks. Hayley saw a D, and an F; a little guy

with glasses got a C-. She exhaled. This was not going to be good.

She heard whispering behind her and turned. Three girls were huddled together. When they saw

Hayley looking, they closed tighter.

A paper landed on her desk. There was a lot of red pen, with words like superficial. At the bottom:

F.

Hayley raised her hand. "Why do I get an F for saying capitalizm is good when that's what everyone

else says too? It's not fair."

"Hayley, what's not fair is that our society rewards selfishness. That's not fair."

So move to China, Hayley thought. "You should know I'll be challenging this grade." The

McDonald's curriculum panel wouldn't let this crap stand, you could bet your ass.

"I don't think it's fair, either," a boy to Hayley's left said. "My parents say you have to understand how

capitalizm works to get ahead. That self-interest is a good thing. Shouldn't you be preparing us for the

real world?"

"Mercurys," one of the whispering girls said.

Hayley turned around again. "What did you say about Mercurys?"

They looked at her, their faces guarded. "The Nike Town at the mall is getting in some Mercurys."

Hayley's jaw dropped. "Are you serious?"

"Thanks to self-interest," the teacher said, "it's legal to let a person starve to death in the street while

you drive past in your Mercedes. Is that fair?"

"We heard five pairs."

"No way! When?" Hayley gripped the desk. "When are they getting the Mercurys?"

"Tonight. Six-thirty." The girl glanced at her friends. "Want to meet us there?"

"Oh, yeah!" She felt faint and sick all at once. Mercurys were two and a half thousand dollars, and

Hayley didn't have that much, but she could borrow: there were ATMs at the mall. It would be totally

worth it; Mercurys weren't just cool shoes; they were an investment. She could sell them tomorrow for

twice what she bought them for, maybe more. What if -- what if she could get two pairs?

"It's very disappointing," the teacher said, "that none of you can see past simple consumerism. Very

disappointing."

Mercurys, Hayley thought. Oh my God.

6 NRA

Billy Bechtel built tanks. Big ones. They had caterpillar treads and cannons on the front and swiveling

machine guns; they were fucking impressive, was what they were. When anyone asked what Billy did for

a living, he said, "You know the Bechtel military yards, outside Abilene? I work there," and watched their

eyebrows jump. It got so Billy started wishing his job was as cool as it sounded.

Billy's job was to check steel plates to make sure they weren't buckled. How it worked was a forklift

came and dumped a load of plates in his area, then Billy checked them with a metal ruler, then another

forklift came and carted them away. If he found any warped ones, they went in a separate pile, and when

Billy showed up for work the next day, they were gone. Most of the guys on the Bechtel site worked in

teams, but Billy was stuck on his own. It was driving him nuts.

After he'd been there a few months, he let a plate with a pucker at the edge go through, just to see

what would happen, but nothing did. Someone was now driving around a tank that leaked when it rained,

he guessed. After that he let a plate go through that was almost bent in half, and a guy from welding came

and yelled at him.

He took up smoking so he could hang around with some of the other workers, and that's where he

met the shooters. There were ten or twelve of them, and they met after day shift three times a week.

"You should come along," one of them told Billy, looking him up and down. Billy was young and blond

and worked out a lot. "You'll have fun."

So Billy went, and it was fun. He also discovered he was a good shot. He had done some hunting as

a kid growing up on a farm, but then his dad died and his mom moved them to Dallas and there hadn't

been much call for shooting after that. Until now, where on the back blocks of the Bechtel Military

Abilene site, Billy earned the respect and admiration of his coworkers by clocking torso-shaped targets

from farther out than anyone else. Things were good then. Sometimes even the forklift drivers stopped to

talk to him.

Then came the bad news. The foreman gathered them all in Hangar One, among the scaffolding and

half-assembled tanks, and a guy from Head Office, some guy in a suit, said, "Unfortunately, due to cost

pressures..." Then there was a lot of stuff about competition and efficiencies and how painful it was for

management to make tough decisions. But what it came down to, the workers agreed afterward, was:

You can all fuck off now. Billy was out of a job.

They gathered out front and stood around uncertainly. They bitched about management and

wondered what they would do now; some of them talked bitterly about the days when there were unions,

when shit like this wasn't tolerated. One of the shooters clapped Billy on the shoulder and said, "What

about you, champ? What are you going to do?"

"I think I'm gonna go away somewhere," Billy said, surprising himself. True, he had enough saved up

for a working holiday, and he had always wanted to travel outside of Texas, but that was a long-term

goal, of the sort he'd never expected to actually accomplish. This shooting thing had really developed his

self-confidence. "I always wanted to go skiing, you know? Maybe I'll go somewhere and learn how to

ski."

The man roared with laughter. "Hey, get this! Billy the Kid is going skiing!"

The men around him erupted. Hands clapped him on the back. "Good on ya, Billy!" someone said,

and someone else said, "We should all go fuckin' skiing!" They thought it was terrific, Billy realized: they

thought he was sticking it to Bechtel management. For a construction worker in Abilene, Texas, skiing

was about as exotic as you could get. It was like going to Disneyland.

"That's the way, Billy the Kid," the man said. "You learn to ski."

He thought he'd go to Sweden, because of the ski bunnies. He imagined days of riding steep white

slopes by day, and gentle white curves at night. But the travel agent told him it was impossible to work

there: Sweden was a non-USA country. Billy couldn't believe it. He didn't even think countries like that

existed anymore. "Oh, sure," the agent said, who was a girl Billy had dated in high school. She still

chewed gum. "There are plenty. Mostly places you don't wanna go, of course."

"So where can I go?"

"How about Singapore? Singapore's real nice. I can get you a great price on--"

"Not Singapore," Billy said. He was pretty sure this travel agency had some kind of deal with

Singapore; they tried to talk everyone into visiting. "I need somewhere with mountains. I want to go

skiing."

"Skiing?" Her eyes widened.

"Yeah."

"Wow. Okay, then." She poked at her computer. "Well, there's Alaska, that's right up north. And

Max Barry - Jennifer Government

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