Wednesday, September 26, 2012 at 12:49AM

Funemployment





Whiskey had been down on his luck for most of the fifty years he'd walked this Earth but the man wasn't down on his pride. He woke up early every morning and pushed his shopping cart on a regular schedule, making sure to beat the trash trucks on their daily routes. He had a system on his cart with a green bag tied to the front for aluminum cans and a blue bag inside the chrome mesh cage for glass since it was heavier. He had a hidden baseball bat for protection and to crush the cans when he got tired of stomping them and carried a bathroom scale because he didn't trust the recyclers. This was his job, his career as far as he was concerned and he took pride in his work. He always closed the lid quietly and wiped it down with a ready rag and made a point to always nod a greeting to the residents he did see. He was part of the neighborhood and wanted to keep it that way, knowing that if he created trouble, things could get difficult very quickly. His kind were not exactly a wanted member of society.

Whiskey noticed the cars parked on the side of the quiet street. Some were being unloaded by men and women in their twenties, thirties and very personal effects were being taken into older parent's houses. This was not a stay of suitcases and pillows. No, this was boxes of clothes, books, a computer, maybe a special lamp they found when times were better and they just couldn't bear to part with.

A little boy and girl jumped excitedly out of a car with a shout of "Grandma, Grandpa" into the grinning arms of an older couple who came out of their condo to greet them.

The grandmother let her husband have the two so she could hug her sheepish son who was already opening the trunk.

"Hey Mom."

"Hey baby."

His wife got her turn for a hug. "Sorry 'bout this."

"Don't worry hon," the older woman smiled. "How long you need?"

Whiskey kept pushing his shopping cart, letting the conversation fall behind him.

He kept the rhythm steady and soon the rounds were done and he found himself tramping the streets back to a more industrial part of the neighborhood. An alley or two and under a freeway bridge got him into a surprisingly organized homeless camp with about thirty people living a pretty tidy existence. Nothing extravagant, just nice and neat.

Whiskey pushed his cart into the little area he called home and joined a circle of people sitting around a small fire and several camp lanterns. The meeting was already in progress.

The Chairman motioned to Whiskey. "Hey Whiskey, c'mon in."

"Sorry I'm late Mr. Chairman."

The Chairman was the leader of the group. Mid-forties, he was lean from years on the streets. Homeless by choice with no desire to succumb to the pleasures of regular society.

"Alright Spreadsheet, what's the word?"

Spreadsheet stood, flipping through his notepad. He was wearing an old business suit from his previous life as an accountant. The firm he worked for was big and multi-national so they didn't think twice about outsourcing their accounting grunt work to Poland. Spreadsheets are spreadsheets. The principles are the same, it's all just numbers in a column and the formulas that make them work. Change the language of the headings and they can work anywhere.

"Revenue's down for the third quarter in a row. Collections of recyclables down sixty percent."

Whiskey cleared his throat. "Money's tight. People are cashing in the shit themselves."

A man named Wiper raised his voice. "People are wiping their own glass too."

"Who's talking about ass wiping?" Whiskey barked.

"Glass asshole, glass.

Stumbles, a ragged looking beggar piped up, "And they're keeping their change."

Spreadsheet wave them down a bit, "All our businesses are having trouble meeting their numbers."

Pipecleaner, a scrawny guy in his sixties spoke up, his voice shrill and agitated. "It's those new guys!"

"They're everywhere," Whiskey nodded.

The chairman raised his voice but was calm. "Now, now, the economy's got a lot of people out of work."

"Yeah, but we were here first."

"How 'bout we defend our turf."

"Yeah, kick some newbie ass."

The chairman knew the meeting could easily descend into chaos. "You know we can't do that. What we need are ideas, constructive ideas."

"We could do some media," Spreadsheet offered.

"Media?" Whiskey scoffed. "That shit costs money."

"Not necessarily. Anyone have a video camera?" Spreadsheet looked around as people started rummaging through their carts and garbage bags. He continued.

"We could shoot our own commercial, a Public Service Announcement."

"Support your local homeless," the Chairman smiled.

"The economy sucks ass for us too," Whiskey cackled.

Stumbles, the beggar stroked his beard thoughtfully. "How 'bout a documentary?"

Wiper raised his squeegee. "We could post it on the web."

"Yeah, go viral on this shit," Pipecleaner enthused.

Whiskey raised his cell phone. "I got a Twitter account. Over two hundred people in my Twibe."

"How you afford that?" the Chairman asked.

Whiskey shrugged. "Family plan."

The Chairman went into cheerleading mode. "Hey, I'm willing to try anything."

"How 'bout a federal bailout?" Pipecleaner, ever the smart ass.

Wiper grabbed his crotch. "I got your bailout."

Laughter echoed off the bridge above until a copter with a search light and several police cars were heard approaching. Everyone tensed as the sound of a little shrieking motor like some madcap bee headed their way.









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