There were no others, and after a quick discussion among themselves, the members of the council voted to deny the request of the petitioning businesses.
Ben smiled cynically. 'Democracy in action.'
Bill shook his head. 'Assholes.'
He sat through the rest of the meeting -- routine business that offended no one and affected no one and sped quickly by. Afterward, he quickly got up out of his chair and started toward the back seats. He wanted to talk to Keyes, the Store representative.
But though he had seen no one leave the chambers, though neither door had opened or closed, Keyes was nowhere to be seen. Bill hurried outside, scanning the small parking lot, but it was empty.
The man was gone.
2
Bill sat in front of his computer, brooding.
He stared at the page of instructions he'd just completed. The program for which he was writing documentation was going to put several people out of work.
Hell, it might even eliminate a whole department. From what he could tell, this accounting system could probably be run by two people -- a supervisor and a data entry operator -- instead of however many individuals made up the current accounting staff at The Store's corporate headquarters.
It was something that had always been in his mind, the knowledge that his work was contributing to the 'downsizing,' 'rightsizing,' and 'outsourcing' of America, that while he had a good life and a good job, they came at the expense of others. His company's systems were designed to replace people with computer programs, to decrease payroll costs and increase profit margins, to boost returns to stockholders without regard to the individuals who actually worked for a corporation.
But it was not something he had really focused on until now.
It was The Store connection that had really brought it home to him, that had made him realize how basically parasitic Automated Interface was. The ironic thing was that although he was indirectly helping to put people out of work, his job was pretty damn close to superfluous. Theoretically, documentation was necessary. Customers needed to be provided with instructions and descriptions of the software they purchased so that they could install it in their computers and use it. But the programs these days were pretty self-explanatory, the people who bought them were usually computer literate, and if users had problems they usually just called up the toll-free customer service number and asked questions of the support staff.
Most of the documentation he wrote sat in impressive-looking binders, untouched, on customers' shelves.
It was a depressing situation, and one he felt guilty about, but there was little he could do to change it. This was his job. He had a family to help support -- they certainly couldn't survive on Ginny's salary alone -- and he possessed no other skills, certainly none that could land him gainful employment in Juniper. At the very least, they'd have to move to a bigger city, someplace where he might be able to catch on at a large company. It was highly unlikely that another employer would allow him to telecommute and work out of his home.
Besides, he liked his job.
He felt guilty about that, too.
He wasn't in the mood to continue working on computer instructions, so he saved what he'd written on both the hard disk and a diskette, then toggled over to check his E-mail.
There was a message from Street, and he called it up:
You are God, buddy! I heard about the council meeting, and I want you to know that all of us downtown are pretty damn impressed with the way you stood up for us. Especially for a guy who always did his shopping in Phoenix!
Thanx for stating our case. Every little bit helps.
Want to join the recall effort?
How about chess tonight?
He smiled as he read the message. Maybe he wasn't such a traitor after all. He sent Street a message agreeing to a computer game, then signed off. He stared at the blank screen and found himself wondering what would happen if Street lost his store. Would he be able to find a job here in town, or would he have to move? It wasn't just an idle question anymore. There'd been a seismic shift in the economics of Juniper, and the shift was permanent. The Store wasn't going anywhere, and whatever business couldn't coexist with it would be killed.
Street might survive, because his shop carried a broad range of seldom needed electronic parts that it probably wouldn't be economically feasible for The Store to stock. But a lot of the local merchants carried a small selection of mainstream goods, and not only did The Store sell those items for a cheaper price, it offered a wider selection. Those businesses wouldn't make it.
The phone rang, and Bill answered.
It was Williamson James.
'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you for posting my ad on the computer.'
'What happened?'
'I found a buyer for the cafй.'
'That's great. Who?'
'You're not going to believe this.'
'Who?'
'The Store.'
Bill was silent.
'Are you still there?' the cafй owner asked. 'Bill?'
'I'm here,' he said, and he tried not to let the emotions he was feeling into his voice.
'They're paying big bucks, too. I'm really lucky. Really _really_ lucky.'
Bill closed his eyes, held the receiver tightly. 'Yeah,' he said finally.
'You are.'
3
Ginny walked in from the bathroom, drying her hair, and glanced over at Bill on the bed. He was sitting up against the headboard, an open book in his lap, but his gaze was distant, far-off, not on the pages in front of him. She tossed the towel on top of the hamper. 'Hey,' she said, walking over. 'What is it?' Bill looked up at her. He shook his head, put his book facedown on the nightstand next to him. 'Nothing.'
'Something.' She sat down on her side of the bed and picked up a container of moisturizer from the nightstand, opening it. 'Tell me.'
'It's not important.'
'Suit yourself.'
He smiled at her in his best adoring housewife manner. 'So how was your day, dear?'
She started spreading the moisturizer on her face. 'Except for the students and Meg, it was fine.'
'That's nice.'
She paused. 'You know, it's weird. The past week or so, the kids have seemed completely different. Ever since Easter vacation. They were only out for a week, but it's like they were gone for a year. Now they all dress like gang members, with the big pants, the baggy clothes. . . .'
'Fads change. You know that.' He chuckled. 'So the MTV influence has finally penetrated our little town.'
'It's not that. It's . . .' She shook her head. 'I can't explain it, but something's changed. They don't just look different, they're acting different.'
'Come on --'
'You don't know these kids. I do.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Their parents all bought them exactly the same clothes. Those clothes.'
'If they shopped here in town, of course they're all going to buy the same clothes. There's not much of a selection.'
'That's just it. These aren't Juniper, Arizona, clothes. These are New York clothes. South Central L.A. clothes. And it's not just a fad. It's more like they're wearing . . . a uniform. It's not like they want to dress this way, it's like they have to dress this way, like their parents and their friends and everything are forcing them into this, requiring it
