Beyond Soylent Green 2050 by Michael D'Agostino

Author:Michael D'Agostino [D'Agostino, Michael and Danny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Michael and Danny D'Agostino
Published: 2019-04-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER III

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs!

One Week Later: The first of our dreamers to land employment were Deon and his new soul mate, Sharon. The two worked together washing clothes by hand at a sidewalk cleaners on Sunset Blvd. It was temporary work, unglamorous, and back-breaking, but it paid enough to buy food. Jobs like these were insufficient to qualify for entry into the trailer park outside of town. That was the dream, the goal. Higher level employment would have to wait.

In the afternoon, Jeffrey visited the local unemployment office on 9th street in L.A. Follow the green line. Follow the red line. Fill out this form. Fill out that form. Wait here. Wait there. Jeffrey did all this for three hours and ended up talking to an indifferent character, just going through the motions.

She said, “All I have now is a position washing dishes at a taco restaurant on Chavez Street. It pays three hundred a month, plus a small stipend for food. Interested?”

“How much is the stipend?” Jeffrey asked.

“Thirty dollars.”

“Thirty dollars for food? That’s a laugh. Would I get free tacos? . . . Don’t you have anything better? I have experience as a mechanic. I can fix anything, trucks cars, motorcycles. I used to make almost five grand a month at the garage.”

“”Sorry,” was her listless response. “If you noticed, there aren’t many cars in the street like in past years. People can’t afford them. The dishwashing job is all I can offer you today.”

Disgusted, Jeffrey got up, said “thank you” and started walking away. But then he paused and returned to her desk. “Ma’am, I have a friend who is interested in starting a music store. Do you know what the license fee is on small businesses in Los Angeles?”

“The license fee to start a small business is five thousand dollars payable upfront, and the business tax is eighty five percent of yearly profits, and I believe, there’s an unemployment compensation tax of two thousand dollars per employee per year, and five thousand dollars per year per employee for healthcare insurance.”

Shocked, Jeffrey replied, “Five thousand what?! Eighty-five percent business tax?! How can any business make money? What’s left?! It’s ridiculous!”

“Sir, what do you expect? Someone in this state has to pay for the peoples’ free health care and free funeral costs for the indigent. And then there is the pension fund for our state workers and county, and monies for road, police and fire.”

He quipped, “Sure, you know what all this is for? For politicians and their slimy buddies. Someone has to be getting rich off of all this.”

“Sir, there is no need to talk like that. Do you want me to hold your application and contact you when a mechanic’s job opens up?”

“. . . Do that. . . . Please.”

Jeffrey stomped out of the “employment office” frustrated, muttering to himself. “This country is fucked up, royally.”

As soon as he exited the building, he tossed the employment brochure and his paperwork into a trash can. An old man appeared pushing a large hobbled crate on wheels through the street.

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