Underemployed continued
On the third day, the man giving the talk is from California. His talk was about opportunities in other countries, places that still allowed it.
He said, basically, that there really aren't many, because the only countries left are these backwards ones in the third world. He said especially to avoid people that come to you, because they are usually scam artists.
Everyone wished it were still legal here when they heard this.
On the fourth day, the man from Alabama, who had been a very important man, a very busy man in his own right, woke Washington up in his room.
"The man from New Jersey got some bad clams last night," said Alabama. "He can't give his talk about possibilities with the CIA. Kentucky said you had some interesting things to say, and we were wondering if you could sort of lead a discussion for half the day, while we try to get Jersey working again."
Washington looked at Alabama. Alabama was very fat. So fat, in fact, that he probably should have been greasy and disgusting, but since he was from Alabama, he didn't sweat very much in Iowa weather. So he was dry like a reptile, almost conspicuously unbothered by the summer heat.
Washington didn't want to give a talk. He didn't like to talk to groups. These were all friends, brothers, though... and he had been talking to most of them all week.
"Alright," he said. "I'll do it. I'll need to think of something for a talk, though."
"That's fine. We were going to have a steak and eggs for breakfast instead of the brunch buffet. We'll send yours up here." Alabama had it all figured out.
"Bama?" Washington spoke as Alabama left.
"Yeah?"
"Rare on the steak." Washington was already in neutral, planning his talk.
Alabama smiled. "That's how they come, 'less you ask for different."
They chuckled over that.
Alabama left, and Washington sat down to work out some notes.
The talk went well. He led a quick discussion on the way they were treated. That had gone over good. To keep it fresh, he had everyone talk about his or her family. Many of them were divorced. Many of them were alone. Even the ones that weren't, were.
Jersey was able to give a short version of his talk that afternoon. He told them how the 'Company' had a lot of places for people with their special attitude. A lot of people in the room were nodding by the time it was done. A whole lot of people.
The fifth day, the talk was "TBA".
Everybody met in the big ballroom. There was a stage set up, with a curtain and orchestra pit and everything. There was no band in the orchestra pit.
The curtain opened.
There was a man in the familiar old chair on the stage. He was strapped in, head shaved, all sponged and ready to go. No hood, though. His eyes were wide and his jaw-muscles and neck-veins were all popped out from biting down on the plastic wedge strapped in his mouth.
The man from Texas, the king of them all, was on the stage too.
He had a microphone.
"This is Supreme Justice Osterholt. He wrote the Opinion. No one knows where he is, thanks to our new friends in the CIA."
The man from Texas was rather fat, although he had nothing on Alabama. He moved like a happy penguin. He grabbed a bucket from the wings and began handing the small objects in it to the assembled. The objects were remote controls.
"Shall we," he said in his quaint, Faulkner-accent, "do it again? For the company? Do it and more? We have to vote unanimously."
He looked at them. For a few moments nothing happened, and then the audience began to vote. One by one, they stabbed at the single, big, red button on the remote control.
At 10.30 A.M., there was a small brownout in the touristy, hotel-infested part of Des Moines.
None of them went back to their old jobs.
Not even the banker.