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Planet Earth
Jobless
Year of 2252, April – May
Macera gaped at her ex-boss like a fish out of water, her disbelief a parody of a horror vid in the mirror behind his bald head. The idiot squirmed in his seat as if she gave a damn he was uncomfortable performing this task.
“What do you mean you’re letting me go?” She worked, past tense, at the curio shop in the casino’s lobby. It wasn’t much of a job, but at least it kept her fed and a roof over her head. “What am I supposed to do now?” She slammed her palms on his desk.
He jumped, his face paling, but she kept his gaze, flipping her mass of brown curls out of her eyes to do so.
“We will rehire you back once the revamp is complete...I think.”
Her eyes widened. “You think? No work for, what, six months? Maybe even a year?” She yanked her access card off her pocket, tearing the fabric, before slapping the card down on his desk, startling the little twerp again. She snatched the severance pay out of his hands then glared at him, resting her hands on her wide hips. “This had better be decent or so help me.” She stormed out of his office, ignoring the curious and nervous glances thrown at her. The jungle sounds peppered with lion roars fired her blood en route to the parking lot. The bastard.
She slid into the car she’d inherited from her grandmother. It was so old, the rust held the car together, nor was a S.A.D.I, Standard Automated Driving Intelligence, compatible with the car’s antiquated software. Despite it being solar-powered, it ran on prayer and violent cursing. She banged the door a few times until it stayed shut, only to sit there stunned with her hands gripping and releasing the bus-sized steering wheel.
What am I going to do?
The salary had barely covered her expenses. Her savings were non-existent. She owed the funeral parlor for Gran’s burial, and there were outstanding bills for the house, such as it was. Old, dilapidated, a double story in a shady neighborhood, selling it would get her nothing. Not that she wanted to either. She had to live somewhere, and the house was cheaper than renting another place.
Biting her lip, she relished the sting, praying it held back the tears. The moment she let them loose, she’d cry for days, like she had after Gran’s death. The car started at the second attempt, and she drove to a brown nondescript building in the same shady neighborhood, not too far from her home.
She needed music and an alcoholic beverage that promised to make her forget her woes for the evening. Not that she could afford to waste her tokens on booze. She parked her car in front of the building’s entrance, not concerned with the possibility of an opportunistic yet blind individual stealing it. No one would touch it.
She slammed the door and leaned on it. At least the previous paints on her car were harmonic, which shone blue, green, and the final coat of white through the rust. She locked the door. The car had no S.A.D.I, no alarm system, no special anti-theft mechanism inserted through the steering wheel, nothing to deter would-be thieves. They simply weren’t interested in it. Their loss, she chuckled, bouncing on her heels, excited about drowning her sorrows in illegal music and whatever drinks were the cheapest.
The weathered steel door had once been painted red. Now it showed as much character as her car. With a glance from side-to-side, she yanked the door open and skipped down the steps into the bowels of the building. The deeper she ventured, the more the bass of the music vibrated up her soles. The stench of smoke, sex, and stale perfume carried a welcoming sweetness. She burst into the room and smiled. They were playing the classics, the ones she loved. There was talk of the powers-that-be eradicating the ban on vids, music, and online games. She hoped they decided soon. It had been centuries since the vid that had triggered epilepsy in over a hundred-thousand teenage girls, killing them. Something about girls of a certain age being more susceptible to seizures. Gran had tried to explain, but it had gone over Macy’s head. Now all restaurants, casinos, and radios played were ambiances, hence the lions at the casino. Studies had shown that the rumble and cries of predators triggered a flight or fight response so people gambled more recklessly.
People, of course, had taken the industries underground, and often, a newish song would make the popularity rounds. Until the Media Police shut them down and sent them to Mars’ penal colony. She shuddered at the idea of never dancing or singing again. Music fired her soul, empowered her to lose a few moments in joyful dance, where the state of her life and bank account didn’t matter.
She chose a table, not in the back and not too close to the bar. It tended to get disruptive near the bar, and the booths enshrouded in darkness promised an unpleasant experience if she sat there. She was in no mood to deal with the undesirables who would accost her. A plain girl like her needed all the loving she could get or some such nonsense.
No, she did not.
“I’m surprised to see you at this time of the day,” one of the regular waiters said.
She ordered her usual house white wine and added a shot of tequila—a special request just for today.
“Bad day, huh?” the waiter asked, and it wasn’t due to an interest in her. The place was quiet with business having yet to pick up. So the poor dear was fending off boredom by forcing unpalatable conversation onto a depressed woman.
“You could say that,” she said, taking pity on the guy. She swiped her wrist across the paypoint embedded in the table. “As soon as that’s up, chase me home,” she said before downing the tequila, sans lemon and salt. Since she was a regular, she could trust him. Not that she had ever asked his name. Nor had he offered it, for that matter. “And keep it coming, please.” She gulped her wine, letting it join the fire in her belly—from anger and blessed tequila.
By the third glass of wine, she was nearing intoxication—the kind where she didn’t care anymore. The kind she needed. She belted out choruses of songs she recognized, putting far more energy into the singing than she had in her previous job.
Yup, that was about the crux of it. She’d probably been let go since she hadn’t proven herself and was redundant. Some guy tried to charm her, but she glared him into silence. She didn’t have the energy to deal with a desperate man and his issues. She belted out another chorus and chuckled, now sipping the wine in front of her to have something to do.
“I like the way you sing,” a man said, his voice not oily or insincere.
His honesty broke through her walls. She raised a wide-eyed gaze to meet his. He stood, taller than she’d expected, in some sort of expensive suit—charcoal gray if she wasn’t mistaken. Not that she was a connoisseur of fine suits, just of broad shoulders.
“Thank you, I think.” She flashed him a wobbly smile since her lips had entered Numbville.
He glanced at the wine in front of her and the empty tequila glass her waiter had yet to remove. “Bad day?”
“Yup, lost my job.” She shrugged as if her imminent starvation wasn’t important. Not that she would reveal that. She widened her smile, trusting her numb lips to convey some sort of friendliness. But when the song playing neared its chorus, she held up a finger, asking him to wait, then belted out the lyrics as if her last moments on this forsaken planet counted on her level of enthusiasm. “That felt good.” She smirked, lifted the glass to her lips, and frowned at it taking a few tries.
“Why don’t you sing for us?” He gestured to the stage.
Her eyebrows arched, and she laughed. “Sure, I will. You have a band playing all the time. Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” She rolled her eyes then gripped the table as his face tilted. Best not to do that again. “Listen, dude, your stage is never used.”
“You can sing to the music playing on the speakers.” He dropped into a chair, uninvited. “I’ll pay you for every night you perform.”
“Are you serious?” She blinked at his blurred image, trying to assess his sincerity when she couldn’t see his eye color.
“You can start tonight, as a trial, since you’re here.”
“But I’m...drunk.” She hiccupped for added emphasis.
“You have just over an hour to sober. That’s when the crowds start to arrive.” He jumped up and held out his hand. She accepted it for a firm shake. “Ask the barkeeper for the mic. I look forward to hearing you perform,...?”
It took a while before she realized he waited for her to supply her name. “Macera Mitchell.” She flashed him what she hoped was a bright smile.
“Dave, the barkeeper, may also have discarded dresses in the back if you want to shine tonight.” He glanced down at her black trousers and boring, button-up white blouse with the torn pocket.
“Thank you, again.” She watched him walk away, unable to contain her hope, her breathing erratic, her heart pounding. She gestured to the waiter and ordered coffee, hoping it would sober her as well as calm her nerves when she’d never sung in front of a crowd.
But she couldn’t back down now. Music and singing were illegal, therein lay the attraction. That the Media Police might raid the club added a zing to her blood, bolstering her voice. She couldn't abandon the thrill for fear of capture.
Besides, she needed to eat.
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