My writing, and welcome to it.

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State of the Union

a short story
by Michael Klingensmith

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Long before Edith met and married him, Edward Small had drifted, aimlessly as a dismasted schooner, into college and out again without accomplishing anything of note. He wove dazedly but cheerfully through a number of casual relationships and as many casual employments, his mind on not much in particular.
This continued until he found himself in a suitably uncomplicated job and marriage with Edith, who found Small to be gentle and kind, if a little slow on the uptake. In return for this kindness and gentleness, which she had not seen much of before, Edith was willing to cook his meals, wash his underwear, and answer his mail (which had a tendency to get backed up unless it specifically read, " YOU MAY ALREADY BE A WINNER! ") He had no friends except for her, and no interests beyond watching television.
The long and short of it was that Edward Small had no grasp of goings-on in the real world. He had no idea that human beings had walked on Mars, or that California had broken away and slipped into the ocean during the Big One of ' 02, or that his favorite fast-food burger was made of a cunning combination of post-consumer waste and processed sea algae. In fact, he managed to remain serenely oblivious of each and every political trend and groundswell, every technological and social innovation that took place in his lifetime. He missed the Republican Revolution of the eighties and the Liberal Backlash which transpired at the turn of the century. He managed to miss the Neoreactionary Counterinsurgency, the Luddite Reprisal, the Retro-Stalinist Rebellion and the Adam Smithite Putsch, among other upheavals. He also missed the First Woman President when she appeared on TV, whanging away at her ukulele and grinning her well-known gap-toothed grin. And when she made her famous vow to
" get the people off the government's back", Small had been out in the kitchen getting a beer. Consequently, when the summons arrived for him one crisp February morning, he didn't realize the ramifications.
It came as he was reading the comics. His terminal gave a startled quack and " The Family Circus " was replaced on the screen by the smiling yellow face of Uncle Sunny, the icon of the U.S. government.
Small had never had his terminal overridden by the government before, nor did he know anyone who had. He gazed at the blinking face on his screen, bagel poised halfway to his mouth, unsure what to do next. He turned to his wife for guidance.
" Answer it, dear," she said, pouring more coffee. As if to underscore her advice, a new message began to scroll past under Uncle Sunny: " Failure to accept a message sent via Federal Override is an offense punishable by six months' imprisonment, a $10,000 fine, or both. Have a nice day." Even the smiling yellow icon had changed. It now seemed a bit sterner and more foreboding; a glimpse of claw beneath the fur.
Taking a deep breath, Small clicked ACCEPT.
The message was from the Department of Education. It was brief and to the point:

Dear Mr. Small (it read),
You are in DEFAULT on a Guaranteed Student Loan. Your lender has turned your account over to us for collection. An agent of our new office of Collection and Retribution has been assigned to your case. An appointment with him/her has been made for you for next Monday at 8:45 a.m. Please join us in getting the people off the government's back.
yours,
M. Frackell-Hantz, loan officer.

Edward Small frowned as he read the message through again, then absentmindedly deleted it. As so many things of an official nature did, this already seemed long ago and far away. He took a bite of his bagel. Edith, who had been reading over his shoulder, sat heavily in the chair next to him.
" What's this about, Edward?" she asked.
" My loan," he said, gesturing vaguely with a butter knife. " I guess they're calling in my student loan. I'd forgotten."
" A student loan?" Small's wife asked. " You never told me you had a student loan out. You never paid it back?"
" They never asked..." Small said, trailing off as he remembered stacks of unopened mail he had used during his bachelor days to prop up lopsided furniture.
" How much do you owe?" Edith asked, nudging Small back to the present.
" I can't remember. A few hundred dollars. Not much. I was only in college for a year."
" They're going to make you pay it back."
Small smiled ruefully. " Yeah, well, I guess it's good that they got to us when they did. At least we have the money right now. We'll just have to skip our vacation this year."
Edith gave a little gasp of dismay. " Are you sure?"
" Hey, we owe what we owe. You can't run from Uncle Sunny."
Edith Small pouted and spread jam on another bagel.

Edward Small looked out of the corner of his eye for something with which to defend himself, but all he could think of was the " Eugene C. Hartford" nameplate on the desk. No good. Too light.

The Department of Education had an office in the large gray Federal Building downtown. At precisely 8:45 the next Monday morning, Edward and Edith Small wound their way through a little maze of gray cubicles until they stood before one out of many of dozens of identical desks. Seeing them, the desk's owner stood, offering his hand. He was of middle years and carefully groomed, if a little gray and colorless.
" Eugene Hartford," he said. " Thanks for coming."
" Pleased to meet you," Small murmured automatically.
" Have a seat, folks," Hartford said, gesturing toward two straight-backed wooden chairs on the other side of his desk. " Coffee?"
" No, thank you," Edith Small said. She perched herself nervously on the edge of her seat. Edward Small slumped into his as if he were trying to knock the legs out from under it. Something cracked.
" Ah, straight to business," Hartford said, punching up a file on his terminal. " I like that. Now, do you know why you're here, Mr. Small?"
" Yes," said Small. " It's about my student loan. I got your message."
" Well," Hartford said, looking at the screen before him, " I'm reviewing your file here, Mister Small. In 1985, you borrowed $650 to finance your education. How'd that go?"
" I dropped out," Small said sheepishly. " Too much reading."
" Yes, well, they'll do that to you in college," Hartford said, typing a note into Small's file. " I trust that you've been able to find work since then?"
" Yes," Small said.
" Yet you never repaid your student loan," Hartford continued, now peering over the top of his terminal at Edward Small. There was, suddenly, something in the man's eyes that Edith Small did not like.
" Well, no," Small admitted.
" You did receive the--" Hartford squinted at the terminal "--one hundred twenty-seven separate letters from your lender asking you for repayment?"
" Well..." Small began, looking for a bit of wiggle room.
" Mr. Small..." Hartford said warningly.
" Yes, I got them," Small finally admitted. He reached over and squeezed Edith's hand and glanced at her. She flashed him a tight, sympathetic smile.
" Good," Hartford said, and made another note in the file. " Yet you never repaid your loan," he repeated.
Small spread his hands.
Hartford smiled grimly. " Be that as it may," he said,
" it doesn't repay what you owe."
" I know, but..." Edward Small began.
" No 'buts,' Mr. Small." Hartford said. He snapped his terminal closed and slid it out of the way, the better to lean across his desk and point an accusing finger at the startled Smalls. " There are no buts in this case, Mr. Small. The facts are clear. You incurred a debt. You refused to pay. Correct or incorrect?"
Beads of perspiration were beginning to pop out on Small's upper lip. " Correct," he said slowly, " but..."
" Ah-ha!" Hartford said, leaping up from his chair.
" ' But' again!" His eyes now glittered wildly in a manner that made Edith Small want to leave the room. Edward Small looked out of the corner of his eye for something with which to defend himself, but all he could think of was the " Eugene C. Hartford" nameplate on the desk. No good. Too light. But if he jabbed it into Hartford's eye...
Hartford, however, was not to be stopped. He stood behind his desk, quivering with barely-repressed fury.
" You, Mr. Small," he squeezed out through gritted teeth,
" are a slacker. A loafer. It is you and people like you that are the reason our country is in the shape it's in. You take and take and take, and you never think of giving back. Never! How hard would it have been for you to make a tiny payment--twenty-five or thirty dollars a month? A small enough price to pay to keep your country out of the fiscal toilet, wouldn't you say? But, nooooo, you had to go and think about yourself. It's always about yourself, isn't it, Mr. Small?"
It was clear now to the Smalls that they were not going to get out of this interview alive. They cowered in their chairs and gripped one another's hands until their knuckles were white. Hartford stepped around his desk, pinning the Smalls to their seats with his eyes.
" Well, the check has come, and it's time to pay up. The Department of Education has empowered me to collect that to which it is due. The books will balance, Mr. Small. Make no mistake. The books will balance!"
Whatever Hartford was about to do as he stepped forward, his arms raised above his head, his hands twisted into claws, Edward Small never found out. The gray functionary stopped abruptly and shivered like a wet dog shedding water. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. As suddenly as it had come, Hartford's fury passed.
" Anyway," he said, straightening his tie and moving back to his seat behind the large, carefully-polished desk,
" we intend to collect what we owe. With interest," he added sternly, flipping open his terminal.
Small, drenched in cold sweat and befuddled by Hartford's sudden shift in tone, had trouble focusing on what was being said. " Interest?" he asked. " What do you mean, interest? How much do I owe?"
Hartford frowned and punched some buttons. " Let's see," he said. " Your original balance was $650. With interest, penalties, handling fees, and initiation charges, that comes to..." --he squinted at his terminal-- " ...$44,900. And change. But we can leave it at $44,900 if you pay off the balance today."
Small opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He looked wildly at Edith, but, for once, she had no comfort to offer.
" I don't--" Small began, and cleared his throat to try again. " I don't have that kind of money, Mr. Hartford."
Hartford made a sympathetic sound. " I figured as much. Well, we can make arrangements, of course. How about a minimum monthly payment of $1100?" He smiled at Small, fingers poised over his keyboard, ready to type.
>Small passed a weary hand over his face. " I don't have that either, Mr. Hartford. Isn't there something we can do here?"
Hartford appeared to think for a moment before answering. " Well," he said at last, " there's public service."
Small looked puzzled. " Public service? You mean like digging ditches or picking up trash along the side of the road?"
Hartford flashed a cockeyed grin. " Kind of. Only what we have in mind is more like cyborging you to a loader shuttle at an asteroid mine out in the Belt. But only for a year," he added quickly, seeing the expression on Small's face. " Or, in your case," he said, looking at his terminal,
" more like fifteen months."
Small blanched. He clutched his chest and started massaging it rhythmically. He gasped for breath like a beached fish. A look of wild concern passed across Edith's face.
" Now see here, Small," Hartford warned, " don't go thinking that death releases you from your obligation to the Department of Education. Go back and read the fine print. All we really need is your brain!"
After a few moments, the attack subsided and Small regained something of his normal color.
" Well," he said, " it doesn't look like I have much of a choice. What do I have to do?"
" Just sign here," Hartford said, pushing a contract across the desk.

Eugene Hartford got home that evening feeling well satisfied with life. A loving family and meaningful work, he thought, make all the difference in the world.
" Honey, I'm home!" he called.
" In the kitchen," his wife said. " I'm just fixing dinner."
Hartford headed for the living room and his favorite chair. He switched on the wallscreen.
" Oh, Gene," his wife called, " there was a message for you this morning."
Hartford grunted noncommittally.
" It was from the Department of Motor Vehicles, I think," she went on. " Something about some unpaid parking tickets. Do you know anything about that?"
But Hartford didn't answer. He'd seen the stern Uncle Sunny looking down at him from the screen.

END

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