Jennifer Government: A Novel (4 page)

H
e thought he’d go to Sweden, because of the ski bunnies. He imagined days of riding steep white slopes by day, and gentle white curves at night. But the travel agent told him it was impossible to work there: Sweden was a non-USA country. Billy couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even think countries like that existed anymore. “Oh, sure,” the agent said, who was a girl Billy had dated in high school. She still chewed gum. “There are plenty. Mostly places you don’t wanna go, of course.”

“So where can I go?”

“How about Singapore? Singapore’s real nice. I can get you a great price on—”

“Not Singapore,” Billy said. He was pretty sure this travel agency had some kind of deal with Singapore; they tried to talk everyone into visiting. “I need somewhere with mountains. I want to go skiing.”

“Skiing?” Her eyes widened.

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Okay, then.” She poked at her computer. “Well, there’s Alaska, that’s right up north. And Canada, of course.”

Billy was hoping for something more exotic. “Anything farther away?”

“Okay, lemme see here.” Billy waited while she flicked through screens. “You wanna go to New Zealand?”

“Where?” Billy said.

B
ut he liked New Zealand, he really did. At first he was apprehensive: it was so far away, tucked down in the bottom of the world like something Australia coughed up. But he landed in Auckland Airport and the people spoke American and there were McDonald’s and Coca-Cola machines everywhere and he felt relieved: it was a USA country, after all. He was feeling good when he asked the hotel concierge about the best places to ski, and then the guy laughed so hard he had to sit down. “
Ski
season?” he said. “Buddy, you’re too late. It’s
spring.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” the concierge said. “You know the Southern Hemisphere has backward seasons, right?”

“You’re shitting me,” Billy said, but the concierge wasn’t: the concierge was telling the truth. He couldn’t believe it. Spring in October! Who would have thought?

Hoping to catch the last vestiges of snow, he caught a ferry to New Zealand’s South Island and a bus down to Invercargill, where it was freezing all year round. On the bus he met some backpackers from Massachusetts. They wanted to go somewhere exotic, they told Billy; they wanted something different. “We’ve done Laos, Thailand, everything,” one of the girls said. “You know the first thing we saw when we got off the boat at Ko Phangan? A Starbucks.” She looked disgusted. “Everything’s Americanized. We should have stayed home.”

“Yeah, right,” Billy said, although he didn’t see what was wrong with being able to get good coffee in Thailand. The girl was pretty cute. “I’m here for the skiing. We could get a package together, maybe—”

“Skiing, uh-uh,” the other girl said. “No sanitized experiences, thank you.” She wasn’t so cute.

He disembarked alone in Invercargill and walked the main street looking for a cheap hotel. But first he came across an NRA office: a squat, professional-looking building with
National Rifle Association Ltd
embossed in black letters on gray. He looked at it for a while. Then he went in. He was browsing the bulletin board for local shooting ranges when the receptionist said, “Would you like to join the local chapter, sir?”

Billy looked at her. She was young and blond, wearing a blue sweater. It fitted her very nicely.

“If you’re going to be staying in town.” She smiled. Crumpled on the desk beside her was a ski parka.

“I’m staying,” Billy said.

H
e was on an NRA shooting range east of Invercargill when they approached him. There were two of them, both wearing blue suits. Neither of them seemed to be carrying guns. Billy nodded at them as he reloaded his rifle. He’d bought it at member discount prices: a Colt M4A1 carbine, sleek and heavy, thirty rounds to a clip.

“Nice shooting,” one of the men said, smiling. He had a detectable accent, which was rare: most New Zealanders just sounded as if they were from California. His hair was slicked back. Both men were wearing sunglasses.

“Thanks.” He slotted the next clip in. “You guys shooters?”

The man glanced at his companion. “Yeah, you could say that. You’re Billy Bechtel, right? You’re new here?”

“Yep.” He fired. A stuffed dummy a hundred meters away spat a puff of feathers from its head.

“Funny, I didn’t know Bechtel had anything going on down here.”

Billy looked at him. The truth was he wasn’t Billy Bechtel anymore, of course: he was just Billy, unemployed wanderer. But it was too embarrassing to announce yourself without a surname. People thought you were a bum. “I’m on vacation.”

“Right. Seeing the sights, eh? Getting to know a few of the locals?”

He wondered if they knew he’d dated the NRA receptionist. They’d gotten a little hot and heavy last night in her car. Maybe one of these guys was her father. He tightened his grip on the rifle.

“Well, Billy, we’d like you to work for us.”

“Uh-huh. And who are you?”

“The NRA,” the man said, and smiled broadly. He was creeping Billy out a little. “You’d be surprised what we’re doing these days, Billy, you really would. The NRA isn’t just about pamphlets and gun shows anymore.”

“We need men like you,” the second guy said. “Men just like you. And we pay well.”

“Yeah? For what?”

The man turned and looked out at the target. Billy could see the dummy reflected in his sunglasses. “That’s some nice shooting, all right. That’s really nice shooting.”

“Woo!” a broker said, sloshing champagne on his arm. “Shit! Sorry, Buy.”

“That’s okay.”

“Come on, loosen up.” She took his arm. “They’ll approve your trades. I’m sure they will.”

Buy was sitting on one of the desks, his tie slung. He had averaged four hours’ sleep for the last five days. Around him, brokers drank and laughed and shook hands. It was 6:15 P.M., Friday, October 31. The financial year was officially over. “I am loose.”

“Leave him alone,” Cameron said, putting a hand on Buy’s shoulder. Cameron was the floor manager, and he would be sacking Buy in a few minutes, Buy suspected. “The guy’s put in a heroic week.”

“Well, the suspense is fucking killing me,” the woman said. “When do we find out if they’re canning him?”

“I’m expecting—”

“Don’t say you’re expecting the call any minute.”

“Lisa,” Cameron said. “As soon as I know, I’ll announce it.”

“Well, I think you did the right thing, Buy. That was a gutsy move, promising to eat the commission if the stock fell. Really gutsy.” She looped her arm through his. “A few of us are hitting the bars tonight. Want to come? I think you should.”

“I just want to go to bed. But thanks.”

“Okay.” She took her arm back. “See you Monday, I hope.”

When she left, Buy said, “Am I fired?”

Cameron considered. “Depends whether they want to make an example out of you more than they want to book your trades.”

“Maybe they’ll only disallow Mutual Unity,” Buy said. “Just enough to push me under quota.”

“Buy, we don’t fire everyone who misses quota.”

“Who missed quota but wasn’t fired?”

“I’m saying theoretically,” Cameron said. “It’s not automatic, is what I mean.”

“Oh,” Buy said.

“Cameron? Call from Head Office.”

Everyone stopped talking. “Thank you,” Cameron said. His office was up some stairs and glass-encased, so he could look over the trading floor. Everyone watched him ascend.

“Well,” Buy said. “It’s been fun working with you.” He felt giddy.

There was a knock on glass. He looked up. Cameron had his phone tucked under his ear. He gave Buy a thumbs-up.

He felt himself go faint. People surrounded him, slapping
him on the back and shouting. Relief rushed through him like a physical thing and then he couldn’t stop laughing.

A
ll he wanted to do was sleep, but halfway home the Chad-stone Wal-Mart mall called out to him. He deserved something to celebrate after today, didn’t he? He deserved something really expensive. Buy turned the wheel.

Inside the mall, he found a bank of ATMs installed at the base of a series of mezzanine floors, like peons gathered to stare up at a glass sky. A Mercedes-Benz dealer was conducting a raffle in the center, and Buy looked at the cars with interest. He had two cars already, but his Saab was no longer current-year. Maybe he deserved a new car.

A dark-haired schoolgirl was taking forever at the terminal. He peered over her shoulder. She was getting out a loan. He sighed.

The girl glanced at him. “I can’t get it to work.” With alarm, Buy saw tears forming in her eyes. “I’ve been trying—I really need—”

“Maybe you should try a different machine.”

“None of them will loan to me!”

“How much do you need?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Oh.” He smiled sympathetically.

She stood there a moment. Buy thought she might be about to scream. Then she walked away.

He stepped up to the machine and inserted his card. His current balance was a little over a hundred thousand. On impulse, he looked after the girl. She was pushing through shoppers, heading for the exit.

He pulled out five thousand: fifty hundred-dollar bills. Then he hurried after the girl. “Hey!” She didn’t turn until he put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. Here.”

“What?”

“It’s a present.” Her eyes widened, staring at the cash. Buy felt elated, better than he had in months. “Go on, take it. Get yourself something nice.”

Her hand crept up and wrapped around the notes. “Why—why would you do that?”

“I’m celebrating.”

“Thank you so much! Oh my God, thank you
so
much!”

“What’s your name?”

“Hayley! I’m Hayley McDonald’s!”

“I’m Buy,” he said. “Have fun.”

Hack was jumpy as hell tonight, and he was driving Violet nuts. She was working sixteen-hour days to finish her software, and with two days to deadline she didn’t have time to talk him out of his tree again. There was a lot riding on this: it was her big chance. Three months of coding based on a year’s worth of research and an idea so brilliant it had stopped her dead in the street one day; she couldn’t throw that away to deal with Hack’s latest drama.

Hack started tapping his foot, jiggling her laptop. “Hack.
Please.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked at her plaintively.

“It’s not your problem, Hack.”

“I’m killing somebody,” he whispered.

“You’re not. You just passed on a job. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

He started jiggling his foot again.

“Have a drink,” Violet said. “Go down to the supermarket, buy some drugs.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then do something else! I don’t have time for this!”

He looked at her screen. She resisted the urge to snap the lid shut. “You working on your program?”

“Yes. The security software.” This wasn’t strictly accurate, but it was less complicated than the truth, which was:
the virus
. Nontechnical people had trouble appreciating Violet’s vision.