This Future Scenario
by becTime: The Future.
Place: The old folks' home.
Bec is now old, like 31. (Work with me, people. When have I ever given the correct age?)
Bec: What the hell am I doing here with all of these old people?
Old People: Shut up!
Bec: Old people!
Old Person: You're 91!
Bec: Yeah, only if by ninety-one, you mean thirty-one!
Old Person: Oh, go break a hip.
Bec: Shut up, liver spot.
Old Person: Bectard!
Bec: Speaking of which, I remember back in the Second Great Depression, circa 2010, when I worked my butt off to finish my MA thesis and renew my lapsed teaching certification (which lapsed while I was on maternity/childcare leave, back when I thought I would be a mom forever) and there we were, a family of six and one dog, trying to get by in an America that was economically unfamiliar.
Old Person: Who are you talking to?
Bec: To whom are you talking?
Old Person: To you.
Bec: I was correcting your sentence. You ended with a preposition.
Old Person: I have grammar check for that.
Bec: (sighing) Anyway, so there we were, living in our very modest house, wondering if we'd make it through the year. One day, I get this call from a company. "Would you like an interview? We bought this list from a list of playwrights and writers who came very close to making it big until the country had to close down the arts due to budget cuts and increased homelessness among the socio-economic class formerly known as the middle class who used to support the arts."
Old Person Two: I think that was me! I think I called you!
Bec: Easy, Grannie. Let me finish speaking. So anyway, the call was from Pickle Pushers Incorporated. They wanted to hire me to find new uses for pickles, since there was a pickle surplus due to the inability to sell pickles, which by then had become a luxury item. Most Americans were walking The Path to Starvation. It was a slow path, as many were obese, but it was an effective path. By the time The Second Great Depression ended, Americans were in great physical shape. But I digress. So Pickle Pushers Incorporated offered me a job as a pickle pusher. They felt that with my teaching experience, writing experience, and experience as a camp director and staff developer, that I'd be the perfect person to sell the world on this new product called Pickle Putty. It was a mash of pickles that was supposed to work like spackle. Except that it didn't. But it was a job and it payed the mortgage. And back then, that's really all we cared about. Selling out our ideals in order to pay our bills. Sacrificing good teachers to stupid professions so food could be put on the table.
Old Person: Are you almost done with your speech? I think they're serving creamed spinach in the dining room.
Bec: Anyone wanna go halfsies on a pizza?
©Rebecca M. Ross 2010