The Seventh Job
A tale in a traumatized post-Trump America
Chapter 1
San Diego, CA: the near future
By most accounts, Samantha Daniels, daughter of the “renowned” Carl Arthur Daniels, was an accomplished person, privileged, and well-educated, but she hated speaking on the telephone. She took off her glasses and rubbed her nose. Texting would not do in this case.
“Don’t make me beg, Jerrod. You have to come. Please.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“It’ll be fun—we can dis all the billionaires.”
“I already do that.”
“And the food and the booze—you know they’ll be great.”
“Yeah, if the caterers don’t spit in the drinks.”
Samantha laughed.
“Look, Sam, it’s not you, okay? It’s your dad. And his bozo bride. I can’t do that stuff anymore. And, anyway, I hate weddings on principle.”
Inhaling, Samantha closed her eyes and replied in a low whisper. “ Yeah, . . . I totally get that.”
Chapter 2
The wedding reception was as advertised: posh, over-the-top, and the bride’s name itself was a reflection of this aesthetic.
Glitter adorned Crystal’s eyelids, and her lips were cherry red. She had a voice that would be the envy of many a cartoon character. But, as for looks—well, Barbie might well feel threatened. The vast majority of male guests were left quite breathless when Crystal waltzed across the room.
Samantha smiled and stepped forward. She complimented the bride on her dress.
“Thank you SO MUCH!” Crystal answered, putting two fingers on Samantha’s arm.
Samantha was entirely wasted. Only once before had she allowed herself such an indulgence—at the wedding of her best friend—a long and sad story which she rarely revisited.
Samantha dared another unsteady step closer to her newly minted stepmother. “I hope, Crystal, that you and my dad . . .” Something about the word “dad” struck Samantha as utterly hilarious. “I hope that you and my dad get exactly what you deserve.” Champagne sloshed over the brim of Samantha’s glass.
“That’s so sweet of you, Sam.”
Crystal was three years older than Samantha. Voluptuous, cheerful—ridiculously cheerful—although to suddenly become heir to a cool billion might well make one cheerful. In any case, this was how Samantha tried to make sense of the situation.
Samantha’s biological mother had died when she was just five. Since then, a score of women “friends” had passed through the Daniels household till, finally, Dana showed up. It struck Samantha, almost at once, that Dana was different—she had a brain—and a heart—she was the whole Oz package and, after a compulsory period of loathing, Samantha decided she might as well like her—even if she was drop-dead gorgeous.
Along with Dana came a son—Samantha’s age—also preternaturally handsome. Why, Samantha had asked herself, was everyone in her life abnormally handsome/beautiful? Except for her?
For the past few years, like it or not, Jerrod had become a fixture in Samantha’s life. Jerrod had his issues, to be sure, but, as far as stepbrothers went, Jerrod was . . . okay. A little impulsive—and Samantha doubted he’d ever read a book—but basically, okay—trending towards decent.
But Crystal—here, Samantha held nothing back in her estimation—this was blatant. She was a trophy wife, an old man’s tribute to Viagra.
And, of course, the way her father had treated Dana—Jerrod’s mom—why, of course, the woman would want out. Who wouldn’t?
Samantha remembered how two months before—to her, it seemed like just yesterday—Dana had just marched out that gilded double door, knocked a Ming vase into the swimming pool, and said goodbye to the whole thing—pre-nup be damned.
Most humans could only dream of making such an exit.
And yet . . . despite all that soap-opera garbage, something made Samantha come to her father’s wedding after all, his third. The reason was not clear. It certainly was not because her father had asked her to—God no. It was—as best Sam could explain it to herself—like the fascination of watching a train wreck or a fire. She wanted to confirm that this was really happening, that it wasn’t a cartoon, or the latest episode of some telenovela.
Chapter 3
ONE WEEK LATER
Here was another occasion when texts would not do, nor phone calls. Jerrod’s stepfather had decided he must confront his wayward charge in person.
“I want you to come,” Carl said.
To Jerrod, this sounded more like an order than a request. He crushed out his cigarette and put down his beer. “Why?”
“Because . . . you’re still part of the family.”
Jerrod wanted to laugh. He was broke. He lived in a shack. He had no prospects—he’d had once, but not now. “I’m not part of your family anymore, Carl.”
“Really? That’s still a thing with you? People get divorced all the time.”
Jerrod headed to the fridge for another beer. He did not offer one to his stepdad--former stepdad.
“And the fact is, Jerrod, you owe me. It was not a good look to be absent from my wedding.”
Jerrod opened his can of beer. He giggled to see how the whoosh of vapour brought him a moment of relief. “I was sick, Carl.”
“So you say.”
To Jerrod, the only pleasing thing about this “visit” was how uncomfortable it clearly made Carl to be standing in this dump that Jerrod called a home. Carl was constantly brushing dust off his shoulders, looking around for a place to sit, never succeeding. He probably had a limo outside waiting for him. Not probably; it was a certainty.
Carl resumed the interrogation. “Your stepsister managed to come.”
Jerrod decided he might as well stay in the kitchen. “Yeah, well, Samantha’s your daughter.”
“But here’s the thing, Jerrod: the pre-nup your mother signed included certain obligations (which I fully intend to honour, by the way), but it’s not one-sided; you have obligations too.”
Jerrod laughed freely now. Why not? “Yeah, yeah, like what?”
“You have to prove yourself worthy of your inheritance.”
“Worthy?”
“Yes.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
Carl snickered. “You’ve never read the document, have you?”
This was true. Why would he read his mother’s pre-nup? And what the hell was Carl up to this time?
Carl looked at his watch. Lovingly, Jerrod might have said. Jerrod didn’t know the details, but he knew this wasn’t just any watch, that it was probably worth more than Jerrod’s tiny apartment.
Carl looked back at Jerrod and suppressed a laugh. “I hear you have plans for a startup.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You’ll need seed money.”
Jerrod shrugged and shook his head. “So, what? If I come to your . . . unveiling--whatever you call it, you’re going to give me my money?”
“One thing at a time, sonny boy.”
“Let me say this again, Carl. I’m not your son. Not in this universe or any other.”
Carl turned to leave. “Come to Mt. Palomar, and we’ll discuss this further.”
“You’ll give me my money?”
Through the open door, Jerrod could see the limousine driver leaning against the car. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot.
It was warm outside, bright, another world.
Carl looked back into Jerrod’s hovel one last time. “Two PM. Don’t be late.”
Chapter 4
Mt. Palomar
Carl Arthur Daniels stood on a five-foot-high wooden platform and felt the wind blowing through his blond-grey hair. Also, the wind pushing encouragingly at his back. Over his shoulder, he caught sight of the American flag flapping in wonderful congruence against the sharp, blue skies of Mt. Palomar.
For Carl, it was a banner day. A crowd of several hundred stood below him: half of them, politicians, half, scientists, and a scattering of journalists (or what passed for journalists in these post-truth days).
The predatory wind almost drowned out the applause, but Carl could see the hand action nonetheless, the tiny back-and-forth, ant-like movements of his “supporters”. After all, the offer of three hundred million dollars was every bit as persuasive as a gun stuck to your ribs.
Carl smirked. So many ribs, he thought . . .
“Mr. Daniels,” the Mt. Palomar’s head of PR announced, “if you would do the honours?”
Carl accepted the bottle. It was his new wife’s idea—a silly extravagance. “I’ve always wanted to launch a ship!” she’d said. Carl had shaken his head; he already had a yacht; he wasn’t going to buy another.
“Come closer, ” Carl said.
Crystal was thirty-five years younger, but who was counting? Not Carl. And yes, she was a bimbo, but so what? It was easy for Carl to imagine a hundred young GIs in the audience, all ready to hoot and howl as his wife trotted in heels across the wooden stage.
Carl took Crystal’s hand and placed it over the bottle, placing his own grizzled hand over hers. They released the bottle. It swung in a Galilean arc towards the plasticized model of Mt. Palomar’s new telescope, or, to be precise, the instrument to be mounted on the telescope: the DEMI, the Daniels Exoplanet Mapping Instrument. Researchers told him that, with this instrument and its latest light occultation technology, the detection and confirmation of extraterrestrial life would, at last, be all but guaranteed. All thanks to Carl in his newest role as “philanthropic benefactor of science”.
The glass and champagne exploded against the model, causing a minuscule perturbation in the gravity field, and making Crystal cover her mouth, jump, and let out a tiny squeal.
If Carl had bothered to look more closely into the audience, hovering over faces like an intrusive drone, he would have spotted the occasional raised eyebrow, and even the odd scowl: among the cleaning crew, certainly, also among the senior researchers who just wanted to get back to work, and, most prominently, including his own daughter and stepson who would much rather be back in San Diego doing almost anything as long as it was not connected to him—Carl Arthur Daniels or “CAD” as many chose to call him.
