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The value of life measurable, acknowledged but never spoken, hidden, sad to say. Human capital, tangible, today a laborer is alive, a doctor, dead. The value of life defined as the product it can produce, what it can give back, can barter. Max the gunsmith. Mr. Maddox’s ability to construct. Ms. Bishop’s culinary skills. Emily, a warm body. Me? Me, willing to do what I’m told without complaint. Kitchen helper, run an errand, dole out food, sentry, or scoop poop in the stables, that’s me. A renaissance man. Replaceable. I need to increase my human capital. I need an idea.
What do we actually need to survive? Need, not want, but the essentials, bottom line basic elements to maintain existence. Well, air, water (we got more than enough in cisterns), food and some meat (available although limited), security (guard duty everyone’s responsibility), health, small medical staff just little medicine (most dated beyond the expiration date), one less doctor, warmth (guess we covered that one), and a social structure.
What we don’t need, more people. Bodies without value, without purpose. Dead weight. Everyday travelers, strangers arriving at the front seeking asylum, bringing nothing to the game. Each with a story, beaten, abused by a demeaning humanity. Individuals sneak in lacking the mark, proper identification, quickly driven out, usually with less than they arrived with. Compassion in short supply. Measurable value required.
An idea, over weeks, formed slowly, what if, if we offered access, if individuals exchange value, barterable capital, barterability? Then, and only then, permitted entering the facility to enjoy warmth and a meal. Carefully searched, monitored, served, and removed. Payment required up front to be sure.
Quietly shared the idea with Ms. Bishop, she floated possibilities among “leadership”, apparently considered. Naturally, the word got out and the kitchen staff wondered if they would be “paid” for the additional work. In reality, this was a moot point. Kitchen help often scarfed down a bite, unseen, during their tour of duty.
Conversations crept the idea forward as possibilities considered. Some saved, others thrashed. The ideas grew like mushrooms in the dark, slowly in whispers. Obviously, security added, enhanced, cooking staff required, cleanup crew identified. What about entertainment? I backed away, fading into the walls. Others receiving the credit.
A barter system, an exchange of materials for warmth, a meal, respite, formed. Personnel identified (basically everyone) and directed each Monday morning assigned by selecting a slip of paper.
The perfect solution. Starting date, January. Workers in place. Advertised by word of mouth to visitors arriving at the front who appear to have something to trade.
No one showed up. No one showed up for several days. Patience.
Finally, a ragged appearing man leading his horse approached the entrance.
“What’s this meal exchange?” Tattered appearance, floppy hat to mud-caked boots aged, not to mention a noticeable, let’s say, ambiance, asked.
“Simply put, in exchange for a bundle of wood or can goods or silver/gold bullion, we will tend to your horse and provide you warmth and a meal for the evening, even a game of chance, if so inclined.”
“No wood, can goods, or money,” he turns mumbling, walked away pissed off one day closer to death’s door, so I’m told, that’s life. I’m inside stirring a pot of “stew” hoping it tasted better that is smells. Inside, food and warmth for a price. A price most cannot afford, now forced to scavenge, steal, eventually desperation leading to death. The key, self preservation. Each in our personal hell, humanity is now indifferent to the suffering of others, a part of our DNA, harsh.
“Tell a friend,” the guard yelled.
Another day ends, nothing. Surely the stew will last another day.
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