Dystopia Chapter 7: Human Capital

The value of life, quantifiable, acknowledged but never spoken, hidden, perhaps. Human capital is tangible while a laborer is alive; a dead doctor is of no value. The value of life defined as the ‘product’ it can produce, what it can give back, can be bartered. Max the gunsmith. Mr. Maddox’s ability to construct and offer security. Ms. Bishop’s culinary skills. Emily… a warm body. Me? Me, willing to do what I’m told without complaint. Kitchen helper, errand runner, dole out food, sentry, or scoop poop in the stables, that’s me. A renaissance man. Replaceable. I need to increase my human capital. Intending to keep a low profile, blown. I need an idea.

Once, years ago, I was a teacher. There was a time that carried some weight. Respected, but now, in today’s world, not so much. In the Well, more of a liability. Outside the Well, the elite, those in a position of power… society’s elite, the 1%, employed teachers/tutors to educate their children. On the day my world turned upside down, Mr. Eldridge employed me. A ‘power broker’ with three offspring, a girl and two sons.

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 although of questionable quality), food and some meat (available although limited), security (guard duty everyone’s responsibility), health, small medical staff… just a little medicine (most dated beyond the expiration date), one less doctor, warmth (guess we covered that one), and a practicable structure.

And Scout Team membership. Answerable to the ‘leadership’ controllable by… an invisible hand. Their objective clear, to provide or else. Both independent and dependent. Responding to a system. They operate in the open until they… disappoint.

What we don’t need, more people. Bodies without value, without purpose. Dead weight. Everyday travelers, strangers arriving at the front gate seeking asylum, bringing nothing to the game. Each with a compelling story, beaten, abused by a demeaning humanity. Individuals sneak in lacking the proper identification, quickly driven out, usually with less than they arrived with. Compassion is in short supply. Measurable value required.

An idea, over weeks formed slowly. What if we offered access — if individuals exchanged value, barterable capital for it? Then, and only then, were they permitted to access the facility to enjoy warmth and a meal. Carefully searched, monitored, served, and removed. Payment is required upfront 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 were 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 received the credit.

A barter system… an exchange of materials for warmth, a meal, respite… formed. They identified personnel (basically everyone) and directed them each Monday morning 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?” asked the man — tattered, floppy hat to mud-caked boots, aged, with a noticeable, let’s say, ambiance.

“Simply put, in exchange for a bundle of wood or can goods or silver/gold bullion (rounds), 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, no canned goods, or money,” he said, turning and mumbling as he 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 tastes better than it 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 is 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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