Special Smashwords Edition
2019
Dystopia USA
by
David W. Latko
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
2019: Dystopia USA
Special Smashwords Edition
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Copyright © 2011 by David W. Latko. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Cover Designed by: Tifda Press Design Group
Cover Art: Copyright Tifda Press
Edited by: Earl Merkel
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http://www.2019DystopiaUSA.com
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ISBN: 978-0-9800977-2-6 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-0-9800977-1-9 (Hardcover)
Original Hardcover Edition published by Tifda Press
2011.05.25
Acknowledgements
As always when a book goes from an itch in the imagination to the final expression of the thought in words-on-paper (or pixels on a screen), there are many people for an author to thank:
Thank you to my family, for graciously allowing me the time away from their daily lives while I researched and wrote this book.
Thank you to the many economists, political science professionals, historians and other experts who provided their input and expertise; all the accurate parts in this work are largely due to their expertise, while any errors or off-the-mark predictions are solely my own.
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to novelist Earl Merkel, my co-host on Money & More, the nationally broadcast radio show where we shared the airways for more than eight years together.
Earl’s experience and advice — along with his editorial skills — helped make this, my first foray into fiction, both memorable and delightful.
And perhaps most of all, I’d like to thank the many listeners, clients and kind souls who read my previous non-fiction books... and asked me, “So what’s next?”
Thanks to them, this book is.
—David W. Latko
Dedication
For my wife Jan, and my children
Tiffany and David Jr.
May the fiction that follows never become fact —
— for them or for our nation.
Chapter 1
September 7, 2019
Willowhaven, Illinois
The clock radio buzzed, an insistent clarion demanding wakefulness — or at minimum, something resembling it — from all within earshot.
Jennifer McKinnon groaned softly, surfacing from sleep with a reluctance familiar to anybody enslaved by the daily routine of life. She rolled her head toward the low dresser that served as a bedside table; the glowing-green numerals on the digital clock read 5:15 a.m.
Briefly, Jennie considered seizing the offending timepiece and flinging it at the bedroom wall. But it was a Sony — twenty-something years old, to be sure, but manufactured-to-last back when electronics were still marked “Made In Japan.” All you could find today was Chinese junk, and most of that was assembled in Burma, or Indonesia, or someplace worse. Besides, it had been a wedding gift — and as such, a sentimental memento of far more happy days.
Instead, she clapped her hand on the undersized button that silenced her tormentor.
Beside her, Jason McKinnon still snored softly. Jennie sighed; even after two decades of marriage, she marveled at her husband’s ability to sleep through all manner of external stimuli — most of which, she reminded herself, would have roused a hibernating grizzly. It still impressed her, though not always in a favorable way.
For a moment, she debated rolling toward Jason, pressing against him until her persistence roused him — and, with luck, the hidden grizzly within him. A little morning romp is all the entertainment we can afford these days, Jennie mused.
She eyed the clock again, and mentally shrugged.
Rushed sex is worse than no sex at all, she decided. And besides, I’m too tired to enjoy it anyway.
In the undersized kitchen, Jennie studied the refrigerator’s contents. There were eggs, an extravagance on which she and Jason had decided to splurge during their recent twice-monthly visit to the grocery. Her mouth watered with the remembered taste of them.
But there are only three left, she noted. Besides, they’re so expensive now. Wish we’d seen that coming, back when you could have the Grand Slam at Denny’s without taking out a bank loan.
Prudently, she instead selected three of the pop-tarts — two for Jason, one for her — that were encased in the silvery plastic envelopes the government used for most issued rations. Strawberry or raspberry? Jennie pondered, then shrugged. Doesn’t really matter; they both taste the same. Like artificially-sweetened cardboard.
She had just finished boiling the water for morning coffee when Jason appeared in the doorway, yawning. He was still in pajamas, Jennie noticed.
Jason kissed Jennie on the cheek, looking over her shoulder as she spooned the coffee powder into each of their mugs.
“Huh. Remember real coffee?” he murmured.
“You’re starting to sound like your father,” Jennie warned.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “But he had real coffee. And usually, a donut too.”
“Shut up and eat your pop-tarts,” Jennie laughed. “Or we’ll be late for work.”
Jason said nothing, but Jennie saw it in his eyes.
“Is there work today?”
“They told us yesterday,” Jason said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Schedule change for everybody, another one of those job-sharing things. I’m scheduled for Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He caught the expression that passed across Jennie’s face.
“It’s temporary, Jen. It was either that, or they’d have had to lay off people again.”
She nodded, turning away from him while she composed herself. It was the third “temporary” cutback since January at the financial services firm where Jason worked as a middle manager.
It was considered bad PR for any government-run company to actually fire people these days; instead, whenever possible the “solution” was to transform full-time positions into what then became shared, part-time work.
It was, the politicians assured them in speeches and news reports, both patriotic and fair. As an afterthought, they usually added “and temporary” — though in recent months, that postscript had become increasingly notable in its absence.
The most recent “patriotic, fair and temporary” executive directive from the government had lasted seven weeks; during it, the couple had strained desperately to make ends meet.
Jennie felt Jason walk up behind her, felt his arms encircle her waist.
“We’ll get through it, Jen,” he said.
“It’s Friday,” she reminded him, eyes still averted.
“I’ll get paid on Tuesday instead. It’ll be in dollars, too. They promised.”
Dollars, she told herself. Not the printed-up IOUs that were increasingly distributed instead of real money. Thank God; landlords won’t take government script for the rent anymore. But dollars are still good for something, even if they’re worth half of what they were Back In The Day.
“Back In The Day.”
She almost shuddered at the sound of it, even inside her own mind. Though she used it automatically, Jennie had come to loathe the phrase. Still, it was the term everybody used now: a way to remember how things used to be without actually calling it a crash, or a collapse, or the end of the world.
Because it wasn’t the ‘end of the world,’ exactly, she told herself, as she allowed her husband to voice unheard words of comfort. It was just the end of…
…hope.
She shook off the thought, and gently disentangled Jason’s arms from around her waist.
“We’ll get through it,” Jennie agreed, and hoped the reassuring smile on her face looked genuine. “Hey — want a glass of Tang with your pop-tarts? We’ve still got some from the last ration issue.”
She glanced at the clock on the small electric range; the kids would be getting up soon.
Jennie did a quick mental calculation: four days until Tuesday.
Carefully, so Jason would not notice, she returned one of the three silver envelopes back to its box.
Chapter 2
September 7, 2019
Harvard University
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Event: Annual Address to the World Council On Economic Recovery (WCER)
Speaker: Dr. David W. Latko, Chairman, WCER
TRANSCRIPT, Audio tape 1:
…So let us now hearken back to what, to many of us, must seem more like a dream than a memory. I speak, of course, of the “good old days” of 2011.
(General laughter from audience)