it was a cold morning.
the heat from the sidewalks seemed to be less than 100 percent.
jose waited for the van, which as usual was late.
and looked out at the endless plain of tall buildings that contained the living quarters of the citizens.
jose was not a citizen, but one of the last workers.
one of the 2.3 percent of the human population that still had a job..
he took pride in the fact but was careful not to show it.
and always nodded enthusiastically at union meetings when assured that the goal of 100 percent citizenship was on the horizon.
and that jose and his fellows, the last workers, would finally be rewarded for their heroism.
the bus arrived, a little less late than usual.
there were usually two other persons on the van when jose got on it.
zambo the gutwrencher, and howard johnson.
zambo was jose’s best friend, and jose hated him.
is that not always the way?
jose suspected zambo of being an informer for the union.
zambo was always making little remarks hinting, only hinting, that maybe 100 percent unworkerhood was not such a great idea after all.
of course zambo always stopped short of advocating outright wilsonism.
at any rate, zambo was not on the van on this particular chilly morning.
but howard johnson was.
howard was a great guy, and everybody liked him and wanted to be just like him.
jose wished with all his heart and soul that howard, and not zambo, could be his best friend.
but the union, in its infinite wisdom, had decreed otherwise.
jose nodded to howard, before taking his assigned seat.
seat number 33, out of 68.
the bus chugged away, leaning the drone residences behind.
out on to the desert , where the work building stood low and lonely.
another day, another something or other.
jose coud never remember what the other something was.
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