“—And with that signature the Cordon-Mcbride Act became federal law.”
“What will be the impact for the average American—“
Steven Durfenmeuller clicked the television off. His mouthful of coffee tasted a little more bitter. He looked around his apartment and wondered how long he would be able to keep it.
Bedroom, lounge and kitchen space, bathroom, and a large closet that the realtor had implied could be used as an office - and that had been fifteen years ago, before the polar collapse, when America had land to spare for all of its people. Today they tried to suggest it could be a bedroom.
The reality was there was still space. But that would mean building on all the lovely land owned by the people in power. That would mean… The door chimed. Steven left to meet his car-share for work.
§
‘Mr Durfenmeuller to cubicle six. Mr Durfenmeuller to cubicle six.’
The disembodied voice ended, but along the hall a holographic six flashed green outside one of the unadorned doors that filled either side of the long corridor.
He knocked on the door, then entered. A functional room with bare metal desk and two chairs. Nothing on the walls. The desk contained a holo-terminal and keypad projector. As small as the room was, he couldn’t help but look round to check no one else was there. Confused by being alone, he sat down to wait.
After five minutes he was still alone. The window on the back wall faced towards the Great Plains Sea, not that you could see it from this distance. Just block after block of buildings, slabs of steel and glass clawing at the sky. Sky bridges connected many of them at varying levels, some directly across, others rising diagonally between floors. It gave the view an Escheresque quality.
The door opened. He twisted round to see a pale, pinched faced, woman in the open doorway.
“Sorry, Mr. Durfenmeuller. We will need to ask you to return at a later date.”
The chair rocked as he stood up.
“What, I had to take a half-personal day for this? I don’t even know why I’m here, and now you are sending me away. What the hell gives?”
The woman looked at him, her eyes widened.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head and entered the room, glancing left and right along the corridor before closing the door. She stood against it, keeping a grip on the handle behind her.
“You don’t know why you’re here?”
“No.”
“But you know about the Cordon-McBride Act?”
“Of course.”
“That’s why you’re here. You must be occupying a space designated as family sized, by yourself.”
“But the apartment has been on the market for nearly six months. Wait, how do you know I live by myself? You have a my file memorized?”
She shook her head, jerky side to side movements that swung the ends of her neck-length bob.
“No, but if you were in a relationship, both of you would be here.”
“I still don’t understand why I’m here.”
The woman crossed to the desk, the keypad projector lit up and she began typing.
“What’s your first name, address, and social security number?”
He gave them, easing back into the chair as she entered the details and pulled the records up.
“You’ve had seven offers to purchase in six months,' she said, 'and rejected every one. You’re here to be informed of a compulsory purchase.”
“But the offers were all terrible, less than I paid fifteen years ago.”
She looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry Mr. Durfenmeuller. But they’re really tightening up. There just isn’t enough living space for everyone who needs it, no matter how fast, or how high, we build. Listen,” she leaned across the table and dropped her voice, “according to this, the last offer you had was thirty-thousand more than the compulsory price. If you’ve still got the realtor’s details, you should call them, see if the buyers are still interested.”
He nodded. So this was it. His home gone. Of course he’d need to sell. The compulsory prices were a farce. There was something rotten with the whole system. Surely price was meant to rise with demand. Yet still he would be taking eighty percent of the original purchase price. At least he owned it outright. Maybe he should buy a van and live in that. Or a boat. Give up the job and sail round the Alleghenies, go out to New York City - see if it was true about the old buildings still being inhabited up above the water line. He smiled at the thought.
“Mr. Durfenmeuller, are you okay?”
“Sorry,” he dragged himself back into the room, “sure, I’m fine. I’ll go give the realtor a call. Thank you.”
He reached over to shake her hand, she slid her palm down her pants leg before taking it. Her fingers slim and feminine in his chunkier grasp.
§
As the door closed she powered down the terminal, and took a breath. It had gone perfectly. Still, she'd been sure he could hear her heart beating. When he went silent she had worried he had figured it out. Thank goodness this was the last one.
She slid a cell from her pocket. “Marcus, it’s Kiera. He should contact you this afternoon.”
“Will he take the one-eighty?”
“Probably, but be ready to go another ten or twenty to get this signed by next month. When the new zoning system is announced, that property is going to triple in value. We must have it signed before then.”
“What if he complains?”
“His visit’s in the system. I’m using the login of a friend who’s technically on holiday. Her husband got a promotion and they're off to China. She’s not coming back. We’re covered, don’t worry.”
End
An original story and photograph by Stuart C Turnbull.