Two Sides of the Same Coin

This is my second NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, and this time I'm in Heat 24, genre: Sci-Fi, subject: a new law, character: a tax collector.

Any feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Thank you and good luck to all my fellow contestants!

Claudia Schneider sat in the dining room with her right elbow on the table, grinding her teeth, her right hand supporting her forehead. There was a remote control in her left hand, which she was holding so tightly that her nails thrust into her palm. Her gaze was fixed at the vintage tablecloth, light green, with hand-embroidered yellow roses on the linen, and her pulse was counting seconds together with the ancient clock ticking in the dining room, about five feet away from where Claudia was.

The lock clicked, and the woman stood up at once. As she was pacing down the stairs, she saw her husband, Steffen Schneider, dressed in his usual golfing attire: baggy black trousers, white sneakers with teal stripes, a navy baseball hat, and a dark blue T-shirt with the name of his golf club, “Berlin Golfspieler.” Steffen had already removed his sweater and sunglasses and was heading to the bathroom located on the ground floor when he saw Claudia’s face, frowned; her forehead showcased all her wrinkles, and she was biting into her lower lip as if it was a juicy piece of steak. Steffen raised his eyebrows, and she said in a lowered voice, “Looks like you’ve just lost your job.”

None of Steffen’s facial muscles moved, but his lips trembled for a second. He observed Claudia, asking, “The law[1] was finally passed, wasn’t it?” She nodded, and he added, “I knew it was coming soon. When will it be enforced?” “In the beginning of next year,” said Claudia. “What are we going to do? We have a son in Universal Academy[2]. How are we supposed to pay for it?” “We’ll figure it out,” Steffen approached his wife and hugged her. “What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll sell my aircar[3] and ride an automobile like all poor men do, and Dominick will come back home and go to a local school more suitable for our budget.”

Claudia sighed, “I guess. So there isn’t going to be any more cash next year?” “Nope,” Steffen replied. “It will be just a word soon. You’ll pay electronically everywhere by touching a payment-processing machine with your index finger.” “They also said on the news that we’d get paid electronically every day after work,” Claudia remarked. “That’s true,” nodded Steffen. “Listen, I don’t really want to talk about this right now. I’m tired and I’d take a shower.”

Eliminating cash and the whole banking system that existed on the Earth for hundreds of years, the new law was meant to make people’s lives easier moneywise; however, as far as Steffen Schneider was concerned, he was a tax collector, and he realized that he would be laid off as soon as the new law was enforced: the taxes would be deducted automatically at the same moment the salaries would be paid making his position useless. The law was no news for Steffen; on the contrary, he used to be its most passionate supporter. “But who knew it was going to happen so soon,” mumbled the tax collector to himself. “What do I do now?”

He went into the shower and let water trickle down his back washing off drips of sweat. The water was so cold that he felt as though his body was pierced by millions of tiny thin needles, which refreshed him and helped him collect his wits. “The first thing I have to do is to see how much money we have saved,” he pointed out loudly and sighed, “and then I will have to sell my antiques.”

Playing golf and collecting artifacts were Steffen Schneider’s two most favorite hobbies. His private exhibition held over a hundred of valuable objects, and amongst them were three he was especially fond of: a Kinetik[4] walkie-talkie used by the EMU[5] during the Alien War of 2090s, a Kindle, an e-book reader that had been in the family for over 200 years, and a Walkman audio cassette player of 1979. The tax collector knew the value and the historical significance of every antique he owned; Steffen even had his own authenticator, a device that took a picture of an object and then gave a brief note on its history and value, which one could print out and use as the item’s paperwork. “I can sell anything I want any time; there’s always a buyer for that stuff I have there,” he thought.

“Eureka,” he said suddenly. In a minute, he was out of the shower, in his robe and no underwear on, running to the living room jumping over two steps at a time.

“Claudia, are you there?” he asked anxiously, as he did not see his wife at once. “In the kitchen,” she replied. “I’m making you a turkey and mapleweed[6] sandwich.” “Yum,” Steffen licked his upper lip in anticipation. “I’ve just had such a brainwave; you must hear me out.”

“What is it, honey?” the woman asked impatiently. “Come on, I want to hear.” “I’m getting there,” Steffen was breathing with an effort. “God, why do we have such a huge house?”

“We planned to have lots of children, don’t you remember?” said Claudia, smiling. “Yes,” Steffen nodded. “What were you going to say?” insisted Mrs. Schneider. “Be patient,” he winked at her. “It’s top secret.” Mr. Schneider came near his wife, drew her towards him and whispered something into her ear. Claudia crinkled her nose and bit her lower lip. “Do you think it’s going to work?” she asked her husband. “Oh, I believe it is,” replied Steffen. “Anyway, hope’s all we got.”

 It was only five years later that Mr. Schneider’s business venture became known and applauded at all over the world. “When the financial reform devalued all our cash money, banks went bankrupt, and people were still confused by the new system of payments, one man, Steffen Schneider, wasted no time and made trillions of uces[7] in five years,” said Robert Donovan, the editor-in-chief of “The World Times[8],” to his assistant, Rebecca Lewes, leaning back in his office chair with his palms on the back of his head. “He’s the guy we need to interview for our next issue, and I want you to make sure it’s done as soon as possible.” “You can count on me,” said Rebecca. “I’ll look up his contact information and see when he’s available.” “That would be great,” nodded the editor. “Keep me posted.” “I will,” promised the woman and left his office in a minute.

It didn’t take long to find out everything about Steffen Schneider online, and in under half an hour a rookie journalist, who in just a few years leaped from the position of an intern to the job of Donovan’s personal assistant, called him up on her PSC[9]. “Mr. Schneider, I am Rebecca Lewes, a reporter from “The World Times” who’d love to interview you for our new issue,” the woman introduced herself. The person she was looking at on the screen of her PSC did not match her idea of what he should have looked like. He was a balding gentleman around the age of fifty with a plump face and a baby’s wide-open smile that exposed rows of straight snow-white teeth. “Would you be available to meet me for an hour some time this week?” she added filling in the pause she ignored while studying his features.

“Sure,” the man across the screen nodded. “When is the best time for an online conference with you, Miss Lewes?” “Actually,” said Rebecca pacing her words, “I was wondering if I could come to your office to talk to you and your staff. Would you mind if I did that?” “Not at all,” was the answer. “How about this Thursday?” “Thursday’s fine for me,” the woman agreed. “Give me the time and the directions.”

Two days later Rebecca was on her way to Berlin to “The Schneider House,” the office of the first in the world virtual pawnshop created and patented by Steffen Schneider in 2214 right after the Cash Cremation Law was enforced. She got into her aircar and punched in the directions into her operating computer. “2 hours 15 minutes till your destination,” the monitor informed. “I might as well take a nap,” thought Rebecca, yawning.

About two hours later, the reporter landed in the parking lot of an apartment building where she was told the Schneider’s office was. She looked around with journalistic curiosity. “Do people live in this building?” she wondered aloud. “Yes,” the answer was. “I own the whole building, and I rent apartments exclusively to young families and college students. From my experience, they always pay on time and never complain.” Rebecca turned around and saw Mr. Schneider in his dark blue suit with a light green tie. Gazing at the six feet tall woman in her mid-twenties with long dark hair in a ponytail and a large nose shaped as a bell, the businessman shook Rebecca’s hand and invited her to see his headquarters.

The office was the size of an old era two-bedroom apartment. There was a help desk with five customer service representatives, a cabinet occupied by the technical director, Louis Manning, who was in charge of displaying products in Schneider’s online store, and the office of the CEO where Steffen or his son Dominick, who had already graduated from the Universal Academy, managed money transfers and surfed the Internet for antiques to purchase and resell.

“We have a warehouse on the ground floor where we keep our goods,” explained Steffen, “and our shipping couriers work on call.” He paused for a second to see if Rebecca was listening, and then continued, “When a person wants to pawn or sell something that’s authenticated, they take a three-dimensional picture of the object and show me the paperwork through their PSC. If I approve, they mail it to me via the Light Speed Mail, and the product gets to my office within 24 hours from any destination in the world.” “Wow, that’s really fast,” nodded Rebecca. “Yeah, one of the greatest advantages of my business is that I always use the Light Speed Mail even if it costs me more money,” Mr. Schneider said with a proud smile. “When a package arrives and I confirm its delivery with my fingerprint, the customer gets paid, and the other way around if I sell an item.” “Cool,” Rebecca commented. “It’s an easy system made possible by the Cash Cremation Law. It had never been that simple to get money for antiques that were collecting dust in someone’s house.”

As her PSC was equipped with digital voice recorder and she knew that every random word he dropped might spice up her story, Rebecca let Steffen talk as long as he wanted. Being a reporter was her passion rather than a job, and the woman didn’t mind spending hours hunting an interviewee or sniffing out the details of a scandal she was investigating. Similar to a chef’s gourmet dish, Rebecca’s every article was flavored with meticulous knowledge of the subject, elicited details, eloquent quotes and the right proportion of her own judgment and objectivity. Eavesdropping was her professional skill, and thus, as she was passing by Linda Hoffman, “a senior customer representative,” who was on the phone with a buyer, she couldn’t help overhearing.

“We have a three-day window,” explained Miss Hoffman to a young woman on the screen of her PSC. “If you don’t like what you bought, send it back to us via Light Speed Mail, and as soon as we receive the item, you will be reimbursed for the money you spent including any shipping costs.” “That’s great,” said the woman cheerfully. “Then I’m definitely ready to order that chandelier I was asking you about.”

“Is there a large market for antiques?” wondered Rebecca when Miss Hoffman finished consulting the customer. “You’d be surprised,” the woman exclaimed. “It’s a great investment, especially that it’s impossible to fake an antique with all this modern day technology.” “I see,” said the reporter leaving the help desk and returning to Mr. Schneider. “I’d like to take a look at the warehouse if you have someone to show me around.”

Three hours later after wandering through the shelves of antiques about which she knew as much as their tags said and chatting with the technical director, who exhausted her with never-ending pictures of products “The Schneider House” had in stock, Rebecca admitted to Mr. Schneider and herself that she got all she needed for her story. “I’d like to ask you something before I leave,” she said. “Go ahead,” Mr. Schneider permitted. “Is there anything else you think I should know?” this was always her final question for an interview. “Yes,” said Steffen. “Despair is often THE road to success. Had I not realized that losing on the tails meant winning on the heads, I would have still been a tax collector everyone dreaded and hated, laid off, humiliated and deprived of my outstanding salary.”

Rebecca smiled at his pompousness and put a period at the end of his quote. It was going to be her first front-page feature article ever.

---

[1] the financial reform of 2214, commonly known as “The Cash Cremation Law” because it was followed by mass burning of cash by bankers who were left bankrupt by the new legislative act

[2] the most prestigious and expensive university on the Earth.

[3] a computer-operated vehicle, smaller and lighter than a jet, used for traveling by air invented in 2197 with wings similar to those of an airplane

[4] a brand popular in the late 21^st century

[5] Earth Military Union

[6] a bitter-sweet plant imported from Forotinox, a planet controlled by the EMU since the end of the Alien War

[7] the Universal Currency of the Earth, which replaced all national currencies after the financial reform of 2103

[8] the federal online newspaper (with its headquarters in New York City) of the United Nations of the Earth, into which all countries of the world were blended by the law of 2100

[9] palm-sized computer, a modern version of the 21-century smartphone no bigger than a person’s hand

Bitten by an "It's-All-about-Me" Bug

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Living in a huge city like New York, we can't avoid getting in contact with lots of people every day. Walking through Times Square is often challenging, and so is getting into a crowded train during a rush hour. It only seems logical that being in a crowd on a regular basis would teach us, New Yorkers, good manners; however, people often do things that are disrespectful towards others as though till this day they had lived alone in the woods or on a deserted island where they were bitten by an "It's-All-about-Me" bug, a dangerous insect whose venom makes one believe that the world is spinning around him or her.

Have you ever met a waiter who hands a girl whose boyfriend just went to the bathroom his phone number on the back of another customer's receipt? Do you know a person who starts a "nice weather" conversation with someone who's on the phone ignoring a possibility that they maybe calling abroad? And of course, you have seen a "big mouth" in a restaurant, subway car or a bus, who is talking to a friend as though addressing fifty people at once. All of those and many more annoying and disrespectful New Yorkers are walking around thinking that there's nothing wrong with being the center of the world, all because of the bug that bit them.

You can't blame them for getting sick; however, if you realize that you are one of those unhappy individuals whom the bug's venom made selfish and arrogant, there are a few things you can try to cure yourself from this contagious but not life-threatening disease:

1. Imagine yourself in the other person's shoes. If a combination of organ music produced by your empty stomach and the smell of a delicious wrap consumed next to you in a bus doesn't make you feel like the day went well, don't do it to someone else.

2. Learn a few useful words like "I'm sorry," "excuse me" and "please." They can make any awkward situation better because they show that you maybe arrogant, but you're doing your best not to be disrespectful and you mean well.

3. Occupy yourself with a magazine or a music player. Not only will you learn something new or enjoy your favorite song (at a reasonable volume, please), you will also give people around you a silent break.

4. Study body language. If a person has headphones and/or sunglasses on, he or she doesn't want to be bothered. I'm sorry, but there's no other reason to wear sunglasses in a subway car when the train's going into a tunnel.

5. If someone is rude to you, ignore it. Say "excuse me" and move away from them. People will often provoke you to start a fight. Don't give them a chance to spoil your day. You will probably never see them again in your life, so don't waste your energy on cursing them out.

And remember that if you are mean to people, you share the bug's venom with them, and on the contrary, when you acknowledge that there's another human being who wants peace and a moment of silence while eating at a cafe or taking a subway home, you release some of your negativity and become healthier and happier .

Living Social in New York: Good Comedy Still Exists

Image credit: dangerfields.com

If you walk along any avenue or street in Manhattan, there are lots of restaurants on every given block. There is always something going on in New York City; unfortunately, we don't always have the funds to go out and have a nice time. Realizing this, someone decided to create Living Social, which supplies you with great deals every day, usually 50% off their regular prices, if not more than that. Driven by the desire to save money and seduced by exciting offers, you often get vouchers to places you would have never visited otherwise, and that's the beauty of it: you discover new restaurants, dance studios, beauty salons, clothing stores and many other businesses in the metropolitan you live in.

Lots of choices you have, indeed. However, what can be better than a $5 for two comedy show tickets to Dangerfield's, proud to be "voted #1 comedy club in America," as well as "the longest running comedy club in the world?" Compare to $20 per person cover charge without the discount, and you definitely start feeling good about the deal you are getting from Living Social.

As the venue is located on First avenue between 61 and 62 streets, a walking distance from the entrance to Central Park and a variety of fancy hotels in Midtown Manhattan, it is only logical that the majority of the public are tourists from different parts of the United States and the world. The location is convenient and easy to find; the sign is large and can be seen from a few blocks away as you are walking towards the venue.

When you come into the club, you are welcomed by the staff and seated at small tables with lamps lit by candles with tiny orange couches to sit on, which are just comfortable enough for two skinny people. There are also bigger tables available if you are not a couple but a group. The lampshades are made of paper, and there are inscriptions all over them, which make you think about all the people who had been at the club before you. The decor is old-fashioned, and you feel that the place surely has a history to it. The size is good to accommodate up to 100 people, but not enormous enough to lose its coziness, the feeling of intimacy that allows the performers to put their microphone away if they wish. 

After you sit down and take a quick look around, your attention switches to the menu. You notice that they serve food, including snacks like french fries, salads and mozzarella sticks, as well as entrees like fish and chips and other platters. There is a menu for specialty drinks as well, and since you are obliged to get the minimum of two drinks anyway, there is no reason why you shouldn't try one of those frozen tropical cocktails or more appropriate for the winter Irish, Italian or Mexican coffees. The waiters are polite and quick, and you will usually get what you ordered fast, which helps when you are hungry or thirsty. 

By the way, the service is omniscient but not imposing; you are only gently reminded that you need to keep up with the two drink minimum if the show is running to its end, and you happen to turn into a slow drinker all of a sudden. The 15% gratuity is included, but if you do like the way you were served, you can always throw in some extra bucks as a token of appreciation for the great job they did. 

Even though you immensely enjoy your food and drinks that are delicious but pricey (over $10, on average), the main reason why you came to Dangerfield's is the comedy show, and here comes the first comedian. To your great surprise, after hearing lots of boring vulgar jokes at other places in New York City and being convinced that good comedy is gone forever, the performers are indeed witty and funny at the club, with the subjects like American reality, New Yorkers and their grieves, and simply our everyday life as we know it. The language does get rough at places; however, the "f-words" are not put into every sentence, and unlike monologues of lower quality that talk about nothing but sex and drugs you can often hear live or on TV, the speeches here are based on a sane sense of humor you can easily relate to. Therefore, even though every comedian gets as much as about 30 minutes, you hate to see them go unless, of course, they picked on you during their monologues and you feel like it could be a good idea for them to switch their attention to someone else. 

And as the show is finished, you wonder how it is that two hours of your time vanished so quickly. Blaming it on the two drinks minimum and the state of excitement the jokes of the comedians put you into, you are already thinking about when you are going to come back, even though you are still there sipping the last drops of your cocktail. If you are planning to visit the club again in the nearest future, be aware of special deals and discounts for weekdays and even weekends Dangerfield's website offers, so that you will be even more enticed to come back and check out more funny people performing there.

And the best thing about the experience is realizing that there still is good comedy out there in New York City, and that's always such a great feeling when you find a place worthy of returning.

Click here to sign up for Living Social and start discovering great deals in your area

About Russian Names

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It is amazing that the more we know about a subject, the more familiar and comfortable we are with it, the more difficult it is to explain it to others, less aware and less accustomed. I have been living in New York City for almost five years, and there have been lots of questions about my country and my culture, and I tried to avoid them, for the most part, and I did so not because I wanted to deny who I am, but simply due to the fact that it is surprisingly hard to speak about familiar things. Also, when they are dear and personal to us, this complicates the matter even more.

However, as the questions become more frequent, and explaining gets less pleasant, I think this is the time I started spelling out my knowledge, as it will both help me to grow more comfortable talking about my cultural heritage, which I love very much, and to answer some of the questions I failed to give a clear explanation to in a personal conversation, and it seems only natural to me to start with the first thing we say when we introduce ourselves to a new person - our name.

As far as Russian names are concerned, they often seem too complicated to foreigners. Indeed, they are long and odd; for example, my full name is Ekaterina Aleksandrovna Lalo, totaling 26 letters. Luckily, my last name is short and unusual, on the contrary to other, more common Russian family names like Gorbunova or Ivanova; otherwise, there would have been many more letters to it.

"This is insane, " you may think. "Why have such a complicated name?"

The truth is, it is not as illogical as it seems when you look closer into it, and as I will guide you through my own name, you will hopefully become just as familiar with Russian names as I am myself.

First thing you should know is the structure of a Russian name, which may be divided, for your convenience, into three parts: first name, patronymic and family name. First name is given to us by our parents; it is dictated by their personal choice. Whereas in many countries, a male child is expected to have  his father's first name, in Russia choosing a first name for a baby boy or girl depends solely on his or her parents' preference, although it is common to name a child after a grandfather, grandmother or any other relative.

As far as I know, since my great-grandmother from my mother's side and my grandmother from my father's side were namesakes, my parents first wanted to name me Maria to honor both of them. In fact, when my mother gave birth to me, and we were both still in the hospital, my father would write notes to her mentioning me as Maria. Later on, something made them change their mind giving me the name of the famous Russian empress, Ekaterina (or Catherine) the Great.

When it comes to Russian first names like mine, they are usually long and difficult to use in our every day life. Therefore, it is common to shorten first names of people we know, which shows that we are either related or are familiar and friendly with them. Hence, my long and pompous name Ekaterina basically exists only on paper or in a formal conversation, which I will elaborate on later, and instead, most people call me Katia.

By the way, it is interesting that when we address our neighbors or relatives, who are older than we are, we usually call everyone an aunt or an uncle, no matter if they are or not our parents' siblings, and when doing so, we don't use their full name but its short variant. For instance, for a seven-year old boy next door I would be "aunt Katia," even though I am not related to his mother or father. This curious combination expresses both respect by calling an older person "aunt" or "uncle" (even if they are only one or two years apart from us, in some cases), and familiarity given by the short name.

However, if you are not familiar with a person or you are not on the same social level, you will address them by not one, but two of their names: their first name and their patronymic, which derives from the person's father's name and is a substitute for a middle name, which we are not given. For example, as my dad's name is Aleksandr (or Alexander, in English), my patronymic, the substitute of a middle name common in many other countries, is Aleksandrovna, which shows that I am Aleksandr's daughter, by means of the suffix -ovna (-ovich for boys, a gender-based variation), in my case, and -evna (-evich, a phonetic variant for -ovich) in patronymics like Sergeevna or Yurievna.

Whereas calling me "aunt Katia" implies respect and familiarity at the same time, if one addresses me as "Ekaterina Aleksandrovna," this means either that they don't know me very well, or that I am in a different social role (i.e. a teacher, a boss, or sometimes even a mother-in-law are called by two names). You may notice that a full form of the first name is always used with a patronymic. When we first meet someone in a formal setting, we usually learn their two names unless they are uncomfortable and want to make the situation less formal. It may happen that a boss would ask to be called by his or her first name only in order to have less distance between him/her and the staff.

Speaking of that, it is crucial to note that how we introduce ourselves to people sets the tone of our relationship or interaction making it more or less formal, friendly or rather official. Occasionally, a person might be called by his or her patronymic only, as a joke, a friendly reproach or a sign of familiarity.

Having discussed the most difficult part of a Russian name, all we have left before this conversation is over is mentioning family names, which children get from their fathers. It is curious that we, Russians, end up getting two things from our fathers, our "middle name" and our last name. If a child's father is unknown or is not worthy of mentioning according to the child's mother, she may choose to give the baby her father's last name and patronymic, and orphans are given random last names and patronymics if they have none, but there should not be a child who doesn't have all three names.

Out of all three names, a person's family name is more likely to be changed when it comes to a woman. When she gets married, she might choose or not to take her husband's last name to show that she belongs to his family now. This happens all over the world, although it becomes more common nowadays for women not to change their maiden names after marriage.

However, if a woman marries someone called, for instance, Boris Ivanovich Petrov, and she decides to take his last name, she will have a feminine form of his surname, Petrova. It is exactly the same name legally, and each of the male children they have will be Petrov, whereas each of their daughters will be Petrova. Gender difference is really the only thing that makes Russian names unique compared to American names, and if one lives in New York, Petrov and Petrova are legally different names. Therefore, as I know from many of my Russian acquaintances who got married abroad, they often choose to be the Petroffs, or Mr and Mrs Petrov on paper sacrificing their cultural tradition in order to avoid legal disagreements in the country they reside in. This would have never been a problem for my parents had they  registered their union somewhere else but Russia because my last name does not have gender variations: my father's name is Lalo, and so is my mother's and mine. Not all surnames do; it usually depends on the origin of the family name. Ukrainian names are often unchangeable, and so are names of foreign origin. I am still unsure about to which category my own name belongs; it is uncommon for both Russia (where my mother is from and where I was born and raised) and Ukraine (where my father came from).

Thus, I have finally said everything I know about Russian naming customs, and I am glad to share the information with those who have always been curious why our full names are so horribly long. All I would like to add is that for Russians, a name is situational. Whereas for an English-speaking John, the only one other variation of his name is Johnny, for Russians there are at least five forms of a short name (like Masha, Mania, Marusya and many others for Maria) that may show love, disregard and a lot more. Therefore, it is common that every other person calls me in a different way, and how my friends address me is not the same my university teacher used to. When I lived in Delaware, I was often called Kate, which was easy to pronounce and to remember. Later on, when I moved to New York, my boss at the supermarket I worked at the time called me Katrina, and the name stuck with me. I liked it a lot, and I do believe that it expresses who I am, unpredictable like a hurricane, soft and strong-willed, sophisticated and full of life. Also, it has no levels of formality in it, which would have been unclear for people around me. And finally, it will always be associated with New York City for me, the place where I am a guest, but where I keep discovering who I truly am as an individual.

Still, on paper and in my writing I will always be Ekaterina Lalo, proud of my roots, my language and my country no matter where in the world I live. Circumstances change, but who you are doesn't even when how you are and what you are like does.