Data Dump IV

Seems I'm not alone in being alone
A hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
-Police, "Message in a Bottle"

(* * *)

Dear Daria,

I'm sorry I took so long to answer your letter. It was certainly not easy thinking about how much the world has changed since both of us were in high school, much less thinking about the divergent paths our lives have taken.

It is with deep regret that I have to say that I can't help you and that I have no home to offer you. Right now, I already have three people living with me: my sister Rachel, her husband Bill and my cousin Sarah. My parents have others living with them as well. I hate to say this, but there's no room at the Inn.

I hate to start the letter off with a downer, but I thought that you'd want the bad news first. At least, I can tell you about myself since you were kind enough to ask.

Currently, I'm an associate dean at Turner University. Yep, I've returned to my old alma mater. We still have students, believe it or not, but not many - we're one of the few surviving colleges that are primarily African-American. Our campus looks a lot like Grove Hills, if you remember the trip we took long ago. The maintenance workers are robots, but other than that, we still have actual professors. Maybe not for long, as there's very much financial pressure to begin using robot instructors. I'm doing all I can to put a stop to it, but I can only fight a delaying action. I suspect that many of our professors will be joining you soon.

I can already see the difference in the students I get. Mind you, these students are a lot better off than the Turner student of a few decades ago, but they are only better off financially. This is the first generation that has been raised by robots. They know facts but they don't know interpretations. They're not critical thinkers. In some ways, they're a lot smarter than you or I ever were; in others, they're astonishingly naïve and ignorant. I hope that some exposure to our human instructors will cultivate a passion for the liberal arts that is now almost extinct.

That's enough about my job. I'm not married. Too busy. Besides, Rachel and Bill are almost children. I can at least tell you in a letter what I'm afraid to tell them to their face. They're moochers. They're not interested in work and haven't been interested in it since they've moved in; they're quite happy to eat me out of house and home and complain about the lodgings and about what a lousy sister I am. Rachel used to be a teacher, Bill used to be a businessman, but now they're both ghosts. They watch TV and complain about minor inconveniences. I'd hurl her out of here, but she's my sister. I still believe that blood is thicker than water, and I know that if I threw them out, they'd both end up in a poverty pen and they'd spend the rest of their lives cursing the name of Jodie Landon.

The sad case is my cousin Sarah. Sarah wants to work. She used to be a seamstress and theatrical costumer but now robots can do in a few seconds what it took her weeks to do. The news says nothing about the rate of unemployment, but it's high, and that's not counting everyone in your situation. There are few jobs, in business management and robotics and computer programming, all jobs for which Sarah isn't even remotely qualified. But she tries. I clean her newest suit for her, we dust off her resume, and she tries to get work. Not qualified. Not needed. Not necessary. I guess she does it because it gives her an excuse to sew a new interview suit. They're lovely suits, but the world doesn't need them.

I would love to help you Daria, but yours, sadly enough, isn't the first letter I've gotten. I've discovered kin that I didn't even know I had. I've heard stories of misery, stories of people about to run out of money, stories of people begging for a job, any sort of help so that they won't end up in public housing. There's nothing on TV about public housing, but we know it's out there. We get the e-mails, the letters, the desperate last chance pleas.

For you to even ask, Daria, I know it must be very hard. You were the kind of person who believed in carving out her own path. Unfortunately, all that I have to offer is best wishes. Everything else has been spoken for.

I'm sorry that Jane has fled the country. Europe is trying to hold on to the old ways, but they're going to be ground into poverty. All we hear are rumors of a mass social collapse. Australia has disappeared from the map, so things must be horrible over there. I'll pray that she's all right.

I'll pray for you and Sandi, and I'll pray for all of us. I'm sorry I'm not able to help you. Forgive me.

Hopefully, still your friend,

Jodie.

(* * *)

"Daria."

Daria was playing solitaire. "Yes, Griffin."

"Look, Daria, I know you've been depressed lately, but I have some good news."

"What? The robots ran out of 'D' batteries?"

"No," said Sandi. "Stacy Rowe has agreed to see us!"

Daria stopped dealing the cards and looked up.

"I know you've been depressed about Jodie's letter, but I bought another monthly e-mail. I used up the monthly credit, but I did it. I kept telling you, Daria, don't beg. I floated an e-mail to Stacy and told her that I was thinking about her, and I told her you were here, and you know how much she liked Quinn. So she's going to come over here and visit us. Soften her up…and then hit her up!"

Daria rapidly stood up and walked over to Sandi. "I don't believe it," said Sandi. "You actually did it."

"Yeah. I did it."

Daria grabbed Sandi by the arms. "You friggin' did it. You -- friggin -- did it!!"

Before Sandi knew it, she was jumping up and down with Daria in a state of voluntary delirium. They were hugging each other, embracing, doing an involuntary pogo, bouncing up and down like bunnies on mescaline. Anyone walking by would have been surprised at the two women making train noises, a loud whhhOOOOOOOOooo! which lasted for a good five minutes.

It was the first time Sandi had seen Daria smile. "You know Griffin," said Daria, "you're all right sometimes."

"Well…I suppose it was worth it. But you have to let me do the talking."

"I'm quite happy to be your wingman. All right you little fashion-obsessed socialite, let's not get too confident."

"Really? As well as I know Stacy?" said Sandi. "I might be out of credit, but I think we can afford some confidence."