January fifteenth, p.1
January Fifteenth, page 1
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About the Author
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To my parents, Lyle Merithew and Sandy Swirsky, with extra and emphatic thanks for their support while I was writing this book.
Author’s Note
January Fifteenth takes place in a near-future United States of America with a Universal Basic Income (UBI) program. If you’re not familiar with the term, Universal Basic Income is a policy proposal for the government to provide an annual income to its citizens. Details vary—like how much that income should be—but every citizen would get it, without condition.
For me at least, any argument about UBI begins with one question: Will it help people?
Practical assessment follows, of course, but that’s the first thing we have to know. In its ideal form, if everything went perfectly, would UBI improve people’s lives? I don’t have a definitive answer, although I pose a series of possible questions and answers in this novella.
During my research on US UBI proposals, most of the hypotheticals I saw concentrated on the traditional concerns of the right versus left political axis. Would UBI open new possibilities for society or encourage a culture of laziness and dependency?
I became more curious about other questions. For instance, some people dislike that UBI goes to people of any social class—so what might (some) rich kids do with it? Some people are wary about the ways cults exploit contemporary welfare programs—what might they do with UBI, and how might others try to stop them? Pervasive, systemic racism has created an enormous disparity between the assets of Black and White American households—can and should we brush over that history as if Black and White communities have an equal starting point? Money can help someone escape an abusive relationship, but would Universal Basic Income change what happens afterward?
The characters in this book have gone through hard things, from being orphaned to domestic violence to forced marriage. Many of the scenarios in this book reflect situations that I or people close to me have gone through. Others evolved through research and talking to people. So many of us have gone through similar tribulations, whether the more common horrors like casual racism and sexual assault, or the more rarefied ones like cult exploitation. These things impact our lives. They affect our happiness. They certainly affect how and why Universal Basic Income could change our circumstances.
Although I hope January Fifteenth is true to the characters and emotions, I can’t claim it’s an accurate prediction. UBI could play out in lots of ways that are equally, if not more, plausible. For example, in January Fifteenth, the practical side of running UBI is relatively smooth and easy. That choice allows me to let fiddly details fade into the background while I focus on the characters. But is it the most likely scenario? Probably not—very few things seem to be easy.
Even within the world I set up, there are a ton of possible alternative and conflicting scenarios. I could have happily kept adding more. In fact, a fifth thread ended up on the cutting room floor during an early draft when the word count kept relentlessly increasing.
If I can make any “true” predictions, I suppose they are these:
Money can make life easier, but it can’t solve everything.
Adding money to a system with underlying problems won’t fix those problems on its own.
After any massive change, some people will be better off, some people will be worse off, and many people will be both better and worse off.
However the future unfolds, it won’t go according to my values. There will always be outcomes I don’t expect. Some of them will contradict my beliefs about the world.
I’m definitely wrong about something.
UBI Day: Early
Hannah
The blizzard first touched land in Maine. It glazed lakes and lighthouses and red-shingled roofs, and billowed through naked ash trees. It chased coastal waves southward to New Hampshire and then moved inland through Concord and into upstate New York, past Saratoga Springs and Syracuse. In Canastota, the historic Erie Canal froze beside iced railroad tracks, neither taking anyone anywhere.
Hannah Klopfer felt grateful once again that she and the boys had been able to find a furnished rental inside their budget that was within easy walking distance of necessities like the post office and the grocery store. She zipped up her down jacket and tugged her hat over her ears. She patted her pockets: wallet, phone, keys. As she grabbed her scarf from the aging brass rack by the door, it made a shuddery twang against the greasy metal.
As the twanging faded, Hannah heard a distant, quiet shuffle from the back of the house. Something wooden groaned. Hannah’s mouth went dry. The ends of her scarf dropped from her hands, unwound, and fell loosely across her chest.
Her heart pounded. She hadn’t expected Abigail to find them so fast. She took a deep breath to shout upstairs for Jake and Isaiah to start piling furniture against their bedroom door.
A high-pitched giggle broke the quiet, followed by another. Hannah exhaled in relief. Thank God. It was just the boys playing.
Her heart hadn’t stopped pounding, though. Damn it. Damn it! What was she supposed to do when the boys wouldn’t listen? This wasn’t about sticking their fingers in their cereal or getting crayon on the walls. Did it really matter that it was developmentally normal for a seven-year-old to test authority if it ended up giving Abigail a way back into their lives?
God forbid, what if Abigail came with a gun? People shot their exes and their kids all the time. Hannah didn’t think Abigail would do something like that—but at one point, Hannah had believed Abigail would never hurt her, and then she’d believed Abigail would never hurt the kids, and there were only so many times she could be wrong before she realized her instincts were bullshit.
She scanned the front room. Despite being crammed awkwardly between the kitchen and the stairs, it was full of places for kids to hide among the crowded armchairs, end tables, and obsolete music systems. The landlady stored her cartoon-themed collectables on motley bookcases; the figures cast weird, elongated shadows shaped like rabbit ears and dynamite.
“Hey, Jake! Isaiah! Where are you?” Hannah called.
There was a lot of silence. Don’t shout, Hannah told herself.
There was another little giggle, followed by, “Shh!”
She told herself, Don’t cry. They don’t need to know how scared you are.
She breathed to calm herself, and then did it again. Her voice was scratchy. “Okay, dudes, for the next five minutes, I’m willing to believe you two were transported down here by aliens.” She waited a second for them to answer. “Or fell through a tunnel under the bunk bed.” She gave it one more try. “Or you’ve been sleepwalking until this very second.”
There wasn’t even a giggle this time. Jake was getting better at herding his little brother.
“Please?” Hannah’s voice broke. “Come on, Jake, we’ve talked about this. Isaiah only does things like this if his big brother does it first. Don’t you want to be a better big brother?”
No, damn it, that was shaming, not helping. Kids could be crushed so easily. They picked up on things you didn’t even know you’d dropped.
She tried again. She didn’t mean her tone to be so sharp; she really didn’t. She was just scared. “I need you to be a better brother. You’ll get him hurt.”
That was worse.
Still, it coaxed Jake out from between a love seat and a record player, leading his brother, Isaiah, by the hand.
Resentfully, he said, “It was . . . j-just a game.” His lip wobbled; he began to cry. His emotions were so big right now, and changed so fast. “Mama, I’m sorry, Mama. Mama! I’ll be—better—I wa-want—to be good—”
He was so anxious to please. It broke her heart in pieces.
She crushed Jake into a hug, scooping Isaiah in with them. Their arms compressed her down jacket with a comforting wintery sound.
She said, “You’re good. You’re good enough. I’m sorry, Jake. You’re only seven. You shouldn’t have to worry ab—” She cut herself off before she could finish the sentence, scolding herself for almost scaring them again. There had to be another way to get them to listen than talking about nightmare scenarios. “I know it’s fun to break rules. It’s funny to trick me. But you can’t, Jake. I’m so sorry. Okay? I’ll tell you a rule tomorrow you can break. Play with your food or color on the walls or—” She gestured helplessly. “Just take care of Isaiah for me today, okay? Just be good today. Go up to your room and stay there, and you can play if you don’t make any noise, but I need you to stay there, and I need you to listen to anything I say, okay? Okay? And if someone else comes in the house, pile furniture against your door like we practiced. Okay?”
Sniffing and snuffling, Jake nodded, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
Isaiah looked up at Hannah with his enormous blue eyes. “Mama, I don’t want to see Mom.”
People spe
nt so much time trying to make sure their kids were precocious, but when you had kids with intuition like heat-seeking missiles, how were you supposed to protect them?
Hannah said, “I know, honey, I don’t want to see Abigail either.” She coughed to cover the break in her voice. “Jake, will you take your brother back upstairs? Either of you need to pee?” When neither spoke, she continued, “Good. Go straight up. Close the door, and don’t open it again until I say it’s okay. It’s important, remember? Okay . . .” she said, exhaling and trying to calm down. “Okay, okay. I’ll be back real soon.”
She watched the boys go upstairs as she wrapped the scarf around her neck. The old steps were so steep, they could almost be a ladder. Jake ran them at full speed, knees going up and down like pistons. Isaiah’s awkward little hop from step to step made Hannah ache to grab him and carry him upstairs in her arms—but he preferred his own feet, and she had to leave anyway.
Janelle
West of Canastota, New York, the storm skulked across the Finger Lakes, too grumpy to decide between rain and snow. It pushed restless and sullen waves westward across Lake Michigan before taking land again as a wintry mix that turned to slush on the Chicago streets.
Somewhere around Revere Park, one of Janelle Butler’s buzzcams started acting up. The thing was finicky about the cold. It was supposed to be top-notch, but Janelle hadn’t found any difference between brands. Top or bottom dollar, freelance reporters got screwed.
She didn’t need this. January was bad enough with the endless demands from news aggregators asking for the same, repetitive Universal Basic Income stories. It had been interesting to go around and ask the man, woman, and child on the street how they felt about UBI when the program started. Since then the aggregators had been sending her out every year to do the same old interviews and wear out the same old questions that someone else had already worn out, earlier and probably better.
She felt like a bee doing the same mindless tasks year after year, just like all the other bees. Get the honey. Do a dance. Interview someone who thinks her cats should get UBI.
Interview a violinist who uses their money to fund lessons for disadvantaged kids. Interview a new mom about the savings fund she set aside for her baby. Interview a lawyer representing a class action lawsuit against a landlord for extorting his tenant’s disbursements. Interview a senior citizen who lost his home because of problems with the transition from social security. Interview the protestors wherever they are this year. Interview the protestors protesting the other protestors wherever they are this year.
The stories weren’t all terrible. Her legitimate, non-cynical, favorite piece had been “interview an ex-con who spent her UBI on land and a trailer so she can live off the grid and make pots.” Interesting, specific, quirky. Of course, that had been the first year—and of course, none of the aggregators had ever wanted a follow-up. Still, Janelle and Dynasty had clicked, and Janelle called her up for a chat every UBI Day. So, hey, her job had been good for something at least once. And it was something to look forward to after all the boring interviews were done.
It occurred to Janelle, not for the first time, that the aggregators would probably love to run her story too, if she wedged it into the right box. Sentimental: Chicago-based twenty-eight-year-old raises fourteen-year-old sister after parents die in plane crash. Political: Former activist relies on legislation she championed to care for orphaned sibling. Socially responsible: UBI keeps Black families together.
Anyway. The upshot was that there was always work for two weeks in January, even if you didn’t have a great relationship with the major aggregators. A lot of the year was hit-or-miss. UBI stories were a pillar of her income.
So of course one of her buzzcams was broken.
On the porch of the very fancy home where she was supposed to conduct her next interview—heterosexual couple Carinna and August, married eleven years—she banged, tapped, cursed, and cajoled the cam at increasing volume. Finally, it sputtered awake like a sulky teenager, emitted a grinding screech, and lit up. She touched the pendant cross she wore around her neck in brief thanks.
The obstreperous buzzcam and its twin gave their signature cicada-like whine as she set them to record. They rose to hover over her shoulders. Both of them jittered, even the one that was theoretically in fine working order.
She put on her “Hello! I’m nice and you should open up to me about interesting things!” smile, and hoped her interviewees hadn’t heard her swearing through the door.
The White woman who answered wore a loose long-sleeved navy jumpsuit from a fancy brand. A bit of wear at the seams suggested she might only have a few $3,000 outfits instead of whole racks. Most of her jewelry managed the trick of sophistication through modesty, except for the diamond in her wedding ring which was definitely a braggart. She wore her hair skinned back into a tight bun at her nape. She had a bottle of wine in one hand, as if she’d been interrupted in the middle of entertaining. People had weird ideas about what they wanted to be found doing on camera.
“Sorry, I was reorganizing the wine rack,” said Carinna.
“Don’t worry, they probably won’t use this part,” Janelle said.
Carinna’s face fell for a moment but quickly regained its polish.
She led Janelle into the front room where the modernist leather furniture showed a few scuffs. The fireplace with the marble tile looked like it hadn’t been used very much. Her husband, August, turned out to be Black, which a cynical part of Janelle suggested was why she’d been assigned this particular interview. An open case of cigars sat on the table in front of him. Only one cigar had been taken out.
Oh, the amazing tapestry of the human subconscious. They probably didn’t realize they were telegraphing class anxiety with every detail. The wine-and-cigars thing was straight out of old movies about the glamorous upper crust. In Janelle’s experience, the richest people actually tended to show off unique hobbies or collections, if they showed off anything.
So, that was Carinna and August: rich, but not as rich as they wanted to be, and feeling put-upon about it. Janelle liked to make bets with herself about what kind of interview she was about to get, but this one was too easy.
Ten minutes later: “—We’re not rich, but our taxes just keep going up—”
God, it was going to be a long day.
Janelle was on the train, halfway to her next interview, when a yellow dot flashed in her right eye. She swore at the afterimage. “Motherf—” Somehow, her damn phone had once again managed to switch on the setting to send notifications through her contacts.
“Off, off, off, how do I turn the damn thing off,” she muttered to herself, fumbling for her phone in her purse.
The person sitting next to Janelle shuffled their shopping bag in their lap and let out an aggrieved sigh. Janelle suppressed simultaneous urges to apologize and give her one back.
Once she managed to grab the phone, Janelle was shocked to see the message wasn’t spam. She thumbed the callback. Her sister, Nevaeh, picked up instantly.
“Heyyyy Janni,” Nevaeh said.
The voice blasted on speaker—Janelle had forgotten to change the settings to wavve the sound into her ear. As Janelle clicked through the options menu, the person with the shopping bag groaned.
“What is it?” Janelle asked Nevaeh.
“Why’d you take so long to wavve back?” Nevaeh asked.
“Phone trouble,” Janelle grumbled.
“You know calling your wrister a phone makes you sound a million years old.”
“It walks like a phone and it quacks like a phone. If I took it to the park, it would paddle about on a pond and eat bread crumbs like a phone. It’s a phone.”
“They’re not the same thing.”
“You know what a phone is by any other name? A phone.”
“It would work better if you’d just wear it.”
“Why are you calling me in the middle of the day?”
“I’m being sent home.”
“What?”
“I’m being sent home.”
“From school?”
