The Travelers
The diner was a temporary stopping place, a safe haven from the torrential downpour outside. The booth made of old wood was cold and drafty but offered a clear view of the road. Exhausted from their journey, her head of brown curls resting on his tired shoulders she whispers, “I love you”.
The waitress brings the weary travelers two glasses of water and a day old cinnamon bun. The young man scratches his stubbly chin and nods in appreciation. He could offer no more. His pockets were empty.
The waitress sighs, “There would be no tip from this table”.
The Cost of Debt
Family debt forced mothers and fathers to surrender their children to the state-run Office of Financial affairs. As commodities of the state, children could be bought and sold until the age of 18. By law, the collectors could gather children to satisfy unpaid debt using any means necessary.
The Mom
Her head ached, her eyes swollen from hours of crying. She pleaded her case and promised to sell a kidney but it was too late. She looked through the 8-foot high chain link fence as the guards loaded her son onto the truck. The boy was crying. He begged not to go. She yelled out his name and cried, “I’ll get you back!”.
The Diner Owner
He was tall and lean. His dark curly hair handed down from his mother; “God rest her soul”. With a heavy sigh, he wraps the food-stained apron around his waist. He loathed this place: the counter, the stove, the constant smell of grease. The diner and its associated debt belonged to his dead father.
The office of Financial Affairs had no sympathy for late payments. Family debts had to paid on time or face the consequences. The wolves were already knocking at the door. He considered running away from it all but his younger brother would pay the price.
The Retriever
He was in his mid-thirties but he looked older. 10 years spent as a retriever of runners had caused not one but two ulcers to develop in his stomach. He wore a black suit as required by the agency. A 9mm .40 cal semi-automatic pistol and a badge rested on his belt. The badge gave him the authority to capture runners. Dead or alive it didn’t matter. He had a quota and he was running behind this month.
The rain pounding on his windshield was making it difficult to see. He pulled into the Diner parking lot. The signal from the girl was weak but she was somewhere in the area. He slapped the side the tracking device a couple of times before giving it a big shake. The damn thing never worked right.
The Truck Driver
The truck was government- issue, purchased from an army surplus sale. The driver worked as a subcontractor for the Office of Financial Affairs delivering cargo to different Vocational Education Programs around the country. He wore an old tattered shirt and a leather jacket that had seen better days. He smelled of armpit, cigar smoke and fast food.
The driver laughed as he pulled himself into the cab of the truck. His cargo this trip consisted of two dozen frightened children on a one-way trip to hell. There was only three ways out of the VEP program: escape, die or parental buy-out.
The VEP Administrator
The sign on the door designated his title as Vocational Education Program Administrator. His dark blue jacket hung on the coat rack next to the door. The white shirtsleeves rolled half way up his forearms. He sat behind his desk with his face in his hands attempting to calm the migraine. The stack of VEP applications on his desk were at an unmanageable level. His staff of four overwhelmed. There weren’t enough hours in the day or days in the week to complete all of the required inspections and paperwork. His most experienced and reliable inspector abandoned her position for maternity leave. She would not return for at least 4 months and there was no replacement. The remaining inspectors slow, sloppy and teetered on the line of incompetence. Government funding for the program depended on the number of VEP applicants certified in a given year. His boss breathed down his neck to increase productivity 8 percent over last year. He looked at the stack of applications, he could fabricate the reports and save time, no one would know.
The Young Man
The young man’s tracking device ceased to function the day he turned 18. In a few months, the device implanted at the age of four would break down leaving a small scar, the only evidence of his forced servitude. He stood released from the life of a commodity. The Vocational Education Program that bound him, as slave labor could no longer force him to work. He was walked a free man. His life his own, He could travel anywhere, go to college or seek employment. All traces of his life in hell erased from the books, sealed by the courts as governed by law.
The young man looked out the window; the rain slowed to a drizzle. “We gotta go,” he said nudging his girlfriend out of the booth.
The Young Girl
From what she remembers, her brown curls were from her drug- addicted mother. Her father unknown, he could have been one of a thousand men. Life as a commodity started at the age of four. If the state penitentiary had welcomed her mother a couple years sooner she might have had a chance at adoption and a good home.
Her days of picking vegetables and daily devotional were numbered. The church elders had taken her picture and marked her for sale. The caption on the bottom of the Commodity Trade show flyer indicated she was a good reliable worker. She ran away from hell to stay with the young man. Pursued by a retriever, her tracking device still functioned.
The Waitress
Her entire wardrobe consisted of half a dozen blue waitress uniforms. As a child, she had been a commodity; life was hell. Her teenage years spent on the run fighting to survive in a world that treats children as less than human. Her employment at the diner began at the age of 18. The previous owner and father of the young man behind the counter had been good to her. She cried the day he killed himself.
Now at the age of 30, as a member of a secret society of child advocates, she aids runners in evading capture by the retrievers.
The Editor
She wore a dark blue skirt, blazer and three inch heels. The blond hair resting on her shoulders perfectly styled to reflect a woman of wealth and authority. Awards cover the walls of her prestigious corner office in Preston Towers. In her hands, a crystal sculpture recognizing her magazine “The Preston Commodity Trader” as the number 1 publication read in the nation.
Her father started the magazine 30 years ago after the establishment of the Commodity Child Labor laws. He died last year on a mountain highway driving his Ferrari at a high rate of speed, his brakes failed. The police cleared the garage mechanic of tampering with the breaks after a lengthy investigation.
The Preston Commodity Trader
Make buying, selling and trading commodities easier; purchase a subscription to the “Preston Commodity Trader”.
Keep up with your favorite Runner and the Retriever hot on their heels; Read the “Preston Commodity Trader”.
Don’t get cheated out of your money, before buying or trading, check the child’s reliability rating in the “Preston Commodity Trader “.
Runners are dangerous and a threat to society; Advertise your runner in the “Preston Commodity Trader”.
Show your appreciation to the Retrievers in your city. Donate to the Retriever fund by purchasing a subscription to the “Preston Commodity Trader”.
The billboards were all over the city picturing healthy, happy smiling children working for a living.
Commodity Trade Convention Center
Neatly dressed in standard commodity t- shirts and shorts, the children from various Vocational Education Programs arrive at the Commodity Trade Convention Center. A State Processor confirms each child has a legitimate working tag number. Categorized by age and reliability rating, guards place the commodities in viewing cells.
The doors to the convention center open at 8am for private viewing. Public access begins at 10am.
Located on wall posters around the convention center is the following disclosure: The commodity tag button on each child should glow green, not yellow. Yellow indicates the commodity is within 6 months of turning 18 and is ineligible for sell or trade status.
The Intern
He was 19 and nervous. His mom had insisted he wear the suit on his first day of work. Exceptional grades had earned him an internship as a state-processor for the Commodity Trade Convention Center. Armed Security Guards escort two dozen tired, cold and hungry children into the backdoor of the facility. Holding the tag scanner with shaky hands, he confirms each child’s name and number. Feeling awkward and a little guilty, he can’t look the new VEP commodities in the eyes as he marks them for their initial sale price.
A nurse gives the children a once over to insure adequate health and has them dress in standard t-shirts and shorts.
Eating a breakfast biscuit and drinking a beer, the smelly truck driver smiles as he holds his hand out for payment.
The Graphic Artist
She was 15, and a talented graphic artist. The old man was retiring and selling his grocery store. He no longer needed a grocery clerk to clean and stock the shelves. Grateful for three years of honorable service, he labeled her flier as reliable, smart and pretty. She wished he had left off “Pretty”. Pretty attracted the wolves. Her portfolio held tightly in her hands, she prayed her new prospective buyer would have a need for her artistic talent.
The old man paid for a commercial endorsement highlighting her talents as a graphic artist. The ad would run on the large viewing screens three times during the day.
The Bargain Bin
Considered throw-a-ways, the bargain bins contained children physically and mentally imperfect. Bundled together instead of sold separately; these commodities were destined for organ farming, drug testing and jobs considered too hazardous for the adult population.
The Waitress
The moment the door chimed, she knew a retriever had walked into the diner. They all looked the same with their black suits, badges and firearms displayed on their belts. He walked to the counter and took the first available seat. “What can I get you?” She asked. “Just Coffee and toast.” he replied as he fidgeted with the non-functioning tracking device.
She listened for the opening and closing of the back door as the young couple escapes detection. “You look like you could use a hardy meal. The boy in the back makes a tasty breakfast platter. Let me serve that up for you” she slaps the counter to get his attention. “It’s on the house.”
The Housewife
The young woman was 14 years old and a commodity for the Olson Construction Company when she gave birth to her first son. At 18, she married the owner. By the age of 30, she had given birth to 10 children. Her husband allowed her to keep the first four babies. Her tears and pleas to keep the 3-day-old newborn ignored; her disabled unemployed husband hands the infant to his new parents. The financial transaction would pay rent and ensure food was on the table for the family of six for the next year.
Cup of Commodity Coffee Shop
Betting on how long your favorite runner would survive and evade capture was a favorite family pastime.
Sponsored by major industry giants, the “Cup of Commodity” coffee shop offered a variety of beverages and pastries in a family friendly environment. Located on the back wall behind the pastry bar, the Tracker Board ranked the top 20 Runners by audience approval and ability to evade capture. Large flat screen televisions strategically placed around the room looped the most recent runner updates. Bets taken at any cash register; identification required.
The Mom
Her son was only six years old when the collectors broke into her home and stole the boy from his bed. It had taken four years of working two full-time jobs to repay her debt. Wearing a simple yellow dress and blue flats, she walked in to the Commodity Trade Convention Center. Her closest friends said she should forget about the boy; finding him would be impossible. With a copy of the boy’s flier in hand and cash in her pocket, she looked for her son.
Cradle of Asset Baby Ranch
He wore a dark suit and a cowboy hat. A man of great wealth and self-importance, he owned the “Cradle of Asset” baby ranch. His business flyer promised a newborn within 10 months of application date provided the prospective parents weren’t looking for a specific baby style. Catering to childless couples seeking infants quickly, his customers included the wealthy, the famous and anyone that could afford his fees. A regular patron of the commodity trade shows, he searched the floor for a girl with a specific look.
The Bargain Bin
The bargain bin children receive an endless flow of onlookers. Wooden benches surrounded by a glass enclosure with nowhere to hide, the physically and mentally broken commodities wait for the end of the day and the undisclosed hell to come. The curious gawk and point at their misfortune.
Behind closed doors, potential buyers negotiate amongst each other.
Child welfare advocates on the street proclaim the government treats wounded animals more humanely than a child commodity.
Cradle of Asset Baby Ranch
The “Cradle of Asset” Baby Ranch amenities included semi-private rooms, nutritious meals, recreational activities, a day spa and a private medical clinic.
Security features on the 17-acre ranch include; armed security guards, 24 hour surveillance video monitoring and a 12-foot high electric fence.
The commodities range in age from 12 to 17. A certified medical doctor screens each girl for physical abnormalities and mental defect. The girls are impregnated using donor sperm from a state-run medical bank. Sperm from the adoptive father may be used but this is an extra cost.
The Commodity
When the law states you have no rights as a person until you reach the age of 18 you have few options, eat what you are given and survive until tomorrow.
A few commodities attempt to run away from their enslavement, from the hell thrust upon them from no fault of their own. Retrievers armed with 9mm weapons end the rebellion with a single gunshot. A local coroner takes a photo of the dead to document capture and termination. Denied burial, the body is marked as trash and tossed into a landfill.
The Runner
It was a good run; the freckle-faced 14-year-old commodity dodged capture for 12 days. It was all fun and games. The boy thought he was invincible. He taunted the retriever with false clues to his hiding place.
For financial gain, an anonymous spotter sent a photo pinpointing the boy’s exact location to the Retriever.
The news played the clip several times during the day. Below the underpass, crouched in the dirt the boy begged for his life. “Wait! Please!” He cried wiping his tears. “Can I see my mom? Can I talk to her?”
Annoyed with this one, the retriever smiled and pulled the trigger.