2030_ The Real Story of What Happens to America - Albert Brooks [126]
Kathy sold eight properties in her first two weeks and made more money in a short time than she had ever dreamed possible. She was jazzed, and so was Clyde. He told her one day, “I’ve spent a lot of years building a business here and I would like to see it continue. My dream is that someone really smart will take this over one day and I will be a silent partner. Not too silent, mind you, but I’ll go off and do some things I’ve thought about for years, and I could still count on an income. That’s my dream. I just want you to know what my dream is.”
“I appreciate it, Mr. Folsom. I like knowing the dreams of others. One day when I know you better I’ll tell you mine.”
“That would be fine, Kathy. I would be happy to hear it.”
“Mr. Folsom, I had a thought. I think my success rate would be higher if I could be with the buyer on the virtual tour.”
“Don’t they do that at home, in their own time?”
“Yes, but there is software that would alert us and allow us to be present, which bigger cities are using but we still don’t have.”
“How much?”
“I think no more than twenty thousand.” Clyde thought about it for a moment.
“How do you know they want us there?”
“I can be unobtrusive, but it certainly can’t hurt. I would only know them better when they see the real thing.”
“Okay. Do it. I trust you.” Kathy was ecstatic. It felt so good to have an employer say he trusted her. And later that day, before she left, she stood in front of the building and looked at the sign, “PREMIER PROPERTIES,” and she imagined herself owning this company one day. It was such a heady feeling.
* * *
The food was better on the ship than it was in Pasadena, but not by much. Brad Miller was two weeks into the rest of his life and his day pretty much consisted of getting up at seven A.M., going down to the second deck for breakfast, sitting outside until one, taking a nap until two-thirty, going for a long triple-deck walk or a swim until four, taking a steam, and then having dinner at six-thirty. After dinner he would take another walk, and if the weather was pleasant he would sit outside until eight-thirty and then either go to bed or watch some entertainment, or maybe play cards for small amounts of money.
After a while this routine felt like a job; he dutifully passed the time as if he were getting paid for it, but it wasn’t so bad. However, he still wished the food was better. It was always buffet style on the ship. They had one fancy restaurant, which was never full because the meals there were not included; people would take visitors there or splurge on a special day, but most of the retirees did not like spending money, so the included buffet was where everyone ate.
The eggs at breakfast reminded Brad of when he was a boy at camp. They were too yellow, and though he was assured they were made from real eggs, he had doubts. The bacon was good, because how can you screw up bacon? The porridge was just okay. What he hated the most was the fruit. It was obviously from a can and it was always the same. Those peaches in syrup and those round things that must have been grapes but no one was ever sure. Is it so hard to have fresh cantaloupe?
Brad didn’t really make any close friends for several weeks, but slowly he started to look forward to seeing one or two people he enjoyed talking to, and he even developed a crush. Her name was Barbara Nestor. Barbara was seventy-nine, but Brad thought she looked like a young woman. It had something to do with her body, which still was in nice shape, but more to do with his eyes, which weren’t. She had a good sense of humor, loved to exercise, and one day, when they were in the pool, he actually got an erection looking at her behind. He felt wonderful. No pills, just thoughts, how great!
* * *
The President was giving his annual speech