[Wk41] Effort
The Bootstrap always dropped its Opportunities as the first chime of the new year clanged. Maurice’s parents would drag him into the streets with the rest of the town and make him grab as many as he could hold. They’d show him how to balance the glittering baubles of pure Potential in his elbows and the sleeves of his shirt so his hands would be free to swipe a few more. The Hahns were known on their block for being go-getters; many of their neighbors came to his family for advice on how to stay on top of their health. They were the oldest couple in the city; his dad was nearing 500 years old with nary a liver spot. His parents liked to tell people it was all about attitude and faith.
Maurice, as additional proof, had never been sick a day in his life. Not even a cold. His parents, during the lean Opportunity drops that plagued the town every few years, would pass their surplus of Opportunities to him and occasionally catch a light cold or mild flu as a result. But the Hahns never struggled with their health the way their neighbors did. The Coopers, just next door, had to deal with re-occurring shingles almost every year. Their daughter, Chloë, collected allergies like Maurice collected video games. She couldn’t even go outside to collect Opportunities without breaking into body-wrenching hives. Her parents had to split what Opportunities they grabbed between the three of them, and often it was just one parent out at a time because the other one had shingles.
Maurice’s parents once remarked that if the Coopers tried a little harder, they could at least get the shingles under control. Maurice asked how, since sick people weren’t allowed out during the Opportunity Drop, and the only thing keeping anyone healthy was a good haul during the Drop. He was told to remember his work ethic.
Maurice watched his parents hone their Skills with every Opportunity they caught. By the time Maurice was ten, his parents were fluent in four languages. His father had excelled his cooking skills every year for the last century. He ran a chain of very successful restaurants throughout the coast and was invited for classes and seminars all over the country. His mother was a surgeon; sought, requested, and booked solid for years in advance. Maurice himself was already focusing on his writing skills. His parents would chatter about his exciting career in journalism while he edited articles for his school newsletter.
When Maurice was fifteen, he got a C on a philosophy essay he’d written arguing that Potential Baubles were not indicative of morality on their own. He was proud of the essay, and read the red comments from his teacher in a state of simmering shock. He handed the paper to his parents with his lips pulled together in a tight white line.
His parents weren’t angry. They sat at a table amidst letters from the children they’d had across the years, commenting on each one’s stability and health as they crossed decades. They glanced up at Maurice, furiously clenching his insulted essay. They chuckled and remarked that maybe the teacher wasn’t going to give anyone arguing that perspective a good grade, even if the essay was brilliant.
Which got Maurice thinking.
“My essay is brilliant.” He nodded in relief, “Mrs. Chant just doesn’t get it.”
When he received a D on a paper the following year, it occurred to him that there might be entire squadrons of Skilled people out there who were also complete idiots. Maybe his boss at whatever newspaper he worked one day would also be an idiot. The thought exhausted Maurice.
Maurice collected fewer and fewer baubles as the years floated by, but it never affected his Skill. He was the same magnificent writer he always was. His parents had, once or twice, mentioned to him that even though he was clearly a brilliant writer, he would need the marks to get into a good college and land a good job. Maurice told them not to worry; marks weren’t what made a writer brilliant.
Immediately after he graduated from a mid-range college with his degree in journalism, he strode into the office building of his city’s newspaper. He handed the receptionist a stack of his writing. She gazed at him in tired irritation. He smiled broadly and assured her that Otto Wilkins, Chief Editor, was waiting for him. She shrugged and waved him in, shoving his papers at him across her desk.
Maurice was offered a job one relaxed and chatty hour later.
He skipped the Opportunity Drop entirely that year.
As his tenure at the newspaper stretched, his often front-page-featured articles eventually caught the eye of a cable channel that broadcast reality spotlight shows on local skirmishes. Maurice was offered the position of head writer.
He’d not grabbed a single Opportunity in over eight years.
When Maurice turned forty, he got a letter from his folks telling him Chloë had died of aggressive hives earlier that week. Her dad had passed away years before, from a shingles-related complication. His parents reminded him about work ethic and attitude. Maurice emphatically agreed and sent his sympathies to Chloë’s mom, now living by herself in the house next door. Maurice told his wife, an avid Opportunity seeker, and made her promise to try even harder at the next drop.
His wife nodded, but she knew what Maurice did during Drops. She knew he was inside, sipping scotch. Watching reruns of his show on TV. Her main Skill was acting, and she knew from her awards and her jam-packed schedule, that she was quite good. She knew she was like Maurice.
So she skipped her Drop that year.
A few weeks later, Maurice’s wife began to gain weight. Her voice became hoarse and her hair brittle, and she began to lose gigs. The cold made her entire body writhe in pain so she missed the next Drop. And by the time the sun rose on the next work day, she was in a coma.
“Myxedema,” the doctors shrugged. It was exhausting to diagnose people who clearly had no will to take what Drops they could get.
Maurice’s wife died a few days later.
Maurice lived in a state of perfect health until his 143rd birthday. He closed his eyes after a delicious meal, and died without realizing he’d been poisoned.
Dolores, who had no allergies but all the same freckles as her half sister Chloë, set fire to Maurice’s study. She watched the awards and plaques splinter and explode in the white-orange heat of her assignment.
Dolores was a go-getter, too. And she never got caught.
