Chapter 1: I Get Fired

Do aliens exist? There are billions of galaxies, each containing billions of suns. So, there must be life somewhere. To think different than this denies the very nature of the universe. What we need to know is if they would travel millions of light years merely to visit our planet?

This whole mess started when I, Thomas Morgan, was called into the captain’s office for a sit-down. I knew what it was about. As a merchant marine sailor and the senior engineer on the ship, rumor was that our ship was getting the chop. She was being sold to make razor blades, as they say. She was too old.

They would not have a new position for me on another ship. If there were any new openings, a young guy would get it first. Youngsters are cheaper to pay. There are almost no new openings. U.S. Shipping is a rapidly dying business.

The state of American shipping today is serious. The country loses American ships and shipyards every year. We have so few ships. Who can compete with foreign-flagged ships? They are highly subsidized by other countries. They’re built cheaply overseas. They are crewed by low-quality labor.

So, at age forty-two, I, Thomas Morgan, was being shown the door today.

The bright side was that I’m single and had put most of my pay in the company credit union throughout my career. I’d put away the max allowed towards my retirement 401K every year. Leftover pay was also banked and put into a few mutual funds. Unfortunately, the retirement fund money was untouchable. I could not get it until I reached retirement age.

I have over six hundred and fifty thousand dollars stashed away. Its spread in different mutual funds and banks. It’s stashed in several banks because I trust no on person besides myself.

I own a single-wide trailer in the panhandle of Florida. It isn’t much, and it’s really an old goose-neck RV. I could milk that 2/3rd of a million living there for the rest of my life.

How boring would that be?

What other choice did I have? I was tired and retired from the merchant marine anyway. I had spent my entire adult life there. It’s more than time for a change.

No, I knew I had to find something else to do. Vegetating in a moth-eaten mobile home differed from a proper retirement. I got the place cheap and bought it mostly as a place to wind down between going on cruises. It was cheaper than traveling somewhere and paying hotel rates to take a month away from my current ship.

Back to my leaving. I did the expected hand-shaking with the captain, who wished me well. Later, I met with the shipping division’s grand high poobah. The division boss only showed up because he liked to give you your last check the day you got the boot. My shipmates were all in the same situation.

I took an Uber to a cheap motel near the airport. I checked in and lay on the bed, looking at the ceiling. ‘Well, what now, Thomas? You have no woman, no close friends, and nothing to do.’

I liked working on ships. I knew I was a social outcast. It wasn’t my looks. I had come to not like other people very much. It was like I was Alternating Current when everyone else was Direct Current. Both are similar forces of nature, but you can only put the two together with much arcing and sparking.

After years, I had learned to keep my mouth shut and do what the bosses told me. I was one of many odd people in the merchant marine. It was a good collection place for many of society’s misfits.

In some ways, I’m the ideal employee. I’m not political. I do not try to get people to do things. I’m not involved in the union. I just paid my dues, I always showed up on time, and I worked hard. I want to exist with a minimum of personal hassle as a solid, reliable employee. It was something inside me. I had always tried my very best. Coworkers - bah!

I went next door to a restaurant and had a steak with a baked potato. I got the Caesar Salad but had them substitute the Caesar dressing with blue cheese on the side. Too many restaurants use an ocean of salad dressing. Back in my room, I checked on my flight again.

I had a one-stop flight to Tallahassee. My trailer was almost two hours west of Tallahassee, very much in the backwoods. I cleaned up again, removed my clothes, and turned in. I set my cell phone to wake up at 5:30.

God, I hated that sound. I fumbled with my phone and shut it off. I jumped in the shower again to wet my face; it made shaving easier. I went a couple doors down to a choke and puke to get breakfast. I had the meat lovers omelet with hash browns. Coffee, lots of coffee.

After an hour, I returned to my room and got my stuff. I ordered an Uber, checked out, and waited for the Uber to drive up. In 2027, few taxi companies exist. Taxi companies had always been a bunch of fucking thieves. I had not missed their passing one bit.

They had fucked over Americans for well over a century. You may need to find out how clean or old your Uber might be, but paying $18 for the first 1/10th mile in a taxi is ludicrous. What is that, three blocks? Gimme a break.

I paid using my credit union MasterCard and gave the guy 25% in cash for a tip. I always tip my Uber driver; they get paid zilch. I went in and checked in at the Southwest desk. I had to pay extra for my luggage. I just kept my laptop with me. It had a little soft case.

I went through the Homeland bullshit inspection line. Since I was so early, I stopped for another coffee at one of the concessions.

When it got close to time, I strolled down to the gate. It’s so easy to be unseen at an airport. Thousands of people come and go every day. I keep my head and eyes down, and nobody bothers me. I am a big guy and don’t look friendly — exactly the type of man most people want to avoid.

Early that afternoon, I found myself walking out of the Tallahassee airport. I grabbed another Uber and told the driver to take me to Tallahassee Ford. We chatted on the way, more like him talking than me. I managed to get out of the car without telling him one personal thing about myself.

It’s easy; when someone asks me a question, I usually reply with an “umm...” as if I don’t do questions. A couple of those and the personal questions drop off. The first few times you do it, you get looks, but fuck-em. I don’t do banter or repartee. I’m not clever when it comes to conversation. I don’t care.

At the dealership, I walked in and told them I had a truck waiting. I saw it on the Internet and had put $5,000 down.

You might have thought it would have been a done deal, but nope. The dealership people wanted to talk me to death. They tried to finance it, their insurance, after-sale warranty, and all kinds of add-on shit I did not want or need. They even tried including a ceramic wax job costing $1900. Every time they brought something up, I said no.

The longer we went, the louder my no’s got. My no’s become HELL NO’s. Finally, I stood up and looked down at the rotund and balding little sales manager.

I told him, “Look, asshole. I just spent most of my life in the merchant marine. Do I look like someone you want to fuck with? Finish the FUCKING PAPERWORK NOW! Or so help me...”

See, there was no Mrs. Morgan standing there beside me telling me to behave myself. I had been patient up to a point. I had seen plenty of rough places and did not like unnecessary bullshit. This was exactly that, unnecessary bullshit.

My rising voice should have convinced him to back off, but no, he tried to continue.

Not surprisingly, the manager had come over, and he was pissed at the yelling.

I thought,” DILLIGAS - Do I Look Like I Gave A Shit?”

All of a sudden, fatso’s attitude became more agreeable. I gave them my card, and they hurried to finalize the deal. I’d had enough of bartering and playing fuck-fuck in places overseas. Why should I put up with that crap here?

If everyone left the wives at home and dealt Man to Man, it would be a much better world. Simps today need to do what the wifey wants or says. Unfortunately, women seem to have taken over America when I wasn’t looking.

When did that shit happen? While I was in the merchant marine, that’s when. I had come home to a different U.S. of A.

I got the truck. It looked great, washed and vacuumed by an 11-year-old, maybe. It was a 2019 F-150 with a 5-liter V-8 engine. I picked white, of course, because it gets sweltering hot in the Florida sun. It has just under 55K on the odometer. That’s what I wanted.

I paid thirty-two thousand for it. It’s nine years old but has a lot of life left in it. A similar new truck starts at over 95 for the same stripped-down “fleet model.” Only you can never get out the door for that sticker price. Dealers never order a base-priced truck from Ford.

Everything they have in stock is higher, much higher. I wanted a real truck engine with a real transmission. The 8-cylinder pickup is also getting scarce. It’s 2028, so a new 8-cylinder is unobtainium.

I feel like puking whenever a salesman asks, “How much can you afford to pay?” What the fuck planet are these idiots coming from? It’s like the price is NOT the price. It’s merely a negotiating point they start from.

I pulled into my Panhandle Florida driveway at dusk. If the bald manager had been any slower! Finding my overgrown driveway in the dark would have been rather difficult.

Years ago, I’d bought a 5-acre lot along Bent Creek Road. After I got the well in, the cost was almost $46,000. So I bought an old, used 45-foot RV trailer and had it towed to my property by the dealership. It was miles from anyone, and nobody could see my trailer from the road.

I had a curved driveway and did not put up a mailbox or anything like that. With no water bills or electricity, I was very well hidden past the weeds. It’s off-grid, too. My needs are minimal. As far as the county knows, it’s another lot in the deep pine woods with a few palmettos underneath.

I removed the door padlock and opened the hasp to the trailer door. Ya, RV door locks can be opened with one of those little Swiss penknives. It needed to be more secure; hence, I had added the hasp.

I hit the light switch inside the door, and it came on, Yaa! I looked at the solar inverter and the state of the battery charge. It looked good.

I just wanted to relax. Coming through the podunk village of Ponce De Leon, I’d picked up a six-pack, a bag of chips, and a bag of ice. I put my earbuds on and started one of my tracks on my phone. I slipped the phone into my shirt pocket. I sipped beer and then remembered I had a well.