text: Debtor's Jail - A short story by Nick Carter 2021 &#x200B; The dim light flickered across the chrome table, the mildew smell in the cement brick room was slightly nauseating. He's not sure why he's here, but he's not looking forward to finding out. If only they'd bring him a sandwich, he hasn't eaten for hours... The door creaked shut behind the man, gaunt and official looking, pale stubbled skin turning gray from years of tension. He sat down across from the young man, briefly eyed him with distaste, noting his heavy metal t-shirt and cycling cap, both covered in indecipherable doodles. "They let you wear that in here?" the man asked, disintested, as he flipped through the file. "Nobody said otherwise." He sat with a demure posture, trying not to squirm, his right arm grasping his left. He resisted the urge to play with the lighter clip stamped flat on the edge of the hat's bill, something he often did when he was nervous. The air stood still and silent as the pages turned. Then the man looked up and locked eyes with him, casting a tangible smugness. "When's the last time you paid your bills, Roger?" He was put off: nobody called him Roger. "My name's Roy, sir... if you don't mind." The man leaned forward. "When is the last time, you paid your bills.... Roger Morris?" Roy started to sweat under his hat. "I pay on time every month! My rent, my phone, internet... I own my car... I barely make it, but I haven't missed a payment in 2 years!" He was right, he hadn't missed a payment on any of those things. But he wasn't being completely honest. "You're not being honest with me, Roger. What about the money you owe Key Bank?" Fuck, thought Roy. This is it. This is the end of the road. He started stammering, he took off the hat and brushed his hair, desperately trying to find the words to convey his situation. "Ok, look.... I USED to pay them. I did! I just couldn't do it anymore, it's.... it's not tenable, man!" "Tenable!" The man scoffed. "Looks like that college education really paid off for you, fancy word like that." In fact college had NOT paid off for him. After going for a dual major in Design and Communications, he found he was only suitable for work that was freelance, highly competitive, and quickly losing demand. He had managed to eke out his living washing dishes at the corner bar, which allowed him time to practice his art and persue his dream. That dream, it now seemed, was quickly going nowhere. "Sir..." He quivered at the notion of avoiding the man's questions, "is there any way I could get a snack? My blood sugar is getting low and..." SMACK! The file landed on the table hard, letting out a soft metallic ring. It was thick, and now he knew what was in there: his credit report. He'd seen it a few years ago when he made the decision - The decision to buck the system and stop paying for what amounted to a giant paperweight on his livelihood. "Do you think you're entitled to a snack?" Roy stared blankly at him. The man continued, "do you know what pays for those snacks, in that vending machine, in this public facility?" "Tax dollars," he replied quickly. The man's lip curled. "Yes. Exactly. Tax dollars." They pay your salary too, you fascist fuck, thought Roy - he immediately bit his mental lip and hoped his insolence wasn't visible on his face. "Tax dollars that come from corporations. Corporations like Key Bank. And where do they make the money to pay those taxes? From people like you, who take out loans, such as this one for $16k back in 2005. And another in 2006. And another in 2007." Roy noticed that the man didn't mention the fourth year of college - 2008 - which never came to fruition. "Sir, I pay my taxes." "But KeyCorp pays a hell of a lot more in taxes than you do." Roy doubted this: so many corporations had managed to zero out their federal taxes, and he knew for a fact that Key Bank had accrued almost $20 million in penalties since the turn of the century. "And just because you pay your taxes, doesn't change the fact that you are a Fiscal Radical if you don't keep current on your debts." Fiscal Radicals. This is what the police and politicians were labeling people who refused to pay their student loan debts. It gave the impression that these people were a united political force; when in reality they were everyday men and women who woke up to the realization that paying $200, $400, $800 a month towards a debt that continued to grow despite loyal payments, was not a sustainable way of life. It amounted to slavery, and to recognize it as such was to label yourself a criminal. "Sir." Roy's blood sugar was starting to crash, his temper growing as his stomach growled. "Do you realize that I only make $2,000 a month? I can hardly afford health insurance, let alone my rent and food. I'm lucky to have a good car and a bicycle to get to work. I work 12 hour days 5 days a week, usually more. I stopped drinking so I could keep up with my bills. I have less than $100 in savings - if anything bad happens to me it will be the end of my life!" "But you still smoke grass, don't you?" Roy rolled his eyes clear out of his head - despite the fact that marijuana had been legalized for recreation, cops still loved to throw it in your face: they still used it as probable cause to harass hundreds of people, and for some reason this was completely acceptable. "You try working as hard as I do and not medicating yourself." His anger subsided, turning to shame and depression. The man smiled, a crooked dark smile. He pulled a vape pen from his breast pocket. "Don't worry... we're here to help, Roger." Roy eyed the pen suspiciously as the man took a large puff, then offered it to him. He hesitated for just a moment, then snatched it from the man's hand and took a long draw. The nicotine relieved his craving for sustenance, making the emptiness more tolerable. "How's that?" he said tersely. "Simple. You pay what you owe, right now, and we let you go." The man folded his hands, his expression warming. Roy squinted: "didn't I just tell you I only have $100 in savings? Doesn't it say that in that file of yours?" The man shrugged, lips curled, hands turned up. "In that case, we can sign you up for a PLP Card. The debt will go on your PLP, and once that is paid off, you'll be free to go." PLP Card? Roy was not familiar with this. From the folder, the man produced a small plastic card, complete with copper chip, in bold official fonts it read: &#x200B; PRESIDENTIAL LOAN PROGRAM BROUGHT TO YOU BY AMAZON ROGER L MORRIS INTERNED 2026 &#x200B; "...You'll be here, working off your debt, and once it is done, you'll be free to go." Roy saw it clearly now: the debt would be transferred to the Amazon Financial Group, and he would be subject to prison labor, at a much lower rate of pay than even his minimum wage existance. He would lose his job, his apartment, his car and bike, everything he had worked for. He would be stuck here 'working off his debt' until he died... a virtual ward of the state, in perpetual "unpaid student" status, doing menial labor in excrutiating conditions and never seeing a single dime. &#x200B; "....Fucking Jeff." "Oh, don't thank Mr. Bezos, remember: It's President AmazonCorp." And this was true: thanks to the Supreme Court's new extended interpretation of Citizen's United, the Amazon Corporation was eligible to run for president in 2024 - which it did, and it won handily. This is it, Roy thought: this is where the institutional slavery becomes actual slavery, from the frying pan into the fire as they say... and it happens the exact same way he got into this mess in the first place. "Sign here.