Excerpt: Take One Daily

Gross Domestic Product

My roommate was, as expected, basking in the eerie glow of his circa-1998 CRT monitor as we walked in. I attempted introductions. "Jimmy, this is Linda from my econ class." He lifted his hand from the mouse long enough to bless us with a distracted wave, then refocused on his obsession.

My own machine, the slim silver notepad which had been my parents' going-away present to me, stood open but asleep on the table by the couch. As Linda and I cozied up against the cushions, I slid my free hand across the trackpad. The screen came to life with the browser still pointed at the ticker page I had been viewing that morning: the S&P 500, DJI, NASDAQ, and a few specific stock picks plotted on a 15-minute refresh.

To the familiar whine of a hard drive spinning back up, my laptop's display re-rendered, updating the graph with values up through closing time, and then continuing with a dotted line to denote after-hours trading.

Linda and I gasped in unison. Her body went rigid in my arms, back muscles tense, head pulling away from my chest as she gaped at the screen.

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The Breeze Against His Skin

"Mark, I need you to do something important for me."

His abrupt change in tone brought the youngster to full attention. Doug was only a few years older then him, but always spoke in a gentle, slightly condescending voice. Mark didn't mind: to him, Doug was the only real male influence in his life, and a guiding beacon of sanity in a ghetto otherwise full of violence and stupidity. But now, all the condescension and wisdom had fled: Doug spoke to him as an equal who truly needed his help.

"The people I hang out with, you've seen them before..." Mark had. Every afternoon, as they studied in the library together, a friend or two of Doug's would come by to wisper something in his ear. They all wore the same blue headband and razor-close haircut, and would smile and wave at Mark, but they never spoke to him directly. "My friends and I help deliver a kind of medicine to people we care about. But sometimes the medicine gets tainted – polluted – because it isn't made properly."

Mark nodded, wide-eyed with interest.

"We need someone to help us make sure it is pure, so the people who we give it to don't get sicker. You can help us, if you want to."

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Human Suffrage

Regardless of who wins, the 2016 elections will finally bring an end to the so-called "third and fourth Bush terms in office." McCain will be out, and a popularity rating below 15%, it seems unlikely that the Republicans will be able to gain a foothold in this year's election. Henry probably doesn't even need to head to the polls today, but generations before him would turn in their graves if he did not.

He takes an early lunch break and strolls down to City Hall, only a few blocks from his firm's office. The RFID chip in his wrist clears him for fastlane entry; he proceeds to the executive lane where two armed guards perform a quick strip search, and is on his way to the voting booths in less than ten minutes.

Henry presses his wrist against the booth's entry terminal. "Henry Langston Hughes, African/Caucasian, 62. History of blood pressure, diabetes. Registered Democrat. Sixth district." The machine pauses, considering the information it has just listed. It consults with the central server in Green, Ohio. "Your vote is not needed. Thank you for your time."

Henry blanches. "What!?"

"Your demographic has been accurately sampled to the required degree of statistical accuracy. No more data is required. Your vote is not needed. Thank you for your time."

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Solitary

"Oh dear, can I get you an Advil or something?" she asked, rummaging around in her purse. But Eliot couldn't concentrate on her words. The pain was fading – but in its place, his mind was filled with random fragments of thought, almost as if another voice were echoing in his head.

[ - give me the money and nobody gets hurt - no, too cliché, they won't take it seriously – I have a gun, and I'll use it if I have to – tens and twenties only – is that going to be too heavy? too large? – nothing bigger than a hundred - ]

He looked up. The woman was still looking at him, concerned, rummaging through her purse for painkillers. Behind her, the next customer in line, a tall guy with bushy black eyebrows and a full beard, was staring intently at the two of them. Eliot watched as a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, nestling in his eyebrow. The eyebrow began to peel away from the man's forehead...it was a fake, and the glue was coming undone.

The man's hand dove snaked around his back, producing a pistol. "Everybody down, on the ground, now!"

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Clowning Around

Pogo kept his ears open while he strolled, listening for the sound of any feet but his own echoing from the sidewalk behind him.

"One missed throw" he muttered. "One simple mistake and they stick me with guard duty for the week. Lucky I don't plan a car bomb on them myself, they are." Blast, he was in a foul mood. He kept moving. A little exercise would clear his mind.

His ears perked up as the characteristic slap of a rubber shoe sounded on the walk, less than a block behind. Pogo didn't break his stride. Keep it cool, he reflected, reaching into his shirt pocket for a banana. Don't change pace; if you bolt, he'll pounce.

The banana was just what he needed. He finished downing the sweet fruit, barely overripe, as a van rounded the corner at full speed. Glancing askance at the mirror of a parked car, he double-checked his aim, and casually tossed the banana peel over his left shoulder. Perfect.

His pursuer didn't have time to react. The peel landed just as his shoe came down, sending his foot skidding out from under him. He lurched sideways into the street an instant before the van reached the same location; there was a screeching of tires followed by a dull thump, and a mop of curly orange hair flew up onto the hood.