Citizen Marg: Once Upon A Future, #1

By Allison M. Azulay

A new job seems to be Marg's dream come true, but it turns into a nightmare when she discovers what her boss is doing...and what really happened to her predecessor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ALLISON MARGARET AZULAY
• Release date: Sep 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781775359746

Allison M. Azulay

Born to Canadian parents of mixed, predominantly British heritage, Allison M. Azulay spent her formative years in a village outside of the capital city of Ottawa and her teen years in the steel city of Hamilton, Ontario. Like her mother, she read voraciously, and she composed stories of her own at home as well as in school. Later, encouraged by her husband to explore her ideas and talents, she wrote poems, short stories, children's storybooks for relatives, and more. After the death of her husband, she began to write and independently publish novels and short stories.

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Allison M. Azulay

CITIZEN MARG

Once Upon a Future Novel

Copyright © 2019 by Allison M. Azulay. All rights reserved.

The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Citizen Marg is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

https://www.allison-m-azulay.ca

ISBN 978-1-7753597-4-6 (e-book)

ISBN 978-0-9948382-8-5 (softcover)

Cover design by SelfPubBookCovers.com/Raffael

Published in Canada by Allison M. Azulay

Table of Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

DEDICATION

Part 1

CHAPTER 1

Part 2

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

Part 3

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

Part 4

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

PART 5

CHAPTER 42

A Little Blast from the Past

GLOSSARY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

WHILE MY WRITING TO date has been primarily romance, fantasy, and adventure novels and short stories, a tale of political intrigue set in Canada’s capital remained on the back burner for years. Now, I have brought it forward to cook it to completion and present a different point of view about the world we live in and the world as it could be.

Little effort has been made toward accuracy of details because this tale is not meant to be a revolutionary how-to. Instead, its purpose is to provoke thought and, one can hope, discussion of new ideas.

DEDICATION

For D.W.

Part 1

HOW DID IT COME TO THIS?

CHAPTER 1

THE ARMOURY WAS EMPTY because Marg was late. Lucky her, she had been assigned the job of writing letters to concerned citizens. The first shitload had come in overnight, and despite hours of work she had barely put a dent in it before she gave up and abandoned the task to take a shift on Security. She supposed she could have composed a general response and passed it on to someone who could type it up and print it off for mailing, but she had always hated receiving what amounted to form letters from politicians (the replies’ substance drafted by bureaucrats) after she had fired off a serious question or heartfelt comment to her Member of Parliament or the Prime Minister. She just couldn’t do that to the people out there who worried that the country was going to hell in a hand-basket.

From one of the extra gun cabinets that had been brought over from a government warehouse, she retrieved the C7A1 assault rifle that she had learned to use before it all hit the fan. The weapon even had a hot-pink nail-polish M to identify it as hers. She checked the ammo, briefly noting the cold hardness of the metal and the smell of the gun oil, and she grabbed another couple of magazines to stuff into the front kangaroo pocket of the oversized shirt under her lined jacket—just in case. The most recent attacks had been such a disaster for the other side that another was not expected for at least a couple of days. But the war had not been won; so, it was too soon to slack off.

Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she strode out of the Security office and on through Confederation Hall to exit the Peace Tower and jog across the grassy expanse before the Parliament buildings, the open space liberally littered with battle debris. The assigned teams had gone ahead; so, she quickened her pace to catch up as she glanced to the sky. Clouds had come in from the east and the wind had picked up. But the air did not smell of rain.

Her stomach loudly reminded her she had barely touched breakfast and lunch had been forgotten. But she needed to keep her mind occupied more than she needed food.

From the broad driveway entrance to Parliament Hill guarded by camouflage-clad sentries she spotted Tsi-Guy and Carl sauntering westward. Other teams, she presumed, had taken the northern and eastern paths behind the stone edifices that had housed various ministries through more than one hundred years.

Strands of hair whipped about her face. She pulled them back to wrench off her elastic and re-bind the dark tresses that needed a wash. A whiff from her armpits reminded her she had not bathed in a couple of days. More than a couple. She needed to shower, but it would be hours before she returned to her bedroom in the hidden section of Parliament Hill that she and her comrades now dubbed The Barracks. She pushed away the memory of the huge empty bed with its satin sheets and down-filled comforter and jasmine perfume not yet overpowered by her own scents as she closed the gap between herself and the pair of guards ahead.

A flash to her left turned her head toward a guy with a camera aiming his telephoto lens at her. She sighed. Dressed in borrowed jeans and shirt, both faded, the former a size too small and the latter several sizes too large; her hair a mess; sporting a rifle; and generally looking like something out of a third-rate post-apocalypse zombie movie, her appearance would no doubt scare the bejeebers out of the public when those pictures went viral.

Worse, she had been volunteered to handle the media interviews when those could be arranged—a job for which she was by no means qualified. Canadians’ first impression of her would be bad; subsequent perceptions would likely go downhill from there.

But the Patriots could not keep everyone in the dark forever; the people needed to know somebody was in charge. More importantly, they needed to know that the new government, such as it was, had a vision of the future that they could embrace.

The future: such a nebulous thing.

The past, on the other hand, was all too clear. Had it really been only a few months since her world turned upside down?

Part 2

WAKE-UP CALLS

CHAPTER 2

MARG MACKENDRICK SAT staring at the screen, her hand on the mouse, her finger poised. She chewed her lower lip. Then, she heaved a sigh and moved the cursor on to the next section.

She always did this. She always agonized over whether to select bilingual as one of her capabilities when she filled out employment forms. And she always wussed out. Technically, she was trilingual, but her second and third languages did not include French. And the bureaucracy defined bilingualism as fluency in French and English, with emphasis on the former.

A little more typing, a few more taps of the mouse, and she finished applying for yet another position in the government. She had entered eighteen competitions this week alone, and three today. But she held out little hope (more accurately, no hope) of getting anything above the level of her last permanent job—the job that had been made redundant when the Department of Finance was reorganized again.

She had been unemployed for three weeks, now, and money was getting tight. Her roommate Jean had not yet made an issue of carrying the financial load for the two of them. But rent was due next week and Marg’s share would wipe out her meagre savings. Moreover, Employment Insurance would not kick in for months. She was staring Welfare in the face.

With a sigh, she hit the submit button and closed the Public Service Commission’s computer. She could access the requisite forms via her own laptop at home, but she always worried about internet security; so, she made the effort to walk to the brown-brick tower that held the working component of the government department responsible for hiring public servants. Finished for the day, she grabbed up her purse from the floor at her feet, pushed back the swivel chair, and rose to trudge out of the office, along carpeted corridors, and on through the stone-floored lobby to the exit.

Without, Marg stood a moment in the shade afforded by the Commission’s mass and let her body adjust to the significantly higher temperatures after her morning in chilly air conditioning. She slung her bag over her shoulder and marched off toward home, forcibly quashing a strong desire to pop into one of the restaurants along the way, the extravagance being a luxury she could not afford. The heavenly smells wafting from cafés and coffee shops, bakeries and bistros tortured her until she turned onto Somerset and passed into the residential district beyond the downtown core.

She was ravenous by the time she unlocked the door of her apartment, tossed her handbag onto the coffee table, and plodded to the kitchenette that adjoined the multi-purpose living-room beyond the entry closet. To her dismay, she found the fridge almost empty. So, she rummaged in the cupboards to put together her fallback meal: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches washed down with the half-cup of coffee left over from breakfast. She did not even bother to reheat the latter, opting simply to sweeten it with a wee dribble of maple syrup.

Better than nothing, she muttered to herself as she carried mug and plate to the dinette nearby. She slid onto the green vinyl-clad chair that matched the retro Arborite-and-chrome table Jean had inherited from her grandparents. After a moment contemplating the meagre meal before her, she heaved a sigh and picked up the top sandwich two-handed to chomp into the squishy mess.

JEAN TOWNSEND CAME HOME EARLY for the first time...ever. Marg padded from her room, where she had been surfing the internet, to find her roommate sitting on the couch, bent forward, elbows on her knees, head down, shoulders shaking. Instantly alarmed, Marg dashed to her friend’s side and stretched an arm across her back in offer of sympathy and solace.

What’s going on? Marg asked anxiously.

Shuddering breaths issued from Jean as she slowly straightened. She turned her tear-stained face to Marg and whispered, I’ve been fired.

What? Marg exclaimed. You’re the best worker they have. What’s your boss smoking?

Jean’s lips curled sardonically as her countenance transformed from a portrait of grief to one of anger. I’m not as young as the new girl, and she’s got bigger teats.

Oh, for Chris’ sake! Marg swore. The man’s a moron.

Jean’s voice and manner softened as her gaze strayed to her purse on the coffee table. I’ve got enough to pay the rent and keep us going for a couple of months. After that....

After that, thought Marg, we’ll join the ranks of the homeless unless we can find new jobs.

UNSEASONABLE HEAT FILLED THE APARTMENT, spring sun streaming into the windows that all faced east, not mitigated by the flimsy and faded curtains purchased in yard sales and thrift shops. Marg and Jean sat at the kitchen table perusing want-ads in each of several local and regional newspapers because there were still employers out there that liked to do things the old-fashioned way.

Of course, they would search online, as well.

Marg wiped the condensation from her glass of ice-water and smeared the cool drops over her sweaty forehead and neck. She sighed. No more relief came from that action than from the pages of the dailies and weeklies. Oh, there were plenty of jobs available. Just not the sort she was qualified for. But if she was honest with herself, she had been avoiding some opportunities simply because she was not altogether sure she could handle the work: Waitressing, for example, would tax her body, the body that had been accustomed to sedentary activities even in childhood. She envied the older woman beside her, who had been in the food-service industry since her teens. Jean had always logged long, gruelling days or nights in restaurants or bars. Her stamina astounded Marg.

Jean set down the daily she had been reading and scribed circles around three ads. Noting it with a tightening of her belly, Marg turned back to her own paper and, with more clenching of her gut, marked a couple of entries asking for sales help in local stores. They would be minimum-wage jobs, but perhaps landing one would tide her over until she found something better.

CHAPTER 3

IT NEVER RAINS BUT it pours. The old saying instantly jumped to mind when Marg’s laptop suddenly froze.

Dammit! she raged.

What’s wrong?

My computer crashed. Now I can’t finish the c.v. I was working on.

Another expense, Jean assumed, and she sighed heavily.

Maybe not, Marg replied with more hope than confidence. It may just be the heat slowing the processing. She added with a grimace, But that doesn’t help the fact I just lost an hour’s work.

Maybe try again in the morning, Jean suggested. Early. Real early.

Yeah, Marg said on a breath. She decided, In the meantime, I’m outta here. If I can’t work, I’ll go find some air conditioning. She stood and stretched her limbs a moment, arching backwards and then forward to touch her toes. After a waggling of her shoulders, she slipped off her nightie and headed for the shower.

On the way to her own room, Jean called, I’ve got an interview.

Okay, Marg acknowledged as she closed the bathroom door.

FROM SWELTERING HEAT to icy cold. She had expected that and had brought a sweater with her to the Internet Café. First, though, she simply sat at the only available desk, deposited her purse below, adjusted her chair, and logged in, all the while letting her body cool down from its prior skin-flushing fever. When she began to feel a chill, she pulled on the cardigan and took a sip of the latté she had purchased next door (an extravagance she could not resist; it was only five dollars, she had told herself). As this establishment’s name suggested, there was coffee brewing in back, but it was putrid stuff few but the café’s employees ever drank. Its burnt smell competed with the reeks of sweat and perfumes from the customers.

Marg picked up the mouse and clicked on her favourite browser. But she had not decided, on the way here, what she wanted to look up; so, she simply panned the room, hoping for inspiration. She could make applications for jobs, but...no, not on a public computer. Her eyes and mind wandered lazily as she circled in her chair.

This was the fifth or sixth incarnation of the business operated in a long, narrow shop bracketed by a boutique selling secondhand women’s wear on one side and the coffeehouse on the corner. The café still had a cave-like feel left over from the previous owners, who had blackened walls and floors and ceilings when they installed a closed network of computers aimed at the gaming crowd. The only colour in the place was the vibrant outfit, piercings, and hair of the young woman at the staff counter and the summery pastels and denims of the clients seated at their individual desks. Even the new computers were sleek and black, blending into the dusky plywood cubbyholes built years ago.

The guy next to her whirled around in his chair and launched his empty coffee container toward the wastebasket by the service desk. The paper cup hit the side of the wooden unit behind and bounced into the metal can with a tap and a slight susurrus that indicated it had fallen onto a pile of soft material, probably crumpled paper. As he twirled again to face his rented machine, Marg glanced at his monitor to find a rather pretty web page she had never seen before. Noticing her curious scrutiny, the unkempt young man with tattoos on his hands leaned toward her to confide, It’s a really cool site. Wanna read it?

Abashed at being caught in a social faux pas, Marg blushed. But before she could turn away, he said, I’ll write out the URL. Got a pen?

Without waiting for an answer, he stood and hastened to the wastebasket. A few seconds of rummaging turned up a relatively clean bit of printer paper, and he strode back to sit at his desk again and spread the sheet to ease the wrinkles. He took the pen she offered and wrote out the name of the website. As he tore off the scribbled note and handed back her pen and the message, he repeated, It’s real cool. You’re gonna love it!

Thanks, Marg responded, still embarrassed and trying not to show her discomfort with the odours of cigarette and infrequent bathing that wafted from the fellow whose stringy hair brushed lightly tanned cheeks below pale, clear eyes. She immediately turned to her own computer to type in the URL.

I’ll give ya some others, too, the man volunteered, and he reached to take back the pen. A minute later, he returned the pen and waved the creased page at her.

Thank you, she said again, her smile hesitant as she accepted the list and set it aside.

No problemo, he replied with his own crooked grin. Then, he went back to his reading as Marg concentrated on hers.

EACH SITE LED TO OTHER sites. Marg sat enthralled, and appalled, at the articles and videos that exposed government and corporate corruption on a scale she could not have imagined. That her country seemed to be hip-deep in muck did not surprise her. In fact, none of it truly surprised her, she reflected while she ambled homeward as the sun sank below the western skyline, except the degree of depravity that had apparently taken hold at the highest levels of society in virtually every country.

Why did it not surprise her? She had personally seen no evidence supporting the assertions on the many sites dubbed fake news by the mainstream media and the politicians in question―no evidence, that is, if you didn’t count senseless laws, overregulation, and politicians cutting funding to public programs while hiring their buddies. Nonetheless, she knew as she knew the sun would come up in the morning that it was all true.

Maybe it was her Scottish heritage, she thought, that held a basic contempt for those who sought power and those who coveted wealth. She would freely admit that a few hundred thousand, or a few million, would make her life easier. But to want to own everything and control everyone? That was just...sick. How empty such people must be, she mused. How lacking in real joy and happiness. How incapable of true friendship or love.

How sad.

And how scary that such people should have so much influence in the world.

But what could someone like her do about it?

Nothing, she sighed as she trudged up the steps to the front door of her apartment building.

CHAPTER 4

SATURDAY CONTINUED hot. Marg rose early and whipped up a light breakfast with what ingredients remained in the fridge. In minutes, she produced an omelet with onion, the last of the cheddar, and the few shreds of spinach that had not turned to slime. There was still enough coffee to last the month, if they used up the pouches of flavoured instant her sister Gail had stuffed into a Christmas stocking prepared for Marg. (Christmas festivities were always held at Gail’s since their parents passed six years back. And for the sake of her grandchildren Gail loved to go all out with trees and stockings and turkey dinner and carols and Hallmark movies.)

Jean trudged into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of java, still in her pyjamas and half asleep. She jumped when the phone rang.

I’ll get it, Marg sang out as Jean swore at the splash of steaming, dark liquid that had landed on her hand, another now staining the countertop.

Hello, Marg greeted.

Hi.

Hi, Gail. What’s up?

I was wondering if you two would like to spend the weekend at the cottage?

Marg glanced to the still fuming Jean, who was wiping up the spill while spewing language that would suit a sailor. Chewing her lip, Marg estimated how much gas she had in the car, how much it would cost to refill the fridge, and how stifling the apartment would become if the current weather did not break.

At last, she said, Sure. We’ll be there with bells on.

Gail chuckled. Swimsuits will do. I’m on my way out the door. See you soon.

Turning to her roommate as she set the telephone receiver into its cradle, Marg asked brightly, Did you have any plans? Before Jean could answer, she said, How about a drive into the country for some fresh cool air and some free food?

Jean closed her mouth on the reply she had intended. Then she tilted her head and asked, Free food?

Barbecued steaks.

I’m in.

GAIL AND BOB’S COTTAGE was a leftover from decades past when a height-of-fashion weekender was no more than a small hut in a forested area off the highway. They had lucked out (from Bob’s point of view) and managed to find one with direct access to the lake. He had eventually tacked on a bathroom with toilet and sink to supplement the outhouse, after the sturdy boathouse and dock had been built. But water still came from an old well he had never upgraded and had to be pumped by hand and hauled inside for most purposes, although he had jerry-rigged an automatic unit to feed the toilet tank.

Marg and Jean pulled off the rutted lane from the road and parked to the side, next to Bob’s sleek red SUV and the blue rattletrap Gail’s daughter Lucy drove. They had barely emerged from Marg’s old Pontiac when Lucy’s brother Nate arrived in a white van that sported the logo of the company he currently worked for.

The screen door clacked shut behind Bob as he hopped off the weathered wood deck that surrounded the cottage and strode to his Ford to open the rear door and pop the lid of the cooler inside. As Nate ambled by with his gym bag, Bob tossed him a can of beer.

Thanks, Nate acknowledged as he snatched it from the air and continued to the cottage without breaking stride.

While Bob lugged the beer-laden cooler down to dockside, Marg and Jean carried their small suitcases inside and deposited them in the bedroom that Gail indicated with a wave. Marg suppressed a giggle that her sibling did not even break the rhythm of her sweeping with the gesture as she assiduously scraped with an old corn broom the mouse dirt that had accumulated since her last visit to the lake.

As always, the place smelled of rodent, spilled beer, rust, and the perfume of pine blown by breezes through the window screens.

My God this is tiny! Jean exclaimed in dismay as she panned the wee chamber just big enough for a bunk bed and an itty-bitty chest of drawers that squatted under the window. Rows of hooks on the empty walls to right and left of the door substituted for a closet. The faded and worn curtains strung on a wire above the window had been shoved to one side, and there remained not a speck of paint anywhere, if there had ever been such embellishment.

We’re lucky, Marg observed. Nate will be sleeping in the boat. Maybe the kids, too. So we won’t be consigned to the couch. She added with a grimace, "And you reeeeally don’t want that."

Jean heaved a sigh and tossed her valise onto the upper bunk. I’ll go high, she said. I know you sleepwalk.

Marg huffed and wrinkled her nose. It’s not my fault I have the bladder of a four-year-old.

Jean grinned. So that’s the problem, is it?

Marg huffed again. Okay, she replied on an exaggerated sigh. I’ll try not to drink after supper.

THE BARBECUE SIZZLED with steaks for the adults, and burgers under foil awaited their turn on the grill for the little ones who preferred the easier chewing of the ground meat and the mushy additions slathered upon the buns that sandwiched the patties. (If they could not come to McDonald’s, McDonald’s must come to them.) Marg brought the big wooden bowl of salad to the picnic table on the porch, both table and deck weathered grey. Meanwhile, Gail laid out plates, Jean set out cutlery at each setting, and Lucy fetched condiments and dressings.

From the lake, the sound of motorboats