The Maya 1.38

Previously On The Maya...

Mr. Snake and Mr. Tic watch the survey table as The Maya sends new data. They comment on how well thought out and designed civil planning is on the island. The new area of the map goes beyond the cities and residential areas into farm land and some industrial areas, including what might be fertilizer plants. They wonder if The Maya will try to blow up something. Mr. Snake advises it would be better if The Maya waits until after the dinner in honor of Tuscon Sutton tomorrow night, so that DNA samples can be taken to implicate him with.

Mr. Tic realizes as Mr. Snake heads off to sleep that Mr. Snake has been in a much better mood since Mr. Tic put his foot down. Unfortunately, that brings Mr. Tic no comfort. He has started to put together the pieces of a plan to keep himself alive should his darkest fears be manifested.

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The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.

George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.

Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.

Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.

Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.

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And now...the next installment of The Maya.

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True to her word, it was after six-thirty by the time Paloma arrived. She no longer wore the apron, but she did have the same bright floral print white dress from earlier. Marie answered the doorbell when she rang, and after quick introductions which included Layton, too, Marie fetched Kirkegaard, giving him an approving thumbs up before he reached the door. "Marie's seal of approval," Kirkegaard whispered.

"Have fun," she said. "Don't be out too late," she added, with a bit of mischief.

"Yes, mother," Kirkegaard muttered. After greeting Paloma he asked her if she was able to find the house without any trouble.

"Oh, yes," she said. "My car has IPS."

"IPS?"

"Island Positioning System. I put in an address anywhere on the island, and it gives me turn by turn directions."

"Like GPS," Kirkegaard said. "Except, it works now. I've read about the Department of Defense developing it. Not sure when the general public might get to use it."

"Here, it's been available for at least ten years."

"Amazing," Kirkegaard said.

The two fell into silence as Paloma drove them west on a four-lane freeway. As their speed increased, just as Layton had told Kirkegaard earlier, seat belts ejected from each front door side panel, and they fastened them into place. Kirkegaard noted they were traveling well over ninety miles per hour.

"The Laytons are nice," Paloma said a few moments later.

"Yes, they are."

"And they answer my first question."

"How I got here?"

"Uh-huh."

She didn't ask for one, but Kirkegaard gave her a rundown, from Layton's invitation, to his confusion over the airfield and check-in protocols. He skipped over the reason for the invite and his meeting Amara, since he was sure the subjects of his closed business and who the woman was he was with at the sandwich shop would come up sooner or later. When he was through, he asked his own question.

"What about you?"

"How did I get here? I think I should save that one for dinner." Paloma smiled. "Oh, by the way." Keeping her eyes on the road, she dipped into a compartment with coins in it. "These are yours."

"The four islanders I left as a tip?" Kirkegaard asked.

"Yes. I can't take them. Believe it or not, no one tips here."

"Really? It's institutionalized back home." He held out his hand and Paloma dropped the coins into them.

"Just one of the many differences."

"I hope you're paid well, then."

"Actually, for a waitress job, it's pretty good."

"Do you mind me asking how much?"

"Not at all. Why don't you guess first."

"Okay." Kirkegaard squinted his eyes in concentration. "It must be better than minimum wage."

"There is no minimum wage, but yes, it is."

"Okay. So, the exchange rate here is three and third dollars to islanders..."

"Yes."

"So, I'm going to guess six thousand islanders. Twenty-thousand dollars."

"No."

"Higher or lower?"

"Higher."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars. What would that be in islanders?" Kirkegaard was having trouble with the math. The third was throwing him off.

"Seventy-five hundred," Paloma said. "But no. Still too low."

"Still too low?" Kirkegaard scratched his head. Someone earning twenty-five thousand a year would make a little over twelve dollars an hour. That wasn't bad for a waitress job, especially full-time. "Thirty-thousand."

"Yes," Paloma said.

"That's fourteen-something dollars an hour. Not bad at all."

"Try islanders."

"What?" Kirkegaard's jaw dropped. "Thirty-thousand islanders? That's..."

"One hundred thousand dollars, a year." Paloma nodded. She gave him a quick glance. Seeing the look on his face, she laughed.

"No way."

"Believe me. I have no reason to lie."

"Sorry. I wasn't accusing you. It's just a lot of money."

"For a waitress."

"For a lot of people." Kirkegaard was stunned. He didn't even pay himself that much during his best year. There wasn't enough revenue, or he would have.

"Don't worry," Paloma said, "I'm not offended. It's funny to see your reaction. It's quite natural, though. Here, just like anywhere else, waitstaff are considered unskilled labor, though you can still be good or lousy at it."

Kirkegaard contemplated her words for several moments. Then, when he spoke, his voice was hushed, disbelieving. "You make it sound like thirty-thousand is the bottom of the scale."

"It is. No one makes any less than that."

"No one?" Kirkegaard questioned. Paloma nodded. "That's a lot. How in the world can they afford that?" It didn't compute. Kirkegaard thought of McDonald's and other fast food restaurants that employed cheap labor, most only part-time, with no benefits. They were always against a minimum wage increase, claiming it would bankrupt them, or cause them to jack up prices to maintain margins.

"Where to begin," Paloma said, laughing again. "Probably the biggest reason has to do with taxes."

"They're low."

"There aren't any."

"None?" Kirkegaard was clearly caught off guard. "Surely, there has to be some."

"There are no taxes of any kind."

"No income tax."

"And no property or sales tax, either."

Of all the things Kirkegaard had heard about the Isle of Use so far, no taxes was the most unfathomable. "You've got to be kidding. What about payroll taxes, or things like Social Security?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing comes out of your check."

"My earnings are direct deposited, but no. You keep what you earn."

Kirkegaard shook his head. "Okay. So, what about health insurance. Do you get benefits?"

"There is no health insurance offered on the island. We do get paid holidays, and vacation accrual. How much depends on the business owner."

"So what about medical bills?"

"Everyone pays their own," Paloma said. "If they ever need to go. People tend to be pretty healthy here."

"So, I've heard," Kirkegaard said. Just like the ride home from the airport, he felt like he was on information overload. It was hard to process all of it. "I still can't see how the shop can afford to pay you that."

"Well, business is good, too," Paloma said. "We're only open during the week, and we average around five hundred customers a day. There's three of us waitresses. Aside from taking orders and serving food, we help prepare for the day about mid-morning, and we help cleanup in the evening. The owner and his nineteen-year-old son do all the cooking and sandwich making, and the sixteen-year-old daughter spells us for breaks, lunch and vacations."

"Don't the kids have school? College even?"

"Students graduate from public school before their sixteenth birthday. If they're becoming engineers, doctors, or something as technical, they continue they're education. Most of it's hands on, though. Otherwise, they're prepared to get, keep and excel at a job when they graduate from high school."

"By age sixteen," Kirkegaard said. He shook his head.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't say I know many sixteen-year-olds," Kirkegaard said, "but the few I do know don't want any major responsibilities. Freedom to do what they want. Yes. As long as Mom and Dad pay for it."

"I was one of those teenagers," Paloma said. Her smile was replaced by another expression. Kirkegaard remembered seeing it a time or two before. In either case, she had been talking about her past. The look was bittersweet.

"That was a lifetime ago," Kirkegaard said, his tone soothing. "From what you've told me, you're more than making up for lost time."

"That's kind of you to say," Paloma said.

Again, they became quiet. Instead of awkward, it held some familiarity, and neither tried to force it. It wasn't long before they arrived at their destination, another neighborhood with smaller homes and lots, closer to downtown.

"They allow restaurants in residential areas?" Kirkegaard asked, as they made a few turns. Paloma gave him a sideways smile.

"No," she said, suppressing a giggle, "It's just most restaurants close their doors after six pm. We'd have to go clear over to the hotel zone in order to find something open, and I figured, my cooking would be better."

"Oh," Kirkegaard said. "I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me? I'm sure we both could have eaten at the Layton's."

"Believe me, I'm happy to do it. Plus, it will give us more time to catch up, privately."

She pulled into the driveway of a one story brick house, with a six-foot high oak fence. Ferns and roses lined the front of the house and circled a thick green lawn of Bermuda grass.

"This is yours?" Kirkegaard asked. As their car got close to the garage, it began to open, and Paloma parked inside.

"Small, but it's almost mine."

"You mean, you've almost paid it off?"

"One more year," she said. She got out of the car, leaving Kirkegaard dumbfounded. There was no way Paloma had lived here very long. Three years, tops. Was she saying she would pay off a decent-sized house with a big yard in just four years?

"How long have you been here?"

"We're waiting for dinner, remember?" Paloma teased. With that, she led him inside.

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'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

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_{Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.}