KYLE OFTEN SPENT HIS COMMUTE HOME worrying over his workday. Try as he might, he couldn’t help it – even though his DJNA playlist was optimized for his predisposition to stress, it was never enough to relax him, especially after a pitch meeting. And especially after a pitch meeting that had gone as badly as today’s. He gripped the steering wheel tighter as his car inched forward with all the others on the way to I-70. He’d been deoptimized for a while, and was starting to feel out of place.

The car’s alert system beeped and announced, “You have a new text from McKenna.”

“Display,” Kyle said and the heads-up-display on the windshield lit up. When will you be home? Have to confab re: First Federal’s EAPA before dinner. “Reply,” said Kyle, and the car beeped again. “How did it go question mark.”

McKenna’s response came back almost immediately. Not good [frown emoji]. ETA? “Reply,” Kyle said again, then: “Stand by.”

After the message sent, Kyle told his car to open MyWay and check the toll rates and times. The display lit up again. Bronze lanes were free, as always, but showed a 93-minute drive time from the on-ramp to his subdivision’s entry gate. Silver was set at $10 for 55 minutes, Gold read $15 for 46 minutes, and Platinum, with a guaranteed time-to-destination of 25 minutes, listed at $45. He couldn’t leverage $45, not after the meeting today, so he was in for a long ride. He selected Silver, then told his car to text McKenna. After the beep he said, “ETA one hour.”

The thumbs-up emoji came back from McKenna just as Kyle merged onto the Silver ramp. At least he’d have some time to prep for the confab with his wife. The car’s highway autodrive system kicked on and slowly accelerated him towards the lane of traffic.

A wisp of smoke rose from the Bronze lane ahead. Kyle heard the horns as he approached. The smoke came from the open hood of an old gas-engine pickup truck filled with wood scraps, an even older dark-skinned man standing to its side. The horns of the cars behind the truck blared relentlessly, and Kyle frowned as he passed the angry drivers. They were in the Bronze lane, he thought. Didn’t they understand the Market?

“You get what you pay for,” he muttered in their direction, and then his car slipped in to the Silver lane traffic flow, leaving the noise behind. Kyle leaned back as the afternoon pitch meeting played back through his head.

The only reason the meeting hadn’t been a total Lehman was the fact that he still had a job. He knew the stats: only 30 percent of those who held a PhD in Consumer Manipulation were currently employed in the field. So on the one hand, Kyle was lucky. But he knew that MessageMates received dozens of resumes a week, making him easily replaceable. And after today, he was probably hanging by a thread.

The rankings would have been updated by now. Kyle told the car to open the Glengarry app, and sure enough, they were fresh. Dave came in first, again, with a +8 for the day and +302 for the month. Fucking Dave. He’d sniped pieces of everyone’s commission this time, as he continued to deliver just the right concepts for their VP’s taste. Carlos even said as much in the meeting today: “Dave, you really know my tastes.” The only other team member with plus-anything from the day was Brenna, who knew Carlos’ tastes in a different way: in spite of having all her pitches for that caffeinated vape liquid rejected, she’d still managed a +1. Everyone, including Brenna herself, knew that she was only coming out ahead because of her blatant flirtations with their VP. Kyle couldn’t really blame her, though. She’d found a demand in the Market that she could supply. He wished his place in the Market was so easy to find. And that she and Fucking Dave weren’t costing him so much money.

He found his own name at the bottom of the list: Kyle, -10 for the day, -96 for the month, the last name without a red X over it. The meeting had been his second shot at pitching for Sprēd, an innovative margarine made from a proprietary blend of corn and soy derivative. Sprēd wanted to position themselves as a disruptor of butter, even though it looked worse, tasted worse, and spread worse. The only thing it had going for it was that it was cheaper than butter, which wasn’t a viable pitch. So Kyle had tried a few different angles, all of which had been shot down with contempt: the cow tea party with Sprēd on the toast points, the animated corn and soybean locking eyes across the crowded dance floor, the Ed Sheeran celebrity endorsement. Fucking Dave even laughed aloud at the last one, Kyle remembered, striking the steering wheel in frustration.

His DJNA playlist switched off and a soothing series of chimes came over the speaker. The car’s voice spoke to him. “You are getting upset. Relax, breathe, and everything will be just fine.” Kyle wanted to strike the sound system too, but he knew that the car was now linked in to his FitBit. If his heart rate didn’t drop, or if he made any other angry motions or sounds, the road rage avoidance system would pull the car over and lock him out for thirty minutes. So he just leaned back again and tried to breathe deeply.

After a few moments, the road rage alert left his display, only to reveal his Glengarry ranking once again: -96, which meant that $960 of his salary this month would be going to his corporate associates instead. But it could be worse. There, just below Kyle, with an X through her name, was Amanda. She’d dropped below -100 last week, and had therefore been automatically fired. Kyle didn’t want to think about how close he was to that line, and how he only had two days before the Friday morning pitch meeting. One last chance with Sprēd. He had to nail it, or he’d own the next red X.

Kyle closed the app and sighed. Out the window to his left, he saw car after car flying past him in the Platinum Lane. Fucking Dave was probably in the Platinum Lane. He shook his head. It wouldn’t help to stay angry. He started to open InspiroApp, but then remembered that he’d cancelled his premium subscription to save money and had already used his free daily quote before the meeting. Even though it had been from Musk, it hadn’t helped.

The message alert beeped again, and Kyle said “Display.” It was McKenna on MatriMoney, with a pitch, which scrolled across the windshield. “I need you to take the lead with First Federal tonight.” Underneath were her Terms: $500, plus she’d do his chores for the next week. “Accept, Decline, or Negotiate?” the display flashed. Kyle checked his drive time – it was another 30 minutes before he’d be home. He didn’t really want to take this on, but on the other hand, he could use the $500. And he could use the distraction from the Sprēd problem. And it was for his daughter. “Accept,” Kyle said, and the display flashed “It’s A Deal!” in flowing script over a winged heart before fading away to reveal the app’s slogan: “Love is a Marketplace of Two.”

************

Catch the rest of this dystopian love story in SN15: Black Friday – coming out November 23!

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