SHORT STORY: The Voucher

The Voucher

By Jayce Michael Hill

Reymund was always fond of Harry’s Oyster Bar. The beer was bold and the Cajun and Gulf Coast food was his favorite in town. He’d often order an Abita IPA beer with a dozen oysters and sit on the upper deck overlooking the busy city and listen to the sounds of nearby saxophones. He didn’t need much, just him, his city and good food. That was then.

The smell of boiled oysters and crawfish soaked itself into the oak wood walls and floors of the restaurant formerly known as Harry’s Oyster Bar. Even after ten years he could smell the fading scent of jambalaya. The Harry’s Reymund grew to love was replaced, stripped of its once Cajun menu and replaced with a government approved, bland, cultureless one. Reymund now ordered ground vegetable patties with a tasteless beer on the upper decks and tried to remember what songs the saxophones once played.

Today he wouldn’t sit on the upper levels and watch, he had work to do. Reymund came into the bar and took up two stools, one for him and one for his gym bag filled with spray paint cans. He also carried with him his voucher that he held for the past three weeks.

***

December 1st, 2089

CITIZEN R-UJ789,

Due to your excellent contribution to society for PREVIOUSLY WITNESSED HEROIC ACT we are pleased to grant you a new voucher of ONE MISDEMEANOR to use consequence free at your convenience.

As mentioned in LAW SECTION 789 No.99-101, this voucher has no expiration and must be presented to the arresting unit once you have completed your ONE MISDEMEANOR. Failure to report or present documentation after completion of your action will result in full use of the law.

Thank you citizen for your excellent work in our great society and continue your hard work to make SECTOR 6 a great place to live. Your work makes Leader proud!

COMMISSION OF VOUCHER SERVICES –

Approved by Arbiter #8890098

***

Reymund placed his voucher on the bar and left his bag slightly opened revealing his spray paint cans. Harry was long gone, and his replacement watched Reymund closely, noting the voucher and the contents of his open bag.

“First beer is on the house,” the bartender said. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day.”

The bartender straightened his posture. Reymund gave him a slight nod and the bartender relaxed.

“Is that a voucher?” the words came unexpectedly from his left. A finely dressed man with a stupid grin on his face got up and took the vacant chair directly to Reymund’s left. He did not welcome this intrusion but the man was bad at reading body language.

“Yeah, just for a misdemeanor.” Reymund spoke quickly as to put an end to the conversation.

“Can I see it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve never actually seen one in the wild. I work for the division of crime vouchers as an arbiter. I review voucher nominations, it’s quite possible I approved yours.” The man was far too excited for Reymund’s current mood.

“Cool.” Reymund drew the beer to his mouth hoping this would be the end to this encounter.

“I approved of the arson voucher in the news a week ago. I figured it was well deserved for the man who turned in the family of untouchables! You know what he did with it?” The man let out a muffled giggle.

“What?” Reymund was annoyed.

“He used it to burn down the house where the family hid all of them! Funny right?” He expected more of a reaction from Reymund.

“You don’t believe in the vouchers do you?” The man’s tone shifted from gleeful to accusatory.

“Just happy to have one.”

“Did you know that after Leader announced of the voucher system, we cured cancer within a week?”

Reymund nodded. He heard this bit of propaganda before.

“The system works.” The man sat back in his chair confident he had made his point.

Reymund heard the story numerous times by government news. Some doctor with a grudge cured cancer and murdered his wife and her lover. He had eight remaining murders and no one would go near him. He was touted as a hero. What they stopped mentioning was the untold story after his heroism. Unable to kill eight more people, no one would be caught dead around him. Holding a voucher sometimes carried more weight that actually using one. Just as Reymund secured a free beer with a conveniently opened bag and a visible voucher, the doctor would never have a friend again.

When Leader, as he is often referred to, announced the crime vouchers men like Reymund saw right through it, it was a way to allow crimes against citizens by high ranking officials. Others, like the moron that sat next to him, actually believed it was a form of incentive like the propaganda suggested.

“So what did you do to earn it?” The man said.

“My job.”

“Come on, give us the story!” The man nodded at the bartender, but the bartender had other matters to attend to. Without the bartenders support the man inched closer to Reymund.

“Fine,” Reymund said as he took the last swig of tasteless beer. “I pulled a crew member from the river, he would have drowned. My crew nominated me for one of these vouchers. Not a big deal.”

He gently put the glass down, zipped up his bag and stood up from the seat. Without saying a word to the man exited Harry’s Oyster Bar.

***

Reymund continued on his mission, walking along the river once known as the Mississippi. The smell of dead fish and fresh water was still the same as it was years ago, that they couldn’t take away. As he walked along the banks with his bag he thought how he had no right to complain. He wasn’t a part of the former resistance and therefore wasn’t labeled an untouchable. He didn’t receive the hideous tattoo given to them on their foreheads and subject to their labor camps. He was a shrimp boat captain before the war, and a shrimp boat captain after. Only difference was he no longer gave shrimp to men like Harry, dead men. He gave them to a centralized nameless bureaucrat for mass consumption.

It often crossed his mind how powerless he was as he watched his city fade. He never fought for Leader, but he never fought against Leader either. They slowly took away the music, the names of landmarks, the historic districts all in the pursuit of “leaving the past behind to propel our society into the future.”

The moon danced in the wake of an unnamed boating vessel. He can still hold on to the smell of the river, the sight of the streets, and the stagnant air. But he lost his city.

He continued a mile and he made it to his goal, a small sign on the side of the road.

Reymund sighed as he pulled out his spray paint cans and went to work. He packed up his bag, took out his voucher ready for inspection, and sat opposite the sign. The words "Entrance: Sector 6" crossed out. He smiled and silently counted the cars that passed the sign that now read:

Welcome to New Orleans, the City of Jazz.