Equal Outcomes

A short story by Kassandra X

Hello friends. While my first priority every week is to provide thought-provoking essays for my readers, even dissident writers need vacations from time to time. As such, I may periodically plug the gap with quality commentary and prose from associates of mine, and I am therefore delighted to introduce Kassandra X and her amusing short satire Equal Outcomes.

Our regular programme will resume next week.

---

Author’s note:

A university colleague of mine was told recently by his Head of School that if he raised again the topic of ‘academic standards’ she would be obliged to take the matter to a disciplinary hearing. I completed this piece two weeks before the Titan submersible story broke, and tempting though it was, I resisted the urge to rewrite it with a cameo appearance of OceanGate CEO Stockton Rush, himself a great champion of equal outcomes. I do wonder if this tragedy might have been avoided if instead of hiring ‘inspirational’ young people, he had retained some of the ‘50 year old white guys’ that he fired in 2018 for pointing out pressure safety issues.

---

In a small first floor meeting room in an unremarkable building in Lower Pitt Street, Sixteen made a note of attendees. As the consultancy advisory group for Equal Workplace Outcomes, they were required to meet once every six months for an hour to fulfil their full-time contractual obligations. These involved recommending the removal of the overprivileged from well-paid positions and substituting workers of diverse backgrounds. As such. Behind closed doors the advisory group liked to refer to it as A Fair Suck of the Sav Policy.

‘Has anyone heard from Forty?’

Three, Hundred, and Twelve shook their heads.

‘It won’t be a breakdown,’ said Three, ‘The charging stations have been out of electricity for days now. Not a vehicle to be seen.’

At the start of their contract five years previously it had been decided that names, both given and family, as cultural markers might give unreasonable advantage to some and therefore numbers, randomly selected between 1 and 100, would deliver better equity. Initially 100 slips of paper were to be drawn from a hat but Three opined that using a hat might suggest sartorial privilege and so Sixteen’s suggestion of a ballot receptacle was accepted when an old Fair Trade coffee jar was found under the sink in the kitchenette.

‘Well,’ sighed Hundred, ‘We might as well get on with it while we wait for Forty. Any obvious transfers this time?’

‘I rather think so,’ said Twelve, ‘I’ve got an application from a drone owner to transfer to pilot status on the Sydney-Singapore route.’

‘Drone experience,’ said Sixteen, ‘That’s a good start. Any other relevant skills?’

‘Three historic convictions for using a device likely to endanger craft near an airport perimeter.’

‘Oh excellent,’ said Hundred. ‘Other competencies? Abusing in-flight cabin crew for example?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Twelve and shuffled some paper, ‘Got the full uniform though.’

Three nodded their head. ‘Easy to get through Mascot perimeter security these days and up-lift a pilot’s outfit. Didn’t we recommend those security teams to work 20% of their shifts just last year?’

‘Yup,’ said Sixteen, ‘Some of the best equity legislation ever made. Of course, we had our arms twisted to allow air traffic controllers to pick and choose how much of their shifts they completed too. But fair’s fair.’

The door opened and Forty appeared.

‘So fed up,’ they said. ‘Six minutes it took me to get here. Six minutes. It’s a pig of a walking commute from the Four Seasons. Used to be able to drive here in a minute. And when I got here the doors don’t open automatically anymore. Had to push them.’

‘And walk up the stairs,’ added Three.

‘Make a complaint,’ said Sixteen. ‘It’ll go through us. I’ll co-sign. Computers are all down though. Might have to…’

‘Write it out?’ The working group looked glum but brightened as Three said, ‘I’ve got a good one, see this drawing… house, door, two windows, chimney?’

‘Your six-year-old’s?’ asked Forty.

‘They’re eight actually,’ said Three. ‘Applying to be senior architect on the Gallery of New South Wales extension.’

‘Another extension?’ grizzled Hundred. ‘I thought Central Control had most of those inappropriate cultural artifacts incinerated.’

‘Just the old junk,’ said Sixteen. ‘There’s still a section called Appropriate Art For All. But anyway, it’s going to be a homeless shelter. Nice spaces. Uplifting.’ They looked around and said, ‘Anyway, can we have a vote? Central has pointed out that the architect age range is low on diversity points and this transfer should help.’

The transfer vote was carried unanimously.

‘So,’ said Forty, ‘Anyone else over-stressed? Nothing to do except work, work, work.’ The others all nodded.

‘Mass suicides have fallen off,’ said Twelve. ‘Not much entertainment around these days. Ever tried getting Netflix with your home-powered wind generator?’

The mass suicides of the five previous years had been great crowd pleasers. Senior medics, airline pilots, dentists, a very few independently minded academics, and many other professionals had been encouraged, following their mandatory transference into more equitable job outcomes, to take part in public group suicides. Signees were given extra benefits for their significant others, such as water vouchers, limited ownership of books and free diversity points. Having now reduced the original numbers in elitist jobs, Central Control had indicated (in couriered, paper-based messages) to its Special Affiliated Groups that the Happiness Project director was predicting widespread malaise. Depression even.

‘Oh wait,’ said Three rubbing their head thoughtfully, ‘Something historical I remembered… something I read…’

‘You read!’ expostulated Forty.

‘Ages ago,’ said Three, ‘When I was a gi… young person. Somewhere else, another country Out There, elites were taken somewhere, you know like Martin Place, in carts...’

‘Carts. Makes sense,’ said Hundred. ‘Buggered electrical grids probably.’

‘And,’ went on Three, tapping their fingers on the desk, ‘Something about a big descending blade… a non-optional exit kind of thing.’

‘Could work as a diversion,’ said Forty, ‘Cheer everyone up. Pass it on to Central for action. But look I’ve got places to be. Do we need to approve any other transfers?’

‘Last one,’ said Twelve, ‘Group application from a plumbing company down Wollongong. Putting forward a business plan to transfer as surgical specialists to the Urology Department at St Vincent’s.’

‘Business plan. Oooo fancy!’ said Hundred. ‘Sounds like a good fit though. It’s a yes from me.’

The Consultants nodded in unison.

‘Right,’ said Forty, ‘One more thing, all busy people, things to do, and these six-monthly meetings take up a lot of our time. Need to avoid these lengthy debates. Suggest that applicants for transfer just… self-declare.’

Hundred, Three, Twelve, and Sixteen looked at them in admiration.

‘Efficient,’ said Twelve, ‘Best practice. We still need to meet though. On paper at least. Honour the contract. And submit our invoice, of course.’

‘Certainly,’ said Sixteen, ‘We are consultants after all.’