Erin Antler

Erin Antler

Erin Antler is a technology lawyer and writer based in Seattle. Her work has been featured in The Hill, The Washington Post, and Tales to Terrify, among other publications.

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Minimum Wage

This story is dedicated to the real Orrin Walker who never faced any bar complaints and is missed by many.

The extraordinary thing about the legal profession is that every couple of decades, a new  practice area sprouts up out of nowhere. The 2000’s spawned privacy law, the 2020’s - AI law,  the 2050’s - reanimation law, the 2060’s - teleportation law, and the 2070’s - intergalactic law.  The first lawyers who claim to “specialize” in the new field are accepted as the leading experts. 

When time travel emerged in the year 2092, Orrin Walker jumped on the opportunity. 

It was a natural segue from employment law, which Orrin had been practicing for over two  decades. And he viewed it as an off-ramp from the conveyor belt of spats between disgruntled  former employees and their indignant former employers that consumed most of his time and  energy. 

“Specializing” in time travel law mostly consisted of Orrin updating his social media profiles. He  changed his bio from: “Thought leader and champion for labor and employment justice” to:  “Temporal regulation expert and educator.” He read a few blogs. He wrote a few blog posts. He  volunteered to speak at some conferences and continuing legal education seminars. And then  he waited. 

One afternoon, Orrin’s telewatch vibrated. The watch projected text to his retina that read:  “Incoming call - Bob Sanford.” Bob was in-house counsel at Scion Staffing, an agency that Orrin  had defended in several lawsuits. He tapped his watch to answer. 

The watch transmitted an audio signal from his wrist through his arm and to his cochlea. He  heard breathing. “Hey, Bob! Is that you? How’s it going, bud?” 

“You have experience with time travel law, right?” 

“Sure do, Bob.” 

“Ok, we need help with a new project. We’re planning on bringing in day laborers from the past.  First, we need an analysis of the legality. Assuming it’s a go, we’ll need a contract that is  enforceable in both temporalities.” 

“Got it. You know, I am so glad you called, Bob. I actually just got done giving a presentation on  the enforceability of intertemporal contracts. It was at the Law & Technology Summit in Boca  Raton. A lot of folks are realizing the advantages of doing business with people in different…” 

“Ok, I’ll open a new matter this afternoon. Thanks.” The call ended. 

The next day, Orrin called Scion back. “Hey, Bob. Just wanted to give you a heads-up that I  sent over a memo with my findings. The TLDR is that inter-temporal labor is legal, but carries  some risks.” 

“Anything we can’t disclaim in an employment agreement?”

“Well, there are a lot of risks inherent to time travel as a technology. Some that we aren’t even  aware of yet. But we can certainly limit Scion Staffing’s exposure with a well-written contract.  The good news - and I know this is what you’re interested in - is that the minimum wage laws of  the temporality in which the agreement is executed apply.” 

“So if the agreements are signed in 1940, we’re on the hook for $200 an hour or whatever the  minimum wage was in 1940, for work done in 2092, right?” 

“That’s right!” 

“Great. We’re planning on starting with a group from 1985. It’s for a factory gig. It’s not high-skill  work. Mostly manual labor. Let’s get a contract drafted asap.” 

That evening, Orrin tidied his desk before hitting a button on his telewatch to teleport home. His  cells barely finished assembling in the foyer when his twin sons, Argon and Radon, ambushed  him. “Mel and Kevin are going to see the dinosaurs. Can we go with them?” 

“How much does it cost?” 

“10 shitcoins per person.” 

“Hey! DON’T say that! We call them ‘poocoins.’ 10 is a lot, even for an esteemed juris doctor  like myself. Look, if you can raise the money, you can go.” 

“How are we going to make money? We’re only 9.” 

“Maybe get a job in 1900. Children were allowed to work then.” 

“Really?” Their eyes lit up. 

“Sure, if you’re happy making .00001 poocoins a day.” 

They deflated. 

Orrin made his way to the living room and joined his wife Bianca on the couch. She had her  headset on and appeared to be in the middle of a call. 

“I like the cat eye set with the gold scarabs. In ruby. Yeah, Nefertiti is totally trending right now.” 

Bianca was a merchandiser for a line of robotic manicurists. Orrin wasn’t entirely sure what that  meant, except that Bianca was always one step ahead when it came to fashion. 

“Marie Antoinette is definitely a vibe. But the guillotine is a little on-the-nose, don’t you think? I  think we should stick with the collection we have…Yeah. Ok, let’s target the 25th for the release.  Mmhm. Ok, sounds good. Thank you. Byeee!” 

Bianca sighed and pulled off her headset.

“You know what you should do? A Ten Plagues of Egypt set. One nail will have a frog, one will  have a boil, one will have a gnat….” 

Bianca scoffed. “How about you stick to your job, and I’ll stick to mine.” 

“Speaking of that, I wanted to talk to you about something. Would you be comfortable with me  going to 1985?” 

Bianca’s eyes grew wide. “When? Why? For how long?” 

“Next week. Just a few hours. Scion wants me to go to administer the execution of some  employment agreements. They have to be signed in 1985 for that year’s minimum wage laws to  apply.” 

Bianca nodded slowly, thinking it over. “Ok. Well, be careful. And come back as soon as you  can.” 

“I will. Pinky swear.” 

The hardest part of Orrin’s trip to 1985 proved not to be his body being propelled through  spacetime, but using a printer. Regulation prohibited him from bringing future technology, like  his headset or hologram tablet. He couldn’t figure out how to connect the typewriter to the  printer, so he ended up making copies of the contract by hand. He was sure Bob would be less  than thrilled, but it was better than coming back empty-handed. 

Orrin was given a desk in a trailer to administer the signatures. Men and women filed in one  door and out the other, looking over the agreement and signing. Orrin got a kick out of the  “local” hairstyles and fashions. He was sure Bianca would have taken inspiration from the  vaporwave palette and angular patterns for some of her designs. Once the last contract was  signed, Orrin gathered his stack of papers and traveled back. 

A few days later, Orrin got another call from Bob. 

“Hey, we need you to update the contract and make another trip.” 

“Hi, Bob. Great to hear from you. Are you hiring another batch from 1985?” 

“No, 1933 this time. Their minimum wage is even lower, so we realized there’s no reason to pay  a premium.” 

“Sure, I can have the agreement updated in a few hours.” 

This time, Orrin was prepared. He went to 1933 equipped with copies and a packed lunch since  he had some qualms about pre-microwave-era food. 

A man with bags under his eyes and faded overalls led Orrin to an office in the back of a  canning factory. A line of men formed at the doorway and trickled into the hallway. As he  processed the signatures, Orrin couldn’t help but notice how depleted the men looked. Thin and  sallow, they wore ill-fitting clothes coated in dust.

“You canning some good stuff today?” Orrin asked one, attempting to make conversation. The  man nodded and shuffled off, barely acknowledging the question. “Love to hear it!” Orrin called  after him. 

“What was it like?” Bianca asked from across the dinner table. 

“Ugh wuh weerd,” Orrin garbled, his mouth stuffed. Bianca had ordered his favorite fast food to  celebrate another successful trip. Socutesobig Chicken made the best lab-grown boneless  wings, teleported in fresh all the way from Kaohsiung, Taiwan. 

“Weird in what way?” 

“It was different from the last trip. The guys looked hard on their luck.” 

“Wasn’t 1933 around the time of the Great Depression?” 

“Oh, yeah! That explains it.” Orrin reached into a cardboard pail and pulled out a handful of fried  sweet potato balls. “God, I love these things. I hope they keep them on the menu. Have you  tried them with the plum powder?” 

“Yeah. What was the minimum wage in 1933?” 

“There was no minimum wage in 1933. Fun fact - minimum wage wasn’t established in the U.S.  until 1938!” 

“Well, how much are you paying them?” 

“45 cents an hour.” 

“How much would that be worth today?” 

“Mm. Not sure. Let me see.” Orrin keyed the number into his telewatch. “Uhh, .00013 poocoins.” “Geez. That’s practically nothing. Like, 10% of today’s minimum wage?” 

Orrin shrugged. “At least we’re giving them work.” 

Bob called again the next day. 

“Hi, Bob. Everything going alright?” 

“Yeah, we need another round of contracts. The other cohorts did well, but we realized that the  work doesn’t require special skills or modern knowledge, so we can afford to go back even  farther.” 

“Right. Absolutely. How far back are you thinking?” 

“Late 1700’s.”

“Ah, I see. I am going to need extra time for this one. The law has changed a lot since then, so  I’ll have to do some research. But I should have a draft ready for you in a week” 

“If that’s what it takes.” 

That night Orrin beamed as he watched his sons play cuttleball, the latest VR team sport. Each  player swam through an arena trailing holographic tentacles, visible only through the lenses of  the crowd’s headsets. The tentacles served to grapple opponents and, ultimately, snare a  sparkling virtual fish. The twins’ team, the Cyclops, was ahead. But Orrin’s mind was elsewhere.  He was dreaming about all the hours he would be able to bill researching 1700’s jurisprudence. 

Bianca stood beside him wearing a fan skin giving her a purple cast, gold hair, - the Cyclops’  colors - and a mermaid’s tail. One of the Cyclops teammates succeeded in tickling an opponent,  causing him to disengage his tentacles around the fish he had been cradling. Argon intercepted  the fish. Bianca clapped and bobbed, causing her gold tendrils to levitate about her head like a  gorgon. Meanwhile, Argon swam furiously towards a portal in the arena. He passed through it,  out of sight, and materialized in the middle of the arena triumphant. 

“Another point for the Cyclops!” 

“You’re not going to travel to the 1700’s, are you?” Bianca asked on their nightly walk. There  was no real reason for them to walk anywhere anymore. But Bianca held a superstition about  exercise being good for one’s health. 

“Yeah, the agreement has to be signed in…” 

“I know, I know. I mean - are you sure it’s worth it? That’s a long time ago. Who knows what  things were like. What if someone misunderstands something you say and reacts violently?  What if you broke a law that you didn’t even know existed and got thrown in 1700’s jail?” 

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’ll be with a local docent who can help interpret.” Orrin bent  down to tie his shoe. 

Bianca stopped, waiting for him. “Has anyone else from our time traveled to that year? I just feel  like there are a lot of unknowns. Can’t you get someone else to handle the signatures?” 

Orrin called Bob the next day. “Hi, Bob. The agreement is almost ready. Unfortunately, I’m not  going to be able to make the trip to do the signatures. I’ve got some family stuff lined up.” 

“We didn’t even discuss timing. We can schedule around your commitment.” 

“Oh, that’s very considerate. The truth is - my wife just doesn’t want me going back that far. I  think she still hasn’t warmed up to the idea of me traveling. She’s kind of paranoid.” 

“Ok, I’ll look for someone in-house to do it.” 

“Yes, great. Thanks for understanding. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

The next few weeks, Orrin received several new cases and referrals. Unfortunately, each turned  out to be a plain-old, present-day employment case. He begrudgingly accepted them.  

Orrin sat at his desk looking over photos from a PI. They showed a man, a former employee of  an ice cream shop that claimed his robot manager had sexually harassed him. In the photos,  the man could be seen outside a robot strip club. Orrin was trying to discern whether the photos  actually showed the man going into the strip club versus walking past it, when his telewatch  vibrated. It was Bianca. 

“Hey, honey. What’s up?” 

“They let me go,” she choked out between sobs. 

“What?...” 

“They fired me. They fired the whole team.” 

“How? Why?” 

“They’re replacing us with people from the past.” 

“Ok, are you at home? I’ll be there in a second.” 

Orrin spent the afternoon trying to console Bianca. He teleported-in her favorite dinner - spicy  chamorro de res from Uruapan, Mexico. He put on her favorite movie, Cinema Paradiso. She  cried throughout the film, but eventually dozed off on the couch.  

Trying not to disturb Bianca, Orrin gently adjusted his headset on his face and switched on the  news. It was his local channel. The broadcast showed a scene of pure mayhem, people running  around in hazmat suits cordoning off a factory. 

Orrin jolted, startling Bianca. “What? What is it?” 

“Look!” He put his headset in projection mode so they could both watch. 

The headline read: “Day laborers from the past bring smallpox. Center for Disease Control  struggles to control outbreak.” Then the camera cut to a group of men and women with long  black hair and high cheekbones being held in a quarantine room. 

“Oh my…is that…are they Scion’s people?” 

“Yeah…,” Orrin stared, fixated. A thought snapped him out of his trance. He touched his  telewatch. “Call CBA News Tipline.” He heard a dial tone. 

“Hello, this is CBA News Tipline. How may I help you?” 

“Hi, this is Orrin Walker. I saw your coverage of the smallpox outbreak. I’m actually an attorney  that worked with Scion Staffing to stand-up their intertemporal day laborer program. I would be  happy to do an interview or provide some commentary on the events, if you’d like.”

“Ok, do you mind if I put you on hold?” 

“Sure.” 

Orrin waited for a few minutes before hearing a voice. “Hello, Orrin? This is Keyuna Lakes. I’m a  reporter with CBA. I understand you worked with Scion Staffing on their intertemporal day  laborer program. Is that right?” 

“That’s right, Keyuna.” 

“Would you be available to do an interview this afternoon? It will be broadcast live.” “You bet. Just name a time and I’ll make it happen.” 

“Ok, and just to confirm - it wouldn’t violate your attorney-client privilege or duty of confidentiality  or anything?” 

“Not as long as I don’t tell you about the executions. Hahaha! Contracts joke. Get it? Nah, those  rules don’t really exist anymore. Not after they started licensing AI lawyers to practice.” 

That afternoon, Orrin put on his favorite bowtie and his headset and conferenced into CBA. 

“Joining us now is Orrin Walker, an attorney specializing in time travel law who advised Scion  Staffing on their program.” 

“It’s a pleasure to be here today, Keyuna.” 

“Now tell us - why would anyone want to bring workers from the past?” 

“Well, to save money. Under the relevant legal regime, the controlling labor laws are those of  the time in which an employment agreement is executed. So, if you hire workers in the year  1950, 1950’s minimum wage applies, even if they’re doing work in 2092.” 

“That makes sense. So what went into launching the program? What were the legal  considerations?” 

“So, first I reviewed applicable regulations in the relevant temporalities. Made sure intertemporal  labor was allowed. Then I prepared agreements and advised of the risks. In fact, I told Scion  that this kind of thing could happen. Not all risks can be signed away with a contract, even  drafted by the savviest lawyers. But they decided to accept the risks and went ahead with it.” 

“I see. Now, with this outbreak making headlines, what red flags should employers spot in these  time-hire programs?” 

“Do your research. Find out what was going on at the time and place that you intend to hire. It’s  not just about wages - you need a full risk assessment of contemporaneous events.” 

Orrin paused. “And have some ethics. Don’t screw over people from your time to save a buck.  You never know when you or your loved ones could be next.” 

“Right, that makes sense,” Keyuna interjected. “So, looking ahead, what practical steps can  workers take to protect themselves with companies now recruiting across the timeline?” 

“Don’t settle for the first techno-baron corpo-thug who offers you a job. Demand they pay you as  much as they pay their locals. Harness the power of collective bargaining. Strike across  spacetime!” 

As soon as Orrin went off the air, his phone rang. 

“What the hell are you doing telling them to unionize?!?” Bob screamed through the line. “It’s their right. I’m just stating facts.” 

“You’re screwing us is what you’re doing! And saying that you warned us and we acted against  your advice?” 

“Bob, I told you that there were risks we couldn’t anticipate. I am sorry to hear that you’re  dissatisfied. If it makes you feel any better, I’m willing to give you a 10% discount on all services  rendered within the next month.” 

“Are you serious? I’m filing a bar complaint!” Orrin heard a click. 

He took off his headset when his telewatch projected a message across his field of vision. “This  is Brock with Epoch Travel. I’m calling to inquire about getting some help with a waiver for  temporal excursions…” A second message bled in. “Hi, Orrin. I saw your interview on CBA and  was hoping you could help me. I passed away forty years ago, and I believe my grandchildren  mishandled my will…” Then a third pushed through. “Pierre Johanne, Sacreblu Capital GC.  Class action re: Perez Co. stock drop after our retro-funding pull. Call tomorrow a.m.?’”  

Orrin grinned. He put his headset back on and pulled up his social media profile. Clicking on his  bio, he added: “Media Commentator & Workers Rights Advocate.”