The Art of Making Money (27 page)

Senior took it in silence. What could he say? He began to sob, and told Art that he had never meant for any of that to happen. Neglecting them had been the biggest mistake of his life. Not a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought of him and Wensdae and Jason. He still loved all of them. He knew that what he had done was wrong and he hoped that they’d forgive him; he wished he could change things. Since he couldn’t, all he could do was ask for Art’s forgiveness and start fresh from there.

“I’ll accept your apology if you tell me why you left us,” Art said.

In his fantasies, he had always hoped the explanation was something heroic or at least criminally understandable, “like maybe people were trying to kill him, or he would have ended up going back to prison if he came near us.” But flowers are few in the weed patch of deadbeat dads. Keeping it vague, Senior told Art that after he had fallen out of love with Malinda, she had “harassed” him, threatening him with lawsuits and arrest unless he came back to her. He knew that he would never be able to start a new life if she was around, and figured it would be better off for all of them if he stayed away. He added that he had looked for Art and his siblings “three or four times” but had never been able to find them.

“I knew it was all a complete lie,” says Art. “My mom couldn’t have harassed him much because she didn’t even know where the fuck he was. And if he had looked for us it wouldn’t have been that hard to find us. He could have phoned people. I didn’t call him out on his lies, but let him say what he wanted to say. More than anything, I was just happy to be there.”

 

 

 

ALASKA’S RESTIVE SUN had fallen and flown again during the first hours they’d spent talking. Unearthing the past was exhausting, but neither of them wanted to sleep. When Art’s father finally asked him the question he’d been dreading, it came almost as a pleasant afterthought.

“So, Son, what do you do for work?”

Over the previous month, Art had vacillated as to whether or not he should tell his father the truth. He didn’t decide until that moment.

“Well, I make money,” Art told him.

Senior just looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Counterfeit. Hundred-dollar bills. I sell most of it,” he said.

Senior just sat there, waiting for a punch line that would never arrive. Art stared right back at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “I wondered what he was thinking,” says Art. “Was he upset? Was he blaming himself? Deep inside, part of me wanted him to say, ‘No, son, you’ve got to stop. That’s not how I wanted it to be for you.’ I started to feel ashamed because I thought that’s what he was thinking. But I was wrong.”

“How long have you been doing it?” Senior finally asked.

“About ten years.”

His old man began firing off the usual questions: Had Art ever been caught? How much had he made? Was it difficult? How did he learn? Then he finally came to the question that everybody wants to ask the most, but is afraid to ask too soon.

“Do you have any on you?”

“Some.”

“Can I see it?”

Art ran out to the trailer, then returned a few minutes later with a bill and silently handed it to his father. Senior inspected both sides, rubbed his fingers across it, and held it up to the light. Art was now fully conflicted. “Even as I wanted him to get angry and tell me to quit, just as much of me wanted him to like it. I wanted him to see what I’d done for myself, that I’d created something beautiful. I know it sounds completely messed up, but I wanted him to be proud.”

Senior shook his head in disbelief. Art watched as the Glow blossomed over him like it did with anyone else.

“I can’t believe this isn’t real,” he finally said.

“Not many people can. Look close, and you’ll see it has everything. The security strip, the watermark. It’s all there. This is what I do, Pops.”

Art went on to tell him about Pete, about how he and Natalie had struggled to figure out the new currency, the trips to the malls. Senior just listened, shaking his head and smiling. “He never asked me to stop. And when I tell people the story, they usually think less of him because he didn’t. They see all those years of missed opportunities and realize that he had a big chance to redeem himself by telling me to quit—as if it could begin to make up for the fact that he’d been gone for all those years. Sometimes I think less of him, too, because that would have been nice, but I don’t dwell on it. The truth is that he really wasn’t any different than anyone else who ever held one of my bills in their hands. He got the Glow. It wasn’t any less surprising seeing it in my own dad, just maybe a little more real.”

The next question Senior asked was also one that Art had heard a hundred times, but somehow now it came as a surprise. He presented it in a joking way, his eyes bright with childish hope.

“Can you show me how you make it?”

Art laughed the question off without giving him an answer. Senior didn’t press him, but he did ask if he could keep the bill as a memento. Art told him that was fine, as long as he didn’t try to spend it or show it to anyone. Senior told him not to worry. He didn’t need the money.

 

 

 

SENIOR HAD SECRETS TO SHARE that morning as well. After they ate breakfast, he took Art for ride in his truck. They drove for an hour, skirting the Matanuska River before turning onto a dirt road that rumbled deeper into the mountains. At a spot a few hundred yards up that appeared completely random to Art, his dad pulled over and killed the engine. They left the car and hiked off into the bush, following a well-worn trail through rampant spring brush. A few hundred feet in, Senior stopped and began clearing away piles of old brush and sticks.

Moments later, Art was staring at a trapdoor.

His dad lifted it, revealing a ladder. They both descended, and suddenly they were standing in an underground room full of the most beautiful pot plants Art had ever seen.

“They were in full bloom, budding with big canes coming off the tops. It smelled sweet, like flowers. I never thought weed could smell so good.” The walls of the chamber were lined with silver reflective material, while long, fluorescent grow lights hung from the dugout roof. Art counted thirty-six plants.

“This is what
I
do,” Senior said with a smile, then explained that, fifteen years earlier, he’d hooked up with an “old-timer” who taught him everything he knew about indoor marijuana cultivation—hydroponics, cloning, you name it. He’d been growing ever since, selling most of his harvest to a friend of his who lived down the highway in the town of Wasilla, which would later gain notoriety for its then-mayor, Sarah Palin. To power his grow room, he had surreptitiously spliced into the Matanuska Electric Association power line that ran along the highway.

The weed wasn’t his only product, Senior explained. By feigning various ailments, Anice had obtained prescription pads from numerous area doctors. She and Senior were forging scripts for large amounts of the powerful painkiller OxyContin, then selling the pills on the side for a tidy profit. Art was almost relieved to learn that his father was still a crook. He’d found it hard to believe that his dad had stayed clean all these years, and at least his old man was finally beginning to go tit for tat with him when it came to honesty. It also gave them something in common.

They were more alike than either of them knew. Senior held back from telling Art that in 1992 he’d been convicted for assaulting and robbing a man of his cash and marijuana, the latter of which is legal in Alaska in quantities of less than an ounce. The crime had been part of a drug deal gone wrong involving two other men who had done the actual assaulting and robbing, but Senior had been the only one the victim knew and had taken the heat. He’d served five years in prison and was still on probation.

For his part, Art neglected to mention a word about the House of Blues arrest, or that there was fifty thousand dollars in counterfeit sitting in Senior’s trailer.

 

 

 

OVER THE NEXT THREE WEEKS Art reunited with his stepsiblings, Larry and Chrissy, both of whom had stayed in Alaska. Chrissy was married and living in Anchorage. Unlike the bossy little girl in Art’s memory, she was buoyant and friendly, and took to Art the moment she saw him again. To Art’s surprise, she cried when she saw him, and confessed that she had always felt terrible about Senior leaving his children behind, especially him. “You got a raw deal,” she told him. “If I could go back in time to when we were kids, I would have grabbed you up in my arms, run away with you, and raised you myself. You were so special.”

Larry was also excited to see Art, and so unrecognizable from the jock that Art remembered that it freaked him out. He’d become even more Alaskan than Senior, with hair down to his shoulders and a Grizzly Adams beard. He had a girlfriend who looked as wild as he did, and her hair reached her knees. They would sometimes spend months by themselves in the mountains, hunting and fishing and exploring. Both were inordinately quiet and soft spoken, as if the solitude of the bush had permanently impressed them.

For the first time in years, Art began to feel like he was part of his father’s family again. He never tired of learning new things about his dad, or being surprised by him. Senior had a mechanic’s garage behind the house, and when Art saw the five cars inside he was speechless. The centerpiece was a white 1967 Mustang Fastback, a car prized by collectors. There was also a Camaro, a Chevelle, a 1979 Trans Am, and an old four-door yellow Caddy. Even though Art was a Mustang man, it was the Trans Am he fell in love with. Depending on the angle you looked at it, it was either purple or black. His father had also discovered the wonders of color-shifting paint.

“It’s yours,” his dad told him when Art voiced his admiration. “This is your car now.”

They took it for spin along the Matanuska. As Art blasted off to a hundred miles an hour, Senior became a nervous, hectoring old man who begged him to slow down and chastised him for being unsafe. Art couldn’t decide if the car would ever be worth more than that moment. Things were going so well with his dad, in fact, that he knew something wasn’t right.

He discovered what it was three weeks after he arrived, when one morning Senior told Art he needed some help running an errand. They jumped in the truck and headed down the highway to Palmer. Their destination was the local feed store, where Art watched his dad throw down four hundred-dollar bills for eight hundred pounds of dry dog food. He and his dad loaded sixteen fifty-pound bags of food into the truck. It was a trip Senior made once a week.

Halfway back to the house, Art remembered the parking meters.

“How can you do this?” he asked his father.

“Huh?”

“You sit here and spend money on these fucking dogs, and we’ve had to fight to eat at times.”

“What?”

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull over, and step out of the car for a minute,” he yelled.

Senior did as he was told, and the moment they were free of the vehicle Art grabbed his father by the throat. He pinned him against the truck and asked him why he shouldn’t beat the shit out of him when he had spent twenty years feeding dogs while his children went hungry. “How could you do this?” he screamed, over and over.

Senior was terrified. He begged his son to let him go so he could talk. Art eased up, but his fists remained clenched.

“I looked for you,” Senior reiterated. “I should have looked harder.” He told his son that he knew he was a failure, that nothing could excuse the abandonment. Art had every right in the world to be angry, and if whaling on him would make him feel better, then he was willing to take it. That calmed Art down a little bit. But he told his dad that the story about looking for his children was pure bullshit; if he had really looked he would have found them. His father had no idea what all of his children had endured. They had gone hungry, and his hundred dogs had not. He asked his dad over and over again if he had any concept of what it’s like for a child to not know if he’s going to eat. He told him he had no idea why he was there in Alaska; his dad was clearly a piece of shit. Why was he even bothering to try to have a relationship with him? If he hadn’t tracked Senior down, his dad would have continued with his life, perfectly happy to never see his son again. In fact, he was going to leave as soon as they got back to the house.

“I’m a shitty father myself,” Art said, “but I could never do to my kids what you did to us.”

“I’m glad,” Senior said. He was also glad that Art was there. “I want you to stay here, to live with me. We can build you a house on a corner of the property. We don’t ever have to be apart again.”

Art’s anger shifted to wonder.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

It was the one thing his father could have said to make him stay.

 

 

 

IT WAS ONLY A FEW DAYS LATER that the pair took another ride, this time to Anchorage. Senior wanted Art to meet one of his friends. Other than a few townies in Wasilla, Art hadn’t met anyone his father socialized with, and he was pleased that his dad was now bragging to his pals about his boy being in town. They pulled up to a large A-frame on the edge of the city. Parked out front were several Harleys.

“Bikers, huh?” Art commented. He tried to hide his disappointment. He loved motorcycles, but the memory of his aunt Donna riding off on the back of a Harley after putting his mom into a coma gave him an inherent distrust of anyone who embraced the lifestyle.

“Hell’s Angels,” his father said. “They’re good guys, you’ll like them.”

And they were nice enough guys. The friend Senior had come to meet, Terry Cartwall, was a blond, pony-tailed Angel who reminded Art of a Viking. He was a fisherman who road-tripped between seasons. It was his house, and three other Angels from northern California were staying with him on a visit.