The Merchants of Zion (28 page)

He was telling us how instrumental the purity of our support had been when we arrived at a dilapidated hotel that had once been a part of a defunct national chain. The new owners hadn't bothered to replace the sign; it was a small reminder of a more prosperous past.

The room had two queen beds and a table covered with bottles of top shelf liquor. They were unopened and full, except for an almost-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Yo Cliff, I got some stuff for you.” He rummaged through his nightstand and pulled out an envelope. “This should cover everything I owe you, with a little bit extra to show my appreciation for your generosity.”

It wasn't sealed, and I pulled out its contents. An MTA card and a receipt with an address in Corvallis, Montana.

“Wow James. Thanks for the MTA card and...well what is this, exactly?”

“The card has a cool thousand on it. Play money, really. The other thing, you see, I know you don't have a head for investment, so I did some for you. That's a receipt for a twelve-hundred acre tract in Montana. Sit on it and when the world starts going to shit you can sell it to some bunker heads. But that's not all. I've got one more thing.” He held up a small box gift-wrapped in silver and with a gold bow.

“Are you going to get on one knee?”

“Come on man, be serious for once.”

The bow came undone with a single tug. I peeled the foil away, revealing a jewelry box, inside of which was a gold watch.

“It's an antique, and worth quite a bit. It'll only appreciate in value, so hold on to it until you need the cash for something. Bet you never thought I'd pay you back, huh? But James Newsom is as good as his word and his luck.” Looking slightly embarrassed, he grabbed the whiskey and poured it into three little paper cups before the atmosphere became too wishy-washy. “To success,” he bellowed.

We sat between the beds, drinking and talking. I looped my hands around my knees, huddling them against my chest. Ruth lay next to me, propped up by her elbow while her legs trailed sinuously around the bed's edge. James sat across from us, legs crossed, leaning forward and gesticulating wildly. Now that he had a project and some cash he was a ball of enthusiasm and positivity. His searching anxiety vanished in a whiskey haze, only while trailing success was he able to pause a moment and relax.

He raised his cup and we clinked our fake highballs, a toast to bright futures. Two young men and a woman out to conquer the system and become the representatives of a new world order that valued hard work and kindness over nepotism and the burrowing bureaucrat. Three friendly enemies in college, united now against the status quo.

“You know,” James said,“if we get too successful, they'll whisk us off to Valley Forge.”

“Come on James,” I said. “We know what Valley Forge is for—it's for the homeless and degenerate. I saw one of the camps on the train ride to Chicago. Which is terrible, don't get me wrong, but they're not imprisoning anyone just because they can. Give it a rest.”

“Bullshit. They put that journalist in Valley Forge for reporting about Liberty Bell's sweetheart deal with the Mexican insurgents. And the same will happen to Robespierre, if they can catch him.”

“Yeah, but they're actually doing stuff. I don't think they'll scoop you for being paranoid. Or did you tell your new business partners they're in danger? Are they worried they'll end up spending their days spraying corn with fungicide?” I asked, glancing at Ruth. She was plugging away at her phone.

“You know can't prove me wrong, so you make those snide comments that make me want to hit you in your smug fucking face.”

“Do you remember when we argued in college about whether the government orchestrated 9/11?” I didn't want to continue this conversation, but I couldn't back down after a physical threat. James knew the exact buttons to push. “We agreed beforehand on what it would take to convince you. You said you wanted eyewitness testimony of the planes hitting the towers. I found a bunch, but they were typed and you said anyone could have written them. So you wanted videos of people saying they saw it happen. And I found a bunch of those too, but you said they were government plants.”

“I don't remember that exactly—”

“How convenient,” I muttered.

“But that proves my point. Do you think Honest Abe couldn't remove the damning evidence and promote government propaganda? You can't trust anything on the internet. We have no idea what's going on.”

“Then how can you know anything?”

“You can't. It's not my job to prove what happened.” He paused and finished his drink, and reached for a new bottle. “All you have to do is prove that the official story is wrong, which proves the government is lying.”

“This is boring,” Ruth said. “How can you two have the exact same conversation for eight years in a row?”

An uncomfortable lull followed. I poured another drink. James tried the TV, but it was broken. He went into the bathroom.

When he shut the door I whispered to Ruth, “How badly do you think he's getting screwed by his business partners?” She slapped my arm and mouthed “You're terrible,” but it started us giggling. The toilet flushed, James came out, and asked what was so funny.

I grasped for an answer, but Ruth responded immediately. “We were talking about how random it is that all of us are here in Rockford. If you'd gone back to the first day of Freshman year and taken bets, no one would've picked the three of us to be friends. Not in a million years.”

“You know, that's true,” he agreed. “We're all here, aren't we? Even with all the shit that's happened.” The thought set him at ease. He centered his attention on Ruth, telling her how much money he was going to make once this deal went through. It was a lot.

She listened attentively, smiling at his quips and nodding her head when he fished for affirmation. I couldn't tell if she was being polite or was genuinely interested. He filled a third glass and she started a second. I was warm all over and pleased with most everything, though James was getting under my skin; I suspected he'd invited the two of us because he didn't think Ruth would've come by herself. However, he had given me a nice basket of gifts, paying back the rent he owed several times over. It was odd that he hadn't transferred money straight into my account; I hoped he wasn't diving into anything too illegal.

James reached for a fourth glass. Time passed and we gossiped about our lives and our plans. James said he'd be making enough money to buy a few houses in the outer boroughs—or even condos in Manhattan—that he'd then rent out. People always need a place to live and the steady income from being a landlord was a safe investment with a practically guaranteed return. That was his hedge. With the rest of his money he was going to buy up abandoned land in New York's more bombed out neighborhoods—he gave Leopold Heights as an example—and once the economy bounced back people would flood into New York, raising demand, whereupon he'd sell off his properties and be set for life.

Ruth, having not even begun her new position at the mayoralty unit, was already aiming for an executive producer's role. Puppies and Politicians had taught her the valuable lesson that she didn't enjoy being on camera—the glamour had quickly worn off . Besides, she added, producers made more money. They also had more creative control and time to push the projects close to their hearts.

James said, “But what about you Cliff? You can't live as a tutor forever. You've already maxed your earning potential in the field. There's no room for growth, unless maybe you start a company and contract tutors out to all of that woman's rich friends. Once the economy's kicking, there'll be a new class of rich folks who want their kids to crack into the Ivies. You'll have a sound reference base and you'll either be able to expand, or start charging higher rates. It's simple supply and demand.”

“Yeah, but I can't see him managing other people,” Ruth added. “Could you imagine him firing somebody? When no one wants his worst tutor Cliff would pay him not to work.”

“You're right,” I said. “I could never be a manager. But I wouldn't want to, even if I had the choice. It's exploitative, don't you think? You tell people what to do, and then take the value they produced and make money from it. If I did anything like that, I'd want partners instead of employees.” Neither James nor Ruth knew I'd almost certainly been fired, and I didn't want to tell them right now and hear their advice.

He interrupted. “You're not taking advantage of people, you're giving them jobs. If they don't have the chance to work for you, they'll be working at a shitty bodega or as a receptionist in one of those business offices you hate so much. So by not starting a company, you've abandoned them to the corporate world. Hell, if you don't want to start the tutoring service, maybe I will.” He talked faster as the skeleton of an idea coalesced. “Yeah, that could be a nice little side business. It'd be easy to set up and manage, and I could make ridiculous amounts of money for basically no work. You could be my first employee, and then you wouldn't have to make a fuss about exploiting people, because I'd be the one doing it.”

“If you make a fancy chart to convince me, I'm in. I need another drink.”

“Get me one,” James said. I poured a glass and handed it to him. He spilled it in his lap. Unfazed, he asked for a second. I protested, but he insisted. He must have finished most of that first bottle by himself. No wonder his driving had been so terrible.

I'd sooner kill myself than be stuck in a position where he ordered me around. But I wasn't interested in running a business, or angling for gobs of money. My goals were set, though my execution left something to be desired.

“Well, both of you know that I want to write fiction.” James snorted, and Ruth gave him a dirty look. “I've been dabbling in self-publishing. You know, putting stuff for sale online. I have a few novellas up, and I'm about to start on a novel.” I hadn't shared the information with anyone, and in its speaking I felt more like a real writer and less like a loser shut-in with a lame hobby.

“Are they selling well?” Ruth asked.

“Not particularly.”

“That's a terrible business strategy,” James said. “The market's over-saturated, and we're not in a consumer-oriented business cycle. You're assuming two things, both incorrect: that people have enough money to buy books, and if they did they'd buy one by some two-bit, unknown writer. You know you're not just competing against shitty fan fiction—you're going head to head with the big shots. Not to mention dead authors, like the guy who wrote 
Catcher in the Rye
 and 
The Great Gatsby.
”

“Those were written by different people. Not everyone is in possession of your astonishing breadth of ignorance.”

“Maybe not, but I bet most people couldn't even name those two books to begin with. All I'm saying is you have a limited market— people who want to buy books by a guy no one has heard of. Do you read books like that?”

“Yeah, actually I do. Besides, my ideal reader doesn't care about writing by mainstream authors.”

“Then you know your audience,” James continued. “People who want to write books but haven't. You know, there might be a decent chunk of cash to be had there...” He trailed off, scratching at his scalp. “How many people do you think get English degrees every year?” I couldn't tell if it was a jab at me or an honest question.

Ruth interceded. “What are you working on right now?”

“Um... you know. I had something I was working on, but I've had writer's block. And I've been pretty busy lately.” I tried to sound defiant, but they didn't buy it. I blushed. “But I have some good ideas.”

“You'd better get working on them,” James said. “We're in our mid-twenties now. It's all downhill from here.”

“Yeah.” I looked down at my glass. As far as I could tell, my future was composed of conversations strung across bottles of alcohol, lashing together a facade of a life.

James finished his glass and went for another. I found comfort at the bottom of a bottle, but I found more from him finding the bottom faster than me.

Ruth went to the restroom. James whispered, “So, are you fucking her?” He swung his head towards the bathroom, grinning.

“That's none of your business.”

“I didn't think so. You never make the move, and so you always fail.”

“And you make your move on the drunkest cow you can find.”

He scrambled over next to me. “No need to take it personally. Besides, I can tell she wants me, not you.” I began to scoot away from him—he reeked from the booze—but he grabbed my wrist. “You should head back to N-Y-C tomorrow—I've got some stuff to finish up here, and I'll bring back Ruth the day after. Those gifts are pretty nice, aren't they?”

I ripped my hand away. Keeping my voice as low as I could, I said, “Look James, don't try and fucking bribe me so you can get some ass. If Ruth wants to stay that's fine, but I'm not your tool, I'm a fucking human being. Fuck you and fuck your insatiable dick.” Ruth came out a few seconds later

“It's my turn,” I said, brushing past her and slamming the door. My balance wasn't the best and I misjudged my momentum. I crashed into the sink, bruising my hip. If the previous two toilet trips were any indication, James and Ruth were now talking about me. When she laughed at some comment of his I almost punched the mirror. It was low enough for me to watch myself urinate. I wondered why bathrooms had mirrors like that. Maybe for people who were too fat to see their members by looking down. I zipped up and washed my hands.

In the space of two minutes, James had fallen asleep. His torso lay on the bed, head cradled in crossed arms, while his waist and legs twisted over the edge. He'd spilled his whiskey again, and an alcoholic penumbra radiated from his head. Ruth sat on the other bed, staring at him. Her phone was beside her and, for the moment, forgotten.

“What happened?” I asked. I tried to lift his lower half on the bed, but he'd become fatter in his unemployment and his belly sloshed as I struggled. Ruth started to say something, but I cut her off.

“Can you give me a hand?” She grabbed his ankles and we counted “One... two... three!” and heaved him up. I rolled him on his stomach and she tucked a pillow under his head. One of his arms dangled off the bed. After three unsuccessful attempts to persuade one it to join the rest of him, I left it alone.