Savages (6 page)

In addition to the interest-accruing deposits in the karma bank, it’s been a very successful business strategy, the very foundation of the very successful Ben and Chonny’s brand.

A brand it is.

You go into B&C’s as either a customer or a sales partner, you know exactly what you’re getting:

As a customer—

Top-o’-the-line, not-to-be-bettered, safe, healthy, organic, prime hydro at a fair price

As a sales partner—

a superb product that sells itself

profit participation

excellent working conditions

day care

health care

Yes, health care, written through Ben’s corporation that e-markets Third World crafts made by Third World women.

You see, Ben does adhere to the Buddhist belief in making a “right living,” which mixes in quite nicely with his childhood socialist indoctrination and his somewhat Reaganite entrepreneurial sense.

Not for Ben the rigid, top-down vertical integration of the Baja Cartel. B&C (and the ampersand is everything, in Ben’s opinion) has a loosely organized, horizontal, flow-out (“Money doesn’t shoot upward
to then trickle down, it flows
out
”) pseudostructure that allows for maximum freedom and creativity.

Ben’s logic on this is that it’s impossible to organize marijuana dealers anyway (for reasons that are probably obvious), so why try to herd (cool) cats when they do better on their own, anyway. So—

You wanna sell dope? Cool. You don’t? Cool. You wanna sell a lot? Cool. You wanna sell a little? Cool. Maternity leave? Cool. Paternity leave? Cool. You set your own targets, make your own budgets, set your own salary, it’s
all
cool. You just order however much you want from the Mother Ship and then do your own thing.

This simple philosophy, plus the care he takes in growing his primo product, has made Ben a very rich young man.

The King of Hydro.

The King of Cool.

There are, of course, some critics—and Ben is one of them—who will say that Ben can be Ben because Chon is Chon.

Ben acknowledges his own hypocrisy on this issue.

(He is nothing but self-aware and self-analytical. See:

Ben, parentage of.)

He and Chon even have a noun for it:

“Hydrocrisy.”

The hydrocrisy is obvious—Ben strives to be nonviolent and honest in a business that is violent and dishonest.

“But it doesn’t have to be,” Ben has argued.

“But it is,” Chon countered.

“But it shouldn’t be.”

“Okay, but so what?”

Well, so what is that Ben has taken 99 percent of the violence and dishonesty out of his business, but that other 1 percent is—

—where Chon comes in.

Ben doesn’t need to know what Ben doesn’t need to know.

“You’re the American public,” Chon tells him.

And Chon has ample experience with that.

Guys dying in Iraq and Afghanistan and the headlines are about

Anna Nicole Smith.

Who?

Exactly.

Ben watches CNN in the airport.

On his way home from the Bongo Congo.

Etymology—

The Congo River runs through it, and

It used to be called the Belgian Congo, and

It’s fucking nuts there.

Otherwise known as the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

What was Ben the Baddhist doing there?

Funding psychotherapy clinics for rape victims.

Traumatized women, multiply raped and often mutilated—first by rebel soldiers, then by the soldiers who were sent to protect them from the previous set of soldiers. So Green Is Green writes checks for health clinics and counselors, for pregnancy and STD tests, and—

—get this—

—for instructors to go out to the soldiers and hold workshops to teach that rape and mutilation are—

wrong.

Ben leaves the plastic molded chair to hit the porcelain in the men’s room again because he contracted more in the Congo than just the usual Third World Heartbreak and he really hopes it isn’t dysentery (again).

He sits Luther-like on the john and, in fact, (re)considers his own theology because—

—while he knows as a Baddhist that men who rape and cut up women should be reeducated not to do that, he also has this impulse that the more effective thing to do would be to just—

—shoot the fuckers.

He knows (ever self-reflective) that there’s more to it than that.

Maybe he’s just sick and tired but he’s also

sick

and

tired

of seemingly
everything
these days. He feels

ennui

depression

adrift in his life. Purposeless, perhaps because

—dig a well in the Sudan and the
janjaweed
come in and shoot the
people anyway

—buy mosquito nets and the boys you save grow up to

—rape women

—set up cottage industries in Myanmar and the army

—steals them and uses the women as slaves and

Ben is starting to be afraid that he is starting to share Chon’s opinion of the human species

that people are basically

shit.

And now this

Ben thinks as he goes back to the first-class lounge and gets himself an herbal tea.

The BC sends out atrocity videos as a business tool in the heretofore (relatively) pacifist marijuana industry.

Nice.

What next?

He doesn’t even want to think about that.

Yeah, but you’re going to have to, he tells himself, because you’re going to have to respond to it. Chon has a response in mind (well, in hand), but the truth is that there’s no way they’re going to outgun the Baja Cartel. And even if they could, Ben’s not sure that he wants to.

Ben’s not sure of anything right now.

He hears them announce his flight.

Threatened with eviction and/or a limit on her platinum card, O agrees to join a life coaching session with Paqu.

Eleanor comes to the house.

“Is she like Domino’s?” O asks Paqu. “If she doesn’t deliver a new life in twenty minutes, it’s free?”

“That will be enough of that.”

So O joins Paqu on the sofa as Eleanor, her silver hair set off beautifully by a deep-lavender silk blouse, passes out file cards as she says, “Three is a very powerful number in our culture and collective psyches, so we are going to use the power of three to enhance our personal power.”

“And there are three of us,” O observes.

“Very sharp, Ophelia,” Eleanor says.

O winces.

Eleanor continues, “The difference between a goal and a dream is a plan of action, so on these cards, I want you to write down three goals you have for yourself for today, and the three achievable steps you will take today to make each one happen.”

Paqu writes:

—Become physically stronger

—Progress toward becoming a life coach

—Prepare a meal that will nourish me physically and spiritually.

O writes:

—Have mind-blowing multiple orgasm.

“I asked for
three
things,” Eleanor says.

“If I get it right, it
will
be three things,” O answers.

Eleanor’s tough, though. She doesn’t pull two and a half bills an hour from a slough of jaded SOC trophy wives by being a wimp. She levels her gaze at O and asks, “And what three achievable steps will you
take to move you toward your goal?”

O nods and reads:

—Put C batteries on Mom’s shopping list

—Find some time for myself

—Think about the pool boy

They pick Ben up at John Wayne Airport.

Chon thinks you gotsta love an airport named for a draft-dodging movie war hero cowboy who trademarked his gay, pigeon-toed mince into a macho money machine. Bought half of south Orange County back in the day, practically owned Newport Beach, like fuck the movies, real estate is where the treasure be.

Aaarrrrhh.

All those cats—Wayne, Hope, Crosby—they bought up big chunks of the California Dream—Newport Beach, Palm Springs, Del Mar—and sold it like they sold their celluloid fantasies. Sunshine, sailing, golf.

Lotsa golf.

Martinis on the green, sly in-jokes, thousand-dollar hookers waiting in the carts, blow-job bets on birdies, bogeys, whatever rich white guy my small dick isn’t as small as your small dick crapola. Get your ball on the green, on the green, on the green green green.

Losers get the sand traps.

Iraq. Stanland.

What’s the club they use to get out of the sand traps? The wedge? Chon wonders. Yeah, as if, wouldn’t that be nice. Stuck in the Stan, just
have your caddy hand you your trusty wedge, take a sweet swing, and you’re out on the green.

Martinis and blowies for everyone, my good man.

He and Ben played golf once. Took the pony down to Torrey Pines, got
ripped
on speed, and did nine holes in like seven and a half minutes, whacking at that ball like Cossacks swinging at heads. Didn’t replace their divots, of which there were
many.
Ran from shot to shot like they were dodging sniper fire. Hit the ground and roll, come up swinging. Until an indignant steward came and tossed them off.

Thrown off the beautiful greens.

Off the Dream.

The Duke, Der Bingle, and the Bobster don’t want you here anymore.

Ben wanted Chon to object—I’m a war veteran, I fought to protect your right to shoot eighteen holes on a beautiful California morning by the sea by the sea by the beautiful sea you and me you and me oh how happy we’ll be. I bled for these holes. Without men like me, the clubhouse whores would be wearing burqas, my friend.

But Chon wouldn’t do it. Refused to summon up the righteous indignation. Truth was, he
didn’t
go to Stanland to defend his country club. He went because he was already in the SEALs when those cocksuckers flew airplanes into the WTC.

He didn’t say that to the steward, though. Guy was already cardiac-paddle-ready, so Chon just said, “Keep it green,” and left without further incident.

Anyway, now he’s at John Wayne Airport. You fly into Orange County, they let you know what you’ve gotten into, pilgrim. Don’t be fooled by the hip surfer thing, you are in Rich Republicanland and you’d better behave accordingly or they’ll let the Duke loose on you.

As if.

Just a short while ago the Republicans were objects of fear and hatred—now they’re just pathetic assholes. Barry took them to the
paint and cut their throats. (O-
BAM
-a!) Now they walk around like white frat boys in Bed-Stuy, talking tough to show they aren’t scared as the urine streams down their chinos into their cordovans. Obama has these dweebs so turned around all they can do is get behind some fat junkie DJ, a gibberish-spewing PsychoBimbette from the Far North, and a tele-dork who gives adrenaline-crazed, 1950s-style “chalk talks” (speaking of little white dicks) like some health-class instructor in a sex-offender unit.

Chon has a mental vid-clip of this clown choking on a chicken bone in a restaurant, rolling on the floor while the black and Spanish waiters and busboys fall all over each other hustling to dial 511.

Of course the Dems will find some dazzlingly random way to fumble at the goal line; they always do (“What did you say your name was, darlin’? Monica?”). In the meantime Chon can’t wait—can’t
wait
—for the inevitable moment one of these clowns chokes on an open mike and calls Obama a nigger. It’s going to happen, you
know
it’s going to happen, it’s just a matter of time and it will be a blast to see the dazed befuddled expression on that pasty stupid face as he realizes his career is deader than a Kennedy.

POSTMORTEM CAREER COUNSELOR


And your career died how?


CHUCKLEHEAD


I called Obama a nigger.


POSTMORTEM CAREER COUNSELOR


(Incredulous pause)


Wow.


In the meantime, the GOP just settles for other kinds of buffoonery. Chon’s personal fave is the guv of South Goober banging the
chica
in South America while claiming he’s on a hiking trip in the Appalachians
(on “Naked Hiking Day,” no less).

Then crying about it.

The other thing about Republicans—they cry on TV these days like a twelve-year-old girl who didn’t get invited to a birthday party. (“It’s okay, Ashley—Brittany’s a jerk—everybody
loves
you.”)

Republicans didn’t used to cry.

Democrats
cried and Republicans mocked them for it.

The way it should be.

Ask John Wayne.

Chon used to hate Democrats as weak-kneed yuppie hypocrites, a party of closeted gay men too gutless to come out and stand up for who they are. He still does, but since Iraq—since the Sock Puppet got his leash yanked by Mr. Wilson—who Chon
really
hates are Republican politicians. Not to put too fine a point on it, Chon thinks they should be hunted down like rabid dogs, shot, and tossed into a common pit, with lime poured over their rotting corpses so they don’t emerge some Halloween night like the zombies they would otherwise become.

Anyway …

They find Ben in baggage claim waiting for his green duffel bag, like he’s still some college kid coming home from a field trip to Costa Rica.

He looks thin like he always does when he comes home. His skin, in that particularly weird, Third World way, is simultaneously tan and pale—dark from the sun with a sub-layer of infection-induced white underneath. What is it this time? Anemia? Hep? Some parasite that’s crept under his toenail into his bloodstream?