Authors: Paul Di Filippo
“You couldn’t hit the broadside of a bus!”
“Avast! Drop your sails and heave to, Matey!”
“Surrender Dorothy!”
As the boats pulled away from each other, there was a final chorus of raspberries and Bronx cheers.
Everyone’s ammunition ran out just as the ferry pulled into Battery Park City. The players assembled to count coup. Honeyman—though not devoid of hits himself—was declared the winner by unanimous acclamation.
Rejoining Addie, Honeyman felt rather sheepish. After his initial anger had worn off, he had found himself really enjoying the game. Was this any way for a former sixties pacifist to be feeling? He felt as guilty as a vegetarian caught with a roast beef sandwich halfway to his lips.
“Gee, Addie,” he began, “I’m sorry this had to happen.…”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad I matter that much to you.” Lifting her glasses, she wiped a tear from one eye, and Honeyman wondered why.
“Hey, are we gonna be able to go shopping looking like this?”
“Oh, it’s just Soho. Well fit right in.”
They walked uptown to Canal Street, and then east, arriving finally at Canal Street Jeans. While Honeyman browsed, Addie tried on clothes, eventually settling on a few items. At the register, Honeyman said, “Here, let me get this, to make up for my crazy friends.” He opened his wallet, and, without thinking about what he was doing, drew out and offered a fresh one hundred spondulix note.
They took it.
6.
Bretton Woods
Earl Erlkonig, Minister of Finance (without portfolio), called the meeting to order. He had to speak loudly, above the noise of construction in the Brewery. Dozens of hirelings from Mazuma Construction Company were reconstructing the headquarters of the Beer Nuts into luxurious apartments and common rooms, gyms and saunas, a kind of adult clubhouse. The building had been bought from the city for a minimal payment of back taxes—made in spondulix. Erlkonig had specified that all the old vats and kettles were to be retained, patched and polished, as a reminder of their humble origins, and this requirement was necessitating extra costs that preyed constantly on Honeyman’s mind.
Erlkonig, Honeyman, and several others sat around a table in one corner of the main floor, isolated by temporary walls from the hullabaloo. It seemed strange to see the interior of the Brewery by electric light. The altered environment here seemed emblematic to Honeyman of vaster, more troubling changes, changes which had caused him many sleepless nights, and which promised many more.
It was the beginning of August, a mere two months since Honeyman had invented spondulix. It might as well have been two years though, considering all that had happened.
Erlkonig held Cardinal Ratzinger, the Beer Nuts mascot, in his lap. The tiger-colored cat looked extremely well-fed. It wore a collar set with stones that Honeyman prayed were only cubic zirconia.
Now Erlkonig set Cardinal on the table and stood. He moved with military precision to a map of the tri-state region hanging from a wall. Removing a collapsible pointer from his shirt pocket, Erlkonig began to lecture.
“You can see from the shaded areas—which we are updating daily, by the way—that the penetration of spondulix is outpacing our highest expectations. The pattern seems to be swift initial infection of an urban area, followed by slower dissemination into the surrounding countryside. Once Hoboken was permeated, Manhattan and the other boroughs were a given. But I think you’ll be surprised by what followed next.
“To the northeast, in Bridgeport, New Haven and Hartford, there are already some quarter of a million spondulix in circulation. We expect to move up the coast, through Providence and into Boston, at the rate of ten miles a day.
“In New York state, Albany, Syracuse and Utica are thoroughly ours. Buffalo represents our furthest western penetration to date, and opens a gateway to Canada.
“In our home state, Camden is almost as thoroughly saturated as Hoboken, and is providing a beachhead into Philly, after which Pittsburgh is expected to fall easily. Moreover, I just received a report today which informs me that the casinos in Atlantic City are accepting spondulix for all wagers. They’re even talking about our expansion into some kind of coinage which would be acceptable to their slots.”
Honeyman held his head in his hands and moaned. He had avoided all previous sessions of these strategic councils, figuring that when he was called on to testify on his own behalf in Federal Court he could claim ignorance of what was being done in his name. (How that would superficially square with his portrait and signature being featured on an endless stream of spondulix, he had not yet figured out.) Today, however, Erlkonig had convinced him to attend, promising him that there would be some news that would gladden him.
So far, he hadn’t heard it.
Hilario Fumento raised a hand, seeking the floor, and Erlkonig gave him the nod.
“What are the demographics of our supporters?” asked the writer.
Erlkonig tried to look thoughtful, as if summoning up the data from deep recesses, but Honeyman could see he had instant access to all the facts about spondulix, and was merely pausing for effect. Erlkonig was clearly a man who had found his destined calling, and was relishing every nuance of his new Machiavellian position. He looked positively diabolical.
“We’re strongest, of course, among the fringe elements of society, those involved in what is commonly called ‘the underground economy,’ whether dealing with legal or illegal goods and services. However, since almost every citizen comes into contact with this segment of society at one time or another, we are establishing a strong hold upon the average consumer as well. When Joe Sixpack’s boss offers him payment in a currency unknown to the IRS, and when Joe is certain he’ll be able to redeem that currency for things he wants and needs—well, there’s no reason for him not to take it, is there?
“This brings us,” continued Erlkonig, “to the topic of further expansion.” Erlkonig collapsed the pointer with a flourish and leaned on his forearms on the table to directly confront the rest of the cabinet. Disregarding his high status, Cardinal licked the man’s flat nose. Erlkonig pushed the cat away.
“This country is too big to conquer by slow radiation from a central source. I am therefore proposing, my molecules, that we seed the rest of the nation with volunteers whose mission will be to establish spondulix as an accepted medium of exchange. From these scattered sites, just like colonies of mold in a Petri dish, spondulix will spread in all directions, until it eventually forms a complete network.”
Honeyman opened his mouth to object to this insane scheme, but Erlkonig interrupted.
“This plan is contingent on one other step. I need to backtrack a little first, though—with your indulgence.
“As I predicted when we initially began mass production of spondulix, the redemption rate in sandwiches has been a tiny fraction of all usage. A doubling in the shop’s size, the hiring of additional help and the promotion of Nerfball to Supervisor, along with extended hours of operation, has been sufficient to handle the increased trade. Even counting phone orders from as far as sixty miles away.
“Obviously, though, we cannot continue to accommodate ultimate redemption in sandwiches once we go nationwide. At least not without setting up branches of Honeyman’s Heroes in every major market. And the extra work attendant on such a program would unacceptably hold up our plans. Besides, having these notes tied to a little Jersey sandwich shop gives the enterprise too much of a strictly regional feeling.”
It began to dawn on Honeyman then what Erlkonig was working up to, and the albino’s next words confirmed it.
“Molecules—I am proposing that we go off the sandwich standard. Just as the U.S. dollar is no longer backed by gold, so I move for the official decoupling of spondulix and any comestibles.”
Honeyman jumped to his feet. “No, I won’t stand for it! As long as these stupid pieces of paper were good for something, we had a loophole in the eyes of the law. If we take that away, then they become nothing but … but money.”
Erlkonig looked at Honeyman with an annoying pity. “Rory, man—they already are. May I see a show of hands now? All in favor?”
Every hand but Honeyman’s shot up. No one wanted to put in any more time in the sandwich shop.
“The motion is carried then,” declared Erlkonig with obvious pleasure.
“What’s this mean for me, then?” asked Honeyman. “Am I supposed to just close the shop down?”
“No, not if you don’t want to. Of course, you could shut it up for good and just live off spondulix, like the rest of us. But I’ll understand if you want to keep it going, as a hobby, like. All I want is that you don’t take spondulix for sandwiches anymore.”
“Wait just a minute. I’m supposed to be the one business in Hoboken now that won’t accept spondulix? Me, the guy who invented them?”
“I know it’s kind of illogical, but it has to be. It’s a symbol.”
Honeyman was trying to puzzle out the Wonderland logic of all this when an origami frog hopped into the room. Cardinal, spotting it, leaped down and batted at the paper creature, whereupon it promptly unfolded into a 500 spondulix note.
Suki Netsuke stuck her head in the doorway.
“Meeting adjourned,” declared Erlkonig.
After everyone else had filed out, Honeyman was left standing alone with Erlkonig and Netsuke. The Black man, abandoning the formal style of speech in which he had conducted the meeting, hung an arm around Honeyman’s dejected shoulder and said, “Cheer up, moll, you’ve done your part. You can retire now, and take it easy.”
“I don’t want to retire. I want—” But Honeyman was forced to stop speaking. He didn’t know quite what he wanted. Once he had wished for a little more money. And look where that had gotten him.
Addie. He wanted Addie. That was the one sure thing in his life. He’d go see her now. She’d know what to do.
“Bye, Rory,” called out Netsuke cheerfully as Honeyman left the Brewery.
Over the past two months, since they had met at the ill-fated Outlaw Party, Addie and Honeyman had spent much time together. Honeyman had happily shared with her his past, checkered as it was with disappointments and failures: his Iowa boyhood; his Olympic protest; his flight from induction; his long tenure with Lispenard’s Pantechnicon and his deep affection for the Baroness von Hammer-Purgstall (although Honeyman, even in the throes of sexual passion, could not bring himself to mention how much Addie’s hair reminded him of the Baroness’s mane); his repatriation; his ten-year slumber at the sandwich shop, enlivened only by the antics of the Beer Nuts. Of all this and more had Honeyman gratefully disburdened himself to the patient ears of Addie.
She, in turn, had told him—what? A little of her life in Manhattan, some few odd incidents from work, her taste in books and music, the bad points of a couple of ex-lovers. It didn’t amount to much, compared to Honeyman’s complete disclosure.
But in the end it didn’t matter. Honeyman had fallen completely in love with Atalanta Swinburne. He didn’t demand all the intimate details of her past; she’d tell him when she was ready. It was enough simply that she chose to be with him now. He had reached a point where he couldn’t imagine life without her.
How happy he would be at this moment, if not for spondulix.
Honeyman clenched his fists as he walked hotly to Addie’s apartment. He had to put a stop to the spread of this alternate currency. But how? It was a juggernaut, a machine out of control, a runaway fiscal train on a track greased by greed. Too many people besides himself were involved now. The monster born of his desperate brain had been adopted by hundreds of foster parents. Could he even call it his own invention anymore? Did he have any right to intervene in something that affected the welfare of thousands? He hoped Addie would have some answers, because he sure didn’t.
At her building, Honeyman buzzed the intercom. There was no answer. He sat on the stoop and waited.
An hour later, around four o’clock, he saw Addie approaching. Spotting him, she quickened her pace. Honeyman’s heart lifted.
“What’s wrong, Rory?” she asked after a quick embrace.
Honeyman explained. Addie made sort of a modified Scout’s salute, laying the backs of two fingers across her lips in a habitual gesture betokening thoughtfulness. She spoke: “The first thing we both need is supper and a drink. Then we can sort things out.”
Buoyed by Addie’s practicality, Honeyman felt instantly better. God, what would he do without her?
They went to the Clam Broth House on Newark Street, where they ordered Fisherman’s Platters and big plastic steins of beer. In a booth, under the gazes of autographed portraits of local celebrities, they discussed spondulix.
Addie knew everything about spondulix, had lived through all phases of the phenomenon save for their creation. Yet somehow she had remained aloof from the new money. She never spent it, and in fact refused all offers of spondulix from Honeyman—although she didn’t object too strenuously when he paid for their joint treats with them. He supposed her finickyness was a manifestation of her independence, and nothing more. Neither did she choose to hang out with the Beer Nuts, unless Honeyman was with her. In any case, her detachment from the communal madness of spondulix made her advice all the more valuable in Honeyman’s eyes.