Authors: Paul Di Filippo
5.
Off to War
Amid the noises of hammering and sawing next door to the sandwich shop, and of Nerfball performing his hourly nasal irrigation in the employees’ restroom, Honeyman stood transfixed. In his hand he held one of the new spondulix.
The material of the crisp bill was good linen bond. It was printed in tones of mustard-yellow. On its front was a rendering of a giant hoagie sandwich. On its obverse was a portrait of Honeyman, complete down to his Mets cap. Under the hoagie was the legend: in pumpernickel we trust.
This bill was denominated “FIFTY SPONDULIX.” There were others—mayo-white, ketchup-red, pickle-green —in various lesser and greater denominations, lying in Honeyman’s till. And with every passing minute, more spilled out of the presses set up in the basement of the Old Vault Brewery. Each one, in Honeyman’s eyes, a little ticking time bomb bound to explode one day right in his very own hairy face.
It was this new wrinkle in the evolution of spondulix that had caused Erlkonig to react so nervously two weeks ago to Honeyman’s attempted approach. The Black albino, exhibiting the initiative and ingenuity which had led him to his position of preeminence among the Beer Nuts, had taken it upon himself to professionalize the production of spondulix. Having come to rely on them to further his manifold schemes, Erlkonig felt he could no longer make do with scribbled napkins, which were likely to disintegrate with constant handling, or, even worse, to be mistakenly used for some ignoble purpose such as blowing one’s nose. Moreover, the napkins were bulky and hard to carry in one’s wallet.
All these arguments and more had Erlkonig adduced to Honeyman shortly after the disastrous conclusion to the Outlaw Party, as he tried to convince him of the necessity of this step. Honeyman had not been easily swayed.
“C’mon, Rory, loosen up. What’re you worrying about anyway? There’s nothing illegal in what we’re doing. Just look at these things as coupons, like. Yeah, manufacturer’s coupons, that’s all they are. When Kellogg’s gives you thirty-five cents off on Raisin Bran, are they trying to subvert the government, like you claim we are? And what about when the supermarket doubles the coupon? They’re adding some incremental value to that piece of paper—which, by the way, even says on the back in fine print, ‘Redeemable for one-tenth of a cent.’”
Honeyman shook his head in weary dissent. He knew in his bones that all this was wrong, and that they were going to have to pay the piper one day, but he just couldn’t summon up the logic to counter Erlkonig’s snaky persuasiveness.
“Look,” Erlkonig continued, “even if these things are money, so what? Don’t look so shocked, I mean it. So what? You gotta get some historical perspective on this, my moll. You know, the government wasn’t always the only one who minted money in this country. Right up to the mid-1800s, private banks issued notes that were supposedly backed by their deposits, and which circulated as legal tender. And lots of times a bank printed so much that the collective value of the paper was two or three times the bank’s holdings. Of course, the whole system eventually went bust, causing quite a shitstorm, but that doesn’t apply to us, since we’re going to keep tighter reins on things.”
The phrase “went bust” made Honeyman’s vision waver. “Earl, I just don’t feel right about—”
Erlkonig brooked no naysayers. “And during the Depression, all across the country individual stores issued scrip redeemable only at their establishments. Same thing we’re doing. And the Confederacy—don’t forget about them. What was the first thing they did? Right, issue their own money.”
“They were seceding from the Union, Earl. We’re not doing that, are we?”
“No, of course not. But you must admit that these are uncertain times, Rory. A few years ago we went through the worst depression since the thirties. The homeless, the unemployed, the people whose jobs went to Asia—this government is fiscally fucked up. If we can help people by printing spondulix, why shouldn’t we?”
Honeyman found it hard to speak out against such a liberal cause. “But how is one little sandwich shop supposed to float so many notes?”
“Well, remember what I said before. Not all of them are going to come back at once. But you are right in thinking that your present operation isn’t set up to handle such volume. That’s why I’ve got to talk to you about these plans for expansion I’ve got here—”
At that moment Honeyman was jolted from his reverie by several demands on his attention. The customer whose spondulix, tendered in payment, had set Honeyman drifting now said, “Hey, can I get my change?” At the same time a workman stuck his head through the raw, unframed passage in the wall that led to the adjacent storefront and asked, “Rory, which wall did you want the counter on?” And an argument broke out between Beatbox and another customer.
“What’s that you’re putting on my peanut butter? I asked for orange marmalade, not horseradish.”
“Hey, man, you got to try something new in your life now and then. Experiment, like.”
“I don’t want an experiment, I want a good sandwich.”
“This is gonna be el supremo, man. Just give it a shot.”
“There is no way I am going to bite into that—”
Hurriedly making change (forty-one spondulix), and shouting out, “North wall,” to the carpenter, Honeyman intervened on the customer’s behalf and convinced Beatbox to assemble the sandwich as instructed.
Nerfball emerged from his ablutions then, and Honeyman put him back to making sandwiches, transferring Beatbox to the register, where his passion for culinary recombinations would get little play.
“Hello, Rory,” said a woman. Her voice, though known only for a fortnight, bore for Honeyman all the deep familiarity and intimate thrill of the voice of one’s lifetime mate, heard under a hundred circumstances over several decades.
Turning from the register, Honeyman saw Addie standing among the crowd of hungry customers, patient, radiant, gorgeous.
Hastily doffing his apron, Honeyman ducked under the hinged portion of the counter and came to stand beside her. He grabbed her in a bear hug, picked her up off the floor, spun her around in a circle, set her down and kissed her with appropriate enthusiasm. There was heartfelt applause from the assembled diners, catcalls and whistles. Addie blushed.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” said Honeyman.
“So I gathered. I’ve got the afternoon off, and wondered if you could get away.”
“You bet. Hey, Nerf, you’re in charge.”
Honeyman took Addie’s hand, and marveled how good it felt.
Meeting Atalanta Swinburne had been the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. She was so stable, so centered, such a calming presence in his life. The perfect antidote to the whirlwind of madness that spondulix and the Beer Nuts had brought into being around him. It seemed almost too much that she should also be witty, beautiful and good. Coming off his breakup with Netsuke, Honeyman had needed someone just like Addie. And here she was, somehow inexplicably attracted to him, with apparently equal intensity.
Sometimes life could be very good.
“How’s the addition coming?” asked Addie.
“Let’s take a look,” said Honeyman, and detoured next door.
The shop next to Honeyman’s Heroes had been a boutique that had tried to attract an upscale clientele and failed. They had gone under six months ago, and the place had remained vacant since. Honeyman had had little trouble convincing the owner of the building to let him break through the wall and connect the two stores.
The place was a cacophony of power tools, and smelled of fresh-cut pine boards. The laborers—all paid with spondulix, of course—were putting in a second food preparation area and more dining space, all in anticipation of the increased business the circulation of more spondulix would bring.
Honeyman inspected a few details, trying to act like a competent businessman, and then gratefully escaped with Addie out into the glorious July day.
Addie worked for some government agency or another—Honeyman had never quite managed to elicit the details from her—and frequently seemed to have her afternoons free, time which she seemed to enjoy spending with Honeyman.
“I thought we might go into the city,” she said now, “for a little shopping. I want to go to Canal Street Jeans.”
“Sounds good to me. But I’ve got to change first. I smell like pastrami.”
Addie bit his ear. “I like pastrami.”
It took Honeyman two hours to get dressed.
It was such a beautiful day that they couldn’t stand the thought of plunging underground on the PATH line to Manhattan, so they decided to take the ferry. It was comparatively slow, but that was hardly a consideration today, when they were out to loaf and amble.
The ferry terminal—a heroic old building dating from 1907—stood on the water at the south end of town. For many years it had been abandoned and decrepit, slowly falling to ruin. Then the city had revived the ferry service and restored the building to its old splendor. Now boats shuttled daily between Hoboken and Battery Park City.
Addie and Honeyman stood inside the terminal, in line with the other passengers waiting for a boat to dock. Honeyman thought he saw some of the Beer Nuts in the crowd. Curiously, they all seemed to be decked out in white coveralls and wearing goggles pushed up on their heads. Honeyman dismissed all thought of them from his mind.
The ferry nosed into its berth, its rear half projecting out of the building. A ramp rattled down on its chains, people disembarked, and the eastbound passengers filed on.
Yes, he was certain of it now. Those were several of the Beer Nuts. And they seemed to be carrying holstered sidearms, right out in the open—Goddamn it all, what was going on?
Addie led the way upstairs to the open observation deck, and they moved to lounge at the railing. The ferry blew its horn and got underway. Once out on the river, under the cloudless July sky, enthralling breezes brought them scents of the city and the distant sea. Honeyman put his arm around Addie’s waist, and tried to forget all his troubles.
Someone bumped into him. It was Ped Xing, the Orthodox Jewish Zen Master. He wore tinted goggles. He had been slinking along, bent at the waist, frequently swivelling as if expecting attackers to emerge from every bulkhead.
In one hand he carried a large plastic gun.
“Xing, what the hell—”
“Quiet, moll, this is war. It’s every man and woman for himself. Herself. Whatever.”
The shaven-headed Ped Xing made as if to prowl on, but Honeyman restrained him with a hand on his tensed shoulder.
“Xing—just hold it right there. War with whom? And what kind of gun is that?”
“Well, not war, really—just war games. We’re all playing Survival. Earl said it’d be good for us, sharpen our senses and reflexes for anything that comes our way. These are splat guns. They shoot those paint pellets—you know. Oh, that reminds me.” Ped Xing unzipped his coverall down to the waist, revealing a scrawny and hairless chest, and took out a second gun that had been tucked into the elasticized top of his Jockey shorts. “As an honorary Beer Nut, you’re a legitimate target. I’m doing you a big favor, warning you this way. I could’ve scored a lot of points off you. Anyway, you’d better take this.”
Honeyman accepted the spare pistol automatically, even as he was saying, “Xing, this is crazy, I won’t get involved.” He was suddenly overcome by a strange kind of feeling, something weirder than déjà vu, and he realized that he was being forced to decide once more about organized violence, a choice he thought he had made twenty years ago, when he slit open the envelope bearing the government’s “Greetings.” Was once never enough…?
Ignoring Honeyman’s protestations, Ped Xing was already duck-walking away. He called back enigmatically over his shoulder, “Satori comes whether you want it or not.”
At that moment a shrill cry of victory paired with a wail of defeat emerged from below decks. There was the sound of pounding feet, and several people burst out of a hatchway onto the upper level: Leather ’n’ Studs pursuing a hapless Hilario Fumento, liberally bespattered with technicolored bull’s-eyes. Blinded by panic, Fumento headed straight for Honeyman. The writer looked as if he intended to vault the rail and plunge into the river. Leather dropped into a crouch, bracing her arm to squeeze off another shot. The ferry rocked in a swell just as she pulled the trigger and the shot went awry, striking Addie right on the chest. A bloom of blue paint blossomed on her left breast.
The world went red and hazy in Honeyman’s eyes. He let out a wordless roar that transfixed all the Beer Nuts.
“Hey, moll,” began Leather, “I’m really sorr—”
It was too late for temporizing. Honeyman emptied his gun at the frozen woman, spotting her white suit from neck to ankle. Fumento had stopped beside his protector, and Honeyman now wrenched the gun from his hand and turned toward Studs.
“Yikes,” she whimpered, and turned tail. Honeyman potted her backside once or twice, then took off in pursuit.
The rest of the twenty-minute trip passed in a mad blur of running, hiding and sharpshooting. From bilge to fo’c’sle the game ran its course. Honeyman lost track of how often he reloaded. Someone had slipped him a pack of refills. In midvoyage, the Manhattan-bound ferry passed the Hoboken-bound vessel, also carrying a load of Beer Nuts. The two teams lined up on their respective port sides and exchanged a fusillade that left both boats looking like an artist’s dropcloth.