The Financial Lives of the Poets (20 page)

S
O THE CHUCKHOLDER WOULDN’T
buy any pot and implicate himself in a drug-buying conspiracy. Fine. I knew it was a long shot with a stiff like him. And toward the end there, I was probably flirting with entrapment anyway. But still my mission to Lumberland wasn’t a total failure. Chuck
did
agree to send a truck tomorrow morning to take back the lumber I can no longer afford. And he also agreed to give me a full refund on the lumber, to only charge me one delivery fee, so that’s good.

Then, with all of the pot-selling weirdness still in the air, Chuck was doing the paperwork for my refund (I stared daggers into that pot-sticker bald spot) and Chuck
finally registered my name and address.
And I swear his bald spot turned red. He looked up, slowly—into my mad, grinning face, and he gave me the most gratifying double-take, went pale, coughed, excused himself for a minute (long enough to leave a phone message for Lisa, perhaps?) and then he came back looking awful. So I accomplished one of my goals—showing my enemy the face of the man whose life he would destroy. Of course, I didn’t let on that I knew anything about him and Lisa. And before I left, I apologized for trying to sell him pot, and asked him to keep the whole thing between us. “My wife doesn’t know I’m selling pot,” I said. “It would kill her.” Chuck stared at the ground. And right there, in the cold, high aisles of Lumberland, my enemy Chuck Stain finally saw the anguish of the man on the other side of his harmless little flirtation. Even better, he saw the overlapping layers of stalemate and mutually destructive conspiracy here, the untenable situation we are all in.

In the car now, I laugh again. It always seems strange when maniacal movie villains laugh for no reason, but I’m finding that when you’re in the grips of mania, you really do laugh maniacally. What can Chuck do…tell Lisa? “Hey, your insane husband came in today and tried to sell me pot.” What’s Lisa do then? Confront me? If she does, I’ll just say, “How did you find out about that?” It would be like admitting the affair!

No, I’ve drawn Prince LumberChuck into our stalemate now, and depending on how fast his mind works, I bet he won’t even tell her. Out of self-preservation, he might think, I do not want to be in the middle of their shit. I imagine the odd, halting conversations going back and forth between them and I get a strange mixture of nausea and glee, my skipping heart about to leap out of my chest. Is this mania? An anxiety attack? A euphoria that precedes death?

Whatever it is, I am driven by it, and by my epiphany; for the last hour I have known exactly what to do. I am on the righteous team, Randy. And yes, I screwed up my plan with the Prince of Lumber, but Chuck’s refusal to buy weed does not change my mission: I will be a narco–Robin Hood. It’s the only way out: if I’m going to be a snitch, secretly taping people buying drugs, then I’m only going to sell to people who deserve to go to jail.

I will be the arbiter of guilt and innocence in this messed-up world.

First order of business, I call the HR department of my old newspaper from a phone booth. “Sorry,” I tell innocent Amber Philips, my watch sitting dark and harmless on my wrist. “I couldn’t get any weed after all.”

“Aw, it’s probably okay,” she says, and then she tells me that she and her boyfriend have decided to call it quits anyway. “And I mostly only smoked with him.”

I hang up, happy with my first pardon: Amber Philips doesn’t deserve to go to jail.

And yet,
deserve
is such a difficult concept to define. Take money-man Richard, for instance, he of the Mexican Shipping Bonds and commissions on eighty percent losses…does he
deserve
jail for that? Even as I call him, I wonder if incompetent is the same as guilty.

“This is Richard Blackmore.”

No. Being a bad financial planner is not a crime. Watch remains dark. Heart racing.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Richard. “I couldn’t get any more weed after all.”

“Yeah?” Richard asks. “That’s okay. Honestly, that shit was kind of strong for me anyway. I didn’t get a thing done yesterday. Fine for you, but I still
have
a job.”

God, he really is an asshole. I fight the urge to sell to him after all.

After I hang up with Richard, I call the number I’ve been planning to call ever since this idea revealed itself to me…the moment I asked my father if we could still get the sons-of-bitches who told me the world would be fair.

M—’s secretary answers. I tell her it’s Matt Prior. And although it kills me, I tell her to say that I’ve called to apologize. Just as I expected, the Idi Amin of newspaper editors can’t resist contrition from someone he’s tortured. I stammer, shuffle, swallow my pride and offer this ass-bag my (God, this is hard) apology. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“I appreciate that, Matt,” he says, and the worst part is that I’ve given him the chance to sound magnanimous. “And I understand. I think we’re both victims of this economy.”

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “It was wrong to blame you. I hope you’ll accept my apology. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“Sure,” M—says. “This has been stressful on us all.” Just the sound of his voice makes me strangle the steering wheel, as he explains that it’s been hard on him too, laying off so many people. Turns out he isn’t sleeping well at night. (Yeah? Day Four for me, asshole.) “It can’t be easy to be laid off, but at least those people only go through it once. I’ve had to go through it over and over again.”

Thankfully I’m not driving or I’d have to veer into a telephone pole to make it stop. The poor assassin—all those beheadings! Noisy crowds…guillotine cleanup…constant blade sharpening…

“I don’t mean to suggest that it’s not hard on people like you,” he says.

“No, I hear you,” I say. And then, when my hatred is strongest, I gently release the line into the water. “And I know what you mean about stress. I got a prescription for medicinal marijuana.”

“Did you really?”

“Yeah. It’s the only thing that helps.”

“You can get a prescription for that? For stress?”

“Sure,” I say. “It saved my life. You should try it. The pot they grow these days, you can’t believe it. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah, I keep hearing that.” He laughs. “But it’s been years for me. Those days are long behind me, I’m afraid.”

Circling…“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. I hadn’t gotten high since college.” And I give a little hum. College. (Introduce nostalgia and the carefully chosen word:
high.
) “Man, we used to tear it up back then, didn’t we?” Wait, wait. And how do I know that M—smoked in college? He graduated in the 1970s from a state school and went into journalism, the home for authority-questioning slackers; if he didn’t smoke pot, he was the only one.

“My roommate was from Hawaii,” M—says. “You don’t have to tell me.”

I laugh nonchalantly. Then: “Hey. You know what? I ended up getting way more than I can use…I mean…I could sell you some, if you want. You should just try it. Amazing stuff.”

“Oh,” laughs M—. “No. I don’t think so.”

“It’s perfectly legal,” I say. “I have a prescription.”

Quiet for a moment. Wait. Wait.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Wait. Don’t speak. Wait.

He laughs. “You know what? That actually sounds good. I’d like that.”

“Yeah? Okay. I could bring it down today if you want.”

Just like that. Easy. Maybe I’ve found my calling.

I meet M—in the parking garage of the newspaper. I don’t have a parking pass anymore so I have to walk in. M—is waiting by his car, wearing his fey 1940s newspaper editor uniform, gray suit, suspenders, fedora. He has a small twitch in the corner of his lying mouth, which is perfectly framed by his pencil-thin beard. M—looks around the parking garage and makes a Deep Throat joke. I pretend to laugh. It’s cold and gray all around us. He holds out three fifties even though I told him two hundred. Is he really low-balling me? Guy’s an asshole to the end. Still, I give him one ounce in a sandwich bag. I’d sell at a loss to get this asshole. He closes his eyes, smells it. Smiles.

I collect the money with the hand wearing the bright watch.

“I’m looking forward to this,” he says. “My first newspapering job, we got high in the darkroom every afternoon. Everyone got high then.” And then, perhaps worried that I’m judging him, he adds: “Nobody had kids.” Shrugs. “It was the seventies.” Smiles wistfully. “It was a different time, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” God, I want out of there. I feel sick…can’t spend another second near this guy. “Call me if you need more.” My hands are shaking.

“I might do that.” The pot disappears in his coat. “I’m going to have some time on my hands. Have you heard? I’m leaving, too. I quit rather than be a part of this any longer.”

“No. I hadn’t heard,” I say, though I have heard, of course. And I also know that he’s really being forced out. But unlike the scores of people he slagged, M—gets to go out on his own terms, probably with a bonus. A guy like him saves the suits a few hundred grand by marching good people into the wood chipper, then gets to pretend he quit in indignation (even though he stuck around to do the layoffs
first,
protecting his Vichy loyalists to the end) so he can save face and go around speaking in front of college classes and journalism groups, eventually getting another job ruining some other newspaper.

M—nods, and seems to take my silence for sympathy, which I’m in no danger of actually feeling. “I’ll be okay, though,” he says. “I can always teach. And maybe there are still papers out there looking for a good old-fashioned newspaperman.”

With his last ship still listing in the bay, Queeg wants another one. I suppress a scoff.

Meanwhile M—is warming to our postwar camaraderie. “So you’re out there…in the world. What’s the job market like for old ink-stained pros like us?”

Us. “I don’t know…if you’re willing to work…there’s always something. In fact, I picked up a little freelance work today.”

He smiles wearily and I think his eyes rim with tears. “That’s great, Matt. I’m happy for you.”

I have to look away to keep the sympathy from welling up in me.

“I don’t mind telling you, I’m a little bit scared,” M—says, and tightens his scarf. “Fifty-six? And no job?” He wipes at his eyes. “What if it’s…you know, the end?”

I don’t say anything.

“Well.” He pulls the bag of weed from his coat and smells it again. “Thanks for this, Matt. I think it’s going to help.” And then he puts his pot away again and considers me seriously. “It’s too bad you and I didn’t spend more time together.”

“Well…” I twitch and shudder, glance at my glowing watch and hear myself laugh maniacally again. “Never too late to start!”

I
AM
OH-2
THE VENGEFUL

Wiretapping angel of fury

Be prepared to meet your maker

Or at least a federal grand jury

The guy who talked me into refinancing last year, John Denham, no longer works for the mortgage company in the mini-mall next to the tanning salon. In fact, John’s mortgage company is no longer a mortgage company but an empty storefront—as is the tanning salon. In fact, this whole mini-mall appears to be on its way to becoming surface parking.

Mark Akenside, sly salesman who bait-and-switched us into the more expensive Maxima, also escapes CI OH-2. He no longer works for the Nissan dealer, and neither does Dodsley, his old manager, the capo who dry-sold us winter floor mats. “It’s been a bloodbath this fall,” a surviving car salesman confides, staring out at a savannah of starving sedans.

Fine. There are others. Always others. It’s Friday, so I find our old phony Aussie real estate agent, Thomas Otway, running an open house on a foothills cul de sac.

“’Ello, mite,” he says when I come into the blond-wood foyer. “I ’ope you’re ready to see the house-a-yah drimes.” He sweeps his arm toward a living room tastefully appointed in French Colonial furniture, with a grand staircase and a completely updated kitchen.

“Oh, it looks like a dream all right,” I say. And then I smile and explain that we already bought one dream from him.

“Oh?” Thomas doesn’t remember me. In fact, he doesn’t seem to register people at all, any more than a reef shark notes the kind of fish it’s eating. But he does remember the house when I describe it. “Ah, yeah. A tudah, on almost a half-acah. Go’geous home. Only drawback was the neighbah-hood school if I remembah roight.”

Oh, you remember roight.

Thomas Otway’s skin is perfect. He has longish, soap opera styled hair, light brown with crazy yellow highlights, and besides affecting more accent earlier in the sales process, he apparently frosts his locks, too, and I begin to imagine a system for determining who I’ll entrap, giving points for various crimes against humanity: Real estate, or any kind of predatory salesmanship, is four points. Fake or affected accents? Two points. Frosted hair? Four points. Right away, without even knowing if he beats his kids or fails to stop at red lights, the bastard’s at ten, which will be the threshold for incurring the wrath of CI OH-2.

No, I’m not bad at this. For one thing, it’s easier to bring the subject up than I thought it would be. The key is patience. So I let Thomas show me around the house, pretending to be interested in the lush runner carpets on the wood-floor hallways, the limited edition lithographs on the walls, the horrid Chihuly blown-glass chandelier. I think the transcribed wire in this case could be used to train other informants:

CI OH-2:
It’s certainly bigger than it looks from the outside.

Suspect 2:
Mite, this house has 3,600 square feet on two floors.

CI OH-2
: Wow. And does that include the basement?

Suspect 2:
No, bisement’s unfinished.

CI OH-2
: Good, because I have big plans for the basement.

Suspect 2:
Pehfect for a home gym, roight?

CI OH-2
: Actually I might put a grow room down there.

Suspect 2
: What? You serious?

CI OH-2:
Serious as a bloody reef shark. Why, do you smoke, Thomas?

“Sure.” Thomas smiles out one side of his mouth. “I used to,” he says.

“You should try this stuff I have. It’s killer.”

Thomas stares at me for a long second before shaking off the temptation. “Nah. I’m try-ning fur a meer-athon. I’m a runnah. That stuff…bad for the lungs, roight? But listen—” He looks around, then leans in close. “I don’t suppose you can get your hands on some coceene?”

Side-note for my handlers, Randy and Lt. Reese: you have
got
to get me some coke.

I check my glowing watch as I drive out of the cul de sac, through the splotches in my exhausted eyes. School’s almost out. Work’s done for the day.

I never thought I’d like working in sales, but it is strangely satisfying getting people to do what you want. And I’m not
just
working; Randy says I’m doing something for society and maybe I am, in my way—ridding the world of parasitic, layoff-happy newspaper editors and asshole real estate agents, home-wreckers and tailgaters and people who speed on residential streets, all the phonies and villains and fuck-sticks in the world. As Righteous Randy might say, I am the Light
and
the Dark.

From now on I will answer every phone call from a telephone solicitor with purpose—No, I don’t need a new long distance provider, but would you like to buy a spliff? I think of the assholes I meet every week—snooty waiters and people who park in handicapped spots and all the arrogant, selfish, lying cheats. I can bring them all down, one by one.

I’ll do my homework: research the most calloused bosses, inept congressmen, corrupt bankers, greedy brokers, predatory lenders. I’ll drive my Nissan to Detroit and sell to the auto company CEOs and I’ll go to New York and sell weed to that asshole trader I heard on NPR and to the dipshit investment bankers who broke our financial system through their unchecked greed, the lousy ass-ticks who told us all to give them our money, to vote for them, to trust them, guys who said the markets would regulate themselves, that the world was fair.

I sit in revved-up silence in my car, outside the boys’ school, my own breathing deafening. Hands shake. I feel flushed. Mind racing, I’m having conversations I can’t track with myself, offering justifications and pleadings. I want to sleep, preferably next to my wife, and I wonder what she’s doing now. Sitting at her desk at the stupid optometrist’s office, staring into space, thinking of…
him?
God, I wish Chuck was a pot smoker. How much easier would that be? I happen to look up to see Elijah Fenton’s dad, Carl, walking past the line of waiting cars toward the school. The guy wears a softball jacket with the name of his paving and concrete company on it, as if he’s taunting jobless losers like me with the fact that he still has a company and that his company still has a softball team—the arrogance of the employed! No doubt made aware of my son’s unprovoked clacker aggression, Carl Fenton shoots me what can only be described as a threatening glare. Is there any way the guy really made out with the second-grade fertility goddess, Ms. Bishop? Who knows? All I know is that next week we’ll find out if Mr. Carl Fenton wants to buy a reefer. Oh, and there’s Nicholas Rowe—he of the T-Ball prodigy son, Caleb—Nick Rowe who famously cut second graders from the second-grade T-Ball team because he feared their lack of coordination might affect his son’s draft status a decade from now. (Ten point bonus, that.) A long shot, of course, but perhaps he’d like some weed.

Beyond all these deserving targets, I wonder if I can find my own eighth-grade baseball coach, Mr. Stepney, or Tina Sprat, the girl who refused to kiss me after I spent sixty dollars on dinner before a Sadie Hawkins dance my sophomore year, or the guy in college, what was his name—Yalden!—who sold me that Chevy Luv pickup with the cracked block. Or…or…

I snap awake.

Was I sleeping?

School is out.

Kids drift to waiting cars.

The doors open. Franklin and Teddy climb in the backseat.

“He-e-ey.” I try to not sound crazy but my voice goes up and down the register. I can’t stop blinking. “H-h-how was school?” Why is my voice doing that? I’m cracking. Nervous breakdown? Anxiety attack?

“Fine,” Teddy mumbles.

“Great!” says Franklin.

“Great? Really?” I turn to see Franklin’s big earnest eyes. “What happened?”

Franklin shrugs. “Nothing. It was just a great day. I love Fridays.”

I laugh again. And then a whimper, a kind of weep seeps from me, from some deep cavity. I can’t say why Franklin’s
great day
causes me to whimper—maybe the eight-year-old in me recalls that nothing has to happen for a day to be great. And then it feels as if this broken thing in my chest cracks like an ice dam, and begins sliding up into my throat. I happen to glance down and see the glowing watch around my wrist. Shit. I forgot to press the stop button after my meeting with M—. The voice activation has presumably kicked in.

I imagine the transcript:

CI OH-2:
“He-e-ey! How was school?”

Unidentified Juvenile Male 1:
(Unintelligible)

Unidentified Juvenile Male 2:
“Great.”

CI OH-2:
“Great? Really? What happened?”

Unidentified Juvenile Male 2:
“Nothing. It was just great. I love Fridays.”

CI OH-2:
(Unintelligible, possibly maniacal laugh-cry-whimper as if he’s snapping, unraveled beyond recognition)

“You okay, Dad?”

I press the wind-button on the watch. The backlight goes out. “Fine, Teddy.”

“Elijah Fenton and I are friends again,” Franklin says.

“Did you apologize to him?”

“I didn’t have to.” Franklin shrugs. “He didn’t say anything about it.”

Something parental I should say here, something about responsibility or contrition, what’s the word…the other side of forgiveness…aw hell…I can’t come up with it.

So I concentrate on the road. Drive now; parent later.

I squint. It’s cleared up again this afternoon, the cool winter fog keeps burning off, leaving no place to hide, and the crisp air throws me; the world is washed out, shimmery. Like a twenty-degree desert. Tree limbs crook accusingly in the wind, and leaves leap at our passing. I can see deep into the cars around me, and it’s like looking into people’s souls. We round the corner to our house, I’m still shaking, breathing shallow and raspy. We crawl down our block, limp into the driveway.

How is it that I keep forgetting that my front yard is full of lumber?

“Wow,” says Teddy. “What’s all the wood for?”

“That…was a mistake,” I say. “They’re coming to get it tomorrow. They delivered it to the wrong house.”

“The wrong house?” Teddy asks. “That’s too bad.”

Kid, you have no idea.

“It looks like Jenga,” says Franklin.

And this causes me to start crying again. It was Franklin’s favorite game a couple of years ago, Jenga. We played every night before I tucked him into his little bed, his feet curled up beneath him. I stare at the beams in my front yard, stacked crosswise, and it comes to me that life is a version of that children’s game: pull one from the bottom and stack it on top and try to keep the whole thing from falling. Slide a board out, stack it on top, the structure growing taller as the weight shifts upward, until the base begins to look like lattice, and pretty soon you realize you’re holding your breath, that there are no more safe moves, but still you must try, always try, because that’s the game…so you look for a board to slide, gently…slide…gently…even though you can never win, and it’s always the same…breathless and tentative…the world teetering above your head.