Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil Read online

  All the desire to follow the rules for the benefit of the camera suddenly went out of Evan. He was a man who appreciated precision, but already this video-recorded meet and greet had descended into chaos. So he left David to deal with Shillfo and didn’t bother alerting Laz to the fact that what he’d claimed was Spanish bore almost no resemblance to the language.

  Hoping for at least one sound bite or piece of footage that didn’t make everyone look like complete apes, Evan made his way straight for the other woman who’d arrived on the van. She was slight, wispy haired, and middle-aged, though her eyes were lined in a grandmotherly way and her sunken lips suggested that she had few in the way of teeth.

  “You’re Ivanka, I take it,” Evan said. He clasped his clipboard to his chest, not really needing the information it held, since he’d memorized it all last night anyway.

  “How you know my name?” the woman said, her eyes flashing suspicion.

  Evan gave a reassuring pat on the clipboard. “The hospital sends us some information about you ahead of time.”

  She rolled her head back and parted her lips as if deciding whether she could trust him.

  “Ivanka?” came the voice. “Boy, that’s a loaded name.” Somehow Laz had already tired of trying to speak with the young couple and had joined Evan and Ivanka just in time to interrupt.

  “Loaded?” the woman said, her gaze narrowing on Laz. “What you mean loaded?”

  “Ivanka? Daughter of the Republican nominee for president . . .”

  “And who’s that?”

  Laz grinned. “Donald J. Trump.”

  Ivanka rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m a regular fuckin’ Trump all right.” She batted her lashes at Mr. Smiley. “You should see my penthouse.”

  “I like this one.” Laz elbowed Evan. “She’s spirited.”

  “What would I care who’s president anyway?” Ivanka asked.

  Laz ran both hands through his shoulder-length hair and tied it into a ponytail. Then he turned as if speaking directly to the camera. “Yeah, I remember how living under an overpass can kind of depoliticize a person.”

  “De-po-what?” Ivanka said.

  “I mean, why would this nice lady give a tinker’s damn about who is or isn’t the president when she don’t even have a roof over her head?”

  “Tinker’s damn,” Ivanka whispered to herself.

  “I think you’ll find that this is one of the perks of living on this Farm,” Laz said to the future viewers of this 60 Minutes think piece. “Eventually you start earning the capacity to think about politics.”

  “And may God help you when that happens,” David chimed in. He sidled up beside Laz as if joining a television commercial advertising the dogged but insightful reporting of a local news team. Shillfo completed the picture, stepping in and mimicking David’s posture, though he stood so close to the other men that both of them had to shuffle away slightly.

  “Come to think of it,” Laz said to Ivanka, “you might want to go back to living under an overpass.”

  He and David shared a laugh.

  “I didn’t live under no overpass,” Ivanka said defensively.

  The humor went out of the men, an awkward air descending over the Farm’s amateur news team.

  “Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ivanka,” Evan interjected. “We’re looking forward to introducing you to everything we have to offer on this Farm. If you don’t mind, Laz here will escort you to the shed to check in and receive your wristband.”

  She cast a wary eye at Laz. “I’d rather go with you,” she said to Evan.

  “Well,” Evan said, trailing off. He very much wanted to do as she asked, but at the same time, he hadn’t yet gotten enough of a read on this woman to know whether she would be a suitable on-camera representative of the Farm. Ultimately, he decided that refusing her would look worse than anything she could say in front of Handlebar Stephen’s watchful eye. “Well, okay. Yeah.” He sucked in a breath to make an announcement. “Why don’t we all just make our way over to the machine shed and we’ll figure everything out up there?”

  All five of the remaining new arrivals assumed the posture of a trapped animal. Inwardly, Evan chided himself. He’d seen many times before how the words “machine shed” tended to sound more threatening than intended.

  “It’s just where we get you set up with your wristbands and assign you to your bunks.”

  “Wristbands?” The question came from the van’s final occupant, former resident of the streets of Baltimore and purported alcoholic Henry Davis. Henry was a gaunt, red-eyed, and deeply skeptical-looking man. “Bunks? This place a cult or something?”

  “Yeah, you didn’t tell us this was a cult,” Shillfo said.

  Evan held the clipboard to his forehead and clenched his teeth. The word “cult” was just about the last one he wanted the world to hear. “Not a cult. We’re just an experimental—” He stopped himself, because “experimental” and all its forms was another word that tended to make the new arrivals skittish. “We’re just trying something new here.” Now he steadied himself and decided that the time had come to say something Mr. Smiley might actually want to use. “You all used to live in a world of drastic inequality. Here, we give you all the economic tools you need to survive, so that you may one day thrive, and so that we as a community can also thrive.”

  When he’d finished, Evan felt rather proud of himself.

  “So . . . a cult,” Henry said.

  “Not a cult. Just a farm.”

  “Then it’s a co-op then,” Shillfo offered. “I lived in one of those once. A commune.”

  “Not a commune.” Evan closed his eyes. None of this was going the way he’d intended. “We’re not socialist. We’re not asking any of you to contribute to a collective. We’re just giving you the means to want to contribute to the greater good of this Farm and all its residents.”

  Everyone looked blankly at him as if expecting more.

  “The huge difference between this Farm and a cult or commune is that we’re not requiring anything of you. You don’t have to dedicate yourself to anything, or even contribute if you don’t want to. You don’t even have to stay. You’re all here voluntarily.”

  The skepticism hung thick. Evan didn’t know how else to carve through it, so he decided to just appeal to their baser instincts.

  “In that shed, I’m going to give you a wristband—in fact, it’s the world’s most remarkable wristwatch. Justin Wolfe, the owner of this Farm, designed it himself. With it, you’ll be able to send and receive messages, learn about upcoming events on the Farm, and exchange money between the friends and fellow entrepreneurs you’ll meet on the Farm. It will connect you to everything here. And it will allow us to pay you a weekly stipend that you can use to buy whatever you want.”

  “You mean you put free money into these watches and then we use them to buy things?” Ivanka asked.

  “Exactly,” Evan said.

  “We can buy whatever we want?”

  “Whatever you want.” Evan smiled. “We provide just about everything you could need right here on this Farm. Although I would recommend you start by spending your stipend on daily meals and a bed.”

  “The beds ain’t free?”

  “No. But the stipend will cover you with room to spare for food and savings.”

  “Savings?”

  Evan ran a hand through his hair. “You’ll learn more about that in orientation.”

  “And we don’t have to do nothin’ to earn this money if we don’t want to?” Shillfo asked.

  “Not if you don’t want to,” Evan said.

  “Sign me up,” Ivanka said.

  Just like that, she was leading the other four new arrivals up the hill toward the shed. Now that he had gotten a positive reaction from someone, Evan felt a swell of excitement. Of course, there was so much more to this beautiful system that Justin had conceived and financed and Evan had made reality, but they would learn all about it in due time. And now, so would the cameras
. And eventually, so would America at large.

  For now, all Evan needed was to continue showing the camera the way these people would buy in—quickly, contentedly, and eventually, wholeheartedly. It never surprised him how easily the concept of free money and a fancy watch could kick off that whole process.

  When they reached the shed, it took a moment for Evan’s eyes to adjust to the sudden loss of daylight. The first thing he saw when his vision returned was Handlebar Stephen adjusting the focus on his lens. The second thing he saw was a tiny little man he didn’t recognize. The man was a slight-shouldered, suspenders-wearing, thick-rimmed-glasses-having poindexter. Though he’d had just about enough of the surprise arrivals for one day, Evan’s immediate reaction was relief to finally be something other than the nerdiest man in a room. On camera, by contrast, this guy would make Evan look like the god of sports and sex.

  “Evan White?” the little man said.

  “That’s me,” Evan said. “Who’re you?”

  The little man winced. “Fred Rogers.”

  Shillfo broke into a belly laugh. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

  “Loaded names all around,” David agreed.

  Fred Rogers gave a sidelong glance at the camera and made a face that suggested he’d spent a lifetime suffering jokes like these. “I’m with the IRS,” he said, ignoring the laughter and speaking directly to Evan. “I’ve been asked to interview the leadership of this Farm and perform a review of your financial records.”

  To Evan, it seemed like Fred rather enjoyed being able to tell people this kind of thing. The auditor deflated when Evan made no show of concern. The truth was that, unlike with the 60 Minutes crew, the unannounced arrival of an IRS dweeb didn’t concern Evan in the slightest. Guiding the public’s perception of the Farm based on what was seen and spoken on camera was not in Evan’s wheelhouse, but demonstrating clean, by-the-books economics to a pencil pusher from the government? No problem.

  Everything Evan had done in the nearly yearlong process of setting up the administrative offices of this Farm had been in preparation for this eventuality. When you’re running an economic experiment on a secluded farm wherein you take in homeless people and pay them a guaranteed weekly deposit with non-US dollars in the hopes that it will spontaneously generate entrepreneurial activity, you have to expect the government to take an interest eventually. At the moment, Evan was just glad that Fred’s badge didn’t read “FBI.” They were prepared for that eventuality, too, but that level of headache wasn’t something Evan felt like dealing with at this particular moment. Certainly not on camera.

  “I can show him to the admin office,” Laz offered.

  “No, that’s all right,” Evan said. “I’ve already gathered a crowd. I was planning on taking Mr. Smiley and Handle”—he stopped himself before he could complete his insulting nickname for the cameraman—“Stephen, I mean. I was planning on taking Mr. Smiley and Stephen to the office eventually. Might as well have Mr. Rogers join us.”

  “Fred, please,” Mr. Rogers said.

  Evan smiled. “Fred.” Yes, it would be good to have Fred along. Having another nerd by his side filled Evan with a level of confidence that had been missing since the moment Mr. Wolfe wrenched open the van door and skittered off.

  The confidence was short-lived, because then came the third surprise of that already hellish morning.

  “Mr. White!” someone shouted from up the hill.

  Evan hung his head. He had heard this tone before, and as always, it stressed him the hell out.

  “Mr. White, you have to hurry!”

  He recognized the voice. Carl’s demeanor was usually so unassuming, so it was especially alarming to hear him yelling like this.

  “We’ve got our hands full here, Carl,” Evan called back, and to his surprise, the elderly, graying man from Tulsa—a man who’d been in his third year of living in his car before he joined the Farm nine months ago—burst into the machine shed and jogged over to him.

  “Can’t wait,” Carl said, out of breath. He bent over and set his hands on his knees. David patted him on the back.

  “We’ve got six people to check in, an interview team from 60 Minutes, and Mr. Rogers here has just informed me that we’re under audit,” Evan said.

  “Not technically an audit,” Fred corrected. “Just a quick review. And my name’s Fred.”

  “And what could be more important than a quick review by Fred from the IRS?”

  Carl finally caught his breath. “There’s a fight.”

  “A fight?”

  The camera’s gaze burned white-hot. Tension seized Evan’s shoulders.

  Disagreements between the residents were not at all uncommon, but Carl wasn’t the kind of guy to raise a stink about something as insignificant as that.

  Evan leaned in to whisper off-camera, “Like a fistfight?”

  Carl nodded and whispered back. “In the men’s showers.”

  Without hesitation, Evan tossed his clipboard to David. “You and Laz help these fine people,” he said. He was already rushing for the door, Carl at his side, hoping desperately that they could get to the scene and clean things up before Mr. Smiley and Handlebar Stephen could catch up to them.

  Chapter 3 The Showers

  Eventually a person can’t pass up the opportunity to live a better life. You can try to get by with less than what you could have, but rest assured, it will irritate the hell out of you every day.

  —Justin Wolfe

  Bob O. Shaler was fretting. He hadn’t meant to jack old Newton, but jack him he’d done. And of course Newton, flashy New Yorker that he was, couldn’t seem to stop mincing about it. The lanky, naked bastard might as well have been singing show tunes, from all the wailing and bleeding he was doing in the far corner of the showers.

  “Well at least let me get your clothes,” Bob called out to him.

  “You stay the fuck away from me,” Newton hissed back.

  That was the other thing about Valence Newton. He’d never spoken a sentence he didn’t feel compelled to flavor with a choice word or two. Bob was a man brought up in rural North Carolina, and if you asked him, there wasn’t room in civilized language for the goddamned f-word.

  Blood was pouring from Newton’s nose. It trickled down over his lips and off his chin. This troubled Bob for more than one reason—the first one being that he worried he’d actually hurt Newton, who he really hadn’t meant to punch, and the second one being that Bob was the poor sucker who would have to scour all that blood out of the grout. The thought of that work was nearly enough to make Bob long for the days when he’d been just a Consumer on this Farm. Mr. Wolfe and Mr. White had taken him in as a resident, and then they’d given him free money every day. They would just hand him dollars by way of his wristwatch, and he could use those dollars to buy whatever he wanted. He’d spent nearly a year collecting this daily stipend and kind of lying around and watching the other suckers work. But then, one day, he’d felt like picking up a mop.

  “Can I get you a tissue then or something?” he asked Newton. “I mean, you’re bleeding just everywhere.”

  “Stay. The fuck. Away.”

  Bob still couldn’t quite explain how he’d gotten himself into this role. Maybe the whole cleaning and maintenance thing was part of his DNA. Bob, a widower, had served as a janitor at an auto plant before the place folded under, and then he’d bounced around doing odd jobs and sleeping on the couches of friends and family for a while. When he’d gotten too deep into the drink and the couch offers started drying up, he drifted around from town to town in a haze so thick, it was like those couple of months belonged to someone else’s life—to some jack wagon who drank too much, defecated away his hangovers in public libraries, and slept in bus stations.

  But then he’d found the article about this Farm in Savannah, and somehow, he’d been chosen to join the community. That was the day the possibility of a new and better life began for him, but the actual new and better life didn’t start until he fir
st picked up that mop and got down to cleaning.

  From that day on, he adopted the otherwise rundown bathrooms of the men’s bunkhouse as his own responsibility. He repaired the plumbing to where there were four fully functional showerheads where once there were two. He replaced all the broken tiles and attacked the mold problem with vigor, vinegar, and a face mask. And then he started charging for showers. His bunkmates hadn’t loved the idea at first, but then they saw the value he brought with his daily cleanings and his twenty-four-hour repair service. When he started adding luxury soaps and shampoos to his product line, they liked that, too. Evan and the other leaders of the Farm also appreciated how Bob had rigged up a system to filter rainwater into a pressurized tank that ran the showers, and another to harvest waste to use as fertilizer and runoff water to irrigate the fields. He’d become a popular man around the Farm—to everyone except Newton, currently.

  Newton snorted and hacked. Then he spit a giant wad of blood and phlegm onto the tile.

  “Aw, c’mon, Val,” Bob said. “If you gonna do that, at least do it in the drain.”

  “You don’t get to fuckin’ tell me what to fuckin’ do,” Newton said. “You broke my fuckin’ nose. And don’t fuckin’ call me Val. Only my friends get to call me that, and you ain’t a friend. Never were.”

  “I told you your nose ain’t broken. It’s just bleeding.”

  Newton let his fingers fall away from the bridge of his nose and gave a stage glare in Bob’s direction. “Oh, so what? You’re a fuckin’ doctor now?”

  “Could you can it with the language? It’s not helping.”

  The naked New Yorker’s hollering turned to grumbling. He tilted his head back and pinched his nose again, then got down to pacing, his manhood flopping with every step. Newton was a startlingly slender, wiry kid in his midtwenties. He had the sallow skin and the sunken cheeks, and his yellow arms were so pocked they looked like the surface of some weird moon. As unlike each other as they were, Bob had always related to the kid. He’d never fallen in with heroin, but the sauce was plenty beguiling on its own. Maybe Bob had never injected himself between his toes and in his eyeballs, but he’d woken up in just as many gutters as Valence.