Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil Read online

  “What happened here?”

  In charged Evan White and a winded little nerd Bob didn’t recognize.

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Bob told Evan. “Things just got a little outta hand.”

  “A little outta hand?” Newton hollered from the corner. “You accused me of stealing Oscar’s watch, and then you punched me in the fuckin’ face.”

  “I only punched you because you charged at me.”

  Newton suddenly erupted into tears. “How could you accuse me of stealing? Me of all people.”

  Something told Bob that Evan was nervous—even more so than usual. He kept looking back over his shoulder as if expecting something to steamroll him at any moment.

  “Everything okay, boss?” Bob asked. “I mean, apart from how we’re all still suffering through the sight of Val’s weird penis over here.”

  “Fuck you, Bob,” Valence said.

  Evan held up his hands to calm the scene. “We’ll work it out later. Right now, I’m interested in getting this cleaned up as quickly as possible. Let’s get Valence out of here so he can get some medical attention. Then let’s find your mop and clean this up. We’ll worry about the watch later.”

  “You better sleep with one eye open tonight, Bob-O,” Valence was saying.

  “Valence,” Evan said curtly as he spun around on the New Yorker. “Please get dressed as fast you can.”

  “I ain’t goin’ anywhere until this fucker apologizes.”

  “We don’t have time for that now, Valence.” Evan brightened up. “You wouldn’t want to keep Nurse Jenny waiting, would you?”

  The prospect of seeing Jenny, a pretty young recent graduate from nursing school, put a little bounce in Newton’s step as he exited the showers without complaint. The moment he was gone, Bob started apologizing.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to hit him,” he said. “It was just a reflex, you know?”

  Before Evan could answer, Bob spotted movement at the door to the showers. Two men appeared, one of them carrying a video camera and a preposterously shaped mustache, the other sweating mascara over his foundation-caked cheeks.

  “That guy was bleeding,” Mascara said breathlessly. “You getting this?” He indicated for Mustache to collect footage of the blood rivering into the drain.

  Evan sighed. “They’re with 60 Minutes,” he whispered.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Evan,” Bob said. “I really didn’t mean to cause trouble. It’s just that you spend as much time on the streets as I did, when someone charges you, you punch first and ask questions later.”

  “I’m not the police, Bob. That’s between you and Valence. What I’m worried about at the moment is making sure this doesn’t look too bad to our friends here. Longer term, we need to figure out a way to ensure this never happens again.”

  Bob held his hand up in a Boy Scout salute. “I solemnly swear I’ve jacked my last New Yorker.”

  Despite it all, Evan broke into a smile. “No, I mean about the watch. Any thoughts on how it might have disappeared?” He looked back at the 60 Minutes crew, who was still gathering evidence. “And let’s try to keep your voice down, yeah?”

  Bob shrugged and spoke softly. “No idea what happened. Everyone leaves their stuff in one of them individual lockers along the wall over there. It’s up to them to lock it up. But I was outside the door, and nobody else came in. That’s why I accused Valence.” He grunted. “Looking back, though, I guess it was kinda stupid to accuse a naked man of stealing something. I mean, where was he gonna hide it?”

  Evan shuddered. “So on the day 60 Minutes arrives, we have a thief to track down.”

  “Don’t you worry about that none. You just keep those guys occupied elsewhere. Oscar’s already on the case.”

  Now Evan hung his head. Bob could guess why. Ever since his arrival three months back, Oscar Farsi had made it clear to anyone who would listen that he was an aspiring amateur detective. All he ever talked about was true crime shows or the crimes he supposedly solved when he was living behind a dumpster. No one much believed him about any of it, but his passion for the subject was undeniable.

  “So I guess the next thing I have to do is find Oscar,” Evan said. “Hopefully before he starts throwing around accusations and starting more fights.”

  “He told me he was heading to the kitchens,” Bob offered. “You know, since most guys like to grab a bite to eat after their morning shower.”

  “Good,” Evan said. “I have a bone to pick with Nora anyway.” He turned to the bespectacled man next to him. “I’m afraid our little field trip isn’t over, Fred.”

  The nerd called Fred appeared to shrink.

  Bob chuckled. “You just let me know if there’s any way I can help.”

  “You can fix the lockers, for starters. We don’t want to see anything like this happening again.”

  “Already on it, boss.”

  “Great. See you at dinner. And, Bob?”

  The formerly homeless janitor looked up from his examination of the lockers to see that the camera and interviewer had come up beside Evan.

  “Excellent work here,” Evan said, loudly enough for the camera to hear. “I can’t tell you how grateful we all are for the service you provide.”

  Bob swelled with pride. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t wait to watch 60 Minutes.

  Dylan Elan Powers The Cancer

  The ills of one are the ills of all. These are the dynamics of a society that is connected, armed to the teeth, and judged by income.

  —Justin Wolfe

  Dad fell again today. Fucking useless old man. And old isn’t even that right. He’s only thirty-six. No business having a sixteen-year-old kid like me. That’s the problem, probably. Probably why he couldn’t hold a wife. Probably why he can’t keep his stupid fucking diner full of people. Probably why he has cancer.

  “Oh, but nobody can control if they get cancer,” you’re saying.

  Bullshit. Life is supposed to be about equality. In physics class, the line is that the universe operates perfectly as it should. Everything returns to the center. To the median.

  Everyone gets what they deserve.

  So here you have this not-old old man living his whole life as a sad sack who thinks the world owes him favors. Mom left him. “Woe is me.” Health inspector shut him down for some roaches. “Woe is me.” Cancer of the bone. “Woe is me.” Can’t pay his medical bills. “Woe is me.”

  I told him yesterday about my theory. About how the universe is always equal. About how everyone gets what they have coming to them in the end. He backhanded me. Weakest backhand he’s ever thrown. The disease must really be getting to him. I just laughed. Would’ve hit him back, but I might have killed him, and I’m not sure yet if I’m a murderer.

  What is a murderer anyway? In a universe where everything behaves exactly as it should, shouldn’t murder not even be a thing? And since it is a thing, and since the universe always behaves exactly as it should, shouldn’t we assume that murder is not in fact evil, but necessary? Everything has to return to equilibrium. Murder is therefore not evil. Murder simply is.

  Someone should murder the old man before he drags us both down with him. Can’t pay his medical bills, and yet he’s sitting on an offer from some lady who wants to buy his diner out from under him. You want what’s fair, old man? Take the offer. Grab the money. Pay your bills. Then die. Leave me free from your mistakes. Leave me free of your debts and your debtors and your good and your evil. Just fucking leave.

  “But no,” he says. “This diner is my life’s work. And your nest egg, boy. Your future. Can’t just walk away from it like that.”

  Fuck the future. I don’t have a future. Not that one, anyway. I’ll die before I stand for one day behind that empty counter. Die before I flip one fucking egg or burn one piece of toast. Giving me that goddamn diner would go against the natural order of things. It would be you, old man, taking your shitty lot in life and throwing it on me. In death, you would commit your one
final act of ultimate evil—pinning your only son under the weight of all your mistakes. In death, you would ensure my death.

  I will not let that happen.

  Chapter 4 The Kitchen

  Without money, a self-sufficient community is always dysfunctional. Bartering is just too inefficient. This explains why communities across the country—and indeed, all over the globe—wind up needlessly deprived whenever the term “trickle-down economics” enters the picture. Money never trickles down to these struggling communities; it only ever trickles out.

  —Justin Wolfe

  Following the shower incident, Handlebar Stephen had expressed a desire to change the battery and memory card in his camera. Mr. Smiley, clearly relieved at the prospect of a break so he could fix his makeup, did not hesitate to suggest they take five. So now, as Evan trotted toward the giant barn that served as the Farm’s kitchen and dining hall, it was like he’d been relieved of an enormous weight. He had, after all, only Fred Rogers in tow. Fred he could manage. Figuring out Oscar Farsi’s lost watch situation while the cameras rolled, on the other hand, sounded like something he would have had quite a hard time handling indeed.

  Take five, Evan thought. Five minutes to get this ridiculous matter resolved before the camera returns.

  “Here’s the part I’m having trouble with, Fred,” he said. “Why exactly are you here? I mean, what triggered your interest in our little Farm in the first place?”

  Fred seemed to be having trouble keeping up with the pace, so Evan slowed.

  “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to say,” the auditor wheezed.

  With a scoff of frustration, Evan returned to jogging. They crested a gentle slope, where the barn came into sight. It was indeed a giant structure—the largest on the Farm that Justin had acquired from Dan Pastor almost exactly eighteen months prior. Together, Evan, the Pastors, and the early enrolling residents had converted this barn into a combination dining hall and vast kitchen.

  Nora, of course, had overseen the latter effort, given her familiarity with commercial cooking operations. She’d forgone culinary school in New York to take part in this process. For a while there, it sounded like she still planned to train a replacement for herself so she could finally leave her father’s farm and get started on her proper career. Evan couldn’t deny his relief at the thought of how Nora didn’t talk about that as often anymore.

  When he thought of Nora just now, a measure of anxiety he had been carrying since last night suddenly returned. There was a question he’d been wanting to ask her. But with all the excitement related to 60 Minutes and Fred Rogers, he had almost forgotten about it. But now, relieved of the burden of Handlebar Stephen’s camera and Mr. Smiley’s unsettling gaze, his nervousness about asking this question came rushing back.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Fred said, clutching his padded notebook to his chest as he chicken trotted along, all elbows and knees.

  “I can’t promise I’ll be more forthcoming than you just were.” Evan chided himself. He hadn’t meant to sound so annoyed. This wasn’t a man he should have been idly pissing off.

  To his relief, the tone didn’t seem to bother Mr. Rogers. “Is it true that you’re giving these people free money in exchange for work and then not reporting it to the IRS? Because, to me, that sounds illegal. On a number of fronts.”

  The sun was hot. Yesterday was hot as charred marshmallows on a DC sidewalk in August, and today was somehow shaping up to be hotter. Evan wiped the sweat from his brow with his bare forearm. “You’ll learn all about it when we get to admin,” he said. “But for now, no, it’s not illegal. For one thing, this Farm is losing money. Lots of it. So we don’t owe the IRS anything. And for another, you’ve got the arrangement with our residents all wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re not giving them free money in exchange for work.”

  Fred snorted. “Back in the machine shed, you were literally just talking about giving them money and assigning them jobs.”

  “We’re not assigning them jobs. We’re compelling them to work for each other.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  They were about twenty yards from the barn now, so Evan slowed to a walk. He needed time to collect himself and maybe stop sweating before they went inside to find Oscar. And Nora. He didn’t want to be dripping through his shirt when he finally asked her what he needed to ask her.

  “There are two differences. The first is that we’re not giving them jobs to complete. We’re sparking entrepreneurship. Nobody in that machine shed is required to report to a job. They just show up and create whenever they want to. There are no bosses here. People just contribute to the greater good so that they and their friends can lead better lives.”

  The auditor looked relieved that they had come to a stop under the shade of a maple tree beside the barn. He scratched his balding little head and gave Evan a skeptical gaze. “And the second difference?”

  “The money they receive is not in the form of US dollars. We call them Farm Bucks. So from the US government’s perspective, the system is more like bartering—although it’s much more complex and sophisticated than that. Anyway, there’s no actual money for you to tax.”

  Fred’s expression of disgust was like Evan had just asked him to lick a dog’s ass.

  “It’ll all make sense eventually,” Evan said. “I promise. For now, let’s go inside, okay?”

  Inside the barn, it was even hotter. Between the body heat from the cooks, servers, and patrons, the sun beating down on the tin roof, and the ovens Nora kept running pretty much constantly, Evan was compelled to hold his breath because it felt like he’d just submerged himself, head and all, into a roiling jacuzzi.

  When finally he managed to draw a deep breath and collect his wits, two mysteries immediately resolved themselves. First, the mystery of Munanire’s disappearance: Nora had in fact dragged him with her to the kitchens, just as David had guessed. There she stood behind the kitchen’s long, stainless steel pickup counter, talking animatedly with the attentive new arrival from Ethiopia. The second mystery solved was the location of Oscar Farsi. There he sat at the table nearest the kitchens, chowing down on a bowl of stew and looking entirely pleased with himself.

  Anxious as he was to speak with Nora—preferably before the camera returned—Evan decided that the second matter was pressing enough as to have him address it first.

  “So the long search has ended, I see,” Evan said, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

  “Search?” Oscar said, his mouth half full of beans.

  Evan nodded in the direction of the watch on Oscar’s wrist, its touchscreen glowing with the time displayed in white digital numbers. “You solved the caper.”

  Oscar perked up. “Caper?” A bit of rice escaped his mouth and settled on his lip.

  “The watch,” Evan said.

  “Ah!” Oscar wiped away the rice with the back of his hand and washed down the bite with a glass of lemonade that was positively pouring sweat. His lips parted into a smile that never seemed to fit his background. Oscar had been a halfway house regular for two solid years, and yet his teeth were as white and big and straight as a movie star’s. “You’ve heard about my thrilling investigation. You’ll never believe how I broke the case.”

  “You checked your pocket?”

  Oscar looked impressed. “How’d you know?”

  “Because it’s happened before,” Evan said with a sigh. “You’re always misplacing that thing. Maybe you should, you know, just keep it on your wrist.”

  “I needed a shower,” Oscar explained.

  “It’s waterproof.”

  The aspiring detective deflated. “Well, in any case.”

  “In any case, your little oversight caused a fight. Bob socked Valence, and now Valence thinks he broke his nose.”

  Oscar gestured dismissively. “Oh, Valence is always such a drama queen.”

  Evan couldn’t argue, so he grumbled instead. “Not the only one around h
ere.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “C’mon, Fred,” Evan said, ignoring Oscar. “Let me check in with our head chef for a second, and we’ll finally get you over to admin.”

  But Fred was much slower to jump to attention, because he’d caught Oscar’s inquiring gaze, and something about Oscar’s inquiring gaze tended to hold people like a tractor beam. Maybe it was the way his one good eye seemed to look straight into you. Or maybe it was the way his other, lazier eye tended to dance around in its owner’s head even as its matched opposite peeled back the layers of your secrets. That was how Oscar himself had described the situation to Evan once—one eye dancing and the other one peeling back secrets.

  Oscar was a strange man.

  “C’mon, Fred,” Evan repeated.

  Finally, Fred fell into line, and together, the two nerds shuffled up to the pickup counter. Nora flashed a quick glance and lingering smile at Evan but didn’t let up in her conversation with the thoroughly enraptured Munanire.

  “Let me tell you, it’s been quite a saga getting a line cook,” Nora was saying. “But now you’re here and the training can begin.”

  “You can be certain that I will train hard, Miss Pastor.”

  “For the absolute last time, Muna, you’ll call me Nora.”

  Munanire buried his chin in his neck and grinned in a fashion so adorably self-effacing that it made even Evan want to give him a hug.

  Nora did the job for him. “I just know we’re going to get along swell.”

  When the hug was over, the chef and the man who would apparently be serving as her line cook looked at each other fondly for such a long second that it made Evan uncomfortable. Evan cleared his throat in an effort to draw their attention. Nora ignored him.

  “So what we’re going to do,” she was saying, “is I’ll teach you how to make one of our upgraded dishes, croque monsieur. You ever heard of that?”