Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil

by Jarl Jensen

  No, shit wasn’t going well.

  “It’s never just a meeting with you,” Justin said.

  “And it’s never just an experiment with you,” Connie shot back.

  Justin had been pacing around the cramped little room, making Kristen look increasingly uncomfortable. But now he felt compelled to bury his face in the corner of the wood-paneled walls and sulk. Who still has wood paneling in this day and age? he thought, deciding that he would raise the issue with Dan Pastor, who’d built this home office into his farmhouse back before Justin purchased the land and all its contents from him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Justin asked Connie, not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice.

  “Back when you were thinking about buying that Farm of yours, you told me it was just an experiment. You talked about it like it would be a hobby. Wouldn’t ever even take you away from New York, you told me. Said you’d even go on the road with me if I caught on to a campaign. But I don’t recall seeing you all that often in Texas. And you’re there at the Farm now, aren’t you?”

  Justin could smell his own coffee breath as he groaned into the corner.

  “And you were there for almost two months before you even opened the doors,” Connie continued. “You remember those two months, right?”

  “How could I forget? Every time I turned on the TV, there you were.”

  “What choice did I have? You and I were supposed to do something in this race together. But you left me for your little experiment.”

  “And you latched on to Ted fucking Cruz?” Justin said furiously. Even as he spoke the words, he could feel the presence of someone else entering the room. He decided to ignore them. Whoever they were, he figured they would probably get the message if he just kept his head buried in the corner. Whoever they were, it didn’t work.

  “Don’t bring his politics back into it,” Connie said.

  “We’re not even having this conversation because of his politics. We’re talking about populism, Connie. Populism. You remember what you said to me about populism back when you were still living in Queens?”

  There was an uncomfortably long silence.

  “I think I’m done with this,” she said finally.

  Justin’s heart sank. Part of him had been expecting these words for months now, but that was the rational part of him—and when it came to the love of his life, what good was the rational part of him?

  “Done with what?”

  There was no reply.

  “Done with what, Connie?”

  “I think we have an understanding.” With that, the phone went dead.

  The anger and sorrow swirled in Justin’s chest so intensely that, for a moment, he forgot that he wasn’t alone. He bumped his head into the corner a couple of times and cursed loudly. The presence behind him still, even now, didn’t get the message. So he sucked in a breath to calm himself and then slowly turned around.

  There stood Pete Smiley, not a care in the world. Beside him was Evan White, who wore the expression of a waiter who’d just delivered an overcooked steak. Justin was fiercely aware that this was the first time he had met his most dedicated acolyte in the flesh, so he did his level best not to look like the love of his life had just dumped him.

  “Sorry,” he said, deciding all at once to bend the truth slightly. “That was a reporter. I’m just a little pissed about the press we’ve been getting. Hopefully your spot will help us turn the tide, Pete.”

  Smiley gave no indication of whether this would be the case. “Kristen, would you touch up his . . . ,” he said, motioning in the general direction of Justin’s face.

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” she asked incredulously.

  Justin motioned for Kristen to come at him with her makeups. She made a grand show of taking her time to comply.

  Evan, meanwhile, looked more than happy to have this excuse to talk about something other than the portion of that phone call he’d just witnessed. “I actually read a pretty nice piece in the Journal-Constitution this morning. They called the Farm proof positive that basic income has a future.”

  Justin grunted. “Yeah, I read that one too. If only this Farm had anything to do with basic income.”

  The laugh Evan gave sounded sycophantic and forced. Justin decided not to judge him on it. Kid looked a little nervous.

  “You’re right, though,” Justin said. “There’s plenty of positive press. They just keep getting the concept wrong. This isn’t basic income. You hearing that, Pete?”

  Smiley shrugged.

  “Maybe we should get that on camera,” Justin said.

  “Stephen had to take a powder,” Smiley said. “He’ll be in shortly.” Then he looked at the wood-paneled room and made a face. “You don’t want to do the interview in here, do you?”

  Justin shook his head. This was a cabin-in-the-woods style nightmare of a room. “Naw, we’ll use the farmhouse. There’s a nice sunroom in there that might—”

  “No go on sunrooms,” Stephen said, returning from his powder. “They only work when it’s overcast. Too sunny today.”

  “We’ll figure something out then,” Justin said, annoyed. “The dining room.” He turned to Evan and rolled his eyes. “What was I talking about?”

  “How we’re not basic income,” Evan offered.

  “Right. Pete, this isn’t some pipe dream, okay? And it’s definitely not a political talking point. This is Direct Deposit. We’re not giving people money and then taxing them on it, like BI. We’re creating money from nothing. We’re creating an economy for homeless people out of pure fucking magic.”

  “Speaking of taxes,” Evan said, “there’s an agent from—”

  “Every reporter gets it wrong,” Justin interrupted. “They all get hung up on the homeless thing. They talk about us like we’re just bringing in destitute people, handing them some fake money, and putting them to work. I mean, that’s not at all what this is about. Is it, Evan?”

  The young economist went wide eyed and shook his head vigorously.

  “Damn right,” Justin said. “The point isn’t to give homeless people something to do. And it’s not about taking advantage of cheap labor.” He looked to Smiley. “I’m sure you have questions prepared, but we have to talk about how I’m not getting anything out of this financially. I mean, you realize that I’m not taking a dime out of this enterprise, right?”

  Smiley ignored the question.

  “Do they know that we’re keeping meticulous records of everything?” Justin asked Evan, who shrugged. “Do they know that my only investment was to buy the Farm and provide the building materials for housing? Do they know that when someone needs a loan for equipment, it comes from me, and I don’t even take a profit on that loan?”

  He set his hands on the side of his head as if trying to prevent his skull from exploding. “I’m not trying to make money here. I’m just trying to prove that the economy can work much more effectively—how if you build an economy from the ground up instead of from the top down, everyone, no matter their background, can raise their standard of living.”

  “And I’m sure that will come through in our interview,” Smiley said. He cocked his head to one side. “But can I make a suggestion?”

  Justin allowed it.

  “Maybe take your tone down a notch. You sound . . . What does he sound like, Stephen?”

  “Defensive,” Stephen offered as he fiddled with his camera.

  “You sound defensive,” Smiley agreed. “That’s not how you’ll want to come off in this interview.”

  Justin brooded. He knew all this. He didn’t need Pete fucking Smiley to tell him. “Did you show them the Circus?” he asked Evan.

  Evan beamed. “Everything’s looking great over there.”

  A wave of pride swept away Justin’s heartbreak, if only for a moment. He seized that moment by letting his voice rise an octave or three. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. We’re trying to build up working business
es from this old-school Farm, Pete. Place was completely run down when I bought it. Dan was the last farmer in practically the whole state who managed to remain independent. Good on him, yeah, but he held on too long. Every other farm owner sold to the industrial farming complex years ago and made bank. But not Dan. He was the only guy left here employing real, actual, salt-of-the-earth farmers.”

  “That’s great, Justin,” Smiley said. “Maybe you should save it for—”

  “But we took this rundown farm,” Justin interrupted, “and we turned it around with one tweak to how its economy worked. Now we’ve got fields full of multiple crops. Pigs and chickens. The greenhouse. There’s the Circus. We run all the irrigation on rainwater. And once we get that damn windmill running again, we’ll be completely off the grid.”

  Smiley had turned to muttering something with Stephen. Meanwhile, Evan stood with his hands clasped over the clipboard he held at his waist, looking as comfortable in the moment as a substitute gym teacher. So Justin kept on.

  “This Farm is supposed to be an allegory for something out of nothing,” he insisted. “You should’ve seen Dan’s face when I first approached him about it. Just like getting crops from seeds, I told him. Direct Deposit is like the seeds. The businesses it spontaneously generates are our crops. And no matter how the press tries to spin it or misunderstand it, our crops are flourishing, Evan.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Evan said.

  “Again, Justin,” Smiley said, “this is all great stuff, but we’re not rolling.”

  “And that’s ignoring how we’re giving homeless people an opportunity to contribute to something,” Justin kept on. “They’re coming from a society that treated them like gum on your shoe, and here they can be carpenters and barbers and plumbers and entertainers. It’s fucking magical.”

  “I’ll ask that you stow the language once we’re on camera.”

  Justin dismissed this idea with a wave of his hand.

  “Magical is exactly what I’m always calling it, Mr. Wolfe,” Evan said.

  “Can it with the Mr. Wolfe shit.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir, either. It’s Justin. Jesus, man.”

  Evan gave a sheepish grin. “Justin.”

  “Anyway, here’s why people don’t get it, Pete: they were all raised on the debt system. If you want money to do something, you have to borrow it. Here, though, money circulates not through debt, but through work. That’s why everyone’s standard of living has been increasing with each busload of people we accept.”

  “That’s what Evan here was just telling us,” Smiley said unhelpfully.

  The two men spent an uncomfortable moment just sort of blinking at each other. Finally, the veneer of Justin’s forceful attempt to avoid his inner turmoil peeled back and he climbed down off his soapbox. That he’d spent three minutes yelling at Smiley and Evan about something they already knew made him feel rather stupid suddenly.

  “So, um,” Evan said, staring down at his shoes, “we brought in a new couple on the van. At least I think they’re a couple. Could be siblings. Not sure yet. Anyway, they’re migrants. They don’t speak English.”

  “Fantastic!” Justin blurted. “We want them. Just because they come from elsewhere and don’t speak our language, that doesn’t mean they can’t help us build a better life.”

  “You’re wasting all your sound bites when we’re not rolling,” Smiley said.

  Justin made a mental note that, if he ever managed to get Connie to pick up the phone again, he should say exactly those words to her. “More people equals better situation, not the other way around.”

  “Tell that to Trump,” Evan said.

  Just the mention of the name nearly made Justin cry. Connie. Goddamn it, Connie. So to avoid the show of sorrow, he belted into a laugh. He must’ve put too much of his back into it, though, because Smiley’s eyes went wide with concern, and Evan took a half step back and stumbled against Stephen, who had set his camera on the floor and was crouching over it, ever fiddling.

  “God help us if that guy wins the nomination,” Justin said darkly.

  “I’m kind of hoping he does, actually,” Evan said.

  When Smiley’s gaze darted to him, Evan put his hands up.

  “Not that I’d ever vote for him. I just think there’s no way he wins, so we might as well have some comedy along the way.”

  Justin took a deep breath and realized he’d been clenching his fists. Idly he wondered how long he’d been doing it. Long enough that his fingernails hurt anyway.

  “Nice to finally meet you, Evan,” he said, offering his hand.

  Evan shook it gratefully. “We’ve got an IRS agent checking things out in the admin building,” he spazzed.

  “Fun.” Justin clucked his tongue. Then he smiled when he remembered something. “We’ll deal with that clown after my interview. What I’m more interested in is your date to Jekyll Island.”

  “How could you possibly have heard about that already?”

  The beet-red blush that rushed to Evan’s face made Justin laugh.

  “I hear everything,” he said, sidling up and giving him the elbow. “Listen, man, when I offered you the plus-one, I didn’t think you’d be inviting the farmer’s daughter.”

  Evan couldn’t seem to make the blush leave him.

  “You know what they say about fooling around with the farmer’s daughter, right?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Evan said to his shoes before correcting himself. “Justin, I mean. If you want me to take someone else, or even just go solo, I can—”

  “C’mon, kid,” Justin cut in. “I’m only messing with you. I’ve met her. And I’ve read her interviews. Girl’s a catch.” He looked to Smiley. “In fact, did you get her on camera?”

  “The cook?” Smiley asked.

  “Chef,” Evan corrected. “Yeah, they got her.”

  “Excellent!” Justin said. Then he elbowed Evan again. “Anyway, she’ll make for great company. Totally get why you would invite her.”

  “Oh.” He sucked in a nervous breath and the blush finally retreated. “Good.”

  “Just be careful, yeah?” Justin said, the bitterness about Connie returning. “Because they also say stuff about not shitting where you eat.”

  The way the words appeared to take Evan down a peg or two brought Justin absolutely no joy. In fact, he suddenly wished he could start this whole first meeting over. The truth was he’d never met a brighter economic mind than the one standing before him. He desperately wanted this kid to like him—to respect him—and here he was razzing him about a woman.

  “I’m not the guy to take advice from anyway,” he said. “Believe me.”

  “It’s okay,” Evan said. “I’m more worried about Fred Rogers.”

  That name rang a bell, but Justin was too keyed up to wonder why. Instead, he pulled Evan aside so he could mutter to him outside of Smiley’s earshot. “And I’m worried about Jekyll Island. Not about you and Nora, I mean. But about the other people who’ll be there. Blankfein, for instance. And Elliot.”

  “Elliot Larson?” Evan asked incredulously.

  “Yeah. He and I go way back, but that’s not gonna help us in there. We’re gonna be the enemy in that viper’s nest, kid. We’d better study up on how we’ll defend ourselves.”

  Justin couldn’t recall the last time he saw someone so excited about the prospect of studying. In fact, Evan looked utterly, enviably content. At least that makes one of us, Justin thought.

  “Smiley,” he said to the interviewer. “You ready to do this?”

  Pete Smiley motioned to Stephen, who gave his handlebar mustache a quick twist before hoisting his camera back onto his shoulder.

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  Chapter 8 Jekyll Island

  We are the intelligent species, so why is our economy based on an unintelligent principle?

  —Justin Wolfe

  So that was how Evan found himself standing betwe
en Fancy Bluff Creek and the swankiest garden party he’d ever seen.

  Behind the party loomed a building that predated his ancestral family’s citizenship in the United States. In that building, back in the early twentieth century, some of the wealthiest men who’d ever lived had conducted the meetings and signed the documents that brought the Federal Reserve into existence. Now Evan would join a host of revelers in celebrating that fact. And he’d arrived to this party with his billionaire employer, his Top Chef date, and three homeless weirdos who would surely do their level best to turn this formal affair into a proper hootenanny.

  The whole thing could not have been more surreal.

  The riverfront lawn felt soft as down under Evan’s cheap, waxy shoes. The Spanish oaks dangled their tendrils among the string lights and paper lanterns crisscrossing overhead. A string quartet played a piece that Evan’s limited musical knowledge allowed him to identify only as maybe Beethoven. The dining tables, bedecked with white linen, tea lights, and tasteful magnolia centerpieces remained largely unoccupied. Meanwhile, the handwoven bamboo service stations had drawn heavy crowds, everyone tucking into their julips and ho-humming.

  This was a place of Vanderbilts, Morgans, and Rockefellers. Never mind the Fed; the big-bodied salmon turreted Jekyll Island Club had endured enough historical firsts, cultural eras, and architectural restorations as to find itself wallpapered with brass plaques summarizing its grandeur. Presently, its lawn played host to an almost uncontainable amount of personal wealth, as represented by the flocks of mostly elderly, white, gin-blushing faces all hobnobbing with meaty tarts in their hands and surgically tightened wives on their arms.