Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil

by Jarl Jensen

  All of this might have mattered to Evan, were his mind not so distracted by three unrelated but equally intimidating facts: one, most of the men at this party wore pocket squares worth more than Evan’s entire tuxedo, which he’d rented for the occasion from the local men’s store; two, none of the women on this lawn, prim and proper and money gorgeous as they were, could hold a candle to the beauty of Evan’s date, Nora Pastor, who’d emerged from her kitchen-bound cocoon looking like some kind of roaring twenties movie star; and three, no one else had invited dates nearly as monocle raising as Justin Wolfe, who’d somehow managed to cart along Laz, David, and Carl as his three-headed plus-one.

  “Remind me why he thought this would be a good idea again?” Evan asked, mostly to himself.

  One hour ago, en route to the island aboard Justin’s private jet, Evan had found himself waffling between nervousness about not blowing this first date with Nora and anxiousness about how much talking the formerly homeless residents of the Farm would be doing. Now he had his answer on the latter. It was a lot. Laz, David, and Carl were doing a lot of talking.

  There couldn’t have been any fewer than two hundred ultrarich people in attendance, but all of them seemed to want to engage with the residents of the Farm. Laz currently had the ear of an actual descendant of Vanderbilt, whose sycophantic entourage kept alternating between laughing and scoffing. Carl, who hadn’t left Justin’s side since their arrival, had situated himself with his billionaire benefactor in a huddle with Elliot Larson, third wealthiest man alive, and Lloyd Blankfein, CEO of Goldman Sachs. Then there was David.

  “Oh God, he’s not really about to . . . ,” Evan said, trailing off as he set his forehead in his hand.

  David, whose net worth was roughly equivalent to that of the lint clinging to the other guests’ socks, was trying to speak to the first violinist of the string quartet, even as the poor bastard continued playing. As Evan watched, David wriggled his way into the center of the quartet and began miming the second violinist’s movements. The musicians somehow managed to muddle their way to the end of the piece. Everyone who bore witness to this sideshow looked either bemused or scandalized. The sight of it rendered Evan rather tight in the sphincter.

  “You don’t have to babysit them, you know,” came the sweet, soothing voice in his ear.

  Evan shook himself out of his anxiety just in time to see the radiant smile of Nora. His date. Somehow, she was his date. And she was right, of course. But the sudden reminder that a woman as interesting, beautiful, and genuinely cool as Nora Pastor had come to this party on Evan’s arm stunned him to where he failed to fully register her point. This had become a routine already: staring at her, all mystified, precisely zero witty or remotely interesting replies springing to mind.

  She elbowed him. “Take a breath, poindexter. It’s a party.”

  Somehow the look she gave him forced the breath out of his lungs. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. “You’re right,” he said quickly. “Should we grab a drink?”

  “Jogging Jesus, Evan. I thought you’d never ask.”

  She kept close behind him as Evan moved politely through the crowd. Halfway to the nearest bar station, he managed to step on an older woman’s delicately shoed toes. The matriarch warbled fantastically, said nothing, and then glared at him with such heat that Evan felt like he could bring a steak to sizzling on his head from the embarrassment.

  Nora, meanwhile, apologized for him. Then, she led him away from the stuffy old woman, and for the remainder of their journey to find a drink, quaked with silent laughter. When they reached the bar, Evan threw his arms onto its velvety bamboo surface and set his head down, mortified. Nora rubbed him between the shoulder blades and giggled in his ear.

  “Anyone who . . . ,” she said, trailing back into laughter. “Anyone with the sense to . . .” More laughter. “Look, if you’re going to wear Louboutin heels to a goddamned garden party, you deserve to have your toes rearranged.”

  Evan concentrated on not hyperventilating. “What’s a Louboutin?” He picked up his head. “Are they expensive?”

  Nora snorted. “Are they expensive? Look around you, man.”

  Though he knew she had meant it rhetorically, he did look around. What he saw was a host of people far more interesting than him. It would only be a matter of time before Nora realized this fact as well, and then she would be off mingling, leaving him to stand on the edge of the party, like he’d done at every party—even his own childhood birthday parties—for as long as he’d lived. But then he noticed again how she looked at him, and that familiar sense of bafflement returned. Why had she agreed to come here with him? And why was she still standing so closely by his side? A moment of confidence swelled his chest, then flitted away when it occurred to him that Nora didn’t know anyone here either. She was a farmer’s daughter. Like Evan, she was out of her element. She clung to him only because she couldn’t relate to anyone else.

  “Well if it isn’t Nora Pastor,” someone called out.

  She beamed at the crowd of younger aristocrats beckoning to her. Then she took a half step in their direction before hesitating and lacing her arm under Evan’s. “I know these guys from the city,” she said. “I’d say let’s go talk to them, but you wouldn’t believe how boring they are.”

  “Uh,” Evan said dully.

  “Anyway, I can see you’re itching to get in with Justin.”

  The economist remained at a loss for words.

  Nora made a motion to her friends that suggested she would catch up with them later, maybe after she and Evan managed to get a drink. “Two sidecars,” she said to the bartender. “And just go crazy with the lemon, okay?”

  The bartender grinned and got to work. Evan and Nora stood side by side, enduring an awkward silence while the bartender prepared their drinks. In no time, he had finished, and now Evan was clutching a chilled glass full of a cocktail he felt pretty certain would be too much for him.

  “To firsts,” Nora said, clinking his glass.

  “What firsts?” Evan managed.

  She tipped his glass to his lips and he took a quick sip. Contrary to expectation, he thoroughly enjoyed the drink.

  Nora shrugged. “I don’t know. First drinks of the night, I guess. First garden parties? First dates maybe.”

  Evan was so caught up in the confirmation of the date-ness of this occasion that he couldn’t think how to reply. Nora smiled at his tongue-tied expression as she sidled up next to him.

  “C’mon.” She led Evan by the arm straight past her friends and over to Justin’s group.

  “I don’t mean any offense here, Carl,” Elliot Larson was saying when they arrived, “but a world without poor people just won’t work.”

  Blankfein chortled. Carl, his economic opposite, made no indication that he recognized why he should be offended in the first place.

  “You’ve slipped into a lovely play on words,” Blankfein said, his grin as broad as his self-satisfaction.

  Everyone looked at the CEO expectantly.

  “Poor people,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “won’t work.”

  Blankfein was the only one who laughed.

  “Crass as my friend can be,” Elliot said, “he does have a point. If your little experiment succeeds, then what we have is poor people who’ve become slightly less poor. You’re not incentivizing work. You’re creating a coddler’s economy.”

  The CEO of Goldman Sachs laughed so hard at this that he actually slapped his knee.

  Justin looked like he was about to reply, but then Elliot turned his attention to Evan. Of course, Evan had seen this man many times on television and in articles online, but none of the pictures did justice to his genuine magnetism. Elliot Larson was an entirely handsome gentleman. His every movement, right down to the subtle twitches of the muscles in his face, was performed with a buttery, effortless smoothness. Then he saw Nora, and those muscles in his face contorted into the come-hitheriest expression Evan had ever seen.

/>   “Nora Pastor, as I breathe,” Elliot said, stepping past Evan and bending down to kiss the back of Nora’s hand.

  Evan’s knees weakened, but Nora remained unswayed.

  “Elliot,” she said simply.

  “Now, my dear, whenever are you going to take me up on my offer?”

  “Is that really a question you want answered right at this moment? Right here in front of all these witnesses?”

  Elliot’s wide smile grew wider. “What good is a hundred-foot yacht if you don’t have anyone to help you enjoy all the bells and whistles?”

  Nora gave a wry expression. “As charming as it would be to float off to Bermuda with a man my father’s age, I think I’ll pass.” As she said this, she took Evan’s arm once more and rather embraced it.

  If anyone—let alone Nora—had said something like this to Evan, it would have crumbled him from the inside out. But Elliot Larson barely batted an eye.

  “You watch out for that viper’s tongue of hers, son,” Elliot said to Evan. Then, he puffed out his chest. “Who the hell is this anyway, Nora?”

  “That’s Evan White,” Justin said.

  “Ah, the man of the hour!”

  “You’re looking down your nose as you say that,” Justin cut in, “but this kid has more economics in his little finger than you and me combined.” He smacked Blankfein on the chest with the back of his hand. “Go ahead, Lloyd. Ask him anything.”

  As Blankfein looked on hungrily, Evan tensed at the shoulders. It wasn’t out of intimidation, but rather, out of confusion. The affection he’d just experienced from Nora, the genuine jealousy from Larson, the flattery from Justin, the threatening look in Blankfein’s gaze—all of it was causing a knot of emotions Evan didn’t even begin to know how to untangle.

  “Your whole premise is based on flawed logic,” Blankfein said to Evan.

  “In fairness, it’s not his premise,” Justin said with a smirk. “And, Lloyd? That wasn’t a question.”

  The CEO stiffened up. “Your benefactor here has been telling me about how you’re setting up a predictable system. But it doesn’t work like that. Economies are unpredictable. How do you expect to do something no one in history has ever done?”

  Now that he’d been challenged on something with which he felt comfortable—now that he’d been roped into a debate on economics—all the trappings of this thoroughly trapped-out party fell away. Evan took a long draught of his sidecar, relishing the citrusy burn at the back of his tongue.

  “You’re familiar with Newton’s law.”

  Blankfein shrugged. “Cause and effect.”

  “Let’s talk about Newton’s economy.”

  The CEO groaned.

  “A ball in motion will stay in motion,” Evan said. “The economy is the same way.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Blankfein looked wryly at Justin. “Is he serious?”

  Justin nodded eagerly. And something about Nora’s hand still resting in the crook of Evan’s arm brought him more confidence than he could ever remember experiencing.

  “If you raise interest rates,” Evan said, “people borrow less. If you raise savings rates, people spend less.”

  “No shit,” Blankfein said. “Justin, this is your wunderkind? He’s talking about the stuff the Fed’s been doing since 19-goddamn-10.”

  “These are predictable outcomes,” Evan said, undeterred. “But the reason your economy isn’t predictable—”

  “Oh, it’s my economy now?” Blankfein cut in, shining an incredulous look at Elliot. “Can you believe this kid?”

  “It’s because your economics aren’t predictable,” Evan continued.

  The CEO of Goldman Sachs assumed the same expression he’d have assumed if Evan had spit in his highball. Elliot, meanwhile, stepped between Justin and Carl, the three men enjoying varied stages of amusement.

  “You don’t have enough control of the inputs,” Evan explained. “If you had more inputs, you would see that cause and effect in the economic system is very much possible. You would see that your economy is in fact capable of producing the results you want.”

  “And what exactly are the inputs I’m so badly lacking?” Blankfein asked.

  “It’s like in chess. A good move can be judged by the number of options it allows on the next move. If you make the kind of move that leaves you with no options, then your opponent puts you in checkmate, and obviously that was a terrible move.”

  “What is it you’re saying, son?” Elliot chimed in.

  “I’m saying that the Federal Reserve has limited its options. All you have is interest rates. Either you raise them or lower them. They’ve put themselves in just about the dumbest position possible. If you only ever give yourself one move, you’re going to end up in checkmate every time.”

  Blankfein’s jowls purpled. “Are you calling the Fed stupid?” he seethed. “Here at this party of all places?”

  The words brought the reality of where he was standing back into Evan’s consciousness. He realized suddenly that this debate with Blankfein had drawn something of a crowd, including two sitting members of the Federal Reserve, and only in this ass-backward moment could they be flanked by Laz and David. Somehow, the latter man had found a bag of popcorn, which he was chomping on eagerly.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Evan admitted. “I’m just saying that, at the Farm, we make moves that allow us as many future options as possible.”

  “And what are those moves?”

  “Savings rates. Changing the velocity of money. Interest rates. There are others, but there’s no need to list them to make this point. The point is that we have more options than just one. You don’t have to be very creative or intelligent to come up with a better plan than this.”

  While Blankfein percolated on this statement, Elliot looked at Justin in a way that said he was impressed, though not swayed. Carl set his hand on Blankfein’s shoulder as if to calm him.

  “This will be the best thing to ever happen to the economy,” Justin said, performing a terrible impersonation of candidate Trump. “Believe me. It’ll be record economies.”

  “I’m not sure whether to be amused or insulted anymore,” Blankfein said.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Nora said, “it’s all just Farm Bucks anyway. We’re not manipulating American dollars.”

  Whatever indignation had been catching in the CEO’s throat leapt out in the form of a bleating accusation of wrongdoing. “That’s illegal!” he barked. “You can’t create a new currency and make loans with it. Only the Fed can print money. Hell, that’s why we’re all here today.”

  The squat little banker had gotten himself so worked up that he had to catch his breath. But once he started up again, he did so without one ounce of lost momentum. “The great JP Morgan himself bought and negotiated the rights for printing money right here on Jekyll Island over a hundred years ago. That right is privatized. Your ridiculous Farm has no right to print its own money.”

  “We’re not printing any actual money,” Justin said calmly. “We’re just creating opportunity.”

  “And a higher standard of living for homeless people,” Nora said. “What could be wrong with that?”

  For an uncomfortably long moment, Blankfein seethed. Elliot held up his hands as if urging the crowd to accept that everything would be all right. Just a little good-natured debate—nothing to see here.

  “I invited you to this party because I thought you a curiosity,” Blankfein said through his teeth. “But I can see now that you’re serious about this pipe dream of yours. Listen, son . . .” He paused to look to Justin. “And I should say this to you, in fact. Plenty of people have taken on the global financial order in the past. Just ask Carl here.”

  For the first time since Evan had known him, Carl’s face went ashen.

  “Ask him about the dire consequences of challenging the authority of the Federal Reserve.”

  Everyone let that hang for a while. Evan pondered what in the world the bank
er could have meant, or why it seemed to bother Carl so deeply. There would be a time and place to ask about that. For now, Evan had a point to share.

  “It’s not illegal to form a self-sustaining community,” he said. “Hell, Jekyll Island was one.”

  Blankfein glared at him skeptically.

  “You didn’t read the plaques?” Evan asked with a hint of sarcasm. “This place was once a state park, but then the state of Georgia turned it into a separate authority. They tried to make this place self-sustaining.”

  “By setting up a convict camp and putting the inmates to work,” Elliot said smugly. “They rebuilt this island with what amounted to slave labor.”

  Evan blanched. That part hadn’t been on the plaque.

  “Is that what you’re doing at the Farm?” Elliot asked. “Utilizing slave labor?”

  It took some doing to keep his indignation in check. Evan was so completely steamed that his debate opponents took his silence for victory.

  “Whatever you want to call it,” Blankfein said, turning to leave the huddle, “I’m not worried in the slightest about your supposedly better chess. I’ve never been more certain that something will fail.”

  “Tell that to 60 Minutes,” Justin said defensively.

  Now it was Blankfein and Elliot’s turn to look amused.

  “They’re running a piece on all this,” Nora explained.

  “Maybe you should tune in,” Justin taunted. “Might help explain it in a way you’ll understand.”

  Blankfein scoffed.

  As he watched two of the world’s wealthiest men slink back into an intrigue-sated crowd, Evan tried to take comfort in how Nora’s hand slid down from his arm and laced his fingers into hers. The touch did something unexpected. It chased away his indignation and replaced it with determination. He realized all at once that it was time to quit worrying about how the world perceived this Farm and start doing everything in his power to make sure it would work.

  Chapter 9 Tilting at Windmills

  It’s one thing to privatize critical production like electricity or telecommunications; it’s a whole other thing to privatize the entire economy and leave it controlled by a singular cartel called the Federal Reserve. Yet that’s exactly the world we live in.