Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil

by Jarl Jensen

  —Justin Wolfe

  “I think it’s just that . . . all this time . . . I’ve just been kind of waiting for permission, you know?”

  Evan did not know. He could not fathom, in fact, how the man who had dared to dream of an engineerable economy, purchased this Farm to house that dream, and then built it from the ground up over the ensuing year could possibly think he needed someone’s permission to take action.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Evan said anyway.

  “It’s like, since the beginning, I’ve had this sense that the Farm had to be a self-contained thing. Obviously, I couldn’t put any money into it, or it would ruin the experiment. But until that party last night, I was also thinking that it wouldn’t be fair of me to contribute any labor, either.” As he descended the ladder, Justin Wolfe was doing that bobblehead thing he seemed to do whenever he was perplexed with himself. It made him look like his neck had suddenly gone spring-loaded. Evan dug the notion that, even as rich as he was, the man still had his quirks. “I mean, can you even imagine?”

  Evan wasn’t sure the right answer to that one, so he buried his chin in his neck. Quickly, he jerked his head back again. The chin-burying thing was a quirk of his own, an old habit he’d carried from his childhood—one he had told himself he needed to kick, now that he was a working man who went on dates with beautiful chefs.

  “It’s so ridiculous,” Justin said, squinting under the blazing sun. He had barely broken a sweat. “All this time, this windmill has been standing motionless. And all because I’ve been waiting to find a prospective resident with a background in mechanical engineering.”

  “We did conduct a pretty thorough search,” Evan said. “The ads went out nationwide.”

  Justin led Evan into the long shadow cast by the skyscraping, late-90s-sleek, Enron-developed windmill at the center of the Farm. The thing had to be nearly twenty years old, though Dan Pastor insisted that he’d had its mechanisms serviced every third year during its lifetime. Whether this was true, Evan couldn’t say. What he could say was that those mechanisms had unfortunately shit the bed just prior to Justin’s purchase of the Farm. Had this windmill been up and running from the beginning, the Farm might have been further along its projected path to prosperity. Not having to worry as much about the massive electricity bill expense certainly would have helped. And now suddenly, removing as much of that bill as possible had become something that consumed Justin’s focus.

  That morning, when he had roused Evan from sleep just before dawn, he had announced, all manic and wide-eyed, that the windmill would be the key to any remaining plagues upon the Farm’s solvency. “We’ll show those assholes how we run a farm,” he had said.

  As he emerged from his sleep grog, Evan slowly pieced together that the assholes in question were Elliot Larson and Lloyd Blankfein. Something about the previous night’s debate had lit a fire under Justin. He had always been passionate about the prospects for this economic experiment; but now he was something else entirely. Now he was determined.

  In any case, that determination had led him to insist that Evan shirk all his duties for the day in favor of finally getting the old windmill up and running. Evan had pointed out on several occasions that there were at least two dozen men and women on the Farm handier than he was—men and women who would have served as far superior helping hands than Evan—but Justin would have none of it.

  “I’ve been up all night with these ideas,” he would say. “And if I’m going to be turning a wrench, then by God, I’m also going to need someone beside me to bounce those ideas off of, you know?”

  Evan didn’t know. But he could guess. And so, for the rest of the morning, he stood at the base of the windmill while Justin climbed up and down the rungs embedded in the cylinder of white plastic encasing it from bottom to top. Mostly he just stared up at the bottoms of Justin’s vintage Jordans, but from time to time, he also got to engage in a fun little dance where he would hand him a series of wrong tools before he finally stumbled upon whatever right tool Justin happened to be asking for.

  From minute one, Justin had been explaining that this windmill was the key because it had the electrical load to run the entire farming operation and the farmhouse besides. It wouldn’t take them completely off the grid—especially with all the growth they had seen in residency of late, and all the demand for new buildings that this growth would soon dictate—but it would bring them damn close.

  “Maybe once we have this one going for a while, we can convince the residents to start saving for another windmill,” Justin was saying. “Something less shitty and Enron-y. Or hell, maybe one of the more enterprising entrepreneurs will see the opportunity to charge the other residents for electricity and he’ll want to install one himself.”

  “All they’ll need is a mechanical engineer,” Evan quipped.

  Justin chuckled. “Think of all that time we wasted.” He wiped his brow with his forearm, though it didn’t need it. “We had a reasonably decent mechanical engineer here all along.”

  “Well, you were in Cleveland anyway,” Evan corrected. By now, he had spent a grand total of twelve hours in the physical presence of Justin Wolfe, but that was long enough for him to get quite used to how the billionaire would occasionally lose himself in his own rants and daydreams about a brighter future. Out of all those rants and daydreams, however, this one was the first that Evan had managed to interrupt with something he said.

  Justin gave him a look like he was only now fully realizing that Evan was a flesh and blood human being and not a figment of his imagination. “Fair enough,” he said. Then he made a dismissive gesture. “Well, all that ends now. I’m still not pumping any money into this thing—”

  “We don’t need it anyway,” Evan cut in.

  “Excellent. Yeah, but anyway, I’m changing the policy slightly. I’m allowed to contribute some sweat equity around here.”

  “And we’ll greatly benefit from your help.”

  “No one likes a kiss-ass, Evan,” Justin said flatly.

  “Sorry, sir, I—”

  “And don’t you ever call me sir again.”

  Evan rescued his chin from his neck right at the last possible instant.

  “I’m just messing with you, kid,” Justin said before planting a surprisingly pointy elbow in Evan’s ribs. “You gotta lighten up.”

  “Sorry, I . . .” Evan trailed off and scratched the back of his head.

  “Especially if you’re dating Nora now. Trust me, man, she’ll lose interest if you’re too uptight.”

  The breath that escaped Evan’s lungs made a sound like he’d been holding it in for an hour. “Noted,” he managed.

  “Anyway, the moral of the story is that I’m here now,” Justin said. “After what those clowns said at Jekyll Island, I’m all in. No more hoping for engineers to swoop in from out of the sky.”

  “Or off the streets, as it were.”

  Justin gave a good-natured chuckle. “Touché. Point is, I’m not going to let this place fail. From now on, my expertise—for whatever it’s worth—is at your command.”

  “My command?” Evan asked, taken aback.

  “Sure. Who do you think is running this place?”

  “Well . . .” Of its own accord, Evan’s hand raised and pointed a finger tentatively at Justin.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Justin said. “There’s no one here—not even Dan, and not even me—who knows this place better than you do. You’re in charge, kid. We all go where you tell us.”

  “That’s, um . . . that’s very—”

  “Ah, there’s the man of the hour,” Justin interrupted.

  Evan looked up to see his benefactor smiling past him. Carl had arrived, and he was bearing a rusty old toolbox.

  “Just what we needed,” Justin said, beaming. “That the ratchet set?”

  Carl nodded and passed the toolbox over to Justin. “Well if that’ll be all, Mr. Wolfe, I think I’ll—”

  “No, no, no,” Justin insisted. “W
hatever you’ve got going on back at the barn can wait. Right now, Evan and I could use your help. Of course, if that’s all right with you, Evan.”

  Evan shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “More the merrier.”

  “And anyway, Carl, please, for the last time, don’t call me Mr. Wolfe.”

  “I apologize, Justin. I keep forgetting.”

  “I mean, I swear, if I could have one wish, it would be that I didn’t have to keep reminding people of that all the time.”

  “Won’t happen again.”

  Now the two men broke their gaze and looked to Evan expectantly. A stiff breeze roared over the grassy bluff behind them, curling against the windmill, whose blades remained frustratingly motionless.

  “Are you waiting for me to tell you to get to work?” Evan asked.

  “Weren’t you just here when I was talking about how you’re in charge?” Justin asked with an expression that said even he wasn’t sure of the answer.

  With his eyes and an uncertain gesture toward the windmill, Evan bade them get to work. Justin didn’t hesitate to start sifting through the ratchet set. The way Carl was explaining where he would find the various sizes he was searching for, it seemed clear that Evan no longer had anything even remotely useful to lend to this operation. Still, he could sense that Justin wasn’t about to let him go, despite what he had just said about Evan being in charge.

  “So, Carl,” Evan said, trying to break the awkward tension he felt, “I’ve been wondering . . . What was Blankfein talking about last night?”

  “Beg pardon?” Carl said, cocking a graying eyebrow.

  “When he said that you know better than most about the consequences of challenging the Fed.”

  At the same time that Carl’s expression darkened, Justin fumbled a tool into the box, kicking up a fantastic clatter. There was no denying it: Evan had replaced the awkward tension with something far worse. He suddenly felt like he had offended Carl.

  “Carl, I—”

  “No, you should hear this,” Carl cut in. Given that Evan had never met a more mild-mannered man in his life, Carl’s tone was unusually forceful. “Justin knows the story already. Not sure why I’ve been trying to hide it from everyone else around here.”

  A soft, billowy cloud passed in front of the sun. Justin held up the ratchet to show that he was ready to get back to work. Then he motioned for the impending conversation to follow him to the ladder. Evan and Carl took the hint, the latter man grabbing the base of the ladder while Justin climbed.

  “I’m from Tulsa, Oklahoma, as you know,” Carl said.

  “Home of the Golden Hurricane,” Evan said, in what he immediately recognized to be an unbelievably limp effort to break the tension. As limp efforts often do, it flopped.

  “Tulsa’s played home to a great many things that people don’t know about,” Carl said. “I guess Blankfein wasn’t one of them who doesn’t know.” He looked away from Evan, staring off in the distance. “That surprised me, truthfully.”

  Rather than speak to fill the silence, Evan waited for Carl to begin his story.

  “I was the youngest of six children,” Carl said. “Born in the year 1950. So I came into the world well after the events that destroyed my neighborhood. But my father was just barely old enough to remember what life was like in Greenwood before 1921. And I heard the stories from my grandfather, who lost more than you or I could imagine.

  “Granddad was a young entrepreneur. Like many of the residents of Greenwood. That wasn’t unusual, you understand. Tulsa was one of the rare American cities that had come together around the turn of the century in a way that allowed the black community to flourish. Greenwood was segregated from the rest of the city, but that suited its residents just fine. The way I’ve heard tell, the main avenue used to be packed with successful businesses. Hotels, restaurants, retail shops—all the same stuff you see in the Circus today, but on a grander scale. My daddy said his best memories were of the silent movies he saw at the local theater as a young boy.”

  “And what did your grandfather do?” Evan asked. “For a living, I mean.”

  Carl gave a sad smile. “Granddad ran one of the world’s first taxicab companies. He had a small fleet of Model Ts. Made enough to buy himself a beautiful home. I’ve seen the pictures. Can’t rightly imagine a finer place to live.

  “My family, like many of the families in Greenwood, would’ve been set for generations. I sometimes think maybe I’d’ve been rich instead of living on the streets. There on the edge of Tulsa was a proper community success story. That avenue generated so much wealth that people called it Black Wall Street.” Carl shook his head. “There were other names for it, of course, but I won’t mention them.”

  The thought appeared to take its toll on the old man. He looked slump-shouldered and tired.

  “Tell him about the banks,” Justin offered as he climbed down the ladder to join them.

  Carl’s forehead was glistening, and so were his eyes. “That’s the real secret about why Greenwood managed to thrive. There were several regional banks set up in the community, and they were all owned by black families. That segregation between black Tulsa and white Tulsa applied to the banks, too.”

  “So these banks, see,” Justin said, “they elected to keep their money in Greenwood. That’s why those businesses saw so much success. And it’s why the neighborhood thrived. They kept their own money in circulation instead of loaning it into the central banking system.”

  Evan rolled his head back knowingly. “So that’s what Blankfein meant. Instead of pouring the community’s money into the Fed, they, well, segregated the money.”

  “That’s how I understand it,” Carl said.

  “And I’m telling you,” Justin said, more to Carl than to Evan, “that’s a huge part of the reason for the massacre. Yes, racism was the driving force, of course, but you also just don’t challenge big banks like that and expect there not to be repercussions.”

  The comment immediately raised alarm bells for Evan, given that challenging big banks was exactly what they seemed to be doing on this Farm, but the question would have to wait, because when someone uses the word “massacre” . . .

  “Massacre?” he said, feeling a chill climb from his cheeks to his chest. “What do you mean massacre?”

  Carl gave a shuddering sigh. “Some say that things were different back then. But it’s not true. They’ve always been this way.”

  He fell silent for a long time then. Long enough that Justin quit turning the wrench, and long enough for Evan to wonder whether he should prod for more information. Just when he drew a breath to try, he didn’t have to.

  “A young white woman rode in an elevator with a young black man. After, she claimed she’d been raped. Riots broke out. Then folks from the surrounding neighborhoods started turning up with guns. Didn’t matter that the young woman recanted her statement. It was already too late. Someone shot first. The record isn’t sure who it was. Really, though, it doesn’t matter, because the response from the white community was more than horrifying.”

  Justin moved over to stand beside his friend. Evan stared at his shoes, wanting and not wanting to hear the rest of the story.

  “They dragged homeowners and business owners into the street and shot them. They piled flammables in the middle of buildings, doused them in gas, and set them on fire. All those banks burned to the ground. Planes circled the sky, supposedly to keep tabs on what the papers later called riots instead of the massacre it was. But the truth is they were dropping turpentine bombs. Trucks with mounted machine guns roamed the neighborhood, firing into buildings.”

  “It was war in the streets,” Justin said, “right here in America.”

  When Carl finally looked up, Evan nearly stepped back. He had never seen such earnest sadness in a man’s eyes.

  “They killed hundreds of people. My grandfather’s friends and neighbors. My daddy lost two of his best friends, both of them just kids. Over a thousand businesses were de
stroyed. And you want to know the worst part?”

  Evan did. And he did not.

  “The worst part was that, afterward, the city, the state, the whole country did everything it could to forget the whole thing. There’s a reason you never heard this story, Evan. It’s because it makes people uncomfortable. Upsets their understanding of history. Hate like that . . . it just doesn’t seem like it belongs here. Even if it does. Even if that’s always been what drives a big portion of this country.”

  Justin set his hand on Carl’s shoulder. They all had eyes only for their feet.

  “There’s a lesson in that,” Carl said. “If you’re a poor man, there’s only so much success the establishment will allow you. Yeah, in Tulsa, it was a race thing, but it’s also a poverty thing. Rich folks just get real uncomfortable when poor folks start rising up and making something of themselves.”

  The thought was so harrowing that Evan almost felt like crying.

  “The Fed had every reason to celebrate the outcome,” Justin said. “They don’t like thriving independent communities. Places like that are a threat to their complete control of money. And the irony is that the poverty-stricken white people blamed the successful black community for stealing their money. They should’ve been blaming their own banks for taking their deposits and shuffling them somewhere else. The banks were systematically removing all wealth from the community and dumping it into the Federal Reserve. Meanwhile, you’ve got a whole black community thriving in part because they were segregated from that broken system. The powers that be had to have enjoyed that downfall . . .”

  “You don’t think that could happen here, do you?” Evan asked, a lump forming in the back of his throat.

  Neither of his companions seemed to want to answer.

  “We can’t stop working,” Carl said. “The three of us. And this whole community. What Lloyd said . . . that was a threat. Not even that veiled. It was a reminder that whatever success we find here, they can still wipe it out if they want to. We do too well here, gentlemen, and we’re going to have to start watching our backs. This isn’t an imagined fight, you see? This struggle is real.”