by Jarl Jensen
“I’m sorry, O,” Valence offered, “but I can’t help you. Now, why don’t you step aside so I can take these tickets from the paying customers.”
Oscar’s first step was to do as he was told. Dejected, he moved out of the line. But then, he brightened up, wheeled around, and stood toe to toe with the head-taller Valence. “I’ll be your ticket taker,” he said. “You don’t have to pay me tonight. Just let me in the movie.”
“Ticket taker?” Valence asked skeptically.
“Yeah,” Oscar insisted. “You shouldn’t have to stoop to collecting your own tickets. You’re an . . . an . . . an auteur.”
As inaccurate as the descriptor was, it engaged a profound effect on Valence Newton. The slender former junkie puffed out his chest and held his chin high. “You know what? You’re right. I got, like, fuckin’ better things to do.” He stepped back and bowed to Oscar. “All right, O. You got it. Stand here and take these tickets, and when you’re done, you can sit in for the film.”
With brimming gratitude, that was how Oscar Farsi accepted his first job on the Farm. “Do not worry, Val,” he said. “No one will enter without the proper ticket. I will guard this door with my life.”
Valence and Evan both looked at Oscar sidelong.
“Just take the tickets, okay?” Valence said.
Oscar gave a British-navy-style salute and got to work.
Evan, meanwhile, went over to flirt with Nora and buy some popcorn. Her radiant smile was just starting to make him feel good about himself when it began to fade. She rolled her eyes and nodded past his shoulder. Evan followed her gaze to see Elliot Larson striding in, Natalia and her forehead-tightening ponytail trailing two steps behind him.
“Ugh!” Nora said. “Why the hell is he here?”
“You mean you didn’t know he was coming?” Evan asked.
“No. Why would I know that?”
Evan turned back to her with a wry smile. “I don’t know. Guess I figured it was probably time for the two of you to get around to your third date.”
She gave him a purse-lipped smile and then flipped him the bird. Evan laughed. The two of them had been trading this barb since the day of the Great Shit-Bowl Disaster of 2016, when Evan had first learned of the little white lie Nora had told about the nature of her relationship with Elliot. It had been slightly more than a fling. The two of them had gone on two dates. Elliot had asked her to join him on his yacht for a weekend cruise to the Bahamas. Nora had wigged out about the speed of the whole thing and kicked him to the curb. The roses, theater tickets, designer dresses, and other creepy-rich-guy “please take me back” fare had continued arriving on the daily for a solid three weeks after.
Nora swore up and down that she’d never given Elliot even one second’s thought after he finally started leaving her alone. And so that was that, and Evan was free to razz her about it—at least until Elliot finally left the Farm.
“Why doesn’t he just leave already?” Nora groaned.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” Evan said with a shrug. “You’d think he would get tired of watching us continue to prove him wrong every day.”
And they had absolutely been proving him wrong. In spite of everything Elliot had ever argued since arriving—and in spite of a series of what Evan had to assure himself weren’t active attempts on the part of the billionaire to sabotage the place—the growth since the influx of Elliot’s new arrivals had been considerable. They had the new living quarters, the new classroom/movie house, the harvest had been huge, the Circus was going gangbusters, and much to Nora’s chagrin, Munanire’s baked goods had made him enough money that he was seriously considering opening a Farm-managed shop in the city.
“Anyway, how about you bag me up some of that popcorn before the rush?” Evan said.
“You got a Farm Buck?” Nora asked with a wink.
Evan scanned his wristband on the scanner Valence had clamped to the side of the machine.
“Oh, I just love that sound,” Valence said, beaming his crooked-tooth smile as he slid in beside Evan.
“And I just love this popcorn,” Evan said after his first bite. In truth, he had never tasted a snack quite so buttery-amazing. “See?” he added, turning to Nora. “You don’t need Muna.”
Nora blanched. “Don’t remind me about that.”
“Everything set to go?” Evan asked Valence.
The supposed auteur shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Looks like a solid crowd.”
Valence had set up six rows of chairs, each one twenty-seats wide. Prior to the event, Evan had thought this an ambitious number, but now he could see that he was wrong. Elliot and Natalia had decided to occupy the seats in the front row center. Around and behind them, nearly every seat was taken, with no sign of the end of the line still filing in from outside. Evan marveled at how, even now, the residents continued to keep to their cliques. The Vets occupied seven seats up front, the Immigrants clustered in the center, and the Women found pockets here and there among the crowd. There were even a few Addicts and Outpatients in attendance, all of them sitting in the back.
“We gonna sell out, bitch,” Valence said in a sing-songy way.
Evan laughed. “We better take our seats before there aren’t any left,” he told Nora.
“You kidding?” she asked. “I’ve got popcorn to sell.”
The disappointment at this news must have played on Evan’s face, because Nora gave an expression of feigned sympathy.
“Don’t you worry, nerd,” she said. “You’ll be seeing plenty of me after.”
Evan’s heart did a backflip. Dreamy-eyed, he wandered over to the nearest empty seat and started tucking into his popcorn. There was still a terrible movie, an entertaining and probably profanity-laced talk from Valence, and an evening of line-dancing to come, but already, the evening felt like a roaring success. His only regret was that Justin had not yet returned from New York to enjoy this.
That was when he heard the buzz. People were chattering all around him, everyone craning their necks to get a look at the entrance. Evan glanced over just in time to see that his wish had come true. There stood Justin Wolfe in all his glory.
The only problem was that his longtime on-again, off-again girlfriend Connie stood there beside him, her arm laced under his, her right-wing-news-pundit frown pressed firmly on her face.
“Oh God,” Evan said to himself.
They had weathered negative public sentiment, bad press, and even Elliot Larson, but nothing could make Evan confident that they could weather Connie.
Dylan Elan Powers The Trigger
It’s sad, but people buy guns to feel powerful. The whole self-defense and hunting argument is just cover.
—Justin Wolfe
The universe has sent the message I’ve been waiting for. Wasn’t the one I expected, but I’m hearing it loud and clear. Spent three weeks working on advertising, firing Dad’s shitty staff, and just cleaning the place. Felt like I was ready for a grand reopening. But then I went to the diner this morning and the glass front door was shattered and someone had broken in. Didn’t have shit in there worth stealing, but they stole it anyway. I’m out some equipment, some pots and pans, and the fucking cash register, which didn’t even have any money in it.
Who steals this kind of stuff?
Message received: my physics teacher was wrong. The universe—at least the one human beings control—does not always revert to equilibrium.
I tried telling this to the cop who came to investigate the break-in, and he looked at me like my hair was smeared with shit. Guy wore that uniform like he actually thought he was contributing to the greater good. Not even cops are good anymore. They shoot more people than the criminals. I wanted to tell him that. Wanted to tell him that he was useless. An average loser. Wanted to tell him that if I had been in the restaurant during the break-in, the thief would’ve met with my AK. Almost did tell him this, but stopped myself because nobody needs to know about my straps. Not yet anyway.
I mean, I see three different shrinks because of what happened in junior high. That kid I put in the hospital. I’m on two different antidepressants from two different doctors, and I’m not even sure they’re supposed to be taken together. There’s no way my name isn’t in the system somewhere. How is it possible that someone like me can just walk in and buy as many assault rifles as he wants?
There’s only one answer: evil has taken over. Evil puts all that money into billionaires’ pockets. Evil stomps on the weak. Evil saddled me with this dead restaurant. Evil saw it robbed. Evil keeps good, smart, strong people like me down. The only way to overcome is to do what so many have done before me. Only way to overcome is to join.
I know what I need to do now.
Chapter 15 Bread and Gold
The problem with debt is that it has to be paid back, and that means less spending in the future.
—Justin Wolfe
“Do they always do this?”
Muna and David brushed themselves off after nearly getting bowled over by a middle-aged Savannahian couple barreling down the sidewalk with their attention buried in their cell phones. It had been a long time since Munanire Capela had been treated so rudely, so it took him longer to recover from the emotional impact than the physical one.
“I dare say it does seem to be a bit of a thing,” David answered.
The two of them watched the offending couple zigzag their way to the intersection, their phone screens still holding their full attention.
Now that Muna was looking out for it, pretty much everyone was walking in exactly the same way. They showed more care for their phones than for their own well-being while navigating foot and auto traffic.
When did this happen? Muna wondered. He had lived on the streets long enough that he should have noticed the shift. But he couldn’t recall any specific moment when he observed every single home-having person on the street burying their attention into their phones. Perhaps it had been a gradual shift. Or maybe it had happened sometime after Muna came to the Farm. Whatever the case, it puzzled him. He told himself that he should do everything in his power to avoid succumbing to the habit himself, now that he had a shiny new smartphone dedicated to his shiny new business.
Past David and Muna, a half dozen of the hardest working members of the Farm hustled along, carrying equipment and supplies into the storefront that Muna had leased that morning with Mr. Wolfe’s co-signature. Muna still delighted in the memory of how skeptical the leasing agent had been about Justin Wolfe—billionaire playboy—having anything to do with Munanire Capela. But then, he’d strolled right into the leasing office, his girlfriend Connie glowering at her phone while she waited in the car, and signed on the dotted line.
“You’re in business, Muna,” Justin had said. Then, he’d saluted and strolled back out to his Tesla.
So now Munanire, David, and six volunteers from the Farm would be spending the late morning—and probably every waking moment through midnight—moving equipment and supplies into the soon-to-be bakery and getting it all set up. Four of the volunteers were Immigrants and the other two recovering Addicts, and all of them seemed thrilled to be helping stage the Farm’s first permanent satellite store. With Muna’s bakery, they would be breaking new and exciting ground.
“So . . . I don’t suppose you’ve given any more thought to the name and logo?” David said.
Muna had hoped to avoid this question, at least until after they’d gotten everything into the store. But then again, he couldn’t really blame his good friend. David had carved a niche for himself as the Farm’s general handyman and go-getter, a jack-of-all-trades who made his living helping just about every other business with whatever they happened to need. But his true dream was to grow a graphic design business. Personally, Muna loved David’s work, but the poor guy couldn’t seem to pick up any contracts in the city, no matter how he tried. And there was only so much need for signage and design on the Farm itself. Evan often paid him to put together the flyers and advertisements for Farm events open to the public, but David was more interested in pursuing new challenges.
“Because it’s like I been tellin’ you,” David added, “if we gonna design the whole interior of your shop, it’s all gotta kinda spin outta the color and style of the logo.”
“I appreciate this, David,” Muna said politely. “And I am certain that the name will come to me soon.”
“Well, sooner the better. Nothin’ worse than launchin’ a business without a brand.”
Muna’s heart skipped. “You do not think my baked goods will attract customers on their own?”
David’s eyes widened. “Aw shit, no, Muna. That’s not what I meant at all. Your bread’s outta this world. And those donuts? Flyin’ Jesus, are they tasty.”
A prideful chuckle escaped Muna’s lips.
“I’m just sayin’ that people love baked goods, but they really connect with the brand. I mean, how the hell they gonna recommend you to their friends if you ain’t even gotta name?”
His friend had a point, Muna had to admit. “Okay, David. Yes, I will get to the bottom of this forthwith.” He raised an eyebrow as he looked for some sign from David’s expression that he had used the word “forthwith” appropriately. Nora had often joked with Muna that his catch-phrase was “How do you say?” He would ask the question often in the kitchen as he picked up more and more English from Nora and the rest of the cooks. Since most of the language was too colorful for Muna’s taste, he still sometimes found himself a little nervous about expanding his vocabulary.
When he told Nora about his official plans to leave the restaurant in favor of opening his own business, she had given him a dictionary as a gag.
“Now you can ask yourself, ‘How do you say?’” she said with a wink.
Muna’s laugh had been loud and hearty. And ever since that day, he had taken to teaching himself one new word from the dictionary. This morning’s word: “forthwith.”
“Well, then,” David said, clapping his hands to his belly and rocking back on his heels, “guess my work here is done, ’less you think you might need the van a spell longer.”
“No thank you, David,” Muna said. “We have everything we need here.”
“Well all right, friend.” David clapped him on the back. “We’re all real proud of you. You know that, right?”
Munanire felt a rush of blood to his face as he looked away. “I have heard this, yes.”
“Just don’t forget all us little people once you’re big and successful and runnin’ a whole damn chain of these bakeries, you hear?”
“Of course I will not forget.”
The two of them stood next to each other for an awkward moment as David rocked forward onto his toes.
“Welp,” he said finally, “guess I’ll get outta your hair. You call me if you think of anything, okay? I ain’t got shit to do today.”
“You have mentioned this.”
David’s belly laugh carried with him all the way back into the truck. “Point taken,” he said through the passenger window. He brought the van rumbling to life, waved, and tottered off.
An overwhelming feeling of self-satisfaction rushed through Muna as he stood alone in front of the shop—his shop, a business that he would own and operate for the rest of his life, if God was kind. The feeling was so powerful and so unfamiliar that it took him a minute to realize that it wasn’t self-satisfaction at all. It was something altogether different. This, Muna realized, was what it felt like to be truly free.
In the country of his birth, Somalia, his family had car
ved out as much freedom as could be expected. They had parlayed their relative success into an opportunity for their eldest son: Munanire would use their nest egg to book passage to America, where his miraculous visa approval gave him the chance to set down roots, become a citizen, and eventually apply for his family to join him in the Land of Opportunity.
Everything had been going according to plan, right up until Muna started receiving his first credit card offers. Having grown up on stories of an America full of bountiful money, this offer of free money—and quite a lot of it—failed to strike him as ominous. He applied for every card he qualified for, and he maxed out every card in the effort to create a good life for his family to move into.
Months later, with the dream of his family immigrating to join him dead and the repo men taking away all his possessions with blinding efficiency, Muna learned that in America there are many ways to become homeless. It does require that you make mistakes, but the harsh reality that came to him soon after was that homelessness in his new country equated to complete exile from society and the economy that ran it. He lost his job when his employer grew tired of the calls from collections companies. His credit history prevented him from securing new work. His education no longer mattered. His story no longer mattered. All that mattered was his bankruptcy.
Now, as an older and wiser man who had endured years of homelessness, Munanire thanked God for the Farm every day.
The car horn honked him straight out of his depressive reverie. Muna jumped and turned to see Mr. Pastor’s giant pickup truck idling some twenty feet up the street. Evan sat in the driver’s seat, his tongue sticking out as he tried to navigate the rigors of parallel parking a gigantic, manual-transmission pickup truck. But it was the item in the truck’s expansive bed that drew most of Muna’s attention. There it sat, tied down with bungee cables in all its tall, stainless steel glory: the three-tiered deck oven that would serve as the centerpiece to Muna’s bakery.
