The Water Thief

by Nicholas Lamar Soutter

  “Just tell me if she was in on it.”

  Two men came in through the door. He nodded toward me, and they grabbed me under each arm. I had no pride or self-respect left—it had all been bartered away.

  “Please,” I pleaded. “It costs you nothing to tell me. I just need to know.”

  “We’re done here.”

  I knew at that moment that I would be sent to the gallows. I’d have a couple of weeks, maybe a month or two, but someday soon I would find myself there, on the first Monday of the month, walking up those worn, rickety steps. I’d be the one people talked about, one of those whose lives were extinguished publicly for money. In the canteens they would say things like, “Did you know how he betrayed the corporation?” and “He’s a horrible little creature.” But I could stand on that platform with dignity, if I knew the answer to a single question.

  “Was she real?”

  “I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Charles, you can’t afford it.”

  Excerpt from The Executive Letters

  ... I am not sure where you get this reverence for the proletariat, my friend, but I’ve heard it said that the best argument against democracy is ten minutes with the common man. Citizens love to talk about the power of the people, the abuses of power by fascist and totalitarian régimes like Adolf Hitler’s. But they gloss over the fact that Hitler was democratically elected—elected, my friend, by your ‘salt of the earth’ common man.

  Indeed, while they claim to know what they want—some measure of guarantee of free food, water and shelter—the truth is that they are completely ignorant of their own needs. Giving a man what he wants is, as often as not, a curse more than a blessing.

  I want nothing more than to be generous, to give to people that which they need. I suffer terribly when someone dies from lack of food, water, or medical attention. But what you fail to realize is that generosity is the very antithesis of civilization. It makes people soft and lazy, increases their expectations and expends limited resources faster than nature can support (you seem to suggest that we just let people go around breathing air willy-nilly).

  Human beings naturally reach a state of equilibrium. Give them half a gallon of water a day, they’ll want a gallon. Give them a gallon; they’ll swear they need two. Give them two, and they’ll bemoan not having four. They can be equally content with half a gallon as with ten so long as you manage their perception—their sense of what they deserve—and their sense of hope—of that which they can reasonably obtain. The work of managing those expectations falls to executives. That, my dear friend, is a terrible burden, one lower contracts should consider themselves lucky they don’t carry.

  Value is earned. Therefore, by definition, anything given away cannot have value. Even food has value only because it is a limited resource.

  I’d love to be generous. I hate hoarding resources. But as I said before, generosity is the enemy of the people, of civilization. It is the men who can do anything, the man who, like myself, takes money from the poor and bread from the hungry, we are the ones who save society, who save life, by being able to do that which lower contracts cannot. I do not heed their opinion of me or my work, their happiness or despair. They are nothing more than a number, the final line on a ledger sheet, and that is how they know I love them. Because it is for all mankind that I resist the temptation to be generous.

  Generosity is selfishness. It is betraying your natural instinct to compete for a desire to play God, for the sense of self-satisfaction, that you have bestowed on a man more than he earned for himself. It is nothing less than sacrificing all of society for your own ego….

  Thanks

  Customarily acknowledgements are brief.

  But since I’m reasonably sure that the only people who ever read them are those mentioned in there anyway, I feel no obligation to shorten anything on anyone’s behalf.

  First I’d like to thank my wife. If she had any brains at all—I mean ANY (and keep in mind, she’ll be reading this)— she’d have headed for the hills when I told her I was a writer. Let’s face it, little girls need dental care, fairy-princess costumes, and round the clock GPS tracking. Whether through my charm (who are we kidding?), or money (nope) or by trickery (well…), she has stayed with me and supported my career.

  Now, when I started writing, I did what all rookie novelists do; I surrounded myself with inferior writers. It gives you a boost, makes you feel good about your own skills. But it’s a terrible waste of time. You need to spend time with authors who are better than you are. It hurts, but it’s the only way to get good. To that end, I’d like to thank Philomena for wasting her time with me.

  I’d like to thank my sister, Liz. Her determination and skill is an inspiration in my own life and work.

  I’d also like to thank my father and stepmother who, over my explicit objections, forced me to get an education.

  My aunt Emily… I’ve been through some rough times, and I’m not sure that there’s anybody who’s been there for me more—everybody should be so lucky.

  My Aunt Diane… your friendship means more to me than you know.

  Kathy, Nichole, and Liz, thank you. Without your meticulous line edits people might realize that I can’t write.

  To Nyira: your support in all my work has always meant more than you know.

  Pat, Harvey, thank you both.

  Last, but not least, thank you to John Paine, Scarlett Rugers, and Joe Correa.

  Wow, so many more I’d like to thank… I’m sure I neglected a number of people. If you’re at all offended that I forgot you, please chalk it up to obscenely high doses of Oxycontin.