by Mike Bogin
Private security companies had already leveraged the windfall, offering trained personnel at market rates as dictated by a limited supply and exploding demand. The only question was, “What is it worth to own your peace of mind?”
The impacts were national. In Los Angeles, exclusive restaurants advertised secure underground valet services to draw back customers. There was not a private chef available for hire anywhere in the city. Line chefs at many of these same restaurants were suddenly shaving regularly and removing their piercings in a race to take private chef jobs ahead of downsizing in idle restaurant kitchens.
One of the more surprising shifts was an almost instantaneous grab for every sniper-training course on offer all across the nation. A local news station in Houston did a story on the surge of interest and aired an interview with a Massachusetts gun-control lobbyist who was urging Congress to shut down “this insanity.” From the responses the station received, you would have thought another civil war was breaking out.
Lutess, Argent, Cerebe and the entire Coulter Restaurant Group was quick to shift gears in each of their Manhattan fine dining establishments, offering “accessible luxury” with $65 to $85 tasting menus. “Exquisite food can be enjoyed by everyone,” the managing partner declared. Even Callie thought hard about the Groupon shown for $100 worth of food for $50 at Jonathan’s for Steak. Owen’s birthday was coming up.
News reporting right there in New York City found a silver lining in the cloud hanging over their town. “So while the lights of Lincoln Center may have dimmed somewhat, and the summer season in the Hamptons has a taken on an eerie quiet, this summer looks to be a wonderful time to try out some of New York’s fine dining establishments or get last-minute half-price tickets to top Broadway shows. Just don’t plan to take any cruises, no matter what destination you have in mind. Demand to get away is at an all-time high.”
The most significant victims, by volume, were those who depended on charity. The not-for-profits dependent on wealthy patrons were anticipating huge cuts in programs.
* * * * *
Emerson Elliot and Crazy Thumbs simultaneously received the text sent by Elliot’s agent. There is a big shot ex-congressman on his way to the studio. I just got off the phone with him. He wants to put a muzzle on you, Emerson.
“Thumbs, make sure you record this,” EE ordered just before the Congressman—ex-Congressman—arrived wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, charcoal gray with silver pinstripes. He was fifty pounds overweight, comfortably smug. His accent was smooth southern. His voice an octave higher than expected.
“Mr. Elliot, or Emerson, if I may. I admire and I respect people of the Hebraic persuasion. May I ask, are you one hundred percent Jew?”
Emerson nodded and then exchanged glances with Crazy Thumbs. Emerson wondered if George Wallace had come back from the dead to speak with him.
“Like I said, I have a strong personal respect for the Jew population. We believe that the Jewish people are the Chosen People.” He cleared his throat, as if preparing to make a speech.
“Emerson, there is a great deal to be said for entertainment, for making people laugh. Taking their minds off the day to day. You all have a fine tradition of doing that. But I want you to think about the responsibility that goes with speaking out to millions of listeners and I want to impress upon you that humor can also do harm. I’d like to think that you will appreciate that and take the high road.
“Emerson, rich people come in all shapes and sizes. The wealthy deserve fair treatment, and it isn’t ever quite fair to stereotype, now is it? I don’t think so.
It is also unfair, and dangerous, too, to use vicious, violent murders as the subject matter for entertainment. Rich people create jobs. Their philanthropy supports the arts, supports education, and it supports your synagogues and your Jewish causes. I want you to think for a moment how different New York City would be without the magnificent contributions of the Carnegie Foundation, the Rockefellers, and the Roosevelts. Think about the contributions of The Gates Foundation; they’re making medical miracles happen all over the world.”
He clapped EE on the back. “Emerson, I’d like to persuade you to get on the air and denounce this killer. Denounce him for the spawn of Satan that he is.”
EE felt like he was on Candid Camera; that this man standing in the studio had to be a put-on. He couldn’t be for real!
“The rich are diverse? Bullshit,” EE said. “Let me straighten you out on your facts. The rich are overwhelmingly white, they are overwhelmingly born into wealth day one of their lives, and they give less of a percentage of total income per capita than any other segment in this fucking country.”
“Sir, I have been entirely polite and respectful,” the Congressman said. “I would appreciate it if you would return that respect and be of like kind with me. There is no reason to debase our conversation with profanity.”
“Mister, get the fuck out of my studio! Who are you? Get the fuck out!”
The ex-Congressman reached his open hands out at his sides, acknowledged Elliot, did a graceful pirouette, and walked out of the glass booth.
“You sound like a New Orleans tranny,” Elliot shouted behind him.
The man walked down the hall, shaking his head. So much for appealing to reason.
Emerson Googled him after he went out the door. Four terms in Congress. Now a Vision Partner and lobbyist for media and social matters with a Who’s Who client list of the most influential conservatives in the country. Emerson was flattered.
* * * * *
In Montclair, New Jersey, Mrs. Sayed Khan had already been discussing her personal terror for an entire week, at length, with anyone who would listen. Mrs. Khan took “I Kill Rich People” as a direct threat. Following every story on CNN and local news, she was “mortified, utterly,”. In the middle of the night she was waking drenched in a panicked sweat.
She Skyped to family in Bombay daily. “You know, Dr. Khan has opened the second clinic and he has the special machine there that makes your teeth ever so white in a veritable instant.”
Mrs. Khan worked herself up to a frothy frenzy, thick with fear because there was no means of stopping the new coupons from going out with the mail. It was simply inviting their own demise, she was convinced. When her cousins asked them to join in a summer meal at Liberty State Park for the following Saturday, she admonished them for suggesting that she and her husband would expose themselves. It may be safe for the other family, of course, but how Dr. Khan put them into danger for a frivolous bit of fun?
Like the Khans, the occupants of all the elegant two-story traditional homes south of the golf course had no idea that seven people had made their own homes within the greenbelt between their yards and the country club, that the dense undergrowth hid tents and lean-to dwellings, that newspapers were read at night by flashlights and tea was brewed over small open fires.
One of them, Ben, was satisfied with the life he made off by himself, alone. He did not need much food. His pants seemed always in danger of falling down, since he had no hips or buttocks to stop the fall. His teeth had gone bad several years before; he had tried going for help at the VA, but after they pulled five teeth to drain and pack his abscesses, he would not return there again. The doctors had told him that he would feel better, but now he could not chew without biting into the insides of his cheek. After that, he ceased to make the effort to shave and let his beard to grow out. By the time it was long enough to sweep it up from his chin, Ben was surprised to see that he had so much gray hair.
Ben stayed informed about the world around him by reading through the newspaper he recovered each day from the recycling bin. He folded back each page, one by one, and carefully returned each section to its original order when he was finished with it. Through March and into April, he closely followed the Rangers. Becoming a Ranger had been a dream when he played hockey as a kid.
The spigot in the side yard served for his shower and where filled his water jug. The yellow Labrador dog behind the house knew Ben well and came daily to the edge of the invisible fence where he would talk to the dog through the bushes. He fed the dog sometimes, part of a Wendy’s burger or some peanut butter sandwich, and he felt sorry for it. The owners never appeared to be interested in having a dog at all. Mrs. Khan talked to it as though speaking to an alien and shrunk away if the dog ever came near to her. Dr. Khan would occasionally toss a tennis ball with the dog while wearing surgical gloves. Ben called him Buster, although Buster had a different name, too.
Two days before, Dr. and Mrs. Khan had come out from the big house, out into the yard with another person Ben did not recognize. Ben lay undetected, crouched low, his bearded gray chin deep into the earth and dead leaves. He held very still, watching, disciplining himself not to shift a muscle even as the lice nipping into his armpits made him crazy with desire to scratch himself from head to toe.
The stranger unrolled plans and showed his clients what was to be going where. Ben saw them point in the direction of his canvas lean-to, which was covered green with algae from the wet spring. He heard them talking about placing the zebra there. This he found crazy and disturbing; it made no sense. They were putting in lighting. They were opening up a view path onto the golf course.
Later on in the day, a work crew came back into the yard with a Bobcat machine that sounded to Ben like a grinding, gnashing beast. Ben rolled his clothes, pan, flashlight, and Bible into his sleeping bag and moved backward, far enough back that he was nearly onto the cart path. From there, nobody could see him. Ben could hear the sloshing from the ball-washer on the sixth tee. Later in the day, the sound tortured his ears. He also could hear the noises made from streams of piss hitting the plastic sides of the honey bucket behind him and the heavy splot of falling shit dropping into the septic well.
Ben studied the workers as they used the machine and its small bucket to trench along the side of the lawn all the way into the edge of the woods and laterally across the back of the property line. Ben eyed them anxiously. Their presence agitated him further as the workers dug nearly alongside Ben’s home. He could see that they were Arabs. The war was over, he understood that, but having them there, so close, his eyes started to blink uncontrollably. They passed without spotting the lean-to, yet Ben’s heart pounded, the lice itched, and his temples ached long after.
They put black wire into the trench, and white plastic pipe. Then they hand-dug from the trench back into the lawn until they located the sprinkler line. Afterward, two of them walked while the third drove the Bobcat out the side yard. They went away for a long time, it seemed. He scratched at his armpits all the while, until he saw that his brown, cracked fingertips were orange with blood.
After hours without standing, when he did rise, Ben’s back and knees had stiffened. He did several deep knee-bends, and then returned to his home site to fetch his jug. He couldn’t find it. Across the lawn he could see the dog’s water bowl on the ground beneath the wall spigot and the coiled green garden hose. They had taken his water, he decided. He would need to wait until long after dark to cross the lawn and make use of the hose line. There were always other jugs in the recycling bin, Ben told himself. But that did not make it right. None of this was right. Ben unrolled his belongings and took out the day-old Times. He read the headlines out loud and continued aloud to read through articles that captured his interest. He read one article over and over again until it played back on itself. He squeezed his cheeks together and exercised his tongue to produce enough saliva to swallow.
The dentist came out from the house in the evening and walked the length of the trenches with his hands clasped behind his back, critically reviewing what work that had been done. It seemed to him that not much had been accomplished.
The next day, long after the sun was high in its arc, the workers returned with their machine and their shovels. The front loader carried lumber and bags of Portland cement. Ben once again rolled his belongings into his sleeping bag and made the point to take along the new jug that he had salvaged the night before. He would not let himself be left thirsty for so many long hours.
He slunk back to another spot near the cart path from where he could watch. Here there was a section of an old log that he could use as a seat or as a back rest when he reclined. When the machine fired again, he kneeled, making himself small. This time the front loader lowered and drove through the heuchera and the laurel, straight through his lean-to. His canvas home was torn and tangled amongst the broken shrubs. Ben gripped the handle of his knife and held it tight, yet there was nothing to do. His eyes burned red while the machine ground his home then turned around again and moved out of sight, disappearing up the side yard. Ben could hear the two others laughing over some words they exchanged as they shoveled and raked the debris into a pile. When the machine returned, the second pile was pushed into the front loader and it, too, was taken out of sight. Ben curled up and pressed his face into the space between the ground and the log, grasping his arm around it, too. He inhaled deeply, taking in the smells of dirt and leaves, of tree bark and decay. Too much was happening inside his brain. The growling machine sound. The sound of words in the newspaper. The sounds of tank rounds, booming blasts and explosions of metal banging through metal. Zebras?
The sprinkler lines were tested before the trenches could be backfilled. The rhythmic rotation of the pop-up sprinklers drew Ben’s attention and coaxed him to crawl through the underbrush back toward his place. A snake and then a woodpecker, hiss tap tap tap tap tap, hiss tap tap tap tap tap. And then it stopped. The outermost spray sent sporadic large drops out as far as where Ben lived. His canvas was gone.
That night, the new lights kept Ben awake. These shone into the trees just above his head. He could not live here now. Every other spot along the tree line was taken.
He could not sleep, so Ben walked alongside the big house and took a larger pile of newspapers than usual from out of the recycling bin. Buster came out from the doggie door, and Ben allowed the dog to lick his face. Afterward, Ben hushed him to keep Buster from getting too excited and ordered the dog back into its home. Buster walked several steps toward the doggie door, stopped, and turned around to check whether Ben might change his mind. When Ben pointed his finger toward the doggie door, Buster’s tail and ears drooped and he dejectedly pushed his head inside the plastic flap, pausing again with his rear end outside before re-entering altogether.
The new spotlight nearest his place made it possible to read after dark without his flashlight. Getting batteries was hard. He had to make his way to the Dollar Store, which meant walking two miles each way and crossing four busy streets.
Finally, late, the lights shut off by themselves. The sprinklers had added much more moisture to the ground, making it colder than usual. Ben pulled himself deeper inside his sleeping bag, but he couldn’t manage to get warm. It helped to take newspapers and cover his sleeping bag with open sections that offered some insulation from the damp. These were likely to fall off during the night, but they helped him get himself to sleep. Ben was satisfied with himself for having brought back the extra supply of newspapers. Still, it was nearly morning before his brain stopped ruminating.
With her knee-high green rubber boots pulled on, the dentist’s wife went out the back sliding door before anyone else inside the house was awake and walked across the lawn in the direction of her future gazebo. Six pier blocks were set. Ten-foot-tall posts rose from the steel stirrups atop each block, looking like giant fingers reaching toward the sky. A circle of built-in benches was coming next and a hexagonal copper roof would top it off. While she circled the frame, Mrs. Khan gazed up and imagined the sort of light-fixture she wanted to have hung. She was grazing upward when her boot came down on top of Ben. She was stumbling backward, trying to regain footing, when the pile of newspapers came aliv
e, shifting and making a low, guttural sound. Beneath the headline “I Kill Rich People,” Ben’s bushy gray beard popped out. The newspapers flew in all directions as he leapt up, his legs still inside the sleeping bag. Her eyes instantly fixed on the knife, freezing for a second before she let out a primal scream that pierced the slumber of the entire neighborhood. Her rubber boots slid on the dew-moistened grass. The slip brought her down for only a fraction of a second before she was up again, sprinting in terror. She made it to the sliding door just in time, certain that the killer was following behind.
Ben watched. Everything happened so quickly. She was gone and the whirring shriek of the alarm horn pierced his head.
Ben snatched up his sleeping bag and brought it tight against his chest. The golf course expanses were open. Running away, he had to leave behind his jug. His flashlight, his extra socks, his cooking things spilled out of his grasp and onto the fairway. He found his way to a deep bunker and spied back from the sand trap toward the house. Four of the others in the greenbelt were awake, standing at the edge of the trees and searching toward where he was semi-hidden. Within minutes, six Montclair Police officers responding to a desperate 911 call emerged from the backyard with their guns drawn. His belongings left an easy trail. One of the onlookers pointed the policemen in Ben’s direction. Two police cars drove onto the golf course, their sirens screaming.
