The Dream Merchant

by Fred Waitzkin

  All of this was written into Marvin’s script. She wore red heels, a dark skirt, and a low-cut blouse. She did a vampy version of the twist that sizzled. This new kind of dancing was like sex. Do you want to get rich? announced Jim above the singing of Chuck Berry. Do you want to have fun? Ava was clapping and shaking her head, no, no, no, deep into something while Jim, practically shouting, explained the deal in shorthand. Spend fifty dollars tonight on an electric iron and make twelve hundred sixty dollars during the next month or six weeks. When will you ever have such a chance to buy something useful and make money at the same time? Enough cash to buy a car or to put an extension on your house, to take the vacation trip you and the wife have dreamed about for the last twenty years. Where could you ever find such an opportunity? Buy tonight, get started, and bring friends to our next meeting in two weeks.

  * * *

  The script was about opportunity, taking hold of a dream, like Ava, who was rocking to her own music, bemused by something. Marvin gawked at Ava, with her perfect angel face and devil body, spittle gathering at the corner of his mouth. He watched her from his canvas office at the back of the tent where he counted the money. Most days in the week Jim, Ava, and Marvin were rubbing elbows, planning for the next big meeting, going over the script. With a glance Ava made Marvin weak and fevered. More than once his arms had jerked out toward her. She smirked and stepped aside.

  If you don’t buy right now, you could lose the chance, said Jim, selling with fervor. The moment is here and then it’s gone. Our days are numbered. Our days are haunted by losses and missed opportunity.

  Loss, loss, Marvin had hammered this reminder to Jim during their coaching sessions. Fear of loss closes the sale.

  How many of you can tell a story about a house you might have bought and now it’s worth five times as much? Jim asked the quickened audience of mostly workingmen, farmers, construction workers, a sprinkling of wives. It was a warm summer evening and the men were sweating.

  You should have bought the neighbor’s farm and today you would be a wealthy man, Jim continued. And now you’re old. Makes you sick, right? We get old so fast. Makes me sick, the chances I had. My daddy had chances, but he died a poor man. Poor and bitter. Spent too much time dreaming about gold. It didn’t need to be that way. Believe me, it’s only a question of deciding and making a move. Don’t sit on your hands. You’re not too old. Not yet. But it’s coming, sure as I’m standing here; opportunity passes. Jim was saying what he knew to be true, what he learned growing up. Of course he understood that their Ponzi scheme was against the law, but he also believed that the business was more than a fair deal for his customers. What was the harm if he was giving back nearly as much money as he was keeping? Everyone was a winner in their money tent.

  Years before Mara, when Jim had first described this scam to me, he showed me an old photograph of himself standing on a crude stage pointing at the crowd with one hand while holding a microphone in the other. He was dressed in a tuxedo, white shirt, and bow tie. His blond hair was long and wavy, and he had a fervent expression staring into the middle distance. What a great-looking guy he was at thirty. There really was a passing resemblance to Burt Lancaster’s Elmer Gantry.

  * * *

  Marvin Gesler’s conception was simple but astonishing. He first came to it three years earlier when he had gone to the supermarket to buy white bread and Spam to make sandwiches for his crew of Bible salesmen. He’d spend ten or fifteen dollars on groceries and the girl passed him coupons to paste in a little book. So many coupons could be redeemed for more groceries. That was the idea, basically, to buy what you want, what you need, and collect a bonus. The best ideas were simple.

  But here was Marvin’s wrinkle. What if the bonus was huge and demonstrable, not a few groceries but something to change your life, or get it rolling? Put up fifty dollars at a meeting to get a quality product, maybe an electric iron, and a few minutes later collect ten dollars, five apiece, from two others who put up their fifty bucks. Ten dollars doesn’t sound like a life change, but a half hour later you’d collect five apiece from four others who put up their fifty dollars for irons. Before the end of the night, you were back up on a stage again getting forty dollars for your fifty-dollar payout. And the tent was filled with other guys tramping up to get money. You’d surely drive home eager to tell friends about this opportunity to buy something useful for your home while earning money from this business or whatever it was. The following week—or if the meeting was large enough all this could happen during the first night—you’d get eighty dollars, because sixteen others had bought irons. You’ve actually made a nice profit for your purchase. Now you are at the apex of a small pyramid of customers, people yearning to have more. Each week you are boosted higher on the pyramid, more people supporting your future, your prosperity. And the beauty of it is that people below you, creating this cash flow siphoning upward, are at the same time atop their own little pyramids with the hope, no, the probability of enriching themselves from others who come on below them. All that each of them has to do is buy an electric iron for fifty bucks to keep the money coming. Ava and Jim would make sure that this happened.

  All your friends would surely come to buy; they’d make money and you’d make money until you got to the ultimate, the $1,260 payout, and then you’d have to put up another fifty dollars and get another iron and start all over again. And you would, right? Why stop now? Who wouldn’t be game for these meetings with rock and roll and this beautiful woman, very sexy though a little preoccupied, passing out money, tens of thousands? She’s just giving it away. Who wouldn’t want to come to such a meeting?

  This was Marvin’s idea. Basically, he was selling an illusion.

  Who’s counting how much we’re giving away? How much we’re keeping? he asked Jim and Ava. They’re gonna want the money in their hands, he said, licking his lips and glancing at Ava.

  * * *

  The music rose for a time, drowning out Jim’s entreaties, and Ava clapped to the beat, shook her chest boldly. For the moment she had stolen the scene while the music swelled the tent with hope and anticipation. Then it was his turn, talking about hardship, growing up dirt poor, not bathing, not eating, freezing in the winter because Daddy made bad choices or no choices at all. Daddy was paralyzed and dreaming about the future, and Ava moved toward the money tree, all eyes on her slow walk; they switched back and forth, sex and privation.

  Don’t give it away too soon, Marvin coached. Frustrate them. Pull away the bait.

  Jim and Ava were so smooth. They had been doing this routine for two years. The operation was getting a reputation around Montreal. It had started out with just a handful of reluctant people meeting in a small basement room, with no music, no real pulse. Back then Marvin hadn’t worked out the intricacies, but he knew that he could make out selling electric irons for fifty bucks and giving away money—he smelled profit. Now he had complicated charts. He knew that he must cut the play off after twelve levels. He calculated that they would keep 56 percent of the dollars that came through the door. Now there were big crowds showing up for their tent giveaways. People were driving a hundred miles for irons and money. The three of them gave away more and more money each time and drove off in one of Jim’s cars—he now owned three Cadillacs!—a suitcase of dollars in the trunk, sometimes a hundred thousand or more.

  Onstage, Ava moved slowly to a large tree, a Christmas tree with money clipped onto its branches. She enjoyed being watched. She liked to make men squirm. It made her feel alive. She’d even flirt a little with Marvin, although she’d quickly turn away, he was such a pig. There was fifty thousand in cash clipped onto the fifteen-foot tree, five-dollar bills, fifties and hundreds. There were poor people in the audience and the money tree worked like chum scenting the water. Poor people wanted that money for food and fun they couldn’t afford; the dangling money made them feel unsettled. Marvin’s scene might have been obvious and a little shabby, but Ava had a shine that spilled all over the room.
She moved within a circle of light. The music poured over Ava’s lush, swaying body as if she’d parted ways from her fundamental and fetching shyness. It must have been the sultry night air and money that made her wild and hot. Ava gave them license. Everyone wanted the money tree and this girl—even ladies could feel her pull; she incited an urge. MONEY. Jim’s voice, The more we sell, the quicker you get to your goal, the $1,260 payout. Quick. There were two men laboring in the aisles with heavy carts filled with irons.

  The music fell away and the spotlight found Jim in his tailored tuxedo. He seemed to be searching for the words. Ava stood to the side, the air gone out of her like a puppet on the shelf. They were a great team. Jim relished this long hesitation—what would happen—this building unease, and Marvin was nodding from behind the flap of canvas. Jim seemed to be listening for an inner voice.

  Finally he said, I want you to meet someone. Jim paused and gained traction. I want you to meet someone. Chester, Chester … Chester!!! Where are you, man? Jim walked back and forth on the stage searching in vain for a man in the audience. Chester … Chester? Jim squinted a little and then he signaled with his hand. Come on up here, Chester. Chester was a butcher, a short powerfully built guy with coarse black hair on his thick forearms. Jim signaled for him to come up onstage. He had never been onstage before. Months earlier, he bought an iron, and this was his moment, what he’d been promised. And more. Chester, this is your life, said Jim, invoking the name and spirit of the TV program watched by millions. It was the moment a butcher became a star. This unfurling of fame was an essential part of Marvin’s scheme. Every two weeks they made a little man a celebrity to be adulated for a time among his friends, at the bar, in his community. How much is fame worth? It was an ancient question with a new wrinkle. How much is it worth in terms of hawking electric irons? Chester had been a faithful customer. He had come to a dozen meetings, collected his payments, he brought friends and family to buy irons, and tonight was his night.

  Ava was clapping for Chester to come onstage. But he was beet red and remained glued to his folding seat. How could he come to this woman? Her walk was an event, teetering on the stairs in her heels; guys reached out to help, but really they wanted to touch her butt or feel her bare arm. She slithered down the aisle and right up to him, put out a hand, her charming Southern accent: I’ve come to take you up there, Chester. Her hand touched the hair on his forearm. Up there, into the circle of light onstage. He was a short guy, five feet, three inches, and he’d never been near a woman like Ava. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, slow and delicious. He wasn’t thinking about the money tree or what he might do with the $1,260. Chester was staring at Ava’s chest heaving from her brave exertions. He wanted to plunge into Ava’s creamy bosom, to swim all over her with his hairy body. Jim made a joke about where Chester was staring, but Chester didn’t notice. Ava was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

  Look up, Chester, Jim said. Look up, man! Everyone roared with laughter, which roused him. Chester shot both hands up in the air and shouted, I like this! I like this!

  Then, while she led him up the stairs, Jim reflected a little on Chester’s hardworking life. He’s the salt of the earth, Jim said with real emotion as Ava counted money out from the tree and put it into Chester’s hand. But Chester didn’t notice. He had fallen in love. He didn’t want to leave her. Chester’s nose was practically nestled into the deep cleft of her chest. Jim played on this until finally Ava led him back to his seat, leaned over, offering one last glimpse, and then she kissed his flushed cheek.

  Now Jim and Ava were into the heavy work of the night, giving away cash. The air in the tent had grown thick and rancid from sweating men. But no one cared. Jim and Ava called men onstage, one after another, handing out fives and tens—they began by paying off new customers, but soon enough there were repeat winners, more and more of them. They came strutting off the stage grinning, waving dollars, as though they were moving ahead in life, as Jim had promised, while workers in the aisles passed out irons and stuffed dollars into shoe boxes.

  Selling irons was sweaty pedestrian work. Jim took his pleasure from the earlier part of the evening and tried to play it over in his mind. He loved ambling into his stories and becoming caught up in poignant hard times. He took his customers years away from irons and cash giveaways, nearly freezing to death in the little house outside Edmonton until he had saved his starving family when opportunity presented itself. Jim touched his customers with his heroism and fineness. In his business life he might take shortcuts and deviations as long as he knew who he was; he needed to revisit this core of himself. He described waking up before dawn while his mom and brothers slept deeply; delivering newspapers in the snow. While other boys played after school, Jim took care of the farmer’s cows.

  Selling without strain or apparent intention was the highest art. And Jim was laying the groundwork for a stampede, until there was a moment, he would let out a wistful breath or raise a finger or look at Ava, some small gesture, often tinged with reluctance or regret (it was so sweet), and men would bolt from their grimy folding seats waving cash, fighting to spend fifty bucks on ten-dollar irons as if they were priceless—electric irons that offered an escape from lives fated to boredom, mediocrity, and slippage—and the supply was greatly limited; buy now, buy right now, before we fade into the ether. Look at her. He gestured to Ava, who was so depleted from her long efforts, but still lovely and offering. Buy them for her. He used her like bait. Ava was struggling mightily to make her mark, wanting to be something more than a sexy prop, and she trusted him. Everyone trusted Jim; again and again in these meetings Jim released a torrent with a word or glance.… Marvin had clever ideas, sure, but he couldn’t dance. It was Jim who made Marvin plausible, as if a cartoon had suddenly gained flesh and force. Jim knew that Marvin must be coddled and cherished and that he could make Jim rich, hugely rich.

  When they were all together, Ava did not exist for Jim, which was necessary but devastating to her. Over time she learned to stay out of their invisible cage where Marvin might touch her leg or ask for massages like a goon. He was impervious to her disdain. And when Jim didn’t seem to notice Marvin’s crudeness, she felt pitiable. Jim was entirely there for Marvin, listening keenly and picking through Marvin’s manic opulence, although at other moments Jim would kick back and just smile at the marvel of his partner. Jim sometimes felt bad for Ava—that she had to endure this threesome—but Marvin was necessary and Jim would make it up to her. He loved Ava, and that gave him license to proceed.

  In the dank canvas office with rain coming in at his feet, Marvin Gesler was counting the evening’s take while Jim and Ava shook hands with a few lingering customers in front of the stage. The rain fell steadily against the tent, making a pleasant isolating sound, as if he were alone in a lair. They had brought in nearly one hundred thousand dollars—a good night, with some customers buying as many as ten irons. Multiple sales were happening more often at meetings. This had Marvin thinking. An iron was like a coupon. This business could operate on a much larger scale. Marvin was considering the efficacy of stores and warehouses. He wanted to tell Jim about his thinking. He wanted to design huge stores that had a racy, modern feel. They would make millions. He was impatient to tell Jim.

  11.

  Ava found the three-hundred-acre farm outside of Toronto and Jim paid cash for it, a little more than two hundred thousand dollars, most of what he’d stashed away working with Marvin for two years on their pyramid deal. Who knows how much Marvin had buried, but surely a great deal more than Jim. There was often tens of thousands lying in shoe boxes and suitcases in their motel rooms, and Jim made a show of not keeping track as if to say he was something more than Marvin. Perhaps Jim acted this way because of Ava.

  She had been begging Jim to take time away from Marvin. She felt dirty from his incessant money talk and grossness. At first their work had seemed funny and rebellious. Now Ava wanted something else, although when Jim pressed her for specifics she cou
ldn’t find the words. Finally he packed Marvin up and sent him off on a bus to Virginia, where he had a cousin. Marvin was baffled by Jim’s vacation idea. He climbed onto the bus muttering. Jim was amused, but at the same time he felt like he was turning his back on himself. He shipped his partner off for Ava. He worried that he was losing her.

  The house was situated on an acre of green lawn and gardens that flattened out from a sloping mountain like a verdant mesa. Looking from the shaded front porch, you saw an expanse of valley, much of it their property, sections of burly green forest, some acres of planted corn, and down below a vast meadow of green grazing land dotted with a few cows.

  Jim was immediately drawn in by this place that evoked early memories. He told Ava how great their lives would be here, and she listened earnestly, believed everything he said. She’d learn to cook gourmet meals for him. They’d make babies. They jumped in one of the Cadillacs and drove to a little drive-through hamburger joint, sat in the car eating and kissing. He loved to kiss her mouth full of munching food and she laughed at his ardor and mussed his hair.

  Ava’s first meal for Jim was an ambitious Sunday morning breakfast. The table was perfectly adorned with new place settings, polished silver, breakfast pastry in a basket, and flowers from the garden. Ava looked fresh and lovely with hardly any makeup. Jim smiled at his great fortune and went back to the paper. He sat at the table reading the sports section and glancing out the window, where he could see the old barn. He was ready to jump into the day’s projects.