Honeyman found it hard to speak out against such a liberal cause. “But how is one little sandwich shop supposed to float so many notes?”
“Well, remember what I said before. Not all of them are going to come back at once. But you are right in thinking that your present operation isn’t set up to handle such volume. That’s why I’ve got to talk to you about these plans for expansion I’ve got here—”
At that moment Honeyman was jolted from his reverie by several demands on his attention. The customer whose spondulix, tendered in payment, had set Honeyman drifting now said, “Hey, can I get my change?” At the same time a workman stuck his head through the raw, unframed passage in the wall that led to the adjacent storefront and asked, “Rory, which wall did you want the counter on?” And an argument broke out between Beatbox and another customer.
“What’s that you’re putting on my peanut butter? I asked for orange marmalade, not horseradish.”
“Hey, man, you got to try something new in your life now and then. Experiment, like.”
“I don’t want an experiment, I want a good sandwich.”
“This is gonna be el supremo, man. Just give it a shot.”
“There is no way I am going to bite into that—”
Hurriedly making change (forty-one spondulix), and shouting out, “North wall,” to the carpenter, Honeyman intervened on the customer’s behalf and convinced Beatbox to assemble the sandwich as instructed.
Nerfball emerged from his ablutions then, and Honeyman put him back to making sandwiches, transferring Beatbox to the register, where his passion for culinary recombinations would get little play.
“Hello, Rory,” said a woman. Her voice, though known only for a fortnight, bore for Honeyman all the deep familiarity and intimate thrill of the voice of one’s lifetime mate, heard under a hundred circumstances over several decades.
Turning from the register, Honeyman saw Addie standing among the crowd of hungry customers, patient, radiant, gorgeous.
Hastily doffing his apron, Honeyman ducked under the hinged portion of the counter and came to stand beside her. He grabbed her in a bear hug, picked her up off the floor, spun her around in a circle, set her down and kissed her with appropriate enthusiasm. There was heartfelt applause from the assembled diners, catcalls and whistles. Addie blushed.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” said Honeyman.
“So I gathered. I’ve got the afternoon off, and wondered if you could get away.”
“You bet. Hey, Nerf, you’re in charge.”
Honeyman took Addie’s hand, and marveled how good it felt.
Meeting Atalanta Swinburne had been the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. She was so stable, so centered, such a calming presence in his life. The perfect antidote to the whirlwind of madness that spondulix and the Beer Nuts had brought into being around him. It seemed almost too much that she should also be witty, beautiful and good. Coming off his breakup with Netsuke, Honeyman had needed someone just like Addie. And here she was, somehow inexplicably attracted to him, with apparently equal intensity.
Sometimes life could be very good.
“How’s the addition coming?” asked Addie.
“Let’s take a look,” said Honeyman, and detoured next door.
The shop next to Honeyman’s Heroes had been a boutique that had tried to attract an upscale clientele and failed. They had gone under six months ago, and the place had remained vacant since. Honeyman had had little trouble convincing the owner of the building to let him break through the wall and connect the two stores.
The place was a cacophony of power tools, and smelled of fresh-cut pine boards. The laborers—all paid with spondulix, of course—were putting in a second food preparation area and more dining space, all in anticipation of the increased business the circulation of more spondulix would bring.
Honeyman inspected a few details, trying to act like a competent businessman, and then gratefully escaped with Addie out into the glorious July day.
Addie worked for some government agency or another—Honeyman had never quite managed to elicit the details from her—and frequently seemed to have her afternoons free, time which she seemed to enjoy spending with Honeyman.
“I thought we might go into the city,” she said now, “for a little shopping. I want to go to Canal Street Jeans.”
“Sounds good to me. But I’ve got to change first. I smell like pastrami.”
Addie bit his ear. “I like pastrami.”
It took Honeyman two hours to get dressed.
It was such a beautiful day that they couldn’t stand the thought of plunging underground on the PATH line to Manhattan, so they decided to take the ferry. It was comparatively slow, but that was hardly a consideration today, when they were out to loaf and amble.
The ferry terminal—a heroic old building dating from 1907—stood on the water at the south end of town. For many years it had been abandoned and decrepit, slowly falling to ruin. Then the city had revived the ferry service and restored the building to its old splendor. Now boats shuttled daily between Hoboken and Battery Park City.
Addie and Honeyman stood inside the terminal, in line with the other passengers waiting for a boat to dock. Honeyman thought he saw some of the Beer Nuts in the crowd. Curiously, they all seemed to be decked out in white coveralls and wearing goggles pushed up on their heads. Honeyman dismissed all thought of them from his mind.
The ferry nosed into its berth, its rear half projecting out of the building. A ramp rattled down on its chains, people disembarked, and the eastbound passengers filed on.
Yes, he was certain of it now. Those were several of the Beer Nuts. And they seemed to be carrying holstered sidearms, right out in the open—Goddamn it all, what was going on?
Addie led the way upstairs to the open observation deck, and they moved to lounge at the railing. The ferry blew its horn and got underway. Once out on the river, under the cloudless July sky, enthralling breezes brought them scents of the city and the distant sea. Honeyman put his arm around Addie’s waist, and tried to forget all his troubles.
Someone bumped into him. It was Ped Xing, the Orthodox Jewish Zen Master. He wore tinted goggles. He had been slinking along, bent at the waist, frequently swivelling as if expecting attackers to emerge from every bulkhead.
In one hand he carried a large plastic gun.
“Xing, what the hell—”
“Quiet, moll, this is war. It’s every man and woman for himself. Herself. Whatever.”
The shaven-headed Ped Xing made as if to prowl on, but Honeyman restrained him with a hand on his tensed shoulder.
“Xing—just hold it right there. War with whom? And what kind of gun is that?”
“Well, not war, really—just war games. We’re all playing Survival. Earl said it’d be good for us, sharpen our senses and reflexes for anything that comes our way. These are splat guns. They shoot those paint pellets—you know. Oh, that reminds me.” Ped Xing unzipped his coverall down to the waist, revealing a scrawny and hairless chest, and took out a second gun that had been tucked into the elasticized top of his Jockey shorts. “As an honorary Beer Nut, you’re a legitimate target. I’m doing you a big favor, warning you this way. I could’ve scored a lot of points off you. Anyway, you’d better take this.”
Honeyman accepted the spare pistol automatically, even as he was saying, “Xing, this is crazy, I won’t get involved.” He was suddenly overcome by a strange kind of feeling, something weirder than déjà vu, and he realized that he was being forced to decide once more about organized violence, a choice he thought he had made twenty years ago, when he slit open the envelope bearing the government’s “Greetings.” Was once never enough…?
Ignoring Honeyman’s protestations, Ped Xing was already duck-walking away. He called back enigmatically over his shoulder, “Satori comes whether you want it or not.”
At that moment a shrill cry of victory paired with a wail of defeat emerged from below decks. There was th
e sound of pounding feet, and several people burst out of a hatchway onto the upper level: Leather ’n’ Studs pursuing a hapless Hilario Fumento, liberally bespattered with technicolored bull’s-eyes. Blinded by panic, Fumento headed straight for Honeyman. The writer looked as if he intended to vault the rail and plunge into the river. Leather dropped into a crouch, bracing her arm to squeeze off another shot. The ferry rocked in a swell just as she pulled the trigger and the shot went awry, striking Addie right on the chest. A bloom of blue paint blossomed on her left breast.
The world went red and hazy in Honeyman’s eyes. He let out a wordless roar that transfixed all the Beer Nuts.
“Hey, moll,” began Leather, “I’m really sorr—”
It was too late for temporizing. Honeyman emptied his gun at the frozen woman, spotting her white suit from neck to ankle. Fumento had stopped beside his protector, and Honeyman now wrenched the gun from his hand and turned toward Studs.
“Yikes,” she whimpered, and turned tail. Honeyman potted her backside once or twice, then took off in pursuit.
The rest of the twenty-minute trip passed in a mad blur of running, hiding and sharpshooting. From bilge to fo’c’sle the game ran its course. Honeyman lost track of how often he reloaded. Someone had slipped him a pack of refills. In midvoyage, the Manhattan-bound ferry passed the Hoboken-bound vessel, also carrying a load of Beer Nuts. The two teams lined up on their respective port sides and exchanged a fusillade that left both boats looking like an artist’s dropcloth.
“You couldn’t hit the broadside of a bus!”
“Avast! Drop your sails and heave to, Matey!”
“Surrender Dorothy!”
As the boats pulled away from each other, there was a final chorus of raspberries and Bronx cheers.
Everyone’s ammunition ran out just as the ferry pulled into Battery Park City. The players assembled to count coup. Honeyman—though not devoid of hits himself—was declared the winner by unanimous acclamation.
Rejoining Addie, Honeyman felt rather sheepish. After his initial anger had worn off, he had found himself really enjoying the game. Was this any way for a former sixties pacifist to be feeling? He felt as guilty as a vegetarian caught with a roast beef sandwich halfway to his lips.
“Gee, Addie,” he began, “I’m sorry this had to happen.…”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad I matter that much to you.” Lifting her glasses, she wiped a tear from one eye, and Honeyman wondered why.
“Hey, are we gonna be able to go shopping looking like this?”
“Oh, it’s just Soho. Well fit right in.”
They walked uptown to Canal Street, and then east, arriving finally at Canal Street Jeans. While Honeyman browsed, Addie tried on clothes, eventually settling on a few items. At the register, Honeyman said, “Here, let me get this, to make up for my crazy friends.” He opened his wallet, and, without thinking about what he was doing, drew out and offered a fresh one hundred spondulix note.
They took it.
6.
Bretton Woods
Earl Erlkonig, Minister of Finance (without portfolio), called the meeting to order. He had to speak loudly, above the noise of construction in the Brewery. Dozens of hirelings from Mazuma Construction Company were reconstructing the headquarters of the Beer Nuts into luxurious apartments and common rooms, gyms and saunas, a kind of adult clubhouse. The building had been bought from the city for a minimal payment of back taxes—made in spondulix. Erlkonig had specified that all the old vats and kettles were to be retained, patched and polished, as a reminder of their humble origins, and this requirement was necessitating extra costs that preyed constantly on Honeyman’s mind.
Erlkonig, Honeyman, and several others sat around a table in one corner of the main floor, isolated by temporary walls from the hullabaloo. It seemed strange to see the interior of the Brewery by electric light. The altered environment here seemed emblematic to Honeyman of vaster, more troubling changes, changes which had caused him many sleepless nights, and which promised many more.
It was the beginning of August, a mere two months since Honeyman had invented spondulix. It might as well have been two years though, considering all that had happened.
Erlkonig held Cardinal Ratzinger, the Beer Nuts mascot, in his lap. The tiger-colored cat looked extremely well-fed. It wore a collar set with stones that Honeyman prayed were only cubic zirconia.
Now Erlkonig set Cardinal on the table and stood. He moved with military precision to a map of the tri-state region hanging from a wall. Removing a collapsible pointer from his shirt pocket, Erlkonig began to lecture.
“You can see from the shaded areas—which we are updating daily, by the way—that the penetration of spondulix is outpacing our highest expectations. The pattern seems to be swift initial infection of an urban area, followed by slower dissemination into the surrounding countryside. Once Hoboken was permeated, Manhattan and the other boroughs were a given. But I think you’ll be surprised by what followed next.
“To the northeast, in Bridgeport, New Haven and Hartford, there are already some quarter of a million spondulix in circulation. We expect to move up the coast, through Providence and into Boston, at the rate of ten miles a day.
“In New York state, Albany, Syracuse and Utica are thoroughly ours. Buffalo represents our furthest western penetration to date, and opens a gateway to Canada.
“In our home state, Camden is almost as thoroughly saturated as Hoboken, and is providing a beachhead into Philly, after which Pittsburgh is expected to fall easily. Moreover, I just received a report today which informs me that the casinos in Atlantic City are accepting spondulix for all wagers. They’re even talking about our expansion into some kind of coinage which would be acceptable to their slots.”
Honeyman held his head in his hands and moaned. He had avoided all previous sessions of these strategic councils, figuring that when he was called on to testify on his own behalf in Federal Court he could claim ignorance of what was being done in his name. (How that would superficially square with his portrait and signature being featured on an endless stream of spondulix, he had not yet figured out.) Today, however, Erlkonig had convinced him to attend, promising him that there would be some news that would gladden him.
So far, he hadn’t heard it.
Hilario Fumento raised a hand, seeking the floor, and Erlkonig gave him the nod.
“What are the demographics of our supporters?” asked the writer.
Erlkonig tried to look thoughtful, as if summoning up the data from deep recesses, but Honeyman could see he had instant access to all the facts about spondulix, and was merely pausing for effect. Erlkonig was clearly a man who had found his destined calling, and was relishing every nuance of his new Machiavellian position. He looked positively diabolical.
“We’re strongest, of course, among the fringe elements of society, those involved in what is commonly called ‘the underground economy,’ whether dealing with legal or illegal goods and services. However, since almost every citizen comes into contact with this segment of society at one time or another, we are establishing a strong hold upon the average consumer as well. When Joe Sixpack’s boss offers him payment in a currency unknown to the IRS, and when Joe is certain he’ll be able to redeem that currency for things he wants and needs—well, there’s no reason for him not to take it, is there?
“This brings us,” continued Erlkonig, “to the topic of further expansion.” Erlkonig collapsed the pointer with a flourish and leaned on his forearms on the table to directly confront the rest of the cabinet. Disregarding his high status, Cardinal licked the man’s flat nose. Erlkonig pushed the cat away.
“This country is too big to conquer by slow radiation from a central source. I am therefore proposing, my molecules, that we seed the rest of the nation with volunteers whose mission will be to establish spondulix as an accepted medium of exchange. From these scattered sites, just like colonies of mold in a Petri dish, spondulix will spread in all directions, until
it eventually forms a complete network.”
Honeyman opened his mouth to object to this insane scheme, but Erlkonig interrupted.
“This plan is contingent on one other step. I need to backtrack a little first, though—with your indulgence.
“As I predicted when we initially began mass production of spondulix, the redemption rate in sandwiches has been a tiny fraction of all usage. A doubling in the shop’s size, the hiring of additional help and the promotion of Nerfball to Supervisor, along with extended hours of operation, has been sufficient to handle the increased trade. Even counting phone orders from as far as sixty miles away.
“Obviously, though, we cannot continue to accommodate ultimate redemption in sandwiches once we go nationwide. At least not without setting up branches of Honeyman’s Heroes in every major market. And the extra work attendant on such a program would unacceptably hold up our plans. Besides, having these notes tied to a little Jersey sandwich shop gives the enterprise too much of a strictly regional feeling.”
It began to dawn on Honeyman then what Erlkonig was working up to, and the albino’s next words confirmed it.
“Molecules—I am proposing that we go off the sandwich standard. Just as the U.S. dollar is no longer backed by gold, so I move for the official decoupling of spondulix and any comestibles.”
Honeyman jumped to his feet. “No, I won’t stand for it! As long as these stupid pieces of paper were good for something, we had a loophole in the eyes of the law. If we take that away, then they become nothing but … but money.”
Erlkonig looked at Honeyman with an annoying pity. “Rory, man—they already are. May I see a show of hands now? All in favor?”
Every hand but Honeyman’s shot up. No one wanted to put in any more time in the sandwich shop.
“The motion is carried then,” declared Erlkonig with obvious pleasure.
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