The Merchants of Zion

by William Stamp

  I flipped through the pages, saving his spot with my thumb. One of those thinly veiled autobiographical memoirs that catch on with the public from time to time, it had been a bona fide hit—a rarity in the age of the death of the novel. The protagonist of the book was a super-driven, over-privileged college senior who spends a semester abroad in Jamaica. His host family are squatters living in a resort abandoned in the aftermath of the revolution. Brian Anderson was accustomed to a life spent glued to his phone, but they don't have wireless service, let alone the internet, and as a result he meets a cast of characters who challenge his bubbled perspective. He worries less and enjoys life more, falls in love with a local, has his heart broken, et cetera. The title is a reference to the Rastas' unique take on enlightenment and their search for personal liberation. Truly, it's a bildungsroman for the twenty-first century.

  Some of my notes in the margins made me grin at my former ignorance: “Who's Kant?” and “The opal ring represents modernity” made me cringe. Present me thought my high school self would have been more clever, but it wasn't so. Would the Cliff ten years hence look back at me and likewise shake his head?

  There was a knock at the front door. I answered, and found James standing in the doorway, carrying a bag from the bodega around the corner. He unwrapped a sandwich, then set it and a cup of soda beside the tablet.

  “How do you eat that shit? It's disgusting,” I said.

  “I disagree.” He went to pick up the sandwich and his elbow hit the cup. Its cap flew off and it tipped over, dumping out the ice/soda mixture. The deluge spread toward my tablet, which I was able to snatch before it spread across the table. The Merchants of Zion wasn't so lucky—the soda swept over it like a hurricane across the Gulf Coast. James's sandwich was spared a similar, grisly fate—the waxy wrapping paper curled into makeshift levies.

  “Your pop almost ruined my computer.”

  “What the fuck is pop?”

  I picked up the book by one corner. The soda beaded and rolled off, leaving a sticky smear of corn syrup across the glossy cover. The pages stuck together as I flipped through them.

  “But you managed to ruin my book. And now your 'soda' is getting all over my floor.”

  “I'll get some towels from the bathroom.”

  “Thanks for doing me such a favor,” I said sarcastically. I went into the kitchen and turned the oven to three-fifty, (anything lower than four fifty-one, right?), and waited for the book to dry.

  Dimitri had brought in the paper mail of the past few days. A Chinese delivery menu, a flier from a councilman running for re-election, and the electricity bill. James had been living with us for two weeks now, so I figured his share of the utilities, then added fifty percent. Fair was fair; it was interest on the rent he promised to pay in the future.

  He came back down with one of my bath towels and soaked up the mess. When I told him how much he owed for utilities, he said he didn't have any money and needed me to cover him. Just this one time.

  “But you have enough to go out almost every night? And buy sandwiches from the deli?”

  “Dude, you know I don't pay for shit when I go out. And I gotta eat.” He paused for a second, looking hurt by the accusations. “I'm sorry about your book. It was an accident.”

  “Right.”

  “You know I hate relying on other people. I wouldn't be here if I had any other options,” he said, walking past me and to the fridge.

  “Glad to hear you hold us in such high esteem.”

  “No dude, it's not like that. You and Dimitri aren't exactly living the high life. It's better than I'd have guessed, honestly, but not by a lot. Look, I don't want to be the Manhattan version of one of those guys who bikes around South America and expects the poor-ass natives to open their shacks and share their moldy rice and beans with some rich fucking American. When I make it I'll get you back, I promise, but right now, can you please ease the fuck off?”

  “Fine, but you're still an asshole.”

  “Cliff, come on.”

  “Sorry, I've had a long night.”

  “No kidding. You look like someone slammed your head through a wall.” He opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. “I bought a twelve pack for us to split. As a gesture of goodwill.”

  I took the can and sat at the counter, telling him about my night at the Felkins's. At first he chided me for passing up an opportunity at “banging out Helen,” but when he heard that the man of the house had been minutes away he agreed it was all for the best. It felt good to talk about office trouble with someone, even if that someone was James. Dimitri was always working, or talking about his research, or thinking about his research, and I'd come to live a solitary life as friends dropped off my radar one by one. James expressed his sympathies towards my situation, telling me that Mr. Felkins must have been wasted and wouldn't remember what had happened come morning. A softer side of him emerged, one understanding and sincere, and I had an inkling the James scoring free drinks looked a lot different than the one who lounged on my couch.

  We finished the whole twelve pack, at which point a bottle of whiskey appeared, from where I'm not sure. I don't remember much about the night after that. A jaunty trip to The Den—by myself I think—and a flash of blurry images: rejection, laughter, a bloody nose. Vomit, maybe, but who could be sure? It was all too embarrassing to have possibly been true, and the only thing for certain was that I woke up in my bed naked and next to a girl I'd never seen before.

  The End of Tyranny

  by Robespierre

  Power does not work how you or I would like it to. Power works by its own rules, and its rules are terrible. Terrible. We live in a world where power is held by those who understand it least, by cowardly men who hoard it for no purpose other than the satisfaction of their vanity, who have yoked the collective productivity of mankind in pursuit of pointless, decadent pleasure. They are not capable of using it for transformation, for good or for evil. They are unable to understand that the tools which they possess are capable of so much more.

  Why must so many languish in material and spiritual poverty so that the wealthy can feast on cloned rhinoceros steaks and take vacations on the moon? Of what use is progress, I ask, if it is to be bent towards those ends? Right now, if we only wanted, we could provide prosperity for every person living on this planet and at the same time begin the grand project of spreading our civilization across solar system, and then the universe. Instead we do neither, and stagnate.

  Everyone knows this must end, but few are willing to commit to working toward the salvation of humanity. But as a proud Jacobin, I can no longer stand in silence as the wealth of the world is stripped from its creators and rightful owners so that oligarchs might amass baubles which are of no use to anyone. I intend to seize power from those who rule over us in ignorance and awaken the will of humanity, ushering us into the age of our destiny. I call on every man, woman, and non-binary person to...

  ...

  4. The Arrival of Ruth, Part 1

  I woke up with a nuclear hangover, the kind that makes you swear off drinking for life. Not a drop for three days, at the very least. My immediate instinct was to rush downstairs and ask James what the hell happened, to begin piecing together the previous night, but I was a hostage to my exploding head and its demands were explicit. Sleep until dark, then emerge like a vampire from my lair.

  The physical act of falling asleep had been too much for my blackout autopilot to handle. My head was hanging off the side of the mattress and my neck ached from a night spent at a sixty degree angle. When I opened my eyes I was relieved not to find a puddle of vomit staring back at me. It wouldn't have been the first time.

  I turned to reach for my pillow and almost fell out of bed in surprise. Where there should have been only crumpled blankets, there was instead a girl. She was lying on her side, back facing me and naked down to the waist, where her svelte figure disappeared beneath the top sheet. Her hair was long and black and woven with strips of electric blue
. I took a moment to congratulate myself, and wondered how tanked she must have been to come back here with me. The battle in my head lulled, distracted by a mobilization to the south.

  What lies had I told her? And would she remember them when she eventually woke up? Often I was a lawyer at a high-powered firm, a fresh graduate from Boston or New Haven. If I'd pegged her as the artsy type—and out here I invariably did—I was a newly minted professor researching Early-Modern American architecture at Hudson University. You know, Puritanical New England stuff. City on a Hill and what not. Through careful experimentation I'd determined every young woman with a whiff of regret at choosing a stable, entry level job over her artistic passions wants to sleep with a professor. An artist's mind is focused on their inward experience, which is incredibly selfish, while professors use their great intellect to research and explain the achievements of others. Additionally, being a professor says you're dedicated to culture, but not so foolish as to risk poverty for it. Finally, and in my humble opinion most importantly, every college graduate has had a serious crush on one of their lecturers, and I offered them an opportunity to live their fantasies through me.

  And if I met a girl who was an actual artist with whom I felt that I had chance? I'd have a heart attack, or maybe a stroke. They're way out of my league.

  When I hopped out of bed she stirred, mumbling unintelligibly before rolling on to her belly. On her shoulder—newly exposed—was a tattoo of a bird I'd never seen before. It was bright green, with a resplendent red breast and a long tail, also green, that curled up half-way down her back. I hoped birds like that really lived somewhere in the world, but didn't think it likely. It was too fantastic, and that tail was too useless—too artistic—for evolution's taste.

  I was stripped down to my boxers, and threw on my clothes from last night—a ragged pair of jeans and a button down. I didn't remember changing before I went out, but the evidence was irrefutable. Before leaving, I grabbed my wallet from the nightstand and an almost-empty pack of cigarettes, My tobacco pouch was nowhere to be seen. Also on the nightstand was a torn condom wrapper, which answered the first part of another question—we'd at least made an attempt at sex.

  I tip-toed downstairs. James was asleep on the couch, a double bottle of wine empty on the table. The tablet was across his chest, a perched parasite burrowing into his heart.

  Dimitri was making breakfast in the kitchen. The coffeemaker sputtered and a pot of rice screamed. The sautéing onions and chicken hissed in their pans. Hand-made tortillas popped and smoked. Bowls of chopped bell peppers, tomatoes, avocados and more cluttered the counter, interspersed with jars of spices. It had all hustle and bustle of a military operation, and he was the general with a master plan, calculating temperature and timing with martial precision as he tended one dish, then moved to the next in a clockwise fashion. From simple ingredients emerged a conception of a tasty future, awaiting execution.

  “Hey,” I said, “Could you make enough coffee for two? Three, actually.”

  “Sure,” he said. “The coffee. It's in the drawer above you. No, to the right.” He roasted his own beans, bought fresh from a local shop, which seemed like a waste of time to me. They tasted better right after their roasting, but after a few days we might as well be drinking Storebrand. I got the bag out and tried to hand it to him.

  He shook his head. “Grind it please. And we'll need more water. You can dump out what's already been made. Replace the filter, too.” The coffeemaker had dribbled out about a quarter of a cup. The on/off switch was broken, and he unplugged it as he passed on his way to the tortilla press.

  “Can't I just add the new grounds and a few cups of water?”

  “No,” he said smartly.

  After I ground the new batch of coffee and added the water I sat at of the kitchen table to watch him work.

  “You forgot to turn it on.” He said, plugging it back in.

  “Sorry.”

  “It's not a problem.”

  “Why don't you ever make anything besides Mexican food?” I asked. “Like pirogis or borscht or something?”

  He looked at me for the first time since I'd entered the kitchen. “It's nutritious, and there's a good Latino grocery down the street. If there were a good Russian grocery, I would make Russian food. Also, I make Asian food when I get out at the far entrance to the subway. There's a Thai market across the street that I like.” He returned to cooking.

  “Do you want any help?”

  “No thanks.”

  He finished everything and made his burrito. I picked at the leftover pieces of chicken in the pan. When the coffee finished I poured a cup for him and myself.

  “Do you think James will ever leave?” he asked, with a hint of contempt.

  “I dunno. There doesn't seem to be anywhere for him to go. He's like a boat caught in a storm—either it'll pass or he'll find a way out.”

  “Or sink.”

  “It's possible.” I cracked a half dozen eggs into a bowl and began whisking them. There was a roll of sausage in the fridge, but I didn't know whether my mystery guest ate meat. Deciding to play it safe, I ripped open a bag of English muffins.

  “You know he's never going to pay you back, right?” Dimitri said. He wiped a trickle of dark juice from his mouth.

  “Say, do you mind if I grab a few of these peppers?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I was no expert in the kitchen, but neither was I a slouch. And breakfasts were my specialty. Dimitri and I chatted about his research while I took my turn at the stove. A recruiter from the Pentagon had contacted him out of the blue and next week he had a meeting in Midtown with some military operative. The foundation was a bust; their largest donor had been indicted.

  “That's heavy. Any idea what for?”

  “Tax fraud. But really it's because of several articles he wrote last year criticizing the military for buying up all the best scientists and mathematicians and classifying their work. The opportunity cost to both pure and commercial research is enormous.” He said all of this as if he were talking about the weather, or what he'd had for dinner last night.

  “And now they've bought you out.”

  “Not yet. But it would appear his critique has some validity.”

  I balanced the omelettes, coffee, English muffins, and a jar of strawberry jam on a tin tray I'd stolen from a Hudson dining hall when I was a sophomore. Before I left I added two glasses of orange juice from a carton James had bought as a mixer. Feeling like a proper host, I went to meet the young woman for the first time, again. I wished I'd put on a different shirt. As long as she'd been as tanked as me though, it would be manageable. If she hadn't... well, we could cross one bridge at a time.

  When I opened the door to my room the blanket ruffled a little too quickly as she pretended to be asleep. She'd covered herself past the neck, hiding her tattoo.

  “You up?” I set the tray on the nightstand. She peeked over her shoulder as if she'd just awoken. “I made some breakfast.” I blushed. These situations were awkward for all parties involved.

  She sat up, the blanket wrapped around her body. I had lucked out last night—she was stunning. Her face was clean and smooth, with high cheekbones and a graceful nose adorned with a small diamond stud. She looked, I thought, like a French ballerina; I could imagine her dancing against a backdrop of snowy pine trees with branches sagging from the weight of ice. If she had one flaw it was that she erred on the youthful side, and looked like she was still in college. Or high school.

  “Look, I'm not very good at this,” I said, rubbing my hands together nervously. “So I'll be honest. I'm afraid I don't remember much.” Her face was impassive and wary. She was trying to decide whether I was hustling her or merely being friendly. I stuck my hand out and forced my biggest, cheesiest smile.

  She pinned the blanket across her chest with one hand and extended the other. The blanket fell half-way, exposing her side. She didn't reach to fix it, and I focused on
her eyes (they were dark blue, almost indigo). “I'm Mary,” she said, taking my hand.

  “And I'm Cliff. Pleased to meet you. I live here.” When I let go her hand fell across her lap. “Now the way I see it, we have two options. First I'll go outside so you can get dressed. If you want, I can call a car to come get you. Or, and I would prefer this, we can get to know each other over breakfast and a cup of coffee.”

  “I'll think it over.”

  “Just knock when you're done.” I said, and left the room.

  After a few minutes she opened the door, holding an English muffin slathered with strawberry jam. She had on a black-and-white striped shirt and tight jeans with washed out thighs.

  “I've decided I'm starving.”

  We ate on my bed with the tray between us. The chit-chat started slow—mostly me telling her how cool I was—but by the time she'd finished her first muffin and slurped down the coffee she'd brightened up. She was in school—college, she clarified—and was working as a receptionist for an advertising office in Manhattan. I asked how she liked it. She liked it OK. When she went for a second muffin she spilled a dollop of strawberry jam on the blanket. She looked at me, horrified.

  “I'm so sorry. Here, let me clean it up.” She looked around for a cloth, a towel—. I'd forgotten to bring up any napkins. We had a pile of them, accumulated over the years from delivery and takeout. They were worse than useless though, slippery as plastic and more likely to spread your mess than clean it up. Still, it would've been the thought that counted.

  “Don't worry about it. The thing needs to be cleaned anyways. Or thrown out.” I tossed it off the bed. She smiled and, as if the blanket had been the reason for her initial shyness, opened up further. I wondered if the incident had been an accident, or a test of my temperament.

  Mary's receptionist job was a summer thing, an effort to hold down the rising tide of student debt as best she could. She also interned, unpaid of course, with a graphic design company that she hoped would hire her once she graduated in December—a semester early. That didn't seem likely, however, even four years later the aftershocks of the Panic had not yet run their course, and she'd most likely have to choose between eking out a living as a part-time receptionist at multiple offices across the city while living in a closet and hoping something better fell out of the sky or, worse, moving back home until the job market picked up. Home, where was that? Home was LaSalle, Michigan—a rink-a-dink town whose most notable accomplishment was winning a state football championship in 1981. No daily commutes to Midtown there. She'd be back to her high school job serving pitchers of beer at the bowling alley. What about myself? Me, I was house-sitting for a friend and working as a personal tutor.