The Merchants of Zion

by William Stamp

  “You know, this neighborhood doesn't seem too dangerous,” I said through a mouthful of biscuit. “All of the violence I've seen has come from you.” I tore the tissue from my cheek. It was the caked-mud color of dried blood.

  “Very funny. I think everyone would agree you were asking for it.” She added a drumstick to the death pit, no longer hiding behind a mask of femininity.

  “That's like the catch-phrase for whatever happens to white people in Leopold Heights.”

  “You think you're so much smarter than everybody. Why don't you get a real job and prove it?”

  “I'm going to wait 'til you hit it big with Pterodactyls and Talking Heads. Then I'll propose.”

  “And if that never happens?”

  “Unlike James, I'm risk averse. I've got a few prospects lined up. I think of it as a female mutual fund.”

  “And you're going to end up just like every other investor—penniless and suicidal. Just don't jump out of my window.” We both laughed. Her head tilted upward, drawing my attention to a fine-linked gold chain looped around her neck before tapering off and vanishing into her shirt.

  “Is there something at the end of your necklace?”

  “This?” She fished it out. A gold medallion was attached to the chain. Ruth showed it to me, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. A man's face was engraved on it. “It's St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. My mom gave it to me to keep me safe.”

  She brought it to her mouth and bit down gently, grinning. “Where were you staring that you'd notice it?”

  Blood rushed to my cheeks, though I imagined they were plenty rosy already. “I didn't know you were Catholic,” I said, feeling bashful.

  “You're no fun,” she pouted. She dropped the necklace and it rested on the outside of her shirt.

  When we finished eating we thanked the kid and the rest of the staff, who had finished closing up and were standing behind the counter, waiting for us to leave.

  Ruth tried calling her car. “Shit,” she said. “My boss needed it. For an emergency.”

  “You could call one? One driven by a human being,” I said. “Like a normal person.”

  “You think they come out here? Yeah right. Can I crash at your place?”

  “Sure. James is gone. You can sleep on the couch.”

  We waited on the Green Line's elevated platform. A trio of guys who looked like they'd been at the show lounged at the other end, smoking cigarettes and eyeing Ruth. I moved to block their view. Between our parties lay a homeless man, wrapped in a sleeping bag and dozing beneath a bench.

  “Look,” I said, pointing at him.

  “Should we report him?” Ruth asked.

  “Let him enjoy his freedom,” I said. “I'm sure he'll get scooped soon enough.”

  Ten story buildings lined the opposite side of the track. Every window was broken. Some were boarded. “This place is so decrepit,” I said.

  “It's really sad. I can't believe how empty it feels,” Ruth said.

  “Yeah. It's like people have just picked up and left.”

  The train arrived, clattering along the track and screeching to its thirty-second halt. We were alone in the car. Ruth rested her head against my shoulder and nodded off.

  Some time later the train stopped. A human voice broke out over the intercom, “Ladiesandgentlemenwehavestaticswhilewestaticbepatient.” The train car's lights shut off one by one and when they came back on several seconds later I had both hands on Ruth's waist and she was in my lap. She straddled me, her bare knees planted on the hard plastic of the subway seat. Years of resentment burst forth over the invisible walls built between two conscious minds. I pressed my lips against her neck, tasting the dried sweat. Ruth pressed both palms against my cheeks and her mouth found mine.

  Our emotions were raw and in sync, battling for dominance as my soul ached, threatening to snap like the mast of a storm-tossed ship. Her teeth sank into my lower lip. I felt the pin-point of pain, miles away. We were not each other's stars, but a tempest of unadulterated fury and hate. Time was too short and the future too uncertain to muss about with the pervading glow of love.

  The metal buttons on her shorts were cold and slippery and hard for me to grasp with my drunk, sweaty hands. After a moment of fumbling, I managed to wedge one thumb under the first button and push it up through the loop. Her underwear was black and glossy. She pushed her hands under my shirt, digging her fingernails into my back.

  I unbuttoned my own pants and slid them past my knees. Ruth lifted one knee and then the other as I pulled her shorts past each awkward crook. They got stuck on her ankles, and as she reached back to remove them the train lurched, flinging her to the floor. When she tried to stand her shorts tangled her up and she fell back down. I hooked one of her arms with mine to help steady her, and she clambered next to me. Her face shone with perspiration and she was inhaling deeply. She pulled up her shorts and I followed suit.

  “Say, when we get back—” I began.

  “I think I'm going to throw up.”

  “Come on. It wasn't that bad.”

  “Just. Be quiet. Please.” She leaned her head to the edge of the bench and gagged. The second time she puked. I could see chunks of barely-digested chicken in the puddle.

  “It... it was too much,” she said. “The booze, the chicken, the—you.” She took a tissue from her purse and wiped her mouth. Then she slumped back, her head hanging down between her shoulders. Her face had taken on a defeated, ashen hue. She muttered, “I hate... I hate... I hate...” over and over again, clutching her knees and rocking back and forth. The night had battered down the doors of one hidden psychic room after the other, revealing a tender Ruth, stripped of her characteristic hauteur.

  The omnipresent toneless, feminine voice droned over the speakers. “Ladies and Gentleman, please report any suspicious activity or unattended baggage to the train's operator. Liberty Transportation relies on you to help keep our city safe.”

  I tapped my cheek where she cut me and asked, smiling, “So who got it worse tonight, you or me?”

  Her face tightened, but no smile appeared. “You're lip's bleeding.” She took out another tissue and dabbed it on my lip. There were tears in her eyes and streaks of eyeliner down her cheeks.

  “You're very physical tonight,” I said.

  “Ha. Ha. Ha. I feel better now, thanks for asking.” She was retreating, and I regretted the joke. We spend so much time hinting and inferring at what's underneath that we don't realize the delicacy needed for emotions exposed like bone.

  “What was it you were saying you hated?”

  A dusky shroud fell over her face, earnest and reserved. “Why don't you ever break down? I remember that even when your mother...” she didn't finish, letting the thought linger in the air.

  I knew Ruth was emotionally detached, but had never thought to level the same criticism at myself. When my mother died I'd cried, but not in front of anyone—not my sister or father, and definitely not Ruth.

  “You know, the ladies like it when a man is vulnerable.” Ruth goaded.

  “Well, first of all, I think 'the ladies' are in general more complicated and interesting than the men, so they have a greater proclivity for outbursts. But even if I don't wear my feelings on my sleeves, that doesn't mean I don't have them.”

  “Well first of all,” Ruth said aggressively, “don't hide behind your thoughtful sounding bullshit. I've seen loads of guys cry. They cry more than we do, but not in front of each other because their tough guy posturing won't let them. And I wasn't accusing you of not having feelings.”

  “I cried by myself when my mother passed away.”

  “I don't care about that. The whole point is that everything overwhelm you so much that you can't control it! Also, only crying when you're alone is pretty pathetic.”

  “What are you, my conscience?”

  “Ugh.” Ruth was now sitting with her feet on the seat, shoes discarded on the floor. She leaned against the rail
and dug her toes into my thighs. “Your emotions are like cockroaches. When you shine a light on them they run away and hide. Know what? Forget I asked.”

  “Wait. Do you remember when you called me on Valentine's Day?” She nodded. “You'd gotten off work early, and called to see what I was doing. I could tell you wanted me to invite you out—I wanted to, but I didn't.”

  “Why would I have wanted you to invite me out?”

  “Whatever. I was too proud. I felt like you would be winning if I did. Because you got me to act the way you wanted. Breaking down is like that—whoever sees me cry wins. And I hate losing,” I finished.

  “No one spends that much time thinking about you. You're delusional,” she said, her previously stony tone undercut by a note of teasing.

  “Yeah, but you already knew that.” She finally smiled, and I laughed. “Are you going to throw up again?”

  She gave me a dirty look. I guffawed, then took her hand. We moved to another seat—criminals fleeing the scene.

  The train went underground and became a subway, the empty buildings and scattered lights replaced with darkness punctuated by the glow of maintenance lamps. When we came to our stop I helped Ruth out of the station. She was unsteady and stumbled as we went up the steps. Once outside she threw up into a trash can, then collapsed to her knees.

  “I thought you were feeling better,” I said.

  “I was,” she groaned. “I don't even feel drunk.”

  “What were you drinking tonight?”

  “Vodka.”

  “You should stick to beer. I persuaded her to ride piggyback, holding her legs as she wrapped her hands around my neck. I could feel her chin resting on my clavicle and her sharp, shallow breaths whistled in my ear.

  “You're usually good about not getting sick. I don't know if I've seen you this bad since we were freshmen.” Ruth didn't respond—she'd fallen asleep. When we reached my house I woke her up and forced her to drink about a gallon of water. The first glass ended up in the toilet, but the second stayed down. I took her upstairs and laid her in my bed. I asked if she was up for anything else, and she responded with a soft snore. Slightly disappointed, I turned off the lights and slid in beside her.

  She looked like death the next morning, and either didn't remember what had happened after the show or she pretended not to. Her memory conveniently faltered right before our screaming match.

  On the way out she thanked me for taking care of her last night. She kissed me goodbye, full-bodied and on the lips, leaving me in the doorway and with even less understanding of her motivations and intentions than before.

  Leopold Heights Really Really Free Market and Gardening Extravaganza

  Join Megan and Erin the first Sunday of every month to reclaim public space for public use and to practice mutual aid and solidarity! Participate in tending Leopold Heights's largest urban garden! Get stuff that you need from the really really free market! Participate in a late night drum circle beneath the beauty of the full moon!

  Self-sufficiency and community interdependence are key to liberating oneself from brutal capitalist exploitation. Everyone can contribute as much or as little as they're able, and are also welcome take as much food as they think they're family can eat. Get there at seven to pull weeds and join us in the afternoon for a public barbecue where we'll grill up some delicious, garden-grown veggies for all of us to share.

  After the barbecue we'll kick off the really really free market. There is no swapping, or bartering, or selling here. This is the future: an alternative, gift based economy where people take what they need and leave behind what they don't. Late capitalism produces more in a day than we can consume in a lifetime, and we want to see all of that extra, perfectly good stuff put to good use instead of taking up space in landfills and contributing to global climate change.

  Feel free to bring any vegan/vegetarian food like you, potluck style! Also, clothing and hygiene products are sorely needed. BRING DRUMS!

  9. Chicago

  I arrived at Penn Station on Monday just before seven, toting a red canvas suitcase my mother had given me for our final Christmas together. It was ragged and beat to shit, but until it disintegrated it was coming with me on every trip. Helen and Elly were running late, and I went outside and smoked my sole remaining cigarette. It would be my last one ever. Since I was going to be with Elly almost every waking moment for the next seven days, it seemed a good time to quit once and for all. Cold turkey, not the slow cutting back from one a day to one every other day to one a week that always ended with me drinking and smoking with strangers at a bar or concert. There would be no drinking this week—except on the fourth of July, which I was spending with a college friend pursuing his PhD in Chicago—and hence only a scant twenty-four hours to exacerbate my weak discipline and poor judgment.

  I smoked it down until the smoldering paper burned my fingers. Before, I'd been feeling sluggish and sticky like a sack of tar, but the nicotine buzz had my brain juices flowing. Next: caffeine. I entered a nearby coffee shop, empty inside except for a large black woman behind the counter. I ordered a medium—as I insisted when asked if I meant tall. Her name was Beverly, according to the name tag hanging crooked off one breast, and her unpleasant demeanor proved immune to my winningest smile.

  She gave me my coffee. A laminated sign reading “We pay rent too!” was taped to the serving counter, and Beverly muttered when I tipped her zero dollars and zero cents. I thanked her regardless—ignoring her blatant rudeness—and sat down at a counter looking out on the street. When I sipped my coffee my stomach grumbled; last night I'd eaten two cans of green beans for dinner. James had said he would buy groceries, but he wasn't returning from his business trip upstate until the afternoon and I hadn't wanted to buy food for him to plunder while I was gone. And the bodega on the corner had been closed.

  I returned to the counter and bought a chocolate-chip cookie to stave off the hunger. Once again I tipped her zero dollars and zero cents. It was hard not to smirk; I felt bad for her, trapped in this sucky job that made her wake up before dawn to deal with assholes like me and, I was certain, assholes much worse. For all those reasons and more I didn't begrudge her the unpleasant demeanor, but I bristled at the injustice of her opprobrium. None of it was my fault, but that didn't prevent her from hating me for it. She was stuck on the level of simple antagonism between server and customer interfacing, but for me the absurdity of it all was too amusing; we were no more than two peasants hedged in by forces beyond our control, glaring at each other through gaps in the bocage.

  The cookie was rock hard, and I broke it into pieces to dip into my coffee like biscotti. I doubted this place received fresh baked good every day; there was probably a freezer in the back with their yearly supply.

  I'd seen dueling street vendors outside selling coffee for half what I'd paid, but I was on the precipice of a big trip—and I'd quit smoking—and deserved the indulgence.

  Dedicated coffee shops had been another victim of the Panic, and could only be found in parts of the city as dinosauric as Midtown. During my first year of college there had been one on every block, and by the time I'd graduated it had swelled to two. I 'd had a favorite street corner where I could stand and see a dozen different shops at once. It had been coffee mania.

  But all good things—things like subprime student loans, employee tranches, and space tourism—must come to an end, and the coffee bubble popped. One store shuttered after another, and with the single month's macchiato budget of a status obsessed ladder climber I could have transformed my kitchen into the laboratory of a chemist with a glass fetish.

  Several trains must have arrived at the same time, as a torrent of people suddenly poured forth from the station entrance. Business men and women from Long Island, retail workers from New Jersey, and VP's from Connecticut flooded from the station. Several straggled inside the coffee shop. Beverly served them with the same contempt she'd shown me, which made me feel better. Between seven and seven fifteen, I counte
d a total of nine customers. The lines at the street vendors' carts threatened to stretch around the block.

  A car stopped at the curb and Helen got out, holding Elly's hand and a pink, child-sized suitcase with the designer's logo patterned in burgundy. Elly was wearing pajamas and her yellow bumblebee backpack. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. Helen led her into the coffee shop.

  Elly climbed onto a stool next to me. Helen went to order.

  “You excited, Ells Bells?” I asked.

  “You bet! It's gonna be an adventure.”

  “I hope not. Did you bring anything to do on the train?”

  “Yeah, look at the present Daddy gave me.” She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a sleek tablet. A Zephyr. “The Size of Perfection, the Weight of the Wind.” Their advertisements were all over. The thing was as thick as a credit card, flexible as a sheet of paper, and supposedly indestructible. It wasn't cheap.

  “You know what else he did for me?”

  “No, what?”

  “He put all of Eponymals on it so I can watch them on the train. Every single one ever.”

  “How thoughtful of him.” I hated that show.

  “You can watch them with me too if you want. We can share,” she added.

  “Did you get any new books?” She had: loaded on the tablet was the newest The Confectioner's Tales—subtitled The Warlock in the Attic—and two children's science books. One was about black holes, quasars, and other astronomical phenomena. The other was about human genetics.

  “Did you know that Mr. Mendel discovered genes and for a hundred years nobody listened to him? That's not even fair.”

  “No it's not.”

  “But America finally did. The Soviet Union had really dumb ideas about it—” she paused as Helen placed a cup in front of her.

  “Thank you Mommy. What is it?”