by Yari Stern
“Trust in the lord but tie your camel to the lamppost,’” Yari quoted.
“And when they leave you, do you care where they go...to the Better Business Bureau, the Attorney General, the fraud division of the police department?”
“I don’t care if the go to hell after I’ve got their money.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Stern’ Dept. Store. Ridge. Ave. Philadelphia, Pa.
Tracy stuck her head in the kitchen and said, “Yari, the mailman’s here.”
Yari pushed aside his plate of fried eggs and hash browns and darted for the door. In the process he knocked his Aunt Toby aside and spilled her glass of milk
“What the hell! It’s just the mail, goddamn it. You act as though he’s delivering money for Christ’s sake.”
Halfway into the store proper Yari turned around and said, “It’s better than money. Money takes up too much room.”
“So what’s--?”
Before Toby could guess, Yari’s back was turned and he was out of the room and on the way to his connection.
“Henry!” Yari exclaimed, like the guy had a cool name.
“Hey boss,” the postal worker replied, deferring to an sixteen year old kid as the one in charge.
“I would ask you how the family is but I really don’t give a fuck.”
“Ha!” Henry replied. “I know deep down inside you really do care. You’re just a mush mouse.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I did return a lost wallet once. Of course that was after I snatched all the money out of it.”
Henry reached in to his bag of tricks and pulled out a brown manila envelope held by a large thick rubber band. “Fresh merchandise,” he said, handing the envelope to Yari.
Yari’s eyes grew wide in anticipation. He quickly pulled off the rubber band and opened the top. Inside were credit cards.
“Never delivered, never signed, no signature to match, no authorization code, Limits from $500 to $25,000,” Henry said, then added, “There's thirty-two cards there. He laughed so hard it set his prodigious belly in motion.”
“Shit. You are the man, Henry. I am duly impressed.”
“Yes, well, now that you’re impressed…how about impressing me?”
Yari pulled out a roll of cash big enough to choke a horse and started peeling off hundred dollar bills.
When he got to one thousand, he stopped and handed the money to Henry.
The mailman pushed it away like it was infected with Bubonic plague. “I hope that was a bonus cause that’s not even a down payment for those cards.”
“I was only fuckin’ with you, Henry. Don’t have a stroke,” Yari said, then began counting out more money.
He stopped at three thousand dollars, leaving a very big dent in his wad of cash.
“I’m light two hundred,” Yari admitted. “Am I good for it?”
“Sure, no problemo. But does that mean you won’t be able to take the next batch? because I’m making deals with the other postmen. I’m givin’ them fifty dollars a card. That’s my own money I’m putting out. So, it’s one hundred a card to you or I talk to Marty the Match. He’s branching out you know.”
“Fuck Marty the Match. I’ll have the dough. As far as you’re concerned this is one stop shopping. You don't want to be spreading the word out on the street that you’re open to the highest bidder. That’ll bring more heat on you than you can stand. Just stick with me, Henry and we’ll keep things very copasetic.”
Henry stared at Yari…thinking. He then nodded his head as if in agreement with himself and said, “I like ya, Yari, but this is business. I’ll have over two hundred and fifty cards next week. That'll be twenty-five thousand dollars. Cash, no excuses, no ‘I owe yous.’ You know the old saying, ‘Excuses are like assholes, everyone’s got one.’”
Yari glared at Henry, not happy he had just been talked down to. “Twenty-five large. You got it, Henry. Call me the day before you’re coming by.”
Henry adjusted the bag on his shoulder, signaling an end to the discussion. “I’ll call you. And if you’re not ready, I’ll call Marty”
CHAPTER NINE
Drexel University. Innovation Class. Phila. Pa.
Professor Marks walked back and forth in front of the blackboard, waiting patiently for the students to filter in.
When the bell rang, he said, “Who would like to begin today’s discussion on what is innovation?”
A young woman raised her hand and was immediately recognized.
“George Kneller said, ‘To think creatively, we must be able to look afresh at what we normally take for granted.”
“And how do we do that?” the professor asked.
No one raised a hand.
“No one?” the instructor asked again.
Yari called out, “Peter Drucker said, ‘The best way to predict the future is to create it.’”
“And if one should fall short in that effort?”
“Edwin Land said, ‘An essential aspect of creativity is not being afraid to fail’,” Yari countered.
“And you are not afraid to fail, Mr. Stern?”
“The only thing I’m afraid of is walking up tomorrow and having it look exactly like today.”
That response brought laughter from the class.
The professor “Ahemed,” restoring order to the room.
“Most of society would not approve of your reasoning, Mr. Stern.”
“Voltaire said, ‘Our wretched species is so made that those who walk on the well-trodden path always throw stones at those who are showing a new road’.”
“A new road is not always a righteous road,” the professor argued.
“Rachelle Mead said, ‘Throughout history, people with new ideas - who think differently and try to change things - have always been called troublemakers.’”
“There is a time to listen and learn and a time to talk and teach,” the professor insisted.
“Eric Hoffer said, ‘In a world of change, the learners shall inherit the earth, while the learned shall find themselves perfectly suited for a world that no longer exists’.”
“Out of context, Mr. Stern,” the professor insisted.
“Well, how about Frank Herbert who said, “Bureaucracy destroys imitative.”
“That does not mean that we should destroy bureaucracy.”
“Bureaucracy is not going to destroy itself, or limit itself. It’s like a cancer. It will continue to grow until some outside, stronger force, acts upon it.”
“And what would that force look like?”
“It would embody individuality, uniqueness, daring.”
“That sounds like you, Mr. Stern,” the professor said mater-of-factly.
“If it looks like a duck, quakes like a duck and walks like a duck, it probably is.”
”A little humility would leave room for more understanding and empathy,”
“I defer to your wisdom, professor.”
“There is a twinge of sarcasm in your tone and remarks, Mr. Stern. A dangerous trait.”
“Monika Zands said, ‘Living life dangerously is the key to recognizing that you can do whatever you want when you stop limiting what you believe in’.”
“It seems that some of your extra-circular activities have made the newspaper, Mr. Stern. Would you suggest others follow your example?”
“We have a choice: pursue your dreams, or be hired by someone else to help them fulfill their dreams.’ Jay Samit”
“May I suggest--,” the professor began as the bell rang, ending the session.
The class gathered their books and made a bee-line for the door.
But before Yari could escape, Professor Marks said, “Spare me a moment, Mr. Stern.”
Yari looked around, trying to decide if he could pretend he hadn’t heard the professor and just slipped into the busy hall, but he saw he was caught. He exhaled a deep breath and stepped back into the class room.
“It seems your exploits have led from rumor to innuendo to confirma
tion, Mr. Stern. You are placing yourself…and this school in jeopardy.”
“It’s all a case of mistaken identity,” Yari assured.
“I think the only mistake is in your decisions.”
“Those who think and act differently than the masses are always hounded by those left behind,” Yari argued.
“The truer path is often the slower one. Guided by past experience and navigated by clear skies and visible stars rather than groping in the dark,” the professor countered.
“The greatest discoveries were made by taking risks.”
“Personal risks, Mr. Stern, not risks involving the reputation of an institution.”
Yari turned to go. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The professor reached out and grabbed Yari’s arm. “You are a young man who has not had time to gain the experience and wisdom of an adult. It would be wise to seek the advice of others further down the path of life.”
“I don’t think anyone would want to accompany me down the road I’m headed.”
“You won’t know if you don’t ask.”
“Wasn’t it C.S. Lewis, in the Screwtape Letters, who said, “The safest road to hell is the gradual one – the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts?’” Yari quoted, as if he demise was ordained
“And you think that path is irreversible?”
“The way back looks even worse.”
CHAPTER TEN
Stern’s Dept. Store. Ridge Ave. Phila. Pa.
“Hey, you little bastard,” Morris roared as he reached out to grab the thief who was trying to elude his grasp.
Yari, who had just finished parking his convertible in a convenient spot out front, stood to the side and watched his uncle collar the shoplifter.
Morris’s words were followed by a string of epithets flowing from the mouth of a black teenager.
“Drop ‘em, you son-of-a-bitch,” Morris fumed, the veins in his forehead pulsating wildly. He shook the kid hard enough to turn his brains into Jell-O. The girls’ dresses dropped to the ground.
Yari reconstructed the events: the hit and run boys had it all planned out, except for running right into the arms of his uncle who was coming down the steps from the second floor of the store. That was where he always went to change his clothes after his shift at the twenty-second precinct. He noted Morris - with tense chin, grave eyes, and stiff stance – as a man always “on the job.”
Yari looked over his uncle’s shoulder to see his father, Sam, hobble out of the kitchen in back before the last “white motherfucker” left the mouth of the one unlucky goniff, then turned back just as the little monster spun out of Morris’s grip and headed for the street.
Yari grabbed the thief by his ruff as he sped past. He used the kid’s forward momentum, to swing him back around and slammed his head against the showroom window, caving in an entire three by six-foot piece of quarter-inch glass. The black youth rebounded off the pane just as a huge, jagged piece of the window slid down from the top. Had his head remained there a second longer, the teen would have been decapitated.
“You’ve got nothin’ on me!” the boy protested with a breaking voice. He was still talking tough, but Yari knew the kid was even more frightened due to the damage his escape attempt had caused.
“No, slick, you’re dirty and done,” Morris spelled out to the punk. “We’ve got you for seven counts of grand theft. You’re going down.”
The kid’s tough facade was cracking.
Sam was now moving to the front as fast as his flat feet and bad knees could carry him, calculating the damage as he surveyed the mess. “We’ve got this handled,” he bluntly instructed Yari.
“I can take care of it,” Yari insisted.
“If you really want to help, become a police officer like your cousin Alan in Miami,” Sam replied, “or a lawyer like your cousin Jerry.”
“Y’all lets me go ‘for I call the cops,” the emaciated juvenile screamed like a banshee.
Yari relaxed his hold on the thief as Morris tightened his grip around the kid’s throat. Yari managed to clip their prisoner on the head with an elbow as he passed along his charge.
“We are the police, boy,” Sam replied, then smacked the kid in the face with his gold detective’s badge in an effort to make a lasting impression. “Robbing a store by more than two people is a federal offense.” He flipped open the holster on his .38 police special for emphasis. “That’s at least twenty years in prison.” His threat made a serious impression; the teen was choking on his tears.
“Hey, I didn’t do nothin’ ta nobody. Whatsha want, anyways?” he begged.
“We want the punks who were with you and every piece of merchandise returned!” Sam demanded.
“We gots nothin’, you gots everythin’. What’s a few pieces mean ta you?”
Sam bent down, twisted one of the boy’s ears, and whispered, “If we don’t get it all back, we’re going to lock you up and spread the rumor that you’re a flaming queen who likes to catch more than pitch.” Sam smiled with satisfaction at the thief’s transfixed gaze.
“No Mr. Officer, you can’t give me up like dat!” their prisoner pleaded; eyes begging for mercy.
Yari enjoyed every minute of the suffering, watching as the scrawny thing looked around for an angel of mercy to save him.
“It’s the Hershey Speedway for you, sweets.” Sam blew him a kiss.
“I be your man, Mr. Police,” the kid replied with beseeching hands.
Morris said to Sam. “Nice job. He would’ve rolled over on his own family.”
Sam and Morris dragged the kid into the store.
“Here’s a phone,” Sam offered the punk. “You’ve got one chance to get it right. Get ‘em back here with the goods, now.” He whacked him in the cheek with the mouthpiece for added incentive.
As the boy began dialing, Yari wedged himself into the conversation between his father and uncle.
“It’s becoming a battle of attrition, Morris,” Sam said. “And that’s a battle we can’t win.”
“So what are we supposed to do, close up?” Morris asked.
“It’s bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe we can get out before there’s nothing left to sell, and no one to sell it to,” Sam replied.
“But the business has been in the family for forty years,” Morris countered.
“Times have changed. We’re living in a jungle now,” Sam admitted.
“So what…just walk away?” Morris asked.
“I just don’t know anymore,” Sam replied.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, with the goods returned to the store and their hostage free to wreak havoc on others, Yari followed Sam and Morris to the back of the store. Upon reaching the kitchen, Yari sat down and asked, “Why let him go? Why not get the stuff back and slam him and his friends in jail anyway?”
“The code on the street is for things to end up a draw, for each party to wind up no better than even,” Sam said, trying to explain an age-old concept. “A winner means a loser looking for revenge.”
Sam then reunited with his roast beef sandwich and the last few minutes of the afternoon news on Channel Three, while Morris sorted through well-stocked shelves.
“It’s not going to work,” Sam said after watching the brutality meted out to passive civil rights marchers in Selma, Alabama.
“What’s that, Sam?” Morris asked, peeking into the refrigerator for any food that hadn’t turned rancid.
“Giving people something they haven’t earned,” Sam replied. “W e can’t make up for past inequities with give always. It worked better or us prior to the civil rights legislation. Before all those damn rulings it was based on reciprocity. Our customers trusted us due to mutual regard. Now those same people demand respect as if it’s a right, not a privilege to be earned.”
Sam kept one eye on the television that was broadcasting the aftermath of race riots in Little Rock, Arkansas, while continuing to dispen
se his philosophy. “This absurdity the government’s handing down like an endowment is only widening the chasm. It’s the same as dangling a carrot in front of a rabbit. You let him see what’s available, whet his appetite, but never provide the nourishment. It only adds to his frustration.”
Sue, the oldest saleswoman at the store, walked into the kitchen and into the middle of her favorite topic: race. She was a card-carrying member of the Communist Party, and relished the opportunity to indoctrinate anyone violating the precepts set down by Karl Marx.
The family put up with the gray-haired, wide-hipped, haughty-speaking woman due to her life-long relationship with Bub. She was the only one who could stand the stench of his grandmother during Bub’s monthly cleaning ceremony.
“There you go,” Sue chimed in,” talkin’ about us like you know somethin’ more than the color of our skin.” Sue set her lunch pail on the table, sharpened her focus, and continued, “To you, blacks are just captive customers paying cash for merchandise you could never sell in better neighborhoods.” As she spoke, she rummaged through her food container, pulling out various ingredients. “You’re the police but when my people come to you with stolen property, you reward them for robbing their neighbors and help move evil along.” Sue broke off for a moment, enticed by the odor of fresh anchovies emanating from poorly wrapped plastic.
“We don’t want to hear that shit, or smell it, either,” Yari said.
“You better watch yourself, boy,” Sue warned, while playing with the numerous talisman dangling from the chain around her neck. “There’s forces in the universe you don’t understand. An’ they gonna swoop down and take away everything you care about!”
Yari sensed the evil eye. Even with his formal education, it wasn’t something he could merely fluff off. Growing up in Strawberry Mansion section of Philadelphia in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s, friends and neighbors turned to witches just as often as doctors to cure unknown ailments or ward off sinister spirits.
But then, reverting to cold, modern logic, he quickly regrouped. “That socialist crap won’t work here. Marx called for the workers of the world to unite,” Yari retaliated. “Your people don’t qualify. They sit on their lazy asses and--”