by Yari Stern
“We have a government capable of dealing with such inequities.”
“The government is run by the rich. They set the agenda which coincides with their philosophy of ‘what’s good for us is good for the country’. And the economists, for the most part, have sucked up to that money.”
“Generalizations do not form the basis of any philosophy.”
“Risk and rewards,” Yari argued.
“By that you mean…?”
“The higher the risk, the higher the possible payout has to be for people to jump.”
“And have you taken that leap, Mr. Stern?”
“Like an Olympian broad jumper.”
“What of those left behind?”
“John Green said, “If you’re rich, you have to be an idiot not to stay rich. And if you are poor, you have to be really smart to get rich.”
The class broke out in laughter at that remark.
“We live in a democracy, Mr. Stern, where there is equal opportunity, insured by a duly elected government,” the professor insisted.
“America is no more a democracy than Russia is a Communist state. The governments of the U.S. and Russia are practically the same. There's only a difference of degree. We both have the same basic form of government: economic totalitarianism. In other words, the settlement to all questions, the solutions to all issues are determined not by what will make the people most healthy and happy in the bodies and their minds but by economics. Dollars or rubles. Those in power, put there by the donations and backing of the rich, let nothing interfere with economic growth, even though that growth is castrating truth, poisoning, turning a continent into a shit-heap and driving an entire civilization insane. Don't spill the Coca-Cola, and keep those monthly payments coming.”
Some of the students clapped for Yari.
“Cynicism is a detriment to the individual and society,” the professor warned.
“Ayn Rand said, ‘We are fast approaching the stage of the ultimate inversion: the stage where the government is free to do anything it pleases, while the citizens may act only by permission.’”
“It seems you are looking for justifications of your actions, Mr. Stern.”
“Me? How about the rich who run a global system that allows them to accumulate capital and pay the lowest possible price for labor. The freedom that results applies only to them. The many simply have to work harder, in conditions that grow ever more insecure, to enrich the few. Government is actually in the pocket of those bankers, media barons and other moguls who run and own everything.”
“The IMF and World Bank have modulated economies and balanced production and distribution in the world,” the professor said.
“The IMF and the World Bank are like mad surgeons. They go in to a country, force it to cut wages, lay off workers, produce for export instead of their own people, and sell off public property to cronies for less than its value; that's called ‘economic reform’.”
The bell rang. Students grabbed their book and headed for the door. Several stopped to slap Yari on the back.
Before Yari could slip out the door, Professor Monroe called out, “Mr. Stern, could you come here for a moment?”
Reluctantly, Yari walked over, set his books down and eye-balled the professor, trying to discern what the man wanted so he could make up some appropriate lie.
“I have a personal matter to discuss with you, Mr. Stern.”
“You have my fullest attention.”
“I would like to think the matter will remain between just us.”
“Of course,” Yari replied, still uncertain as to the direction things were headed.
“My twentieth wedding anniversary is in two weeks.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yes, well, I don’t think congratulations will be in order if I do not have an appropriate gift to give my lovely, but somewhat materialistic, wife.”
Yari now saw it clearly. “Is there some service I can provide that might assist you in such a personal matter?”
“It is my understanding that you work as a sort of middle man.”
“Yeah, you could call it that.”
“Yes, well, I am not one to pass judgment on the affairs of others,” he said, having done so just moments before.
“You have a specific gift in mind for the little woman?”
“A diamond ring.”
“Ooh,” Yari feigned.
“I want to give her something that she would not be uncomfortable wearing. I don’t want to give her a diamond so big she’ll be afraid to wear it.”
“She probably has more daring than you imagine…especially when it comes to showing off.”
“Do you have anything with you?”
“No, I just bring a catalogue.”
“Oh…really?”
“That’s fence humor,” Yari said, taking out as handkerchief and opening it up like he was a genie showing the magic lamp.
There were four diamonds.
“Are they pillows?”
“Ashers. The Pillows have a sight arc to the sides; the Ashers don’t.”
Yari handed the professor one of the diamonds. Hold it up to the light and look through it.”
“I see yellow.”
“That’s the body color. It’ll be either brown or yellow. The colors start with D. D stones have no color.”
“How far up the alphabet do the colors go?”
“All the way to Z.”
“What grade is this stone?”
“G.”
“Is that a good color?”
“That’s a very good color. The nitrogen gives it the yellow. A perfect diamond is composed simply of light.”
“Do you have any perfect diamonds?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“You couldn’t afford a perfect diamond unless your salary went from thirty thousand a year to three hundred thousand a year.”
“What is the grade of this stone?”
“VS-1. That’s conservative.”
“I like it. How many carats?”
“One point four.”
“What will people say when they see the diamond? I mean will they belittle the stone?”
“The only things you can speak about with diamonds are its flaws. Perfect is for the next world.”
“How much is it?” the professor asked trepidatiously.
Yari drew the man in and whispered in his ear.
The professor took in a deep breathe and let it out slowly.”
“Hey, that’s wholesale. You’d be looking at three times that much if you insisted on going into a store and becoming fodder for the next cannon shot.”
“It’s not a ‘Blood Diamond’ is it?”
“All diamonds cause somebody to bleed. Whether it’s the workers who dig, or the miners who use pick axes and dynamite, or the wholesalers who cheat both of them, or the stone cutters who cut them wrong and create flaws but lie and try to cover them up, or the retailers who lie about the quality. If you’re worried about bad karma, I would become a celibate monk, never buy anything, live in a cave and don’t even discuss the weather, which will only be your opinion and if someone takes your words verbatim and gets swept off in a sudden downpour, then all your good karma is washed away.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bryn Mar, Pa. Ten miles west of Philadelphia.
The home was set a quarter of a mile off the main road. Entry was down a manicured gavel path.
Yari held up binoculars, studying the target. He was wearing dark clothes and running shoes. He put down the binoculars and smeared his face with black camouflage cream.
Even though he was still a teenager, he had done this a dozen times, but it didn’t get any less stressful. He already had two juvenile convictions for theft. But those were before the age of sixteen. If they caught him this time he would be charged as an adult.
Each time he rolled the dice, the odds built up against him, but at the same time his sk
ills had improved. He was very good at statistics and the stats he relied upon said it was unlikely he’d ever get caught.
According to the delivery people he paid off, the owners were away for the weekend and no one would be house-sitting for them.
Yari glided through the trees, making his way toward the house. He wore a backpack carrying his tools of the trade to free his hands.
The night was cool but beads of sweat popped up on his forehead.
An unexpected sound caused him to stop. Headlights hit him in the face. A car drove in to the house next door; too far away for anyone to see him.
He continued on cautiously. All that separated him from the mansion now was a stretch of lawn.
One final check of his surroundings, then he set off, long strides eating up the ground. He made no sound.
Yari stopped by the door: thick rosewood with reinforced steel. He took off his backpack, opened it, put on plastic gloves and took out a ring of keys given him by his friend Jerry who ran a locksmith shop. He sold many of the upgraded security systems for the fancy homes on the Main Line. He never knew which house the lock wound up on. His knowledge stopped when he sold them to the contractors. But he kept a spare key to every system he sold…just in case.
Yari had twenty keys on the ring. Statistics indicated that each key had a 5% chance of being the one. Luck was on his side; the fifth key unlocked the door. He turned the knob and the pushed it open. He eyes immediately focused on the infrared security detector. It began beeping, counting down from thirty seconds.
The seconds in his head were ticking away faster than on his watch. Time seemed to be speeding up.
Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen.
Yari took out the paper Jerry had given to him. There were ten sets of numbers to the last ten security boxes built for Western Security. Just like the keys, Jerry didn’t know which box went to which house, so it was a numbers game.
Yari tried the first set of number. Nothing. The beeping got louder.
Sweat accumulating on his forehead now trickled down his face, running into his eyes, causing them to burn.
Eleven, ten, nine.
No luck with the second, third, and fourth set.
Eight, seven, six.
Fifth and sixth set, same result.
Five, four, three.
He tried the seventh set. The lights on the security detector went from red to green.
Yari allowed himself to exhale, then picked up his backpack and moved across the foyer. He realized then just how vast the home was.
Once inside, he took out a small flashlight that operated on infrared rather than luminous white light. He surveyed the living room. Oriental carpet on the floors, museum quality art on the walls. Shaker furniture. Nice shit he thought, but too bulky to carry out.
An Andy Warhol poster, signed, limited edition, hung on the wall leading up to the second floor. Yari moved past it, stopped, went back and studied it. He admired the work for another moment, then almost grudgingly, he moved on, up toward the second floor.
Yari walked down the second-floor hall, past a series of framed photographs. Family photos than made his stomach turn. Too much goodness for him to internalize.
He found the master bedroom and opened the door revealing a huge room.
Yari studied himself in front of a very large full-length mirror across from the king-sized canopied bed. Then he realized something that made him smile. He ran his fingers around the glass until he found a small button. When he pressed the button, the mirror gave way, revealing a large walk-in closet.
He expected a decent haul, but what he saw made his heart stop. Two fire-proof boxes. Small, but bolted to the wall. He set his backpack on the ground and took out an electric drill. Not a Sears’s Craftsman tool for a weekend warrior, but a high-speed Milwaukee 1/2-inch Drill Driver with 725 in-lbs of torque and a max RPM of 1850. The only downside: it weighted 4.9 pounds, over a pound heavier than compact models. Along with the drill, he brought tungsten steel bits.
Yari took off his jacket, dropped to his knees, pressed the drill bit against the key slot and turned on the tool.
It didn’t scream like most drills, rather, it gave off a hum and a whirling sound. Flakes of metal flew from the key slot as the bit widened the space.
It took less than five minutes for the bit to go all the way through. Yari hammered a screwdriver into the slot and turned. The lid popped open nice as could be, revealing a shit load of jewelry, watches, rings. He slid the pieces into a bag and went to work on the second box.
That one was a little bigger and a little stronger and he wondered what would be in it if the smaller box contained what it did.
It took fifteen minutes to break through the lock. Inside was cash. He guessed around three thousand dollars.
Yari wasted little time in consolidating the take, gathering up his tools, and filling the backpack.
But just as he slipped on his jacket, he heard the crunching of stone in the driveway.
When he looked out he saw a white Cadillac Sedan Deville pull up to the round about and stop at the front door. Two people got out. He recognized the man and woman from pictures hanging on the wall. Not what he expected: the early return of the owners.
Then the sound of keys in the door. The beep of the alarm, the pressing of the buttons on the security pad, the silencing of the alarm.
Quiet conversation. Feet on the stairs, laughter.
Yari, grabbing his backpack, took a deep breathe, then hid behind a rack of clothing. He was alone in the darkness…but for how long?
Yari moved into the back of the closet, crouched down, doing his best to hide. Trapped, he waited in silence, trying not to breathe.
He heard a squeak as the bedroom door opened.
A slant of light came in from the hall outside through the open bedroom door.
Two people were briefly visible as they entered the room. Subdued laughter. The woman closed the bedroom door. Darkness again. The laughing sound increased, turning to giggles.
Yari started to perspire.
The woman flicked on the lights. The burst of light hit him like a fist.
There was a whispered conversation between the man and woman.
The woman opened the closet door, slipped out of her dress, then picked through the rack of clothing looking for something appropriate to wear for bed.
She separated some garments and…stared directly into Yari’s face.
She screamed.
Her husband rushed over.
Yari bolted from the closet. They ran into each other. Yari, bigger, stronger, faster, bowled the man over.
Yari flew down the steps, out the door and down the driveway…followed by screams and curses.
He made it to safety, but at what price? Destroying the lives of two people who probably never did a wrong thing in their lives. Maybe inducing a heart attack. Maybe leaving behind some incriminating evidence in his rush to escape.
All for just enough money to keep his enterprises going for a few more weeks.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Drexel University. Physics 101. Phila, Pa.
It was an elective course for Yari who was studying history for the most part. But it mattered in many ways. Diversity of classes would be considered in his application to grad school. Secondly, the subject fascinated him. After all, Einstein, Diarac, Feynman, Heisenberg were all physicists…some of the greatest minds that ever roamed the earth.
While Yari considered all that, he missed the opening statements by Professor Minsky.
He was caught off guard when the professor asked, “Do you agree with that premise, Mr. Stern?”
“Uh, could you repeat that, sir?”
“Only if you promise to be listening this time.”
The class got a laugh out of that. But shut it down when the instructor glared back.
“Physics is vital Mr. Stern. It would behoove you to remember that.”
“Richard Feynman said ‘Physics isn’t the most
important thing. Love is’.”
“Yes, well Feynman was an eccentric.”
“Feynman said we shouldn’t memorize anything we can look up.”
“Yes, well, you are not Feynman and you will have to make observations regarding quantum physics and draw well thought conclusions based on those observations.”
“Quantum physics says that to observe an object changes its nature,” Yari elucidated. ‘If something is unobservable, it is not part of science. If there is no way to confirm a hypothesis, it belongs to the realm of metaphysical speculation, together with astrology and spiritualism. By that standard, most of the universe has no scientific reality. It's just a figment of our imaginations.”
“Even a figment can be analyzed, Mr. Stern,” the professor insisted.
“Werner Heisenberg said, ‘The smallest units of matter are not physical objects in the ordinary sense; they are forms, ideas which can be expressed only in language’,” Yari argued.
“Physicists have come to realize that mathematics, when used with sufficient care, is a proven pathway to truth,” the professor challenged.
“Pierre-Simon Laplace said, ‘An intelligence knowing all the forces acting in nature at a given instant, as well as the momentary positions of all things in the universe, would be able to comprehend in one single formula the motions of the largest bodies as well as the lightest atoms in the world--.’”
“Yes, that is--.”
“--provided that its intellect were sufficiently powerful to subject all data to analysis,” Yari went on, “then nothing would be uncertain, the future as well as the past would be present to its eyes. Yet the human mind has been able to give to astronomy but a feeble outline of such intelligence.”
“Not being certain, not arriving at absolute answers should not preclude our seeking,” the professor retorted. “We absolutely must leave room for doubt or there is no progress and there is no learning. There is no learning without having to pose a question. And a question requires doubt. People search for certainty. But there is no certainty.”