Reclamation

by Gregory L. Beam

  “Right,” says Dresden, once again allowing that predatory leer to linger on Val. “And you got people to handle all that for you. You see, that’s the difference between rich people and regular people: regular people always know exactly how much money they have. When you’re a regular person—not even poor, just regular—you have to know how much money you have, ‘cause if you ain’t careful, you might run out of money. Mind you, even if you are careful, you still might run out, but…” He leans forward, putting a forearm on one knee. “You know what I would absolutely love? I would love—and this is something I fantasize about, something I have wet dreams about—I would love to go one day, just twenty-four solid hours, without having to think about money. That would be like a religious experience for me—I’m talking seventh heaven. ‘Cause I literally cannot remember the last time I went twenty-four hours without having to think about money—specifically, whether or not I had enough of it, the answer to that question almost invariably being ‘not.’ Then wondering where more of it is gonna come from, the answer to that one usually being ‘fuck knows.’ I’m sure my friend Stanley here has similar feelings on the subject. You have similar feelings about that, Stanley?”

  Stanley nods without looking up.

  “Can you remember the last time you went twenty-four hours without having to think about money, Stanley?”

  Stanley shakes his head. “No.”

  “You see,” says Dresden, “this is what it’s like for normal people. This is how normal people go about their lives. This is what you rich folks don’t understand. We have this constant anxiety, this nagging worry about money—it’s like a fly buzzing in your brain 24/7. Even when things are going okay, it’s there, like a ghost… like a shadow hanging over you. ‘Are the gas rates gonna go up this winter?’… ‘What if that rattling in the car engine ain’t just a loose nut?’… ‘What if little Johnny gets another earache?’… ‘Should I be trying to pick up more overtime this month?’… These are things that people like you don’t have to worry about—that you don’t even have to think about, don’t even have time to think about, what with all your board meetings and drivin’ around in your Mercedes-fucking-Benzes.”

  He stares hard at John for a moment and then at Val. “You don’t have time to think about these things. And you know what? We don’t have time to think about ‘em either, but we gotta think about ‘em any-fucking-ways.”

  Dresden sniffs and pulls out a cigarette. He sits back in the chair. “Money’s a weird thing, ain’t it? Most things, the more of ‘em you got, the more you gotta worry about ‘em. Take cars, for instance. Say you got yourself ten cars, that’s ten cars that need to be washed, maintenanced, et cetera. Or kids—well, I don’t have to explain that one to you. But money, the more of it you got, the less you gotta worry about it, ‘cause you can pay other people to worry about it for you. And if you got enough of it, it gets to where you worry about it so fucking little, you forget how much of it you even got.”

  He lights the cigarette and takes a deep drag.

  “We still worry about money,” says Val, “just in a different way.”

  Dresden laughs, coughing up a lungful of smoke. “The only thing you gotta worry about with regard to money is how you’re gonna spend it.”

  “We worry,” Val says, annoyed, “about how best to spend it.”

  “How best to spend it,” Dresden echoes. He nods as though considering this strange concept. Smoke curls about his face.

  “I am on the board of six charitable and cultural organizations,” Val continues, “and it is of great concern to us to what end we are putting the contributions we receive from our donors, including John and myself. Last year alone we donated—”

  “Well,” says Dresden, cutting her off, “that is mighty philanthropic of you.” He hangs the cigarette on his lip and begins a slow clap. “The workers of the world commend you on your, uh, what do you call it—your magnanimity. I think that’s the word I’m lookin’ for.”

  He picks up the revolver. “Here’s a thought for you: instead of your selective fucking patronage, instead of you deciding who needs what, how about letting the people who need the money decide how they’re gonna use it?”

  Val scoffs, despite herself. “That approach might not lend itself to the most… practical allocation of funds. We have to be sure that our resources are being used responsibly.”

  “Your resources?”

  “Yes.”

  John is breathing deeply, looking off to one side.

  Dresden sniffs. “Cause all we poor folk can think of to do with our money is drink, gamble, and fuck it all away, huh?”

  “That’s the third cigarette you’ve had since you got here,” Val observes.

  Dresden smiles and takes a long, luxuriant drag. He looks over at John, shaking the revolver at Val. “Your wife… she is a woman after my own heart. I hope you don’t mind my saying that.” He waits for John to look at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You ain’t the jealous type, I take it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well,” says Dresden, “that’s a good thing. Because I have to say that I am quite the fan of the woman you married. She’s got moxie. On top of that, she’s ‘practical.’ These are two qualities that I deeply admire. I deeply admire. You may have a hard time believing this, but these are qualities that I try to cultivate in myself. I am nothing if not practical. No one ever accused me of not getting something done. Which brings us back to our central concern here tonight.”

  He sits back, resting his forearms on the arms of the tall leather chair. “The leaders of the Reclamation, on behalf of the working men and women of this country—whose opinions have either been shut out or manipulated (through advertising, lobbying, and the unrestricted infusion of money into politics) to run contrary to their own interests—have determined that the conventional avenues to pursue social justice are not only illegitimate but broken. Spoiled. Useless. It has thus been determined that the only practical way forward is for a critical mass of concerned parties to confront the members of the ruling class where they live and take back control of the fruits of our labor, our service, our lives. You are bearing witness to a massive historical movement that begins tonight. It will be swift, and it will be decisive. Very soon, this country will belong to the people again. To the common man. No corporate sponsorship, no Koch brothers watching from the wings—none of that tea-bagger bullshit. We’re reclaiming our country for ourselves and taking down those responsible for despoiling it.”

  “You really think we’re responsible for everything that’s wrong with this country?” says Val.

  “I think you got your share, as surely as you got a share in that company that nets you such a tidy profit while driving up the cost of healthcare.” He turns his head and spits on the floor. “I think a little reading might be in order.”

  He picks up the document from the coffee table and consults the first page, reading with an overblown stateliness, the way a middle-school student might deliver the Gettysburg address:

  “A Declaration of Intent for the Reclamation of the United States of America. Preamble. Whereby… The ruling economic class of the United States of America, through an extensive chronicle of misdeeds in the last century of our country’s history—including rampant financial collusion by public and private entities, corruption of elected and unelected officials, misuse of our country’s military strength, reckless disregard for economic stability and the welfare of common citizens, and the hijacking of our electoral processes—has turned the American dream into a nightmare from which the average American cannot awake; and whereby… the members of the ruling class have demonstrated, collectively and individually, both flagrant disregard for the millions of victims of their misdeeds and an imperviousness to traditional mechanisms for accountability or reprisal—most notably in the form of the court system they own; and whereby… the people of the United States find themselves divested of their
freedom, their economic self-determination, and their basic democratic liberties and powers… The governing commission of the Movement to Reclaim the United States of America deems it necessary and justified to circumvent the established system of so-called ‘justice’ in this country and to address the problem directly, confronting our captors face-to-face and meeting long-standing hostility with swift aggression, miscarried justice with righteous judgment, grievous inequity with true and lasting parity. This night of September the 18th, the year 2016 of the common era, we sovereign citizens of this once and future democratic state and nation do hereby, with our own hands and without the aid of intermediary forces, begin the process of taking back what is rightfully ours.”

  He glances over the other pages. “It gets a little technical after that, but that first part is what you really need to know.” He brandishes the document, then folds it up and deposits it back in the briefcase. As he does so, Val notices a logo at the top margin of the front page, an image that looks like a three-pronged pitchfork rising out of flames.

  Dresden dips his hand once again into the briefcase. He pulls out a crimson-colored file folder and holds it up. “We have some things we’re gonna need you to verify.”

  “Dresden,” says Stanley, joining the conversation at last, “not yet.”

  “Relax,” says Dresden, “I’m not getting their full statements right now, just going over the general outline of the case.” He opens the folder and pulls out two sheets of paper, each with a couple of paragraphs printed on it.

  “We are conscientious citizens,” says Val. “We do our best to give back as much as we take. More than we take.

  “We’re Democrats,” John blurts out.

  Dresden laughs derisively. “That’s like saying, ‘Hey, I’m no Hitler—I’m more like Mussolini.’”

  “Politics aside,” Val says, “we do lots to help people. Two of our children are adopted. One of them is a minority.”

  Dresden looks at John. “Would you care to shut her up, or shall I?”

  Val gasps. John turns to her. “Please, honey,” he says, “let’s hear what they have to say.”

  Dresden raises his hands in a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you.”

  Val looks at John, unable to mask her disdain. John doesn’t quite meet her gaze.

  “Stanley,” says Dresden, “if you would.” Stanley takes one of the papers in each hand and presents them to John and Val.

  “These,” says Dresden, “are your statements. Affidavits, if you will, acknowledging your inclusion in a socioeconomic class that has done extensive, grievous, and in some cases irreparable harm to your fellow citizens; and, by inclusion in said class, you have either directly committed or been complicit in treason against the commonwealth of the United States of America.”

  Their names are printed at the bottom of the pages, beside lines awaiting their signatures.

  Val sneers. “You can’t be serious.”

  “By signing, you attest to your general culpability in the pillaging of our country’s vital economic and human resources.”

  “This is loony,” says Val.

  “This is necessary.”

  “Hang on a second,” says John. “You’re asking us to confess to treason?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “That’s punishable by death.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So is that what this is about?” says Val. “You extract some bogus confession before you execute us?”

  Dresden puts up his hands. “As I say, this form expresses only general culpability. We’ll get to the specific counts on which you’re being held later on.” His hand trolls for a moment in the briefcase before emerging with a ballpoint pen. “Looks like I only brought the one, so you’ll have to share.” He tosses the pen to John, who fumbles it and then picks it up from the carpet. Dresden chuckles. “Got the reflexes of a fatted goose.”

  John looks over the document.

  “It’s really a formality. So if you would…” Dresden waves his fingers, urging John to sign.

  John clicks the pen open and brings it toward the page. Val puts her hand on his wrist, stopping him.

  “You’re not actually going to sign this thing, are you?” She turns to Dresden. “You don’t really expect us to sign this.”

  “Uh… yeah,” says Dresden, “I do.”

  “Honey, it’s fine,” says John. “If this is what they want us to do, then we’ll do it.” Then he adds, under his breath, “It won’t have any legal standing anyway.”

  “You’re right about that,” says Dresden. “This ain’t what you would call a ‘legal’ document because this ain’t a ‘legal’ issue. At least not in the conventional sense of the word. This ain’t court law. This is… I was gonna say martial law, but that ain’t exactly right either. It’s more like citizen’s law. Irregardless, we’re going to require documentation. So if you would…”

  Val digs her fingers into John’s forearm as he brings the pen to the paper and leaves a wild swirl of ink on the page. Dresden squints at the signature. “I guess it’s true what they say about doctors’ handwriting.” He looks at Stanley and laughs. Stanley laughs along half-heartedly. “All right—” he nods to Val “—now you.”

  John hands the pen to Val. She looks at the page for several moments, breathing slowly through her nose. She clicks the pen closed.

  “I won’t do it. I refuse to put my name to something that isn’t true.” She holds the pen up, offering it back to Dresden. “If you want my signature, then you sign for me. It’s fraudulent either way, so what’s the difference?”

  Dresden smiles at her. He stands up and walks over to John.

  “You study pressure points at all in med school, Doc?” Before John can answer, Dresden flips the revolver over in his hand and presses the butt of it into the side of John’s throat, just above his collarbone. He braces John’s opposite shoulder with his free hand, holding him in place.

  John lets out a gasp, then goes silent, a look of blinding pain sweeping over his face.

  “Sign the fucking paper,” Dresden hisses at Val, his face a whirl of molten lead, his wiry arms gripping her husband like a vice.

  Val clicks the pen open and signs. Dresden releases the pressure from John’s throat and pushes him to the floor. John’s body curls into a quivering ball. Dresden collects the papers and hands them to Stanley.

  Val reaches down to touch John’s shoulder. He flinches, and she withdraws her hand.

  Stanley sits on the couch, looking apprehensive, almost scared—like a little boy who’s gotten in over his head. Dresden has the expression of a homeowner looking to remodel, or a kid taking stock of his haul on Halloween. He begins to bob his head up and down, as if moving it to some unheard rhythm. He casts his eyes about the richly appointed room.

  He digs into his pocket and pulls out a flip-phone, the dirt-cheap kind that come with prepaid calling plans. He bats the phone against his palm as he struts about the room.

  “All right,” he says, “now that we’ve got that little preliminary matter squared away—” he flips the phone open and points the tip at Val “—I think it’s time we had ourselves a little fun.”

  CHAPTER FOUR: The Kids Are All Right

  9:23 p.m.

  Jacob is getting an Android when this is over. That much is settled. If he has to look at another iPhone, get invited to another photo stream, hear that goddamn bamboo chime one more time, he swears it’ll send him hurtling over the edge.

  If he hasn’t gone over the edge already. If his band mates could see him now, they’d say he’s lost it—sitting in a toilet stall at some Burlington dive, bawling as he cycles through images he knows will only drive the knife deeper.

  Get out of here, man! You’re too smart to be acting like this. Put the phone away, pick your ass up off the floor, and—

  He’s on Facebook again. He’s suspended and reactivated his account twice tonight already, and here he is again, his fingers moving automatically, a
s if guided by some unseen force that he has no conscious control over—like those epilepsy patients who get their brains cut down the middle, and one side plots to kill the other, raising a hand to the throat and squeezing. That’s more or less what’s happening here, he figures. Some unconscious part of himself is trying to destroy the rest of him.

  He knows that one more look won’t do him any good.

  He knows it will only make the pain worse.

  But there his fingers go, typing Caleb’s name into the search bar, clicking on his profile picture, opening the drop-down menu, selecting “see friendship.” And there it is, a tidy stream of all the pictures they’ve taken together, conveniently organized by date, reaching back to the spring, when they first met; all the pictures that he’s kept hidden from his family, changing his privacy settings so that he won’t have to have that conversation with them.

  It starts with a slew of images from Bob Wills Days, the big Western Swing Festival in Turkey, Texas, where Caleb first asked Jacob to dance and Jacob had just enough tequila in him to agree. He can feel Caleb’s young hands (bigger than his own but softer too, his fingertips free of calluses) warm on his arms and shoulders, his breath hot on his neck, Caleb’s lips ablaze on his own lips as more tequila flowed. It wasn’t the first time he’d hooked up with a guy, but it was the first time he’d done it in public, and the first time it had felt like that—like someone had cracked him open.

  His band mates had been cool about it, taking Caleb aboard as one of their own, not complaining when he showed up at rehearsals, nor when he accompanied them to every stop on their summer tour. It was one happy family, and they caught it all one selfie at a time—cruising through Austin, New Orleans, Atlanta, all the way up to New England, where Jacob has spent the past few days agonizing over whether he has the guts to truck it up to Great Falls with Caleb in tow and force the conversation with his parents that way.

  “Mom, Dad… this is my… my…”

  But that won’t happen now. He won’t be taking his boyfriend to meet his parents because he doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore. The realization lands like a stone on his chest as he sees the most recent photo of the two of them, taken yesterday at American Apparel. In the photo, Jacob waves away the camera, smiling reluctantly in the stupid indigo hoodie that Caleb made him try on.