Spoiled Brats: Short Stories

by Simon Rich

  My eyes widen. I was not expecting this.

  “Twelve dollars,” I say firmly. “That is price.”

  “That’s outrageous,” she says. “I’ll give you six and you’ll be lucky to get it.”

  “Ten dollars,” I say. “And you can choose which jar.”

  “The jars are all the same,” she says. “I’ll give you seven and that’s final.”

  “It must be ten.”

  “It must be seven.”

  “Nine!” I shout.

  “Eight!” she screams.

  “Fine!” I say.

  She laughs. I must admit, part of me is impressed.

  She takes out her dollars and I pluck them from her hand, careful not to touch her ungloved fingers.

  “Now can you take a break?” she asks.

  “Is fine,” I say, after some thought.

  We walk to curb across the street, so I can keep eyes on cart. She asks me where I am living and I tell her about Vortex Factory.

  “Wow,” she says. “You’re turning into a real hipster.”

  I do not know this word, so I just nod.

  “It is good you are here,” I tell her.

  She smiles at me.

  “How come?”

  “Because you must deliver this to Simon.”

  I reach into coat and pull out wad of bills.

  “It is a hundred and thirty dollars,” I tell her. “I calculate one week’s rent inside his house, plus the cost of board.”

  She opens her mouth like she is going to argue, but I silence her with look of major violence.

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “I’ll give it to him the next time I see him.”

  “When will that be?” I ask. I am eager for my debt to be settled.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “We’re kind of in a fight right now.”

  “About what? Has he beaten you?”

  “No, nothing like that. He’s just been impossible lately. He won’t let me throw an ACLU fund-raiser at his house. He says he cares about politics, but I don’t even think he’s registered to vote.”

  She looks at my cart and reads out loud the name I have on sign.

  “Sarah was my wife,” I explain. “I name business after her.”

  She nods her head slowly.

  “You must really miss her.”

  “Is fine,” I say. “There is nothing to do about it.”

  “What was she like?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “I do not know how to describe her.”

  “Is the pickle recipe hers?”

  I shake my head.

  “She did not waste time on pickles,” I say. “She was real cook. She made tzimmes, latkes, cabbage soups with schmaltz…”

  I begin to see her in my mind, her curly brown hair and the freckle on her cheek. I try to resume story but cannot for some reason. It is hard to catch my breath.

  “She sounds wonderful,” Claire says.

  “She was good, strong help,” I say.

  I clear my throat and stand up.

  “Of course, she would not appreciate us talking for so long.”

  She grins.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she did not like me taking breaks.”

  As I am heading back to pickle cart, I look over shoulder.

  “You must come back sometime!” I shout at her.

  “Oh yeah?” she says.

  “Of course. Every customer must return jar.”

  I do not spend much time with my six roommates, because they keep strange hours. When I leave with cart at 4:00 a.m., they have all just gone to sleep. And when I return from work, at 10:00 p.m., they are out for nightly celebration.

  I do not know what it is they celebrate. In all my time in Vortex Factory, I have yet to see them sell a single vortex, or anything else for that matter. I assume that just before I joined their house, they have had some major group success. It is only explanation for their joy.

  I am not opposed to celebrations. In fact, I have been planning one for weeks. After selling my first batch of pickles, I went to Key Food and bought tin of herring. It cost me seven dollars—more than double peanut butter—but I purchased anyway. I said to myself, When I have ten thousands saved up, I will reward my body with this tasty fish.

  By end of my first month in the Vortex, I am selling fifty jars a day. I learn to stagger batches in my closet, so there are always pickles that are ready. I am making six hundred dollars each shift, over three thousand dollars each week. One morning I count savings and I cannot believe it: I have nine thousand seven hundred twenty-seven dollars. That night, before sleep, I put special tin of herring in my coat. By lunch break, I hope, I will have the occasion to eat it.

  I am setting up cart the next day when I hear my name spoken. I turn toward the voice and see Negro woman wearing man’s suit and holding clipboard.

  “I’m Kalisha Sanders,” she says to me. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “The pickles have no glutens,” I recite. “The vegetables are freegan and the water is all locavore.”

  “And do you have a vendor’s license?”

  “A what?”

  “A license,” she says. “For running a food cart.”

  I try to make words, but I cannot. I am caught completely by surprise.

  “I’m from the Department of Health,” says the Kalisha. “And I’ve had some complaints about your operation.”

  My fists clench with fury.

  “Who was the informer? Was it Simon Rich?”

  She ignores me and picks up jar of pickles.

  “Whoa,” she says. “Is that scum?”

  “Is all-natural,” I murmur.

  “You’re lucky there hasn’t been an E. coli outbreak.”

  She takes out stack of papers and hands it to me.

  “Here’s a summary of your violations. Vending without a license in a nonvending zone is one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. The health-code fines, altogether, come to two thousand seven hundred dollars.”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “My God.”

  She glances at my box of cash and sighs.

  “I assume you haven’t declared any of your earnings for tax purposes.”

  “Tax what?”

  She hands me another form.

  “Send this in with your payment to the city treasury,” she says. “And get this cart off the street. I don’t want to see you out here until you’re fully compliant.”

  By the time I can make myself speak, she has started to walk away.

  “Stop!” I say. “Wait. Let us talk about this.”

  She turns around and squints at me.

  “What is there to talk about?”

  I take deep, slow breath to steady self. I have been in this situation before. I was leaving Slupsk when Cossacks asked me to pay them “nighttime road tax.” I gave them all vodkas and they let me through. The trick in these matters is to handle things delicately, with smooth words and manner.

  “Here is bribe,” I say, throwing twenty-dollar bill at her. “Take it, please, and go.”

  Her eyes widen and she takes step toward me.

  “Did you just say what I think you said?”

  I clear my throat. She is very good haggler, and I am impressed.

  “Thirty-dollar bribe,” I say. “Plus one free pickle jar each week.”

  “Unbelievable,” she says.

  She scribbles note on clipboard and then glares at me.

  “Pay those fines quick,” she tells me. “Or I’ll shut you down for good.”

  By the time I cart pickles back to Vortex Factory, my roommates are awake.

  “Herschel’s in the house!” says the green-haired man. “Where’ve you been, killer?”

  “I have been working,” I tell him, my voice low with misery. “But now I can work no more.”

  “Cool,” the actress says. “Then you can get mimosas with us.”

  “Thank you for invitation,” I say, “b
ut today I have nothing to celebrate.”

  I lock myself in room and put herring back in drawer. Then I lay the government documents on mattress. I understand parts of the forms, like “Name” and “Address.” But the rest confuses me and makes my head hurt.

  I have dealt with American authorities before, when coming to Ellis Island. They made me wait in line for nineteen hours, then flipped up my eyelids and shoved wooden sticks into my eyeballs. It was not great, but I would take it over this “W-2.”

  It is almost nightfall when I hear knock on my door.

  “Wassup, Hersch,” says the green-haired man. He is drunk from celebrations.

  “Wassup to you as well,” I say politely.

  “Some girl’s here to see you,” he tells me, his lips curled into giant grin.

  I sigh. It is probably inspector to arrest me. I am thinking of fleeing through window, when I look into the hallway and catch sight of yellow hair.

  “Claire?” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  She holds up empty pickle jar.

  “Just returning this,” she says. “You weren’t at your usual spot.”

  She passes me jar, which she has cleaned with soaps.

  “You can keep it,” I say.

  I mean for my voice to sound formal, but it comes out soft and broken. I have vowed to the world that I will be success, but setbacks have transformed me into liar. My stomach is sick with shame.

  “Is everything okay?” Claire asks.

  “Is fine,” I say.

  She notices my legal forms, picks them up, and whistles.

  “Whoa,” she says. “Herschel, you got nailed.”

  She flips through them one at a time, shaking her head back and forth.

  “These vendor forms are unconscionable,” she says. “Even a native English-speaker would have problems understanding them. The entire system’s completely prejudicial against immigrants.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “It was very confusing when the Negress refused my bribe.”

  Claire coughs.

  “Herschel,” she says, putting hand onto my shoulder, “I think you should consider letting me help you with your business.”

  I shake her off.

  “I am not one who takes charity.”

  “Everyone needs help sometimes.”

  “Not me,” I say. “Is fine. I will figure out forms on my own.”

  Claire folds her arms. “What’s your Social Security number?”

  “Social what?”

  She starts to unzip her pack. I sit on bed and sigh. It is too late now to stop her.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She reaches into bag and smiles.

  “I’ve got my lucky troll.”

  Claire hands me her computer box and points at grid of numbers.

  “There!” she says. “I made you a spreadsheet. This number’s all your fines, this number’s all your tax obligations, and this number’s the investments you’ll have to make in order to become health-code compliant.”

  “What is this red number? With minus sign in front of it?”

  She hesitates.

  “Your profits.”

  I begin to feel dizzy. We have been working several hours without an interruption, and now I can no longer run from truth.

  “The business has failed,” I admit to Claire. “There is no way for it to make moneys.”

  “That’s not true,” she says. “You could increase production.”

  I shake my head.

  “Impossible. I am already filling cart up to brim with jars, and also my coat and pants.”

  “Then you’ll need to get some workers,” she says, entering numbers into computer. “If you put six more carts on the street, you could easily net two thousand dollars every week.”

  I hesitate.

  “Maybe is smart idea,” I admit. “But workers cost.”

  “You could get interns.”

  I raise my eyebrows; this word is unfamiliar.

  “ ‘Interns’?”

  It takes long time, but eventually she is able to explain this thing to me.

  “So they are slaves,” I say. “And it is not illegal?”

  She hesitates.

  “Basically.”

  She types business description onto Columbia University website. Within minutes, there are messages from students desiring to do my slave labor, all of it for free, in exchange for nothing.

  “My God,” I say, my heart speeding up. “My God!”

  I leap up from bed, my hands trembling with excitement. I can feel my legs begin to dance.

  “Lye dye dye!” I sing. “Lye, dye dye dye, dye dye!”

  I dance for some time.

  “Claire!” I say when I have caught my breath. “You have saved me!”

  “It was nothing,” she says. “A piece of the cake, right?”

  I take her hand and squeeze, even though she has no glove.

  “You are good, strong help,” I say.

  She bites her lip, her cheeks turning bright red.

  “Okay, enough resting,” I tell her. “It is time to return to work.”

  You cannot murder interns, but other than that, they are the same as mules. You can rob them, abuse them, debase them. There are no limits. When a man agrees to be intern, he is saying, “I am no longer human being with rights, I am like dog or monkey. Use me for labor until my body breaks and then consume all of my meats.”

  I would sooner die than serve as intern. But for students of Columbia University, it is very popular. Within one day, a hundred men and women send me résumés in the hope that I will choose them as my slaves.

  “This girl looks impressive,” Claire says, picking résumé out from giant stack. “She was editor of the Spectator. That’s the big Columbia student paper.”

  “She is too fat,” I say. “She will eat all of my pickles.”

  “Herschel, that’s really insensitive,” Claire says. “You know, it’s illegal not to hire someone based on their looks.”

  “I am not hiring anyone,” I remind her. “I am choosing interns.”

  Claire sighs. Part of her, I can tell, regrets having told me about concept of interns. But now it is too late. I know about interns and will always have interns, until the day I die.

  “I want forty strong bucks,” I command, “with large hands for carrying.”

  Claire pretends as if she does not hear me.

  “How about this guy?” she says. “He’s a computer-science major. I bet he’d design us a website.”

  “A what?”

  “A site on the Web.”

  “A what?”

  “A website.”

  I shrug.

  “Is fine.”

  sarahsstatueoflibertygarlicpickleswithsaltpicklecompany.com

  “Herschel’s Dream”

  Press release by Graham Metzger, media-relations intern

  Herschel Rich came to this country with a bold mission: to achieve success without compromising his radical belief system. Now, after years of struggle, his dream is becoming a reality.

  Herschel’s anticorporate commitment to agricultural sustainability has won him accolades all over this city. The New York Times called his pickles a “hipster delicacy,” and Lady Gaga tweeted that his pickles “will make you see God.” Jay Z recently announced that Herschel’s pickles will be the official pickles of the Brooklyn Nets, with their own stand at the Barclays Center.

  But no one appreciates Herschel more than the young men and women who work for him.

  “Herschel changed my life,” said Josh Herson, a rising junior at Columbia, who mans one of Herschel’s forty pickle carts. “Last year at this time I was thinking about becoming a banker or working for some soulless ad firm. But interning for Herschel has shown me that you don’t have to sell out to succeed.”

  According to Claire Whitman, the company’s chief spokeswoman, pickles are only the beginning. Sarah’s Statue of Liber
ty Garlic Pickles with Salt Pickle Company intends to open a political action center in Williamsburg, with a focus on immigration reform. And an art zine is being planned in collaboration with the Vortex Factory, the profits of which will be donated to worthy causes.

  When I asked Herschel about these developments, he responded with the pithy poeticism that has made him such a cultural icon in Williamsburg.

  “Everyone must return jar. Or they will be severely violenced.”

  It’s hard to think of a better metaphor for our times. If we don’t give back to society—if we don’t “return our jars”—then our world may very well fall apart. Luckily, we have Herschel to help us hold it all together.

  Strange things soon begin to happen. People start to camera me when I am manning cart. Customers ask me to write my name on jars that they have bought. One day, newspaper lady asks my opinion on “Occupy movement.” I do not understand her words and so I let Claire answer.

  “Our company believes in the value of all human beings,” she says. “We stand for the ninety-nine percent.”

  She says many things like this to many people. Her words are crazy, but I do not stop her, because it is making more people buy our pickles. Every day, there are more and more customers lining up.

  “This is so wonderful,” she says to me one night while helping me count out the day’s moneys.

  “Yes,” I say. “At this rate, I will soon be rich.”

  Claire laughs like I have made joke. She tells me she is taking leave of absence from her studies, to help me with company full-time. I am very surprised.

  “Simon has allowed this?”

  “I finally broke up with him,” she says. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. Every day I was with him, it was like I was losing a piece of my soul. I decided, if I’m going to invest in a relationship, I want it to be with somebody authentic. Somebody humble and principled. And real.”

  She looks into my eyes and smiles.

  “You know what I mean, Herschel?”

  I nod. I have not really been listening, because I was busy counting moneys, but she said my name, so I know it is my turn to speak.

  “Yes,” I say. “Is fine.”

  She reaches into lockbox and squeezes my hand. Eventually, she lets go, and I am able to go back to counting moneys.

  One day, I am at my pickle stand—sorry, one of my pickle stands—when two men in black suits show up. They say they are from Walmart and are trying to connect with youth market. It is their hope that I will collaborate with them on a “multiplatform, Millennial-targeted marketing campaign.”