Cesspool

by Phil M. Williams

  —Abraham Lincoln

  Chapter 2

  WOD

  James covered a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes with Saran Wrap, then set it in the refrigerator. He rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and went to work on the dishes. The front door pushed open as James started the dishwasher. Lori tramped into the foyer, her laptop slung over her shoulder. She marched past James without a glance. He followed her beyond the foyer and the living room to her office. She was setting up her laptop on the desk. She wore a gray skirt suit, her hair tied up in a brown bun.

  “I made chicken,” James said, standing in the doorway.

  “Ron and I ordered in,” she replied, her eyes focused on her computer.

  “I made real mashed potatoes. I think they turned out pretty good … almost as good as yours.”

  She glared. Her face was full and round and symmetrical. “You know I can’t eat that.”

  He pursed his lips. “I’ll eat the potatoes. You can have the chicken and peas.”

  She nodded, her mouth a flat line. “Thanks. That was nice of you to make dinner. You should have called though.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you. Last time I called you seemed annoyed.”

  “I told you that I’d be working crazy hours.”

  He exhaled. “I just miss you.”

  “Don’t start with me. It’s been a long week.”

  “I can’t miss you?”

  She rubbed her temples. “I need this promotion, especially now. I still can’t believe I listened to you. You have no background in finance whatsoever.”

  James crossed his arms. “It’s not my fault everything’s rigged.”

  “Then whose fault is it? Our savings has been decimated.”

  “I may have been wrong about the timing, but I’m not wrong.”

  “I believe that you believe that.” She shook her head. “I actually calculated how much more money we would have if we had kept things the way I had it.”

  “We just have to be—”

  “Three times, James. We would have three times more.”

  “That’s the paper price. They can manipulate that, but they can’t manipulate the supply. Silver’s scarce. Supply’ll dry up at these prices. We just have to be patient.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “You and your asinine conspiracy theories.”

  “The analysis is correct. We both agreed. Nothing’s changed except for the paper price.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Lori—”

  “Can you just go somewhere else?”

  * * *

  “I thought we could have a nice brunch, like we used to,” James said, sitting up in bed.

  Lori pulled her sports bra over her teardrop-shaped breasts. “I need to get my workout in. I don’t have time for a leisurely breakfast.”

  James wiped the sleep from his eyes. “I just want things to be good between us. I miss how we used to be. I feel like we’ve drifted apart.”

  She pulled a second sports bra on to hold her chest firm. “It won’t always be like it was in the beginning.” She capped her ensemble with a tight T-shirt.

  “Why?” He pulled off the covers and stood in boxer briefs. His body was pale and thin. “Is it because we have different interests?”

  She exhaled. “That doesn’t help.”

  “Then maybe I should come with you.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think you’d like it.”

  “But you used to beg me to go, when you first started there.”

  “And you said it sounded retarded.” She grabbed her nylon jacket.

  “You shouldn’t say retarded. It’s mentally challenged or handicapable.”

  “You don’t want to go.”

  “I do. Let me get dressed.” He grinned. “You have another pair of those yoga pants?”

  * * *

  The gym—or box, as they would say—was a warehouse with forty-foot-tall ceilings and exposed metal beams. Ropes and rings hung from the beams. The floor was rubber. A banner the size of a scoreboard hung from the far wall that read CrossFit, Fairfield, VA. Above the banner was a huge digital clock set on 0:00.

  Lori dropped her bag among a sea of bags near the entrance. She removed her jacket and T-shirt as if she were dying to. Despite two sports bras, her nipples were visible. Muscled men and women stretched and socialized in a large group. Some men were shirtless, and the women were in sports bras and tiny spandex shorts or yoga pants. James was comparatively overdressed in his gray sweats. Are we going to work out or have an orgy? Lori marched toward the crowd, her midriff exposed, and her shape on full display. James followed like a child, staring at the steel cages and weights, set up along the far wall like personal torture chambers. Lori beamed as her tribe greeted her return.

  “Hey, Lori,” a built young man said.

  “Lori, what’s up, girl?” asked a fortysomething woman with a round ass.

  “Lookin’ good, young lady,” a middle-aged man with a tank top said.

  A bearded man, his muscled arms crossed, stared at James. Tattoos ran from his wrists to his T-shirt sleeves and probably beyond. He looked part soldier, part lumberjack, part biker, and part NFL linebacker.

  The bearded man lifted his chin toward James. “And who’s this guy?”

  Lori turned around and looked at James as if she had forgotten he was there. Her face was flushed. “Oh, … this is James.”

  The man moved toward James with his head up and his back straight.

  This guy has great posture.

  “I’m Matt, the head trainer here,” he said, holding out his hand and squeezing James’s tighter than necessary. “Why are you here, James? Do you have any fitness goals?”

  James massaged his hand. “I’m just here to support my wife.”

  Matt grinned and turned to Lori and the crowd. “This is the husband? He’s different than I expected.” He turned back to James.

  Lori smiled, but her face was tight and still flushed. “He’s different all right.”

  “What did you expect?” James asked Matt.

  “I pictured Lori with someone built.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  Matt smacked James on the shoulder. “There’s no disappointment here. Only people trying to be the best they can be. Let’s get you squared away. You’re about to experience your first WOD.”

  A large man with a face full of stubble exited the bathroom in shorts and a tight T-shirt. James recognized him as Lori’s boss.

  “I never thought I’d see you here,” the man said as he strutted over.

  “Hey, Ron,” James said.

  Ron was in his early forties, ruggedly handsome, with short dark hair and a solid physique.

  Ron turned to Lori. “You think he’s ready for this?”

  Lori rolled her eyes. “I hope so.”

  “A hundred bucks says Lori beats James in the WOD today,” Ron said with a grin. He looked at James. “What do you say, James?”

  “It’s not smart to bet with people used to playing in a rigged casino,” James replied.

  Ron chuckled. “I heard about your theories on the stock market. It’s funny how those theories always come from people who lose money.”

  Lori frowned.

  Matt intervened. “We’re gonna start soon.”

  James stripped down to his baggy shorts and T-shirt. His limbs were skinny, tattoo-free, and bright white. Matt showed James how to do each of the exercises on the workout of the day—or WOD.

  Matt opened the garage door enough for everyone to walk under. James had goose bumps from the cold air. A line of tape was on the floor just inside the door. Everyone spaced themselves just behind the line. The buzzer sounded, and everyone ran to the parking lot. James waited for a moment then followed. He jogged, keeping pace with the women. He stretched his legs and passed a few people, Lori included. He touched a mailbox a few hundred yards away, turned around, and ran back toward the warehouse. Inside,
he grabbed the kettlebell from his station and swung it under his legs and above his head as he had been instructed. His legs were bent, and he thrust his hips as he moved the weight like a pendulum. He was breathing hard; his shoulders and legs burned. After twelve repetitions, he stopped to rest.

  “Let’s go, James. Don’t stop,” Matt said.

  James picked up the kettlebell and finished the prescribed twenty-one repetitions. Then he moved to the pull-up cage. He placed a strong band under his foot to assist him. Even with the support, he had to rest frequently.

  Ron smiled at James as he ran for the door. “You’re falling behind.”

  After pull-ups James moved to a wooden box. He stumbled and slipped off the box the first time he tried to jump on top of it.

  “Bend those knees,” Matt said.

  James jumped on the box. His legs felt like Jell-O. Each time he rested, Matt scolded him. Halfway through his box jumps, he realized that the women were already running to the mailbox for the second time and many of the men were halfway to round three.

  On the fourth round, he felt dizzy and nauseous after the mailbox run. Everyone was already finished. The crowd circled him, offering encouragement as he swung the kettlebell and struggled through the pull-ups. He tasted hot vomit in his throat as he jumped on the box. He swallowed it back. The crowd was close, intimate. He only had seven more. The room was spinning. The sweaty people around him were spinning. His face was surely green. He jumped again. Standing on top of the box, he projectile vomited into the crowd. The puke was yellowish-gray and chunky, like foamy scrambled eggs. The crowd dispersed. Ron and a fit young woman in a sports bra were covered in James’s vomit.

  “Motherfucker,” Ron said as he flicked puke off his sweaty T-shirt.

  The woman hurried to the bathroom. Lori walked away. James slipped off the box and collapsed to the floor. He heaved and more foamy-egg vomit spilled out, followed by greenish-yellow bile. James lay on the rubber floor, sweating, the room still spinning.

  “It’s lactic acid,” Matt said, laughing. “He’ll be all right.”

  Chapter 3

  Guest

  James sat alone at a round table covered in white linen. The placard next to him read Lori Wells-Fisher in fancy cursive. His placard read Guest. He ate yellow cake with white icing and silver sprinkles. He finished his cake, reached into his suit jacket pocket, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through the headlines on his favorite alternative news site.

  Retailers Wish for Last-Minute Shoppers as Christmas Nears

  Your Professor, Your Waiter

  Abysmal Conditions for Makers of Apple Products

  IEA Cuts Forecast for 2015 Oil Demand

  NY Governor Bans Fracking

  Tsunami Survivors Rebuild

  He shoved his phone back in his jacket pocket. He stood and surveyed the ballroom. The ceiling had sheer white fabric hung across the room like elegant clouds. In between the clouds, white lights shone like stars. The expansive room was raucous with men in suits and tuxedos and women in formal dresses, all standing and talking and drinking. Lori was across the room, wearing a clingy black cocktail dress and spiky heels, holding a glass of wine. She held the attention of two men in tuxedos. James trudged across the ballroom. He sidled up to Lori and tapped her on her lower back. She turned with a scowl.

  “It’s getting late,” James said.

  “I haven’t seen you all night,” Ron said.

  “Hey, Ron,” James replied, his eyes on Lori.

  “I’m not ready to leave,” Lori said. “You can go. I’ll catch a ride with Ron.”

  “It’s still early,” said the man next to Ron.

  “James,” Ron said, “this is my friend and managing partner, Walt Davidson.”

  James turned toward Ron and his balding, bookish friend. “Hi, Walt. I’m James Fisher, Lori’s husband.”

  Walt’s beady eyes lit up as they shook hands. “You’re the one with all the interesting theories.”

  Ron dipped his head and covered his laugh with his fist.

  Lori groaned.

  “I guess so,” James said, blank-faced.

  “He thinks the stock market’ll blow up in our faces,” Ron said.

  “I’ve seen some insiders with dire forecasts,” Walt said. “The S&P down as much as 20 percent in 2015.”

  Ron chuckled. “He’s not talking about a bear market. He’s talking about a total collapse.”

  “Like 1929? The seventies?” Walt asked.

  “Much worse.” Ron lifted his chin to James. “Tell him, Jimbo.”

  “Why don’t you go home,” Lori said to James.

  James ignored his wife. “It’s a mathematical certainty. And it won’t just be the stock market. It’ll be our entire way of life.”

  Lori shook her head. “Here we go.” She frowned at Ron. “See what you did.”

  Ron smiled back at Lori like a mischievous child.

  “We’ve always had doomsday predictions,” Walt said, “and yet here we are.”

  “The problem is that our system must grow exponentially,” James said, “but we live in a world with limits in terms of raw materials and energy and food and water and a million other things we need in modern society.”

  “Are you familiar with a book from the early seventies called Limits to Growth?”

  “Great book,” James said.

  Lori gulped the last of her wine. “We’re going for refills,” she said, holding up her empty glass. Ron and Lori moved toward the bar.

  “I agree with you that our system must grow,” Walt said. “A debt-based money system has to grow or the debts can’t be paid.”

  “We saw what happened in 2008,” James said. “GDP growth was down but still positive, and it was like the end of the world.”

  “What I don’t agree with is that we can’t overcome the limits you talk about with respect to energy and raw materials. We’re becoming more efficient every day, and technology is growing, keeping up with our growth rate.”

  James nodded. “I agree that we’re finding ways to be more efficient, but technology is not an energy source. All this technology requires more energy, not less.”

  “Solar and wind technologies have had vast improvements over the past few decades,” Walt said.

  “We get less than 5 percent of our energy from renewable sources, and most of it is in the form of hydroelectric and biomass. Solar and wind are just a drop in the bucket. And how much oil and coal do we burn to dig up the metals required to make a solar panel or a wind turbine?”

  “In Brazil they get a lot their fuel from sugar cane.”

  “There are some bright spots. Human beings are certainly ingenious. I’m not disputing that.” James pursed his lips. “I’m just saying that our economic system requires growth, and that growth has been destructive in terms of using up natural resources and polluting the environment in a way that’s unsustainable. And every day it gets worse. Every day we have more people, with more energy used, more stuff, more of everything. Anything that’s unsustainable will eventually end.”

  Walt smiled. “And yet the stock market is near all-time highs, and commodities are in a bear market.”

  “That’s true,” James said with a crooked grin, “but I would imagine it’s easier to manipulate computer digits than the real world.”

  Walt cackled. “You know what, James? You might be on to something there. Prior to 2008, we used a proprietary trading system that worked very well for us, but, after 2008, it’s been ineffective. Thankfully we were smart enough to follow the herd back into equities, and we’re using high-frequency trading algorithms now.”

  “And what’s changed since 2008? Do we have more or less derivatives? Are the banks bigger or smaller? All we’ve done is postpone the inevitable, making the outcome more destructive.”

  “What’s the solution?” Walt held out his hands. “Go live in the woods with a truckload of canned goods?”

  “There isn’t one. We have a predicament,
not a problem. Problems have solutions. Predicaments have outcomes. You joke about living in the woods with a truckload of canned goods, but it isn’t the worst idea. I definitely wouldn’t want to be here, where everything’s trucked in. Seriously, where’s the nearest farm?”

  Walt smirked. “Ultimately you may be right, my friend, but not in my lifetime.”

  James deadpanned, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Walt glanced over James’s shoulder. “Do you and Lori have any big plans for the holidays?”

  “I assume we’ll go see her parents and her sister, but we haven’t had a chance to talk about it. How about you?”

  “We have two boys, but they outgrew the Christmas magic long ago. Now it’s all about the electronics.”

  James nodded.

  Walt looked around the room. “I should probably find my wife.”

  “It’s been a pleasure talking to you,” James said, holding out his hand. “I should do the same.”

  They shook hands and parted ways. James trekked to the bar but found no sign of Lori or Ron. James did a lap around the ballroom but still nothing. He had to pee, so he exited the ballroom and walked down a marble-floored hall to the bathroom. He placed his hand on the brass handle, and the door burst open. He stepped back, the door almost hitting him in the face. Two young men in suits departed, laughing. James entered the marble-tiled bathroom. One wall had a bank of mirrors and sinks. Opposite the sinks were eight stalls. Against the far wall were a slew of urinals, with two thirtysomething men peeing side by side. He heard groans from the handicapped stall as he walked to the urinal at the end, as far away from the pee buddies as possible.

  One man said, “Aah,” as his flow started.

  The other said, “Fuckin’ beer runs right through me.”

  James unzipped his fly and pulled out his penis from the hole in his boxer shorts. He stood, the pressure building in his bladder, but not a drop released. The men walked away, one after the other, pulling up their pants and zippers in one grand motion. They left without visiting the sink, and James then began to pee.