Spondulix: A Romance of Hoboken

by Di Filippo, Paul

  The boss carpenter approached Rory. “Mister Honeyman, where do you want that new counter? The plans aren’t clear.”

  Rory opened his mouth to answer, but Erlkonig jumped in. “Right under those windows, molecule.”

  Implicitly honoring the name at the bottom of his paycheck, the carpenter said, “Yes sir, Mister Erlkonig.”

  Rory’s anger surged up again. “Who the hell’s store is this anyway, Earl?”

  Erlkonig held up a placatory hand. “Yours, all yours, moll. I was just making a suggestion, like. Where did you want the counter? Someplace different? Just tell the man.”

  Rory wanted to countermand Erlkonig’s order, just to assert himself. However, the spot under the window indeed tallied with his own choice, the only logical place for customers to sit and dine. So Rory simply ended up seconding the order.

  “No, no, beneath the window’s fine. Go ahead.”

  Erlkonig smiled wickedly but did not rub his victory in verbally. “Well, I’m glad to see this work going so smooth. When this addition opens, your morning bank disbursement will double, man. Ten thousand spondulix a day, Rory my moll, that’s how much moolah your store is going to be pumping into the economy, or I’m not Wolfie Erlkonig’s little boy. One hundred thousand every ten days, almost a million per quarter. And Honeyman’s Heroes has dozens of retail cousins across this burg, all doing the same. You’re the biggest and most important distributor, I grant you. Our keystone, our linchpin, our big chalupa. But we continue to expand logarithmically! New businesses coming onboard every single day!”

  These figures made Rory’s head hurt. “Earl, are we sure we’re doing the wisest thing by boosting spondulix so massively? Seems awfully chancy and irresponsible to me, filling people’s wallets with our monopoly money. Not to mention totally illegal.”

  “Nothing illegal about it, moll. Trust me on this. We’ve got a battery of the highest-paid lawyers working on every angle of spondulix. They’ve vetted our operation and told us we’re clean as a Silicon Valley chip-fab. Look, if it makes you feel any better, just think of spondulix as coupons. Yeah, manufacturers coupons, that’s just what they are. When Kellogg’s gives you a piece of paper worth thirty-five cents off on Count Chocula, are they doing anything illegal? And what about when D’Agostino’s doubles the value of your coupon? They’re adding some incremental value to that piece of paper, aren’t they? And have you ever read the small print on the back of a coupon? ‘Redeemable for one-tenth of a cent.’ Convertible to greenbacks, just like spondulix.”

  Rory knew in his bones that all Erlkonig’s arguments about specie exhibited specious reasoning, but he couldn’t summon up the verve to respond, merely shaking his head in weary dissent. Erlkonig responded to Rory’s unassuaged trepidations by taking a more forceful tack, dropping all easygoing pretense.

  “Okay,” said the albino in a harder tone, “even if spondulix functions just like real money, a parallel currency, so fucking what? Don’t look so shocked, I mean it. Who fucking cares? This is the new millennium, shell, and all the old economic standards are dead or dying. Everything evolves, man! The concept of money is almost 3,000 years old—it’s got to get hip! Did you know that the oldest surviving coins come from the Asian Minor kingdom of Lydia—named after some gal, I think—circa 650 BC? And that’s a stone- cold fact, man! So if you just adopt some historical perspective on the whole thing, you’ll breathe easier.”

  “I wish I could, Earl.”

  “That’s the spirit! Now, pay attention to Professor Earl. Did you furthermore know that the federal government wasn’t always the only one to mint money in this country? Right up to the mid-eighteen-hundreds private banks issued notes supposedly backed up by their deposits—notes that circulated as legal tender. And lots of time a bank would print so much that the collective value of their paper was two or three times the bank’s actual cash holdings. And for a long time they got away with it! Of course, the whole system eventually went bust, causing quite a national shitstorm, recessions and inflation and crap, but none of that applies to us, since we’re going to monitor things more closely, with computers and shit”

  The phrase “went bust” made Rory’s vision waver. “Earl, I just don’t feel right about—”

  Erlkonig steamrolled over Rory’s tentative objection. “And during the Depression, all across the country individual stores issued scrip redeemable only at their own establishments. Practically the same thing we’re doing, right? And what about the occupying U.S. forces in Europe during World War Two? The first thing they did was seed the conquered lands with a special Occupation scrip. The Nips— excuse me, Suki—the Japanese even had their own occupation dollars printed up for the day they conquered us! And the Confederacy—don’t forget about that part of our heritage! What was the first thing they did to assert their independence? Right, issue their own money—which today is a valuable collectible.”

  “The South was seceding from the Union, Earl. We’re not contemplating that, are we?”

  “Well, not yet. But you gotta admit that all trends point toward a reshuffling of the national makeup. Small is beautiful. Distributed power, man. The New Economy! Anarchy is socialism without communism.”

  “Please, Earl, those are all easy clichés.”

  Earl regarded that comment as an insult. “Clicheé! No way, I never use ’em. Seriously, though, Rory, Hoboken is not alone in having its own currency. Lots of localities are doing something similar. Look at Ithaca—they’ve had their own homegrown money for a long time. And it’s not just a U.S. deal either. Only the other day I read about Kuriyma, Japan, doing the same thing. Rory, face it—Washington is fucked up. They don’t run the economy anymore, if they ever did. Entrepreneurs rule! We create the wealth. If printing spondulix helps the community, why shouldn’t we print enough to choke a goddamn herd of horses?”

  Rory tried to parse Erlkonig’s intertwining arguments. Was he really motivated by egalitarianism, by libertarian impulses, by altruism? Or was Erlkonig out only to cushion his own nest? Trying to dig deeper, Rory framed a spontaneous question he suddenly realized he had been asking everyone these days, in a kind of dream-desire poll.

  “Earl, just what do you want from life?”

  Erlkonig actually hesitated a moment. Then he said, “Just one thing, moll. Power. I been stepped on all my life. But now I’m wearing the boots.”

  This naked answer, combined with some real vindictiveness in Erlkonig’s voice, stunned Rory. In the midst of formulating some kind of moral rebuttal, he heard his name called.

  Addie was poking her head past the tarp, looking like a magician’s beautiful assistant whose hidden body had been locked into some contrivance prior to being stabbed with swords or sawed in half.

  Rory’s spirits lifted immediately, and the problem presented by Erlkonig and Sterling and their plots fell away. Life was good. Evil would wither on the vine without his horticultural efforts. With Addie by his side, nothing could harm him.

  Rory stepped toward Addie, dismissing Erlkonig. “Well, Earl, I’m glad you like the way the addition is coming. I really appreciate your history lesson and the little glimpse into your personal philosophy of life. But I’ve got to run now. Addie and I have a date,”

  Constitutionally unsuited, Rory did not wield the blade of sarcasm very deftly. He had hoped to get under Erlkonig’s skin. But the maleficent smile Erlkonig bestowed on him indicated he had utterly failed. “That’s swell, shell. Just have a good time kicking around the city while I run things back here. You can truly relax knowing I’ve got everything under control.”

  Addie still stood hesitantly at the screening tarp. She seemed reluctant to enter the same room as Erlkonig and Netsuke. And judging by the feline bristling she elicited from Netsuke, her caution was justified.

  “Okay,” said Rory lamely, “we will. See you around later.”

  “You can count on that.”

  Rory joined Addie on the other side of the curtain. The jam-packed shop was busy as
ever, but Nerfball and his crew seemed to be managing smoothly. Nerf was holding Leather’s wrist and guiding her hand, which held a spatulate knife daubed with Tiger Sauce.

  “You are one with the bread, one with the knife. You flow evenly and cleanly, no tearing, like so—”

  “Lets go,” Rory said. He grabbed Addie’s hand and they skipped out.

  A hot dry August day, the air washed clean by an early-morning storm and smelling improbably like clover and fresh laundry. Everyone out on Washington Street today seemed cheerful and well-dressed, happy and well-fed. Merchants smiled gratefully at Rory and Addie as the blithe lovers passed.

  Rory noted with mixed feelings that almost every store sported a new feature in at least one of its windows. Above the old decals that indicated that AmEx and Discover and Visa/Mastercard were welcomed, new stickers were proudly pasted. Lettuce colored, these wordless stickers bore a simple spondulix-icon in bold black. Rory counted at least a hundred as he headed south toward the ferry slip that would allow them to board the boat to Manhattan.

  “I’m really glad to see you today,” Addie said after a few blocks.

  “Likewise. I can’t begin to tell you what I felt when you rescued me from Earl. He was starting to get on my nerves. That guy can freak me out easier than anyone else I know.”

  Addie looked somewhat shamefaced. “You don’t have to explain. I walked into the store just as you guys were stepping through into the annex, and I started eavesdropping almost immediately. I didn’t mean to, but it’s just that Earl and his schemes really trouble me.”

  “No need to apologize. They trouble me too.”

  “Well, we certainly don’t have to talk about this bothersome subject any more today. We’re on a personal holiday. Lets just enjoy ourselves.”

  Rory leaned over and kissed Addie’s cheek as they walked. He relished her sanity and wisdom. Such a calm, rational perspective soothed him.

  “Hey, Mister! Buy your wife some lemonade!”

  Rory looked toward the source of the high-pitched voice. The importunate vendor, a ten-year-old black girl with glasses and corn-rowed hair, sat behind a makeshift stand built of plastic milk-crates and a plank. A cooler, pitcher and stack of paper cups comprised the rest of her establishment. A crayoned sign read:

  Lemonade by the Glass

  Half a Spondoolicks

  Laughing, Rory dug out his wallet and found a five-spondulix note. “Two glasses—and keep the change, young lady.”

  The little girl took the bill eagerly and poured them two cups full of sugary yellow liquid. It tasted as if the only lemon-essence that had ever come near the mix derived from a chemists beaker, but Rory and Addie both downed their drinks happily While they drank, the girl studied the note Rory had handed her. Finally she said, “Mister, your picture is on this money.”

  Rory was embarrassed. “No, no, just someone who looks like me.”

  “No way, Mister. You’re all mixed up. This is you.’”

  “Well, whoever that clown is, the money belongs to you.”

  “Thanks again, Mister.”

  As Rory and Addie approached the colonnaded brick City Hall on First Street, Rory asked, “Did Mister Caesar mind you taking the day off?”

  From anecdotes related by Addie, her boss, Mister Caesar, combined the worst qualities of three Captains: Queeg, Bligh, and Ahab. Rory still held a nebulous picture of Addie’s actual duties—too boring to relate, she firmly maintained, leading Rory to mentally speculate along shameful lines of telephone-sex operator—but her portrait of her boss shone vividly.

  “No, not at all. I’ve put in so much overtime on so many important projects that I’ve got more comp days than I know what to do with. Or at least, I never knew what to do with them until we met and started having fun.”

  Addie’s sweet talk went straight to Rory’s heart, giving him courage to bring up a facet of the incident just past. “Did you notice how that kid called you my wife?”

  Addie looked down at her Rockports. Her glasses slid forward a quarter-inch on her nose, which was lightly sheened with sweat. Her mouth assumed a pensive curve. Rory knew immediately that he had said the wrong thing. What a putz! He looked away, unable to bear the sight of a woman too polite to reprimand his brash forwardness.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Rory suddenly.

  “What? What is it?”

  Stupefied, Rory gestured up at a mobile billboard set up on the plaza outside City Hall. Nearly two stories tall, the billboard depicted the thick black outline of a graduated thermometer with a red painted stripe filling its entire interior. A banner hung across the display said:

  United Way Campaign 2000

  we’ve met our goal!

  750,000 spondulix

  THANK YOU, HOBOKEN!

  “When—? How—? Why—?”

  “That sign’s loomed over the city for weeks, Rory. I thought you knew.”

  Rory shook his head as if in pain. “Let’s get going. I need a day away from this town.”

  They turned east toward the waterfront and the ferry terminal. A few minutes further stroll brought them to their destination.

  A high, long, heroic structure perched on the Hudson’s shore next to the Erie-Lackawanna commuter train station, the marine terminal had been built in 1907. Lying derelict and neglected for many years, the monumental building had been renovated to accommodate the resumption of ferry service to Battery Park in Manhattan. Restored to its former majesty, the cavernous, bustling, leaded-glass-windowed hub saw hundreds of passengers pass through it each hour.

  Recalling the sorry state of the terminal when he had first come to town, Rory found his thoughts trending backward down more personal avenues, back to his youth along the banks of another river, the Wapsipinicon. Those relatively joyous days before he had ever heard of such things as Black Power protests, diving circus horses or illicit currency. Why did everything have to change? And if change were a necessary feature of life, why did the progression always have to be entropic, from simple innocence to complicated guilt? Could a person ever turn back the clock to a better time in his life? It seemed unlikely. But if regaining lost innocence were indeed forbidden, couldn’t one at least still achieve a clean conscience? Not by forsaking hard-won knowledge and painful wisdom, but simply by abstaining from harmful or wasteful actions, by avoiding the betrayal of one’s dearest dreams? Yet could anyone truly live up to such high standards?

  Rory found no answer within, and so turned his attention outward again.

  Leaving the sunlight behind and entering the big cool terminal, Rory shivered, both from the air-conditioning and some ghostly intuition. He squeezed Addie’s hand and she squeezed back. The comforting pressure allowed him to cast off his unaccountable gloom. He was truly looking forward to their trip across the river. Addie had mentioned wanting to revisit some of her old favorite clothing stores, but Rory speculated that they would do some other, non-consumer fun stuff too.

  “Look,” said Addie, “aren’t those some of the Beer Nuts?”

  Rory followed her pointing finger. Sure enough, among the other passengers waiting for the next ferry lurked some familiar figures. Curiously, all the Nuts exhibited an unwonted uniformity of dress: white coveralls, and swimmer’s goggles pushed up atop their heads.

  “That’s them all right. But we don’t even have to acknowledge those jokers. The boat’s big enough for us to avoid them entirely.”

  “Why are they dressed like that I wonder?”

  “We won’t even ask.”

  Beyond two huge arches the majestic Hudson sparkled in the sunlight. (Rory contrasted the river’s open-faced appearance today with the mysterious mask it had offered on the night of the Outlaw Party.) Two ferries inched across the water. One had just left the Hoboken shore, while the other was approaching New Jersey from Manhattan. Midway across the ferries passed each other with a hooting of horns. More and more people filtered into the building. The westbound ferry drew nearer and nearer, the eastbound
one dwindling to a dot. Finally the arriving boat nosed into its berth, gently bumping an assortment of rubber bumpers. A ramp rattled down on its chain, people disembarked, and the eastbound passengers filed on.

  The uniformed Beer Nuts had rushed to the front of the crowd, bulling their way on eagerly and failing to spot Rory and Addie. Each Nut wore a belt with a dependent holstered object slapping against his hip. Splat pistols such as Whitey Blacklaw carried? Rory couldn’t say for sure.

  Pulling Rory by the hand, Addie led him eagerly to the upper deck, a level open to the air. They moved to lounge at the forward rail. The murky ancient Hudson stretched before them to the Manhattan shore like a muddy rucked carpet sprinkled with broken glass. Rory thought again of the night he had met Addie, and the figure of the swimming horse they had seen together. Today, despite his earlier faux pas, he felt more strongly than ever the bond which this apparition had immediately cemented between them. Nothing would ever part them now. He searched the waters for a recurrence of the mystery horse, but the strong reflected sunlight concealed all details.

  The hands of the big clock in the terminal aligned on the ferry’s scheduled departure time. Swabbies lifted the ramp, the boat’s horn sounded, and the ferry trundled out into the river like a sea-turtle in no particular hurry to get anywhere. Rory put his arm around Addie’s waist, inhaled the salt-scented air deeply, and felt his troubles evaporate.

  After a minute or so Addie said, “How’s Hello Kitty doing?”

  Rory sighed. “Still pregnant, but now big as the proverbial house.”

  “Haven’t two months passed yet since you first noticed her condition?”

  “Closer to three. But Leather told me something the other day that might explain everything. Assuming you can believe her, and that Cardinal Ratzinger’s the father. She claimed that the Cardinal is not all domestic cat. He’s supposed to be part Kalahari Anthill Tiger, whatever that breed might be. His genes might be making for a longer gestation period.”