Cesspool (2 page)

Vernon frowned. “Damn. I shoulda went with the brothers.”

“I bet them white slaves were burnin’ up in the heat too,” Maurice said.

“No sunblock neither,” Janelle added.

“I’ll also give each of you three hundred acres of land,” James said. “So add three hundred acres of land and write 3.5 million dollars next to the land. And you’ll all get a barn and housing for your slaves, and a great big plantation for yourself and your family. So write housing and barn with 1.5 million next to that.”

“Damn,” Vernon said, “even with these busted-ass white slaves, I got six million dollars.”

“Not exactly,” James said. “You have six million dollars invested in land, slaves, and buildings. Now that’s in today’s dollars adjusted for inflation. At the bottom write income $1,000,000 per year and expenses $600,000.” The kids scribbled on their plantation balance sheets. James wrote on the whiteboard.

“A $400,000 profit,” a girl said, as James wrote it on the whiteboard.

“We’re doing pretty well, right?” James scanned his audience.

“We’re gettin’ paid,” Vernon said.

“In those days,” James said, “if you were from the South, you bought a lot of your manufactured goods from Europe, because it was cheaper than buying from the North. The government stopped that by levying a tax on European goods to make them more expensive. So, just like that”—James snapped his fingers—“you have to pay more for almost everything. Change your expenses from $600,000 to $700,000. What’s your profit after the tax?”

“$300,000,” Maurice said. “We’re still okay.”

James continued, “In response to the tax the US government levied on Europe, the Europeans stopped buying US cotton. Now change your income to $800,000.”

“We still have $100,000 left,” Janelle said.

“We’ve lost 75 percent of our profits, and the North is talking about abolishing slavery, the same slaves who you paid $1,500,000 for. As Southern plantation owners, how do you guys feel about that?”

“Slavery’s wrong,” a girl said.

“You’re absolutely right,” James replied. “Upton Sinclair said, ‘It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.’ What do you guys think Mr. Sinclair meant by that?”

Vernon had a crooked grin. “We’re not gonna think slavery’s wrong if we’re gettin’ paid.”

James nodded. “I agree, Vernon. And we see that every day in our society, with people rationalizing what they do because of the paycheck.”

“So that’s why we had the Civil War?” Janelle asked.

“That was a big part of it,” James said, “but there was a spark from Europe that started us on the path to war. The European bankers wanted a war to divide the United States. If they had a war and two broke countries that were in debt, the bankers stood to make a lot more money than with an intact United States that was self-sufficient and debt free.” James glanced at the clock. “We’re almost out of time.”

The class groaned.

“We’ll finish this tomorrow. I have a homework assignment for you.”

The class grumbled.

“Come on, Mr. Fish,” a boy said.

“Relax, it’ll be interesting,” James said, walking over to his desk. He picked up a stack of papers. “I have a quote for you guys. I want you to take it home, read it, and think about it.” He handed a small stack of papers to each person in the front row to pass back.

“And what else do we have to do?” Janelle asked.

“Nothing, just think about it. We’ll discuss it tomorrow. And I expect everyone to have an opinion to share.”

The quote read:

—Abraham Lincoln

Chapter 2: WOD

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.