The Merchants of Zion (18 page)

“Does that mean you'll be moving out?” Dimitri asked.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It means after a series of unfortunate events I am finally on the road to success. All without sucking Liberty Bell cock.”

We congratulated him weakly, but he could tell no one cared. “Fuck you guys. I paid for all this.”

Platinum, as I had styled her, offered unintelligible words of encouragement.

“Do you wanna get going?” I asked Mary.

She yawned. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Dimitri?”

“Huh?”

“You wanna head out?” Platinum had trapped James in the corner while he pretended not to notice. He kept talking to us.

“You three are leaving now? What happened to drinking and smoking all day and all night?” I watched the struggle on his face; Platinum was playing with his hair, but the need to rant welled up in his throat. The girl won, and he told us it was fine. We stood to leave and in the midst of our goodbyes he kissed her. She climbed into his lap, and he pulled up her dress—she was wearing an electric blue thong.

* * *

Dimitri and Mary fell asleep as soon as we were home. I kissed her good night, and spent some precious alone time on my 
de facto
 stolen tablet. James had left up an article where Robespierre announced he was planning a rally at an as yet undisclosed time and location. It would be the beginning of the revolution. More details to come, he promised. On The Cherry Tree, pundits denounced him as a violent, anarchic thug, and also a coward who wouldn't follow through with his threats. In other news, Operation Empire of Liberty was making steady progress in the pacification of Mexico, and Liberty Bell stock was up on an upbeat economic forecast.

Ruth texted me. “Let's meet at 11:00 next Saturday. Can't wait to play!!!”

I texted back, “OK. But I don't 'play'”

“Cool. It's in Leopold Heights. I'll get you the address”

I realized I hadn't mentioned the show to Mary. Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't. I went upstairs and slipped into bed next to her. It was only seven, but that seemed a fine time to fall asleep.

James came back the following morning half naked and with his face painted gold and silver. He'd gone back with the Germans to their hotel. When he was awake they were gone, having left behind a note saying “Thanks for the great time” and an unpaid, itemized receipt of their stay.

Puppies and Politicians

Copyright
 
© 
CSM. No part of this interview may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without prior permission. Under the Digital Liberty Act, individuals are subject to punishment of a term of imprisonment no less than twelve years for each violation.

RUTH LEE, HOST: Hello everyone, this is Puppies and Politicians. I'm Ruth Lee. For this installment, we're joined by Congressman George Schumer, from New York's eighth congressional district.

GEORGE SCHUMER: Hi Ruth, it's a pleasure to be here.

LEE: Also with us today, a dozen German Shepherd puppies!

PUPPIES: 
(barking)

LEE: They're all so excited to see you. Pick one up and let's begin.

SCHUMER: How about... this one. What's your name?

LEE: He's... ah, 
(whispering).
 Her name is Martha.

SCHUMER: You're a cutie, aren't you? Yes you are, yes you are.

LEE: Okay Congressman, are you ready? You've recently published a book, 
Rocketing America Forward: How to Keep Our Economy Marching at Full Steam.
 In puppy terms, can you explain the title, and what you hope our viewers take away from it?

SCHUMER: Well, Ruth, that's an excellent question. Let me say that as a patriotic American who loves both dogs, and cats...

...

8. Noise Show

Leopold Heights was one of those poor black neighborhood cities ignore—the kind of place where rappers, athletes, and drug-dealers hack their way out of the concrete jungle like heroes in a libertarian wet dream.

Dimitri, Ryan, and I used to come out here to eat chicken and waffles and watch jazz at a club we'd discovered online. On our first visit the creeping tendrils of gentrification had begun to take their hold, and organic food stores and boutique coffee shops sprouted between dingy bars and run-down corner stores. Poor but relatively safe, so that being scared and acting macho had been more fun than frightening. We were ignored apart from a few teenagers who had heckled us as we headed back to the subway. Later, the three of us had embellished the trip to convey an overbearing atmosphere of destitution and menace. The slum was our personal amusement park, and we passed our adventure off as the real deal to the other clueless white (and Asian) kids in Manhattan.

That was before the Panic. If college Cliff visited current Leopold Heights he would've cried and handed over his wallet and phone to the first person who glanced in his direction. The throngs of stylish people—of any race—were gone, replaced by harried individuals skittering along the contours of decay.

I waited for Ruth outside a Cock-a-Doodle Chicken, smoking. Inside, cashiers accepted actual cash from behind thick windows smeared with grease. Across the street an abandoned coffee shop gaped at me with a maw of broken windows. A lair for junkies. The Blue Line ran above me, rushing late-working professionals from the city toward the benign nurseries of Long Island.

Roughly half of the street lights still worked, leaving patches of shadows up and down the block. White kids in bright chinos and tight shirts filed down the street like a line of ants, all coming from the same subway stop and all stopping in front of the same undifferentiated building. A bum had posted in front of the show venue, holding open the unmarked, metal door and pandhandling for cigarettes, metrocards, whatever. He was ignored.

I checked my phone. It was 11:15. I'd been standing around for about ten minutes. Ruth was on her way from Manhattan, coming straight from work. James was on a “business trip” upstate and Dimitri flat out didn't want to go. I hadn't mentioned the concert to Mary.

A black woman with a teenage boy and a little girl left the Cock-a-Doodle Chicken with a large paper bag. I smiled at her as she walked by, and she grabbed her daughter's hand and hurried past, turning down a side street with a single functioning streetlight.

Five more minutes passed. I smoked another cigarette. Ten. A guy tried to sell me some cocaine. Or meth. Or pot. Or pills. Whatever I wanted. I only had a public address, I told him, and he scoffed and wandered off. Three kids hunkered down outside the coffee shop and started smoking. I heard the low murmur of their conversation—interrupted by trains rumbling overhead—but couldn't make out the words. Their laughter made me nervous, and I wished Ruth would hurry up.

The silver hatchback pulled up to the curb at 11:28. “Go find somewhere to charge, no more than ten minutes away,” Ruth said as she climbed out. “Sorry I'm late. You know how work gets.”

The bum opened the door as we approached and asked for a donation. I walked right past him, but Ruth gave him a metrocard.

“It has, like, two rides left.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he said, to her.

“You're welcome.”

“How'd you get so lucky?” he said to me.

Inside, a wooden staircase with a banister led to a balcony on the second story. Except for the narrow path on which we walked, the ground floor was filled with garbage bags stacked a half-dozen high. A few broken beams of wood stuck out like weeds sprouting from sidewalk cracks, and when we were halfway up the stairs a man stepped out and tossed another bag of trash onto the pile.

“What's your friend's band called?” I asked.

“Münchhausen by Proxy.”

“What kind of music do they play?”

“Noise.”

“You don't like noise.”

“Don't get mad now that I'm cooler than you.”

Some of the steps on the staircase had rotted through or broken. They'd been replaced by poorly nailed plywood, and wobbled under my feet.

“This seems kind of dangerous.” I said.

“Stop being a baby.”

We reached the main hall without falling to our deaths. A man in his thirties, wearing an Irish bowler and glasses with thick black frames, scanned Ruth's card with his phone. “My treat,” she said, and we proceeded into the darkened main room.

The stage was tucked into the far corner of the room. It was elevated with cinder blocks and more plywood. A woman DJed while the band set up. Staircase bleachers ran along the other walls. The people perched on them smoked and chatted affably. The stench of generations of cigarette discarded and crushed beneath the heels of an unending party filled the air.

They'd set up a rudimentary bar by the entrance, and I went to get us something to drink while Ruth looked for a seat. The bartender, a wispy black man wearing a white shirt with Japanese characters and a neon yellow cap, grabbed two cans of beer from a large cooler and poured two shots of whiskey into resin cups.

Ruth had picked out a spot towards the back of the room, on the bleacher's top row. “Is that them?” I asked pointing at the band on-stage.

“No. I don't know recognize any of those people.”

One of Ruth's producers had asked her out today, and when she turned him down he'd gone to their boss and tattled that she was trying to get transferred to “more serious assignments.”

“Are you?” I asked.

“Of course I am. But he didn't have to tell her. Gosh, I should've gone on that stupid date so he'd keep his stupid mouth shut.”

“So what's going to happen?”

“Nothing. I told Megan, my boss, the truth: that John was being a baby. You know, it was the third time he asked me out this month. The first two times I said was really busy all week. You think he'd get the hint, but noooo. And when I told him I was busy 
again
, he started whining that I never give him a straight answer. So I did!” She paused. “Why are guys so dumb?” she finished, shaking her head like a reproachful teacher.

“Not dumb. Persistent. He was banking on getting a date either from pity or maybe he thought he could shame you into it. He obviously doesn't know you very well.”

“Obviously. Anyway, I told Megan that I'd talked to Brian—that's her boss—over lunch and we discussed my career prospects. The mayoral unit's reporter is moving into a production role, and they haven't picked her replacement yet.”

I knew the reporter she was talking about, an enthusiastic blond, long of limb. She and her crew were the entirety of Common Sense Media's local coverage, ergo its most prominent. Their van followed the Mayor from one carefully arranged photo op to another, and the reporting was always breathless. New York is the only city narcissistic enough to care about local politics.

“Why move at all? You're an internet sensation. Or do you feel a patriotic duty to trade in soft propaganda for hard?”

“What I do, It's a viral thing; in a year nobody's going to care. And there's not exactly a lot of depth or opportunities for expansion. It's not like people would watch alligators and actors.”

“Kittens and cokeheads,” I suggested.

“That could be our business segment.”

The band finished setting up and the lead singer played a sustained cord on his guitar to capture the room's attention. He was a chubby, balding middle-aged man with a silver chain suspended by piercings on both cheeks, and he breathed heavily into the mic as he introduced his band—Three Piece Suit. They were from New Jersey.

Three Piece Suit launched into a series of fast, monotonous metal songs that kept the crowd staying seated except for—I counted—six guys. Probably the singer's trashy New Jersey friends. They pushed each other around in a mosh pit that looked more like a circle jerk. I finished my beer and went to buy another—Ruth was still sipping at hers.

When the band's set ended the audience clapped politely. The suppressed buzz of conversation overtook the room.

Ruth's phone was out when I returned. She fired off a final message or three and put it away.

“Do you go five minutes without looking at that thing?”

“Sometimes I forget to take it into the shower.”

When we'd arrived the main hall was empty except for scattered groups and the occasional loner checking their phone pretending they were waiting on someone, but now the crowd was a solid mass and those stragglers still filtering in jostled one another for personal space. Ruth finished her beer and asked if I wanted another. I did.

She threaded through the crowd toward the bar, and when I looked up from rolling a cigarette I'd lost sight of her. I would have given up and tried again later, but I imagined she would have an easier time reaching the front.

A girl with pink hair asked me for a light. As I offered her one, I asked what she'd thought of the last band. Not a fan, but she'd seen worse. She placed the cigarette between her lips and scrambled up next to me, handed me a small cup filled with soda while she fetched a flask from her boot, wedged it between her thighs, took the cup back from me, drank half of the soda, poured in liquor to the brim, handed the cup to me for a second time, and tucked the flask back in her boot. She did all this while smoking and talking.

“You come with anybody?” I asked.

“Not really. I'm friends with the guys who live here.”

“Guys who what?”

“Live here.” She repeated, expecting some sort of understanding. “There's a band that lives here, The Sound and the Fury, haven't you heard of them?”

“Like the Faulkner Novel?”

“Could be. I dunno, really.”

“No, I haven't.”

“They're neo-barbaric post-funk thrash,” she said, each word smoothly following the next as if the phrase contained obvious meaning. “The six of them live here. They host shows on the weekends. Most weekdays too. The bartenders, the doorman, they're all in the band. We're friends. What about you?”

“What about me what?” The accumulated conversations of two hundred people had morphed into a dull roar as everyone spoke louder to be heard over the interstitial DJing and the voices of those standing beside them. I could barely hear every other word she said. I was also distracted by the sight of Ruth fighting her way back from the bar.