The Merchants of Zion (19 page)

“You here with anybody?”

“Oh. Right. A friend of mine from college knows the front man for the next act.”

“That's cool. Münchhausen by Proxy is pretty popular. This is definitely one of the biggest crowds I've seen.” She finished her cigarette and put it out against the wall, dropping the stub into the crevice behind the bleachers. I copied her.

When Ruth reached us I introduced them. “This is my friend from college, Ruth.” Ruth made an annoying comment about us being friends after college as well. “This is... wait. Did you not tell me your name or did I just forget?”

“No. I never told you. It's Megan.”

“Same as your boss, right Ruth? I'm Cliff, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”

Megan was a proud Jacobin, and not shy about sharing the fact. Within five minutes she was telling me about her revolutionary goals, how she lived out in Leopold Heights and was setting up an independent community that could provide the social services the city promised, but failed to deliver—things like garbage collection, sidewalk maintenance, (I can't believe the city doesn't replace those burnt out streetlights! I interjected), and the bureaucratic expertise necessary to access welfare programs without getting you scooped by Valley Forge. Her current project involved setting up a 3d printing pirate shop in an abandoned apartment building so the neighborhood didn't have to pay Storebrand's ridiculous monopoly prices.

“Shouldn't you be afraid that I'm a government agent, or something? Like, that I'll inform the authorities about you?” I asked, in my inimitable foot-in-mouth way.

“Are you kidding? You couldn't narc on me if you wanted; who exactly would you tell? Honest Abe directs all that shit, and if you don't trip his algorithms you might as well be invisible.”

“Oh. I didn't know.”

“People are so clueless. It's no wonder things are the way they are.”

Ruth tapped me. “How's Elly doing?”

I spoke to her over my shoulder. “She's fine. We're going to Chicago on Monday to spend the week with her grandparents. Helen is making us take the train.” I rolled my eyes. “She doesn't feel comfortable with me driving.”

“Can you blame her? When's the last time you drove?”

“That's beside the point. My license is still valid. And you know how long those trains get delayed.”

“Common Sense did a story on—”

“Who's Elly?” asked Megan.

“She's this girl I tutor. Really, I'm more of a pseudo-nanny.” I told her about my history with Elly's family, about her brother and his death. In a vague way, I hoped talking about it all with someone more informed than I was—and who wasn't James—might help me see connections I'd missed, to make sense of the seeming pointlessness of it all. Ruth wasn't as impressed with Megan as I was, and soon tapped out of the conversation and went back to her phone.

When the next band began setting up she perked up, shouting, “Paul!” One of the members looked up from testing the amp. His face—all chiseled angles—was confused, and he kept pushing his long bangs out of his eyes as he scanned the room. Ruth called out again, standing up and waving.

“Excuse me, I'll be right back,” she said.

When she reached the stage she kissed Paul on the cheek. She kept touching his forearm and playing with her hair as they chatted. I tried to ignore them and focus all my attention on Megan, but my eyes always slid back to Ruth.

Megan noticed. I didn't know if it bothered her. I didn't care.

“What do you think of Robespierre?” I asked.

“He's a narcissistic egoist at best. More likely, he's a Liberty Bell funded agent provocateur.”

“But you called yourself a Jacobin. Isn't that his movement?”

“Fuck no. We've existed since the beginning of the century. Robespierre picked his
nom de guerre
so he could muscle in on our successes.” I didn't know what successes she was talking about, I certainly hadn't heard of any, and she didn't elaborate. I glanced over at Ruth. The singer was setting up a keyboard while they talked.

“So you don't think his rally is going to incite a revolution?”

“Not a chance. Everyone who shows up will be arrested or, if too many people come, gunned down. You'll never hear about it either way. I don't care how good their crypto is, you can't be online and hide from Honest Abe.” She gulped down the rest of her drink. “Hold on, I need more soda.” She stood up.

“I'll come with you. I need another beer.”

She placed both hands on my shoulders and pushed me back down. “No. You need to save these seats. Do you see the vultures out there?” She gestured at the crowd and lost her balance. I snatched her hand with one of mine. The other went around her waist and she fell into my lap, landing on my thighs and facing me. She smelled like whiskey and cigarettes washed with strawberry shampoo, which I found simultaneously repulsive and alluring. We were both sweaty and sticky, and I hadn't noticed until then how low-cut her tank top was. “Thanks. I'll be right back,” she whispered into my ear, then hopped off me and trotted to the bar, leaving me alone.

Enough people had packed into the main hall that the only gaps remaining were around the room's edges, and she sank into the crowd. On-stage, Paul strummed his guitar and murmured “test, test” into the mic. I'd lost track of Ruth in the excitement.

Paul said, “We're Münchhausen by Proxy and we're based here in Brooklyn.” They started with some drone—low notes lasting for minutes and spliced with static. The music enveloped the crowd, who closed their eyes and swayed from side to side.

Paul began moaning into the mike. There was something about him that reminded me of my high school U.S. History teacher, who'd been a year out of college and thought he was the hippest person to ever walk through our school's doors. The female students had agreed, and my sister told me he'd been fired following a scandal involving motels, private investigators, and litigious parents.

Before his fall from grace, however, he'd had a single fatal flaw: irritable bowel syndrome or Crohn's, or whatever. The day before our final he forgot his medicine on his desk, and I'd pocketed it on my way out. He'd had an incident the following day during the test. I'd come forward and apologized, feeling remorseful, and he blew up at me during the graduation ceremony. In front of my parents. It had been humiliating, but in retrospect it was probably worse for him than for me. But I could never bring myself to forgive him. His aura of self-supremacy made it impossible. And Paul was the same, I was sure of it.

I spotted Ruth on-stage, behind the bassist. She didn't know you couldn't dance to this type of music, but that didn't stop her from trying. The audience, with no reason to think otherwise, must have divined in her solitary sinuations a relationship with Paul, that she was some buttoned-up professional from Manhattan who had no idea what her boyfriend did, who didn't understand the art, but demanded in any case to be a part of the spectacle.

I mulled over going home, but even though I had no interest in Ruth I couldn't leave her with this douchebag singer. Had my talking to Megan triggered Ruth's vindictive nature? It wasn't personal, I knew—she just bristled at the lack of attention. There was no way I'd wounded her or hurt her feelings. As far as I could tell she had the emotional depth of a spilled cup of coffee.

Münchhausen by Proxy followed the drone with serious noise—no rhythm, no discernible time signatures, all of it overlaid with static, which must have been their trademark sound. The drummer thrashed like he was caught in a mystic fit, banging the cymbal with his elbow, and the second guitarist threw himself into unapologetic shredding. Ruth gave up on her dancing and stood there dazed, a stranger in a strange land.

I can appreciate noise even if I don't enjoy it. Those who love it devote their lives to it, which I find bewildering. Their appetite for the stuff is insatiable. The noise-cult is good for the scene, however, as it provides every new band with a built-in audience (since it all sounds the same). This also means that any noise band that wants to break past having more than a thousand fans has to sell out, which is a guaranteed way to turn devoted disciples into scorned lovers.

For me, it's an aesthetic experience. By which I mean: every medium of 'art' (paintings and sculptures and their ilk, obviously, but also poetry, novels, music, film, etc.) has what could be considered a 'story,' a structure that helps its audience make sense of the work. For novels and film this would be the plot, for paintings and sculptures it's materials and shape. But after absorbing enough music or films or books you understand the constraints of the medium and can enjoy the composition of the fabric itself, absent any patterns stamped on it.

I don't know if the crowd agreed with me, but they didn't agree with Ruth. They were in a frenzy. There were no guardrails between them and the band, and though they surged forward they never spilled over. They had an unspoken agreement: whoever made it to the front pushed back against everyone else, maintaining a rough equilibrium. It was quite the sight to behold, the camaraderie between audience and band unmediated by a ten-foot stage and three-hundred pound bouncers.

As I sat there, pontificating, I did wish building codes were enforced more stringently. The floor sagged beneath everyone's weight, threatening to hurtle two-hundred souls into the depths of Leopold Heights. I hoped that if it did collapse, my elevated seat against the wall would allow me watch the carnage without becoming an active participant.

Münchhausen by Proxy ended their set with some punk songs which, judging from the enthusiastic reaction, were from their most recent album. Everyone began hopping in unison, hands held high and moving with the beat. The floor groaned in protest at being pressed into service as a trampoline. Ruth was shimmying and running her hands through her hair. In her glossy shirt and jean shorts she still looked like she belonged at a club blaring hip-hop, but at least now she had a rhythm to guide her. And she was mesmerizing, there was no point denying it. A group of guys at one edge of the stage had slowed down and watched her with gaga eyes. That the band's punk songs were terrible, high school poetry cliches superimposed over instrumentals from the previous century didn't help keep their attention on Paul and his minions.

I'd thought Megan had abandoned me, but to my surprise she emerged from the crowd with two tiny cups of soda. She pulled out the flask and motioned for me to drink from one of the cups. I did so and she filled it with liquor from her flask, then did the same for her own. We raised them in a silent toast, and when they were empty she pulled out the flask and refilled them. I offered her a cigarette and we smoked while I tried to guess how likely it was that the floor would survive the summer. I placed the odds at one-in-three.

The band finally finished and Paul thanked the crowd. He introduced each of the band members, and Ruth, who drew roaring approval. “Your friend was quite the hit,” Megan said.

“Looks like it,” I said. She talked about her urban shepherding program—a plan to buy a herd of sheep or cows and pasture them in various abandoned lots. I half-listened, nodding and grunting without paying attention. Ruth was talking to Paul again, her face drawn into wide-eyed, coquettish wonderment. My apathy and the alcohol spurred Megan on and she became more aggressive. The more the bleachers emptied out the firmer her hips pressed against me and the further her hand moved up my thigh. She blathered on about her work in the community and her belief that the government intentionally destroyed the economy in order to build a new American (perhaps world, she added darkly) capitalist order, reminiscent to that of Feudal Europe. It sounded like she and James would get along famously.

Once the room thinned out I ditched her. I had enough courtesy to lie, saying that I worked on Saturdays and needed to share a car with Ruth to save money. It was weak, but I was tanked and lazy. We exchanged numbers, though I had no intention of calling her.

Ruth and Paul were engaged in an intense conversation while the rest of the band finished packing their equipment. She intercepted me as I approached. “This is my friend from college, Cliff,” saying 'college' as if I were from a part of her past tucked away in an attic and gathering dust. “Cliff, this is Paul.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, nodding. I flashed him a crocodile smile, but the room was too drunk and I was too dark for it to have the threatening impact I intended. Ruth was sipping from a large, red Storebrand cup—the kind you find on beerpong tables at frat parties.

“You ready?” I asked Ruth.

“I dunno. The band's having an after-party. I think I'm gonna go.”

“You can't ditch me out here.”

“I'm not!” she insisted, stamping one foot against the stage. The keyboard wobbled. “Where's that girl? Melinda? Margaery? She can take care of you.” Ruth craned her neck, searching for Megan.

“Don't play dumb. You're the one who left me. Come on, it's time to leave” I grabbed for her wrist. She stepped away from me and moved behind Paul, who tried to play diplomat.

“Hey man, why don't you calm down. We're all adults here—”

“Why don't you mind your own fucking business,” I said, trying to keep my voice low enough so only he and Ruth would hear, but the other members of the band immediately stopped what they were doing. I had a few options: I could do the sensible thing and storm off; I could hit Paul and get my ass kicked by his shitty band, or I could attempt to deescalate the situation and talk him and Ruth down. I was too far gone for any hint of rational discussion, but not far enough to wade into a fight four to one, even if it promised to be the most satisfying course of action.

“Actually, I'll get going. I don't have time to deal with talentless hacks,” I said.

“Bye man. No hard feelings.” Paul said. To his credit, he did nothing to exacerbate the situation. He acted like an adult.

Ruth, however, did not. She chased after me, saying, “God, what's 
wrong
 with you? You're about as tough as this cup.” She crushed it and threw it at me. It hit the nape of my neck, and its contents dribbled down my back, leaving a sticky residue.