The Merchants of Zion (34 page)

“I think I should get going,” I suggested.

“Yes. No need to keep you longer.”

“Bye Ells Bells,” I said. She said bye-bye without taking her eyes off the screen. Skittles perked up and wagged his tail, then rested his head back on her lap.

Mr. Felkins accompanied me to the door and took out his phone. “What's your address?” he asked.

I told him.

“Is that a public account?”

“It is, sir.”

“And we pay you through it, you say?”

“You do, sir.”

“I don't like the sound of that,” he said, and paused. “I suppose it can't be helped. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention any of this to Helen.”

“Of course not. It was only a misunderstanding.”

“Yes, misunderstanding...”

He closed the door behind me and I skipped toward the subway, elated to know I was capable of inspiring jealousy in one man in this city.

* * *

The following day, I had my first lengthy conversation with James since coming to our mutual understanding regarding his tenancy. I was cooking up an omelette when he barged down the stairs. He was wearing pink and blue striped boxers. His gut hung down almost to his crotch. Since Dimitri had moved out he'd lost all sense of decorum. An image of him with Ruth flashed through my head. Disgusting.

“If you needed to, where would you buy a gun,” he demanded.

“Um... what kind of gun?”

“What the fuck do you mean what kind of gun?”

“Like a handgun, or a hunting rifle, shotgun. There are lots of different kinds.”

“Right. Sometimes I forget you come from corn country.” He hadn't thought his lunatic idea through this far and paused a moment to think. “Handgun. I definitely need a pistol. Or a revolver. Is there a difference?”

“You know, those are illegal. Unless you're a cop.”

“So I need to go to the ghetto. Know any gangbangers?”

“James. Why the Hell would you need a gun?”

He looked at me like I was the crazy one. “Didn't you hear?”

“I guess not.”

“Robespierre is dead. They shot him.”

“Who did?”

“Who the fuck do you think? Some Liberty Bell goons.”

I flipped my omelette, unconcerned.

“Where's the tablet?”

“In the living room.”

He brought it to me. The Cherry Tree's top headline read, “Infamous terrorist Robespierre gunned down in broad daylight.” It had amassed over two-million votes.

“So what?” I dumped my omelette onto a plate. “I don't see what that has to do with you needing a gun.”

“You don't understand, you really don't understand,” he blubbered over and over.

“No James, I do understand. Everyone is out to get you.” I rinsed my plate in the sink and headed to my bedroom to prepare for work. Today Elly and I were making our own neo-barbaric, a-retinal short film.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turned back to him and said, “If you're really so worried, why don't you run away to Canada. Or hide out in Mexico, if it's serious.”

“It's too late,” he wailed as I shut the door to my room. “I'm a dead man.”

Neo-barbaric, a-retinal videography
 is an avant garde film technique of the early and mid-21
^st
 century. Its first practitioners, working in loose collaboration on a variety of social media platforms, used custom-modified film equipment to create a filter or effect unique to each camera. Over time, this mish-mash of individual styles took on a distinctive aesthetic form.

The term was popularized by an artist operating under the name “La Corse,” or “The Corsican.” Inspired by scientific experiments exploring the perceptual adaptation of the human retina, she created a series of abstract viral videos that appeared to be rotated one-hundred and eighty degrees. The viewers' retinas eventually adjust to the images, reversing the artificial rotation. The rate varies with the individual creating, she claimed, “A unique visual experience for each person. You can never guess when someone is going to have that, 'a-ha' moment where their mind flips the video without their conscious awareness.”

La Corse discovered misshapen, asymmetrical images and figures worked best to consistently achieve this affect. “Originally I wanted to call it neo-Gothic, because really I got the ideas from the Notre Dame Cathedral and other Gothic architecture, but the connotation of the
fin-de-siecle
sub-culture was too strong. People would say, 'that doesn't look Gothic to me. There's barely any black and all, and where're the chains and the spikes?' so I settled on neo-barbaric instead.”

Neo-barbaric, a-retinal videography has been the focus of a perspective at the Liberty Bell Museum of Modern Art, as well as in Common Sense: The Twelve Art Movements to Watch in the Coming Decade. Further discussion has taken place on dozens of blogs, forums, and social media websites across the United States and France, and in Australia, Austria, Ireland, Italy, Great Britain, and Mozambique.

15. New Horizons

A week passed without hooded assassins breaking down the door and slaying James as he slept. Of course, that didn't make any difference to him. He developed deep circles under his eyes and kept asking me to roll him cigarettes. When I told him to go buy his own, he said he was too afraid to leave the house. Since I was a good roommate I went and bought him a carton, which he complained about, as they were Storebrand and not the organic brand I preferred, though that didn't prevent him from sitting on the stoop, chain-smoking and warily watching cars and pedestrians that passed by without giving him more than the New York “is that crazy man going to attack me?” glance. He canceled all his appointments, and told me he was “done with that business in Rockford.”

Mr. Felkins worked to set me up with his niece, Stacy. He invited her over for dinner several times, always while I was working. She was enrolled in Hudson University's political science graduate program, and had moved a few weeks early from Berkeley to get a feel for the city. I asked if she'd been involved with the student-Hispanic alliance and she wrinkled her nose at the idea. There was no way the city could be run by uneducated immigrants and over-privileged undergrads. I said I didn't know the details and dropped the subject.

On her third visit, Mr. Felkins suggested I show her around the city. A wonderful idea, Helen agreed. Did Stacy know I was part of Brooklyn's vibrant artistic community? I demurred, but they insisted and Stacy seemed receptive, if not exactly thrilled. We agreed to meet at the Felkins' house after Elly's parents relieved me of my duties, then head out to Brooklyn and hang out with those starving artists who, I'd forgotten to mention, had all moved to Buffalo and St. Louis years ago.

Elly suspected this might be more than “just friends” and expressed her disapproval.

“I've got to stick to my principles, Cliff. I don't think Stacy is right for you,” she said, in a decent imitation of her mother's eat-your-vegetables voice.

“Why not, Ells Bells?”

“What about Ruth? You'll hurt her feelings!”

“You don't even like her.” Since their lunch encounter, Elly never passed up an opportunity to criticize her. She was mean; she was sneaky; she was ugly. All in all she was most certainly and definitely not at all the right girl for me. Her criticisms amused me, even post-fallout, and I'd seen no reason to tell her that Ruth and I no longer spoke.

“I do too,” she insisted, pounding her feet for emphasis. “Plus you two are in love.”

“Not anymore.”

“Really?” The gears turned in her head. Deep-thought. “Then it's okay. But I still don't like Stacy.”

“You don't like anybody.”

Mr. Felkins came home early. Elly saw him, screamed “Daddy!” and charged him. He swept her up in his arms, then placed her on his shoulders. She squealed as he bounced around the room, belting out low, monkey howls. Skittles joined the fun, yapping and circling around Elly's father's feet, with the occasional body-twisting leap in the air.

I watched from the kitchen's archway—embarrassed at the naked sincerity, but also amused. He approached being a good father with the same gusto as I imagined he did hiding rich people's money. Robert Felkins was a born winner, and so long as he had a clear goal he would triumph. His son's death had muddled his senses and he'd wandered, disoriented and scotch in hand, through the foggy grief, but his GPS had found its signal. It was good for Elly—which made me happy—but the pleasure was melancholy. No matter how much time I spent with her, regardless of how much he attended or neglected her, she'd always run to him first. I was not and could not be a surrogate child for Helen or brother for Elly.

Mr. Felkins put her down and Elly grabbed Skittles, cradling him in her arms and traipsing around, imitating her dad. Her monkey noises were squeakier. The dog took it all in stride, enduring discomfort and humiliation as childhood pets are wont to do.

“Cliff-my-boy,” Robert said, advancing on me. He gave me a hearty slap on the back. His treatment of me had turned one-hundred and eighty degrees, from gruff and aloof to attempted male camaraderie. He didn't do it well—he came off as either condescending or all business—but I appreciated the effort. Dropping the alcohol had improved his mood. As had the shocking discovery that I was not, in fact, sleeping with his wife.

The three of us played Storebrand Words, retrieved from the top shelf of the cupboard above the kitchen and covered with dust. Elly had never played before, but quickly learned. We let slide the misspelled words she laid down if they were close. When she cobbled together “prinsipul” I felt an inordinate amount of pride.

Mr. Felkins was an old hand at the game—telling me he used to play it with his friends in college while pre-gaming. For him, games were about competition, not fun, and he showed us how serious he was as he wiped the floor with both Elly and myself. Not only did he play words I hadn't heard since university lectures, but he would play them to close off as many other possibilities as he could. I would put down big words to show-off, but also to open up the board and make the game more interesting, and he took advantage of my generosity to rack up a score larger than Elly's and mine combined. She protested and he began to hold back, but only when it was clear he would win.

Afterwards, he pulled me into the kitchen. I expected a lecture about how his niece was off limits, that I really was supposed to be her tour guide, no more, blah blah blah, but instead he told me tonight's dinner was on him, and he'd transfer a few hundred bucks my way in the morning.

“It'd better be nice. You can take her to a dive bar or filthy club or whatever's cool, but eat somewhere classy first. I don't care what you two do, just make sure she has a good time. And I don't want to hear about it. I'm going to assume you dropped her off at her apartment and she kissed you on the cheek.”

“Gosh, Mr. Felkins. It's only a first date.”

“I know how you young people are. But are you really going to take her out dressed like that?”

I had to look down to remember what I was wearing. My brown loafers, their soles worn down to the leather; blue and yellow striped socks with holes in both heels; a pair of old jeans I'd cut into shorts; and a threadbare “Blue Supernova” t-shirt. On top of that I hadn't shaved in one week, or two, I couldn't remember. I'd meant to today, but it must've slipped my mind.

“It's what's in style.” He couldn't tell if I was joking, mocking him, or being serious, so he changed the subject.

“Do you know where you're going to take her?”

“Gimme a sec. My options have expanded with my swollen budget. Do you know what kind of food she likes?” I asked. “Is she picky? She's not a vegetarian, right?”

“No, she ate the duck Helen prepared last night. Beyond that I don't know.”

“I'll talk to her. I've got a few places in mind.”

Stacy showed up at half past seven. I hugged Elly goodbye and shook Mr. Felkin's hand. Once we were out the door I stuck out my arm—as a joke—and was surprised when she linked hers with mine.

“You look good,” I said. “Too cool for me.” Indeed, she did, with fishnet stockings creeping up her legs and disappearing beneath a dark green tunic and gold belt. Her long black hair—striped electric blue—had been pulled into a nonchalant ponytail.

She said, “Thanks,” and nothing else. I asked what kind of food she liked and if she'd prefer to eat in Manhattan or Brooklyn. She liked everything, and didn't care in what borough we ate.

I was fortunate to live in a city where single, straight men were rarer than millionaires. I had no business scooping such gorgeous women.

We took a car to my neighborhood and got out on a street filled with empty stores whose drawn-down shutters were covered in graffiti. I glanced to see her reaction; her face was expressionless. She looked like a senile grandmother stuck out on the porch by her family.

I led her by the hand to a door unmarked except for its street number—33. We walked side-by-side down a short corridor to a set of glass doors. A man in a black dress shirt let us in, bowing his head as we passed by. Another waiter escorted us to a small patio table out in a garden paved with cobblestone. This hidden gem failed to register the least bit of emotion on her catatonic face.

“What do you think?” I asked as we sat down.

“It's nice.”

“Let's get a bottle of wine.” I pored over the wine list, picking names at random and making a big deal about them, pretending like I could taste the difference between anything narrower than white and red.

“I won't be drinking.”

“Sure. That's fine. Totally up to you,” I said, trying my best to not sound disappointed.

“I'm sorry, I must seem really out of it to you. I started new meds this week. They're having some pretty strong side effects.”

I laughed, then apologized. “I was worried you were steeling yourself for the worst date of your life.” She smiled faintly. “What're you taking?”

“Anti-anxiety pills. New York stresses me out.”

I ordered a Negroni and she ordered a glass of cranberry juice.

The meal was relaxing and uneventful. Together, we discovered the medication had caused Stacy to lose all interest in abstract concepts—“What am I going to do in grad school?”... “I'm sure the side effects will wear off.”—but she could recount the minutiae of her life, and assured me she enjoyed listening to my stories, though you couldn't tell it from her face.