The Financial Lives of the Poets Read online

  The Financial Lives of the Poets

  A Novel

  Jess Walter

  For Anne, always

  Poets have to dream, and dreaming in America is no cinch.

  —SAUL BELLOW

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Another 7/11

  Chapter 2

  Giving to Charity

  Chapter 3

  Social Networking

  Chapter 4

  A Brief Political Manifesto

  Chapter 5

  The Recession Hits Stehne’s Lumberland

  Chapter 6

  My Stupid Idea

  Chapter 7

  The Last Days of the Newspaper Business

  Chapter 8

  The Last Days of the Newspaper Business, Part II

  Chapter 9

  Twenty-Four-Hour News, a Haiku

  Chapter 10

  Dave the Drug Dealer Wants to Look Up My Ass

  Chapter 11

  Turns Out There Are Only Four Eskimo Words for Snow, However—

  Chapter 12

  You Will Need

  Chapter 13

  On the Spiritual Crises of Financial Experts

  Chapter 14

  On the Spiritual Crises of Drug Dealers

  Chapter 15

  Good Choices

  Chapter 16

  Welcome to Weedland, Haiku #2

  Chapter 17

  In Monte’s Fields

  Chapter 18

  My Consortium—A Villanelle

  Chapter 19

  Ah Yes, Now It’s All Coming Together—Haiku #3

  Chapter 20

  Stopped by Wood on My Front Lawn

  Chapter 21

  Agent CI OH-2 Goes Rogue

  Chapter 22

  A Good Old-Fashioned Newspaperman

  Chapter 23

  OH-2 The Vengeful

  Chapter 24

  You May Be Experiencing

  Chapter 25

  The Last Time I Remember Crying, Haiku #4

  Chapter 26

  On the Spiritual Crises of Confidential Informants

  Chapter 27

  Transcript, 36-Ounce Buy, Operation Homeland 11.15.08: 23:31—

  Chapter 28

  Eddie’s Anger—A Limerick

  Chapter 29

  Lincoln Log Dreams

  Chapter 30

  After 7/11

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Jess Walter

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  Another 7/11

  —HERE THEY ARE AGAIN—the bent boys, baked

  and buzzed boys, wasted, red-eyed, dry-mouth

  high boys, coursing narrow bright aisles

  hunting food as fried as they are, twitchy

  hands wadding bills they spill

  on the counter, so pleased and so

  proud, as if they’re the very

  inventors of stoned—

  And behind the counter, the ever-patient Rahjiv makes half-lidded eye contact with me as he rings up another patchouli-foul giggler—Reese’s Pieces, Pic-6 Lotto, Red Bull and a cheddar-jack tacquito—Rahjiv probably thinking: These kids, eh Matt—or maybe not, because Rahjiv doesn’t know my name and I don’t wear a nametag. I’m just the middle-aged guy who leaves my gunmetal sedan running when I come in after midnight. When I can’t sleep. And I’ve forgotten to get milk at a regular store. Milk for the kids’ cereal. In the morning. Before school.

  The milk is like nine dollars a gallon.

  For years, recent immigrants like Rahjiv have been a political Rorschach: see turban, think terrorist and you’re a Red ’Merican. Assume Indian neurosurgeon fluent in five languages, stuck serving morons at midnight for minimum wage, and you’re Blue, like me. Of course I have no more proof that Rahjiv was a doctor in Delhi than some Texas trucker does that he’s a bomber. Rahjiv may have jockeyed a 7/11 in India too for all we know—so impeccable is he with change, effortlessly plastic-bagging Hostess Sno Balls and Little Debbies, Power Bars and Mountain Dews—“No wait…dude. Chocolate milk! And pork rinds”—as yet another stoner reassesses the aisles—“And ooh, ooh! Cool Ranch Doritos!”

  Whenever I come in here, I invariably think of my own boys, at home asleep in their beds, still a few years from such trouble (or do they already dream of midnight at the Slurpee machine?).

  Two tattooed white kids in silk sweat suits step to the line behind me and I tense a little, double-pat my wallet. The fat one juggles a half-rack of malt-liquor forties while his partner rolls away to yell in his cell, “Chulo! Don’ do shit ’til we get there, yo.” The door closes behind the cell-phoned gangbanger and I’m finally at the front of this line with my milk—“Hey Rahjiv”—when something goes terribly wrong at the soda fountain and the clerk and I turn together, drawn by a hydroponic squeal from deep inside the cave of a blue hoody. A pierced, lank-haired skater, board strapped to his back, has spilled his 72-ounce Sprite and now believes it is…the funniest…fucking…thing…in the world, and Rahjiv nods wearily at me again, no doubt wishing he were back cutting craniums at Mumbai General. He casually swings my jug past the scanner.

  Then he hands me my milk. For the boys. For their cereal. In the morning.

  It’s like nine dollars a gallon.

  I also think of my mother when I come in here. She was dying several years back and became obsessed with the terrorist attacks in New York. I hated that she should be so wracked with random anxieties as she wasted away, thumb jacking the morphine pump like it could save her life—it couldn’t—her fear of dying manifested as a fear of things she had no reason to fear anymore: random crime, global warming…and most of all, terrorists on airplanes. “Matt?” she asked right before she died, “Do you think there will be another 7/11?” I thought about correcting her, but I just said, “No, Mom, there won’t be any more 7/11s.”

  “Nice slippers, yo,” says the cell-phone banger when I come outside with my milk. He’s twenty or so, in a sagging shark-colored tracksuit, black hair combed straight over his ears, elaborate tattoo rising out of his shirt at the base of his neck. And right out in the open, in front of this convenience store, he conveniently offers me a hit on a glass blunt, a little marijuana pipe shaped like a cigarette. I wave it off, but sort of wish I hadn’t—it’s been at least fifteen years, but I didn’t just spring from some relaxed-waisted suburbia with a Stoli martini in hand; I had my moments. In college they used to call me Weedeater because I devoured those Acapulco Gold joints, incense burning, black light on the walls, Pink Floyd thrumming down the dorm floor—

  Oh, and they’re not technically “slippers,” but a casual loafer I got at the Nordstrom Rack with a gift certificate when I returned a cardigan that made me look like my grandfather. Of course I don’t tell the stoned kid that, I just smile and say, “No thanks,” but then I pause to get a closer look, instead of continuing on to my car. Maybe I’m just curious about this clever pipe or maybe it’s the smell of the weed or maybe it’s just this swiveling looseness I’m feeling, but I’m still in mid-pause when the fatter white gangster joins us, flat-brimmed ball cap worn sidesaddle, and now there are three of us standing in a little semicircle, as if waiting for a tee time.

  “Hey,” says the one with the neck tattoo and the blunt, “dude here can give us a ride to the party.”

  And I’m about to say I can’t give them a ride because I’ve got to get home (and they look mildly dangerous) when fat-in-the-hat says, “Thanks, man,” like he’s surprised I’d be so cool and suddenly I want to be that cool. And then the fat kid looks down at my ha
nds, and laughs.

  “Damn, man. Why you buy your milk here? Shit’s like nine dollars a gallon.”

  The clouds are low, like a drop ceiling suffused with light from the city. They slide silently overhead. And two dope-smoking bangers in tracksuits climb into my car.

  I read once that we can only fear what we’re already afraid of; that our deepest fears are the memory of some earlier, unbearable fear. If that’s true, then maybe it’s a good thing my mother never lived to see another 7/11.

  “This a nice ride.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seats heated?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Feels funny. Like I pissed my pants.”

  “You pro’ly did piss your pants, yo.”

  “I’ll turn it down.”

  “What kind-a-car is this?”

  “Nissan. Maxima.”

  “How much ’at set you back?”

  “Oh. Not much.”

  But this isn’t true. With the winter floor mats, taxes and redundant two-year service contract, the car set me back $31,256. And because of several other recent setbacks—missed payments, ensuing penalties, house refi’s, debt consolidations, various family crises and my untimely job loss—after two years of payments I still somehow owe $31,000. On a car worth eighteen. This is my life now: set as far back as it will go.

  “My brother boosted a Maxima once,” says the kid from the backseat. “Or an Altima. I can’t keep ’em straight.”

  Car thieves. Nice.

  The criminals’ names are Skeet and Jamie. “Jamie?” I ask the kid in front.

  “Yeah right, no shit, huh?” says Skeet from the backseat. “Dude’s got like a chick’s name, don’t he?”

  “Eat me, Skeet,” Jamie says, and he offers me the blunt again and I surprise myself by taking it this time; I just want the smallest taste of that sweet smoke, or maybe I want to make sure they haven’t done anything new to the pot….

  Oh, but they have!

  I suppress a cough. Nose runs. Eyes burn. Someone is composting leaves in my throat. Scraping my lungs with a shovel. Wow.

  “Good, huh?” asks Jamie.

  I hack: “Not bad.”

  “Shit’s designer. Like three hunnerd an ounce,” Skeet says.

  The next roll of coughs I can’t suppress. “Really?”

  “Definitely,” Jamie explains, voice lilting with excitement. “In this lab in British Columbia? This Nobel Prize dude? He Frankensteined that shit? It’s knock-off, but shit’s still pretty good. They can do whatever they want to it, you know? Make it do a thousand different things to your mind, yo.”

  And I think that must be true, because a couple of old dorm-floor hits later my brain springs a leak and my life seems to trickle out, as I tell Jamie and Skeet my whole story: how I left a good job as a business reporter two years ago to start an unlikely poetry-and-investment website, how we got buried in the housing collapse just as my senile father moved in, how I scrambled back to my old newspaper job, only to get laid off eight weeks ago. How I got fourteen weeks of severance from the paper, and have six weeks left to find a job, because fourteen minus eight is six. How last week it was seven, next week it will be five, but right now,

  at this moment,

  with Skeet in the backseat

  and Jamie in front,

  right now, as of this…very

  moment—and I hold the smoke

  in my chest as if I can make

  this moment forever—Hooooo—

  “It’s six. Six weeks.”

  And that’s not even my most pressing deadline; I have all of seven days to liquidate my retirement and pay off a $30,000 balloon payment to the mortgage company, or risk losing our house. And it is this second deadline, I tell the boys, that has given my job search such throat-constricting immediacy, as I worry over thinning want ads, shakily fill out applications and hope my references still have the positions I’ve listed on my résumé, and how—this part has just occurred to me—I’ve gone and added another stress to a very shitty situation, because “Even if I do somehow get a job interview now, they’ll probably make me take a—”

  “—drug test!” Skeet yells from the backseat, and he laughs and I laugh and he laughs and I stop laughing and he keeps laughing.

  “Don’t freak, Slippers,” Jamie says, “there’s a million ways to beat a piss test.”

  “Pecans,” says Skeet from the backseat.

  “Pecans?” Jamie turns back.

  “Didn’t I read about some kind-a pecan diet in O?”

  “How the fuck I know what you read? An’ what the fuck Oprah be writin’ about how to pass a drug test?”

  “Dude, Oprah don’t write O. She just own that shit.”

  “And what the fuck you be doin’ readin’ it?”

  “My moms reads that shit, yo…. An’ I don’t know, maybe it was in People.”

  “So what the fuck the pecans do?”

  “The fuck I’m supposed to know what the pecans do! Clean up your piss or somefin’.”

  “You crazy, motherfucker.”

  “You crazy.”

  “You crazy.”

  “You crazy.”

  “You so crazy you took the short bus to school.”

  “You know that shit was behavioral, yo.”

  And I must be high because this conversation makes sense.

  Jamie waves Skeet off and faces forward again. “Don’t listen to that shit, Slippers. Here’s all you gotta do for that piss test. Get some of them pills. You know, online?”

  Not you too, Jamie. Don’t fall for the online lie—that everything we need is available at the click of a keystroke: all that shimmering data, the dating habits of the famous, videos of fat people falling down, porn…investment poetry…job listings, foreclosure information, poverty advice…and what about the thing my wife has begun seeking online?

  But before I get too deep into a new round of self-pity, Jamie offers a lilting anecdote: “You could do what my cousin Marshall did? Fucker wore a catheter? Connected to a baggy? With some other dude’s piss in it? And now he screens luggage at the airport? And he’s up for a supervisor job with the NTSA? And a security clearance? I shit you not, Dude’s got someone who warns him about random tests, and he keeps that catheter full of someone else’s whiz right there in his locker? And when he hears about tests, dude loads that shit up.”

  In the rearview, I see Skeet drink directly from my milk carton.

  Hey. That was like nine dollars a gallon.

  Very good pot. Far better than the dusty brown ragweed we smoked in college. And I think of my mother again, and the trouble we had at Christmas break my freshman year when she was doing laundry and found a single joint amid the pennies and pocket lint of my 501’s—she hated the sound of change rattling in her dryer—and I tried to convince her it was a rolled up note from a friend and she asked if I thought she was stupid and I said No, even though I was eighteen so of course my mother was stupid, and my parents were still together then but she never told my father about the joint, and I feel awful about her being so decent when I was such a shit; I feel awful for everything I did and everything I didn’t do, and I miss her terribly, although it’s probably good she’s not here because I couldn’t bear for her to hear about Jamie’s cousin Marshall screening bags…pissing someone else’s piss as he watches for shoe bombs and keeps us safe from the dudes planning another 7/11.

  No, it’s exceptional pot—

  And the party…is not a party the way I remember parties but eight young guys, short and fat and tall and lean, black, brown, white, rejected Abercrombie models standing in a flower bed outside an apartment building across from a closed pizza place, smoking and laughing and drinking malt-liquor forties, talking in likes and shits and dudes, and I fit in fine, although I can’t remember when I gave Skeet my slippers—but he’s wearing them, dude drinking from my milk jug—and I’m in my socks, sucking that blunt like a scuba diver on an air hose as I track conversations that mean nothi
ng to me: music I’ve never heard, and “skank-ass trippy chicks” I don’t know, someone’s “bus’-up ride”—and I gather from these conversations that my new friends are between nineteen and twenty-two, have a few community college credits, some minimum-wagey part-timey jobs, a possession charge or five, and I think about the semicircle that I used to make with the old neck-tied newspaper hacks in the newsroom around the 5 p.m. TV news, arms crossed, talking in our own code about our wives and our cars, about flacks and blogs and the Dow, and I think maybe the world is made up of little circles like this one and that one, that maybe there’s no fundamental difference between the circles except the codes for the shared bits of data, that somewhere a pack of plotting terrorists is standing in their own little circle, bouncing on cold feet and ululating not about the great American devil but about Ahmed’s skank-ass trippy girlfriend and Mahmoud’s bus’ ride, and that’s when I picture my boys again, one day standing in their own circle, generational losers smoking ever-improving weed and talking about their loser dad who went in the tank after getting run in the Great Recession or whatever they’ll call it in the history books, or the history MP3 files and Christ, I’m only forty-six…I don’t want to entertain such grandpa-thought, but I feel so old, so unemployed, outdated, dead technology, impotent scrap-heap, unraveling, unraveling, unrav—

  “Wait,” one of the felons interrupts my time-dilated self-pity; it’s tattoo-necked Jamie, the reliable one, quiet leader, and he leans in close: “Dude! Aren’t you…like. Starving?”

  And the thing is, bouncing on soaked socked feet outside this apartment building, blowing on cold hands that seem to belong to someone else, thinking of my sons at home in bed and the many ways I can still let them down, it’s true—