Money Trees
ALEX WEBB
Rob fished through the cup holder of his dinged-up, dirty-white, ‘98 Cavalier. He rummaged through fifty or so pennies looking for the glint of a quarter, nickel, or dime. He knew the pennies wouldn’t buy much, but he still didn’t like throwing out money. The end result was a cup holder full of mostly useless copper. He needed a little over a dollar to buy a two-liter, and he was pretty sure there was enough in the pile. He sat in his car counting out what he scrounged. It came to $1.35. He had about five dollars in his checking account, but he would need the money for gas to pick up Paul and head out to Steven’s friend’s house later that night. He wouldn’t have enough for the round trip, but Paul usually helped out on their way home.
As he got out of his car, parked in the dark Walmart parking lot, he could see an old homeless man he’d nicknamed “Dinero” making a long arching path to his car. Dinero had been begging around Rob’s neighborhood for a couple of weeks now, and Rob recognized him immediately. He was meth-skinny and maybe five-foot-five. He had an angular jaw, but his skin retreated into his cheekbones leaving shadows that looked like empty space throughout his tanned, scarred face. Rob guessed Dinero probably had a few decades worth of good looks starved out of him. He wore the same yellowing crew length tube socks every day, and his pants were cut at an odd length that split the difference between shorts and capris. Around his mouth was a copper brown stain in his moldy, white beard. Dinero moved in a jerky half-skip with his chest out, almost like he was approaching to fight, pulling up his pants every few steps without stopping.
“What’s up man, you got any money? My car ran out of gas a few miles away and I’m trying to get home to my wife and kids in Muskogee.”
Either Dinero had spent the last few weeks begging around Tulsa in an Odyssean struggle to return home, or he was lying for beer money. Rob suspected the latter. In all other previous encounters, Rob pulled out his empty wallet and showed the man that he didn’t have anything to give, but tonight he had a fist full of change. There’s some moral code that dictates that you can’t turn down a beggar while carrying a handful of change, Rob thought, so he dumped his dollar thirty-five into the outstretched palm of the beggar. Not only was Rob pissed that he’d felt obligated to hand over twentyish percent of his liquid net worth, but he recognized Dinero while the old man counted the money and picked at scabs on his elbows. Rob could have been anyone to him. He treated Rob as if he were a faulty ATM. At least this guy needs it more than I do, Rob thought.
“The fuck, man? Come on. I know you’ve got more than that. Gas is expensive,” the old man said. He jutted his expectant hand out for more money — money that Rob didn’t have.
“I gotta pay for gas too, asshole. I’m not Bill Gates,” Rob said. The old man saw another car pull up a few hundred feet away and skirted off to go beg at someone else. “You’re welcome, motherfucker!” Rob shouted after him.
Rob walked into Walmart to find the Coke that would pair with Paul’s Jack Daniel’s. Paul and Rob had not been invited to Steven’s friend’s party, but Steven knew the people pretty well, and knew that by midnight either the house would be too crowded, or the people too drunk to be able to tell who was invited and who had wandered in. Steven’s philosophy was show up with whiskey for the guys and mixer for the girls, leaving everyone drunk and happy.
Steven’s recently graduated private school friends acted like they lived for this time of year. Back from college for summer with rich parents who always seemed to be summering somewhere else. The parents left their massive houses and equally expansive liquor cabinets unattended. The parties got rowdy and anonymous, and Steven and Paul loved them.
Rob hated the parties. His gratification came, not from booze or drugs or girls, but the small treasures he found in the houses. Rob nicked little things from the houses: a few rings, bracelets, and a pair of salt and pepper shakers once. He took anything that he could slip into his pocket. He liked to have the weight of the object in his hands. He felt empowered skimming the excess off the over-privileged. As far as Rob knew no one noticed other than Paul. Paul never joined in, but was usually sober enough to catch on. Rob was certain that Steven never noticed. Steven usually drank until he blacked-out. Rob didn’t think the owners would miss what he took, but even if they did, they could always buy another of whatever it was that Rob made disappear.
Rob swiped his card, nearly emptying his checking account for a two-liter of Coke he probably wouldn’t even drink.
The “check engine” light blinked on as Rob pulled up to Paul’s Mom’s decaying house. A massive overgrown leafless tree in the front yard obscured most of the porch. Under the streetlight, the parts of the house visible through the branches looked like they had originally been painted white, but had degraded to an off-green. Compared to the sterile hallways of Rob’s ticky-tacky apartment complex, Paul’s house looked as if it were decomposing into the ground upon which it was built.
Rob parked the car and unhooked the loose latch on Paul’s rusty front gate. A thickheaded pit bull from the yard next door sprinted out, snarling and barking, teeth bared. The thick shouldered dog pressed its wide face into the slack of the leaning chain link fence. Ducking under branches and pushing tall weeds aside, Rob climbed the steps to Paul’s porch and knocked on the door.
Paul emerged carrying a three-quarters full bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he’d bought a few weeks ago but hadn’t drunk yet.
“How broke are you today?” Rob asked.
“I had ramen for breakfast.” Paul stepped out of his house and handed his friend the bottle. “You got the Coke, right?”
“Better believe it. Can you pitch in for some gas coming home?” Rob asked. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it back to my place.”
Paul nodded.
Paul led the way, pushing back the dead branches that grabbed at him like bony fingers through the front yard forest, returning to the driveway where Rob’s car was parked.
They rode together, Paul’s favorite heavy metal blaring. Rob tolerated the music.
Rob pulled into a gas station and turned off the car. He filled his tank up with what was left in his checking account. He climbed back into the car.
“I saw Dinero tonight. That methy bastard got my savings account.”
“You emptied your cup holder for him?” Paul asked. “What could have moved you to such a charitable act?”
“Well, shit, man, I don’t know. I had a hand full of change. I couldn’t say I didn’t have any,” Rob said.
“But no one made you hand it over. He didn’t threaten you, did he?”
“I mean he needed it more than I did, right? Poor people gotta look out for each other, right?”
Paul turned the music back on and cancelled out Rob’s voice. Rob realized he wasn’t even sure why he’d given Dinero the money. He’d told himself that he was obligated to hand it over morally or socially, but, Paul was right, he did have a choice. Dinero didn’t pull out a switchblade. He wasn’t starving on the side of the road. Rob thought he really hadn’t helped or hurt the old man in any real way. If he’d rejected him, the result would be the same—he’d still be out there panhandling. Maybe the old man bought another beer; maybe he was actually stranded and no one believed him. But, even if he were lost and trying to find his way home, the gas he could have bought with $1.35 wouldn’t have gotten him more than a few feet down the road.
Rob and Paul pulled up to the house. They assumed this was the right place because the street was littered with Mercedes and Lexus. The house looked like the capital building of a small wealthy nation. A collage of stone made a meandering path which led from the mail box to the porch steps. The grass was thick and clipped evenly at a uniform height. They could see flashing lights through the windows and heard vague rumbles of bass as they stepped out of Rob’s parked car. Paul carried the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the two-liter of Coke. Rob called Steven to make sure they weren’t about to crash the wrong party. The phone rang and went straight to voicemail. They called again. Steven spilled out the front door stumbling as he yelled “Where are you?” into the phone.
“Where have you been man? It’s crazy in there,” Steven said as he steadied himself against one of the columns on the portico. “The girls in there are unbelievable. I’m talking to this girl right now who said she’s a model. A fuckin’ model, man!”
The doors opened to a rolling smell of stale flowers and tobacco. Heat poured out of the room as if it was chemically bonded to the waves of bass. Sweat evaporated off bare perfumed skin carrying the small vaporous drops of erotic scents through the air, diffusing into the hazy cloud of tobacco smoke that hovered above the perspiring bodies packed too tightly across the makeshift living room dance floor. The lamps in the room were augmented with black-light bulbs. From the entrance to the dim white light outline of what looked like a sliding door across the expansive living room, there was a pulsating neon mass of bodies.
Paul handed Rob the bottles of Jack and the two-liter Coke and dissipated into the crowd. Steven pointed across the dance floor.
“Put the drinks in the kitchen over there,” Steven yelled. Rob moved toward the kitchen sliding through the mass of moist bodies.
Under the black light, the skin of the partygoers looked dim and purple with their eyes and teeth illuminated. Inside the undulating mass, the group looked like disembodied eyes and mouths bouncing through the sweaty perfumed haze. As Rob shuffled through the bodies, a girl in a neon pink striped top grabbed the bottle of whiskey from him, unscrewed the top and took a shot directly from the bottle. She wrapped her arms around him, dropping the bottle cap on the floor and sloshing whiskey onto the back of Rob’s shirt. She yelled into his ear, “I fuckin’ love you! Jack is my favorite!” She grabbed the back of Rob’s head with her free hand and leaned in to kiss him, but in the claustrophobic mess she missed his lips and landed on the corner of his mouth. Rob put the two-liter under his arm and unwrapped her from his body. He took back the bottle of whiskey and the girl melted back into the crowd.
As Rob entered the comforting white light of the kitchen through a sliding door, he wiped the girl’s whiskey spit from the corner of his mouth. There were a lot of people in the kitchen, but the music wasn’t quite as deafening and the people at least looked human under the white lighting. The heavy granite island was packed with bottles of liquor. Rob put the cap-less bottle of Jack with the other bottles of Jack and opened the chrome refrigerator to place the sealed two-liter of Coke with the rest of the mixers and chasers. He felt like he’d brought a pocket full of sand to the beach.
Rob stayed away from the dance floor and drank by himself in the kitchen, wondering what treasures he might find in the house.
Steven rematerialized from the crowd and lurched into the kitchen.
“Have you seen her?” Steven asked as he wiped sweat from his face.
Rob didn’t know who he was talking about and responded with a derisive “who?” He hated talking to Steven when Steven was this wasted.
“Dude, the model. The fuckin’ model. The fucking model. By far the hottest girl here. You can’t tell me you haven’t seen her.” Rob hadn’t really talked to anyone and the people seemed pretty interchangeable. Steven’s eyes didn’t open all the way anymore which meant he was not only faded, but had been pretty far gone for a while now. Rob tried to change the subject to relocating Paul.
“I don’t know where she is man, but have you seen Paul?” Rob asked.
“No, I’m looking for a model. A girl model. Not Paul. Paul’s not a girl model at all.”
Rob didn’t want to talk to Steven anymore, or even be at the party. He wanted to take something, find Paul and get out. He mentioned seeing the model somewhere out on the dance floor to get rid of Steven. Steven dove back into the black light to find her.
Rob wandered through the house trying to get as far away from the mob as possible. The house looked large from the street and was even larger inside. Though he knew the house was home for an entire family, he couldn’t help comparing the vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors to his studio efficiency apartment where the front door opened into the bedroom/kitchen.
On the far side of the house, Rob found the master bedroom. He lay down on the king size bed. The mattress stretched out further than his arm’s length and he sank into the thick down comforter.
Rob got off the bed. Soon he was rummaging through the drawers of the dresser. He wanted to touch everything. He wanted to have everything. He thought about how unfair it was that Paul couldn’t have the things that Steven’s friend’s parents had. They had such a nice house with so many nice things, why couldn’t they share? Rob remembered Dinero and knew why he gave him his money. Dinero wanted the money, and Rob had the money. That’s what good people do, Rob thought. Good people share what they have with others. I’m a good person, Rob thought, I deserve whatever I can find.
As he searched through the room, ignoring the banalities of socks and white undershirts, Rob found a silver money clip. The money clip was still in its packaging—a plastic sleeve wrapped in dark blue tissue paper and placed in a small gift box. The silver was engraved with “CS.” It was a perfect find. Valuable and small enough to slip into his pocket. He tucked it away and headed back to the party to find Paul.
Rob found Paul in the backyard sharing a joint with a few of Steven’s friends. He pulled Paul away to show him the money clip he just pinched. Rob snuck the clip out of his pocket trying to act smooth while showing off his loot.
“Did you fucking steal that?” Paul asked.
“Shit, man. Calm down. No one saw me take it,” Rob said.
“Do you even know whose house this is? His name is Cameron Schwab and he’s five feet behind me,” Paul said. Paul motioned to one of the guys he was smoking with outside. Cameron had smoked enough that his eyes looked like marble. Rob darted his hand with the clip back into his pocket.
“What’ll he care? You think his Dad can’t afford a new way to hold all his money?” Who can afford a gardener, but can’t buy another money clip? Rob thought.
“Who cares if his Dad can afford another? It’s not yours,” Paul said. Paul stopped talking in hushed tones. “Give it back.”
Rob could see Cameron and the group of Steven’s friends take notice behind them. Paul never joined in, but he’d seen Rob steal enough that Rob assumed Paul understood, or at least didn’t mind, the theft.
“Well it’s good that someone’s looking out for all these rich assholes,” Rob said.
“Paul, who’s that? He with you?” Cameron called from over Paul’s shoulder. “Give what back?” Cameron asked. Paul turned toward Cameron, while Rob slipped back into the party to try and escape through the crowd. Looking back, he saw Paul talking to Cameron. Rob pushed his way through the crowded living room dance floor. The dubstep screeching out of the speakers pounded heavy bass hits with the sound of an air raid siren in a rhythmic scream over the top of the synth. The glowing eyes and teeth all seemed to turn to him while he pushed through the dark purple bodies. Making a beeline to the door he bumped into the girl with the pink striped top, knocking the drink out of her hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” she tried to yell over the music. She pushed him in the chest knocking him into another person. The guy he hit pushed Rob back hard, making him collide with the body in front of him in a wild flail. The group erupted into a tightly packed mosh pit. Rob fell out of the mass onto a coffee table that had been pushed to the edge of the makeshift dance floor. A sharp corner snagged on his shirt and ripped part of the sleeve. Rob couldn’t quite tell, but it looked like Cameron and Paul were coming back in from outside. Closer to freedom, Rob bolted out the door.
Steven was hunched over on the porch puking into the bushes. Rob bent over next to him.
“We gotta roll out of here right now,” Rob said. He didn’t want to explain why he needed to leave so fast, but he figured Steven was too drunk to notice.
“Naw, I’m already home,” Steven said. He lay down in the grass.
Rob left without argument and sped out of the neighborhood. When the “check gauges” light lit up on his dashboard, Rob remembered he’d planned to have Paul pay for gas on the return trip. He didn’t have enough in the tank to make it home, but he did have enough to drive to Paul’s Mom’s house. He pulled up to the house with the massive dead tree hanging over the entrance.
How could Paul side with those jerks? Rob thought. He pulled out the money clip that was still in his pocket and ran his fingers across the “CS” etched in the silver. Rob didn’t know what Cameron’s father’s name was, but he guessed that the clip was a gift for his son—a one-percenter handing down the tools of their class to his over-privileged progeny. There was a cold karma to the silver and Rob enjoyed the feel of the gift in his hands. Without exploited silver miners, the materials would still be underground anyway, Rob thought. At least now the clip was in the hands of someone who could really appreciate it.
Rob worked his way through the branches and weeds and sat outside on Paul’s Mom’s porch waiting for Paul to get home. He knew Steven would be too drunk to drive and that Paul would drive Steven’s Lexus back to his Mom’s house where they’d both crash for the night.
Soon, Rob spotted Steven’s silver Lexus. The underbelly of the car scratched against the incline of the driveway as Paul pulled in.
“Thanks for bailing on me,” Paul yelled.
“You heard them. They were coming after me. What was I supposed to do?” Rob said.
“Asshole, I covered for you. Cameron didn’t hear what you were trying to steal,” Paul explained. “I told him you were trying to take your whiskey home, but I thought it was rude to leave with the gift you brought.” Paul stepped out of the car. “Not only did Cameron give you your fucked up cap-less bottle back,” Paul said, “but he gave you a new bottle too because he felt bad that you had to leave so early.” Paul pulled an unopened bottle of Jack out of the Lexus.
“What’s it matter to him anyway, he can just go buy another one,” Rob said. Rob had seen Paul upset before, but usually when they’d fight Paul would look angrily at the ground. Now Paul made direct, hard eye contact.
“Why’s it always about money with you? I know you look at Steven as ‘your rich friend.’ Does that make me your poor friend?”
The front yard was silent except for Steven dry-heaving in his Lexus. Rob and Paul sprinted back to the car to pull Steven out before he threw up on his leather seats. They carried his limp body to the porch. Paul grabbed a trash can from the curb and positioned Steven over the stinking bin. Steven cringed and pulled back. He heaved an alcoholic splattering onto Paul’s shoes.
“Drunk motherfucker,” Rob said. “They just don’t give a shit about us Paul. Even Steven. Rich people don’t hate us, or plot against us, they just don’t give a shit about us.”
“Who’s rich, though?” Paul asked.
“What?” Rob said.
“Who’s rich? To me, you’re pretty rich. You have a car. You have an apartment. I’m living with my Mom and eating microwave noodles every day. But compared to people like Dinero, begging in Wal-Mart parking lots, I’m living large.” Paul slid his shoes and socks off leaving them by the front door so he didn’t track puke through his house. “And what about Bill Gates or whoever runs Apple now that Steve Jobs died. You don’t think they look at Steven like he’s living in poverty?” Steven gurgled next to Rob, but didn’t throw up this time. “We’re not rich, and we’re not poor. Everybody wants more than what they’ve got.”
Paul went inside and came back with a few dollars in coins from an old cracked jar his mom collected change in. She took the jar to the grocery store once a week to convert the coins to whatever small amount of bills they were worth.
“That should be enough to get you home,” Paul said. “Steven’ll wander inside when he sobers up enough to stop puking. I’m done for the night.”
Paul locked the door behind him. Rob sat on the porch looking out across the street through the branches of the dead tree wrapped around Paul’s house. The branches crisscrossed each other at odd unpredictable angles making Rob feel claustrophobic. Rob thought about how Paul walks through the branches every morning. He just pushes them aside like the flimsy switches that they are, but when Rob tries to navigate them, he ends up scratched like his sleeve caught on the coffee table.
Rob felt the money clip in his pocket. The silver felt worthless. The justice he felt from taking the clip crumpled up and blew down the street like the last leaves off Paul’s dead tree. Rob pulled a branch aside to get a clearer view of the street, but the branch snapped back. Rob took the money clip and clipped together the two offending branches opening a small window through which he could watch the cars drive by. Rob sat staring through his makeshift window for a long while, and when he left, he left the clip clamped down on the branches. It didn’t really make much of a difference, but it was one less thicket to navigate through for Paul when he left in the morning.
ALEX WEBB
Rob fished through the cup holder of his dinged-up, dirty-white, ‘98 Cavalier. He rummaged through fifty or so pennies looking for the glint of a quarter, nickel, or dime. He knew the pennies wouldn’t buy much, but he still didn’t like throwing out money. The end result was a cup holder full of mostly useless copper. He needed a little over a dollar to buy a two-liter, and he was pretty sure there was enough in the pile. He sat in his car counting out what he scrounged. It came to $1.35. He had about five dollars in his checking account, but he would need the money for gas to pick up Paul and head out to Steven’s friend’s house later that night. He wouldn’t have enough for the round trip, but Paul usually helped out on their way home.
As he got out of his car, parked in the dark Walmart parking lot, he could see an old homeless man he’d nicknamed “Dinero” making a long arching path to his car. Dinero had been begging around Rob’s neighborhood for a couple of weeks now, and Rob recognized him immediately. He was meth-skinny and maybe five-foot-five. He had an angular jaw, but his skin retreated into his cheekbones leaving shadows that looked like empty space throughout his tanned, scarred face. Rob guessed Dinero probably had a few decades worth of good looks starved out of him. He wore the same yellowing crew length tube socks every day, and his pants were cut at an odd length that split the difference between shorts and capris. Around his mouth was a copper brown stain in his moldy, white beard. Dinero moved in a jerky half-skip with his chest out, almost like he was approaching to fight, pulling up his pants every few steps without stopping.
“What’s up man, you got any money? My car ran out of gas a few miles away and I’m trying to get home to my wife and kids in Muskogee.”
Either Dinero had spent the last few weeks begging around Tulsa in an Odyssean struggle to return home, or he was lying for beer money. Rob suspected the latter. In all other previous encounters, Rob pulled out his empty wallet and showed the man that he didn’t have anything to give, but tonight he had a fist full of change. There’s some moral code that dictates that you can’t turn down a beggar while carrying a handful of change, Rob thought, so he dumped his dollar thirty-five into the outstretched palm of the beggar. Not only was Rob pissed that he’d felt obligated to hand over twentyish percent of his liquid net worth, but he recognized Dinero while the old man counted the money and picked at scabs on his elbows. Rob could have been anyone to him. He treated Rob as if he were a faulty ATM. At least this guy needs it more than I do, Rob thought.
“The fuck, man? Come on. I know you’ve got more than that. Gas is expensive,” the old man said. He jutted his expectant hand out for more money — money that Rob didn’t have.
“I gotta pay for gas too, asshole. I’m not Bill Gates,” Rob said. The old man saw another car pull up a few hundred feet away and skirted off to go beg at someone else. “You’re welcome, motherfucker!” Rob shouted after him.
Rob walked into Walmart to find the Coke that would pair with Paul’s Jack Daniel’s. Paul and Rob had not been invited to Steven’s friend’s party, but Steven knew the people pretty well, and knew that by midnight either the house would be too crowded, or the people too drunk to be able to tell who was invited and who had wandered in. Steven’s philosophy was show up with whiskey for the guys and mixer for the girls, leaving everyone drunk and happy.
Steven’s recently graduated private school friends acted like they lived for this time of year. Back from college for summer with rich parents who always seemed to be summering somewhere else. The parents left their massive houses and equally expansive liquor cabinets unattended. The parties got rowdy and anonymous, and Steven and Paul loved them.
Rob hated the parties. His gratification came, not from booze or drugs or girls, but the small treasures he found in the houses. Rob nicked little things from the houses: a few rings, bracelets, and a pair of salt and pepper shakers once. He took anything that he could slip into his pocket. He liked to have the weight of the object in his hands. He felt empowered skimming the excess off the over-privileged. As far as Rob knew no one noticed other than Paul. Paul never joined in, but was usually sober enough to catch on. Rob was certain that Steven never noticed. Steven usually drank until he blacked-out. Rob didn’t think the owners would miss what he took, but even if they did, they could always buy another of whatever it was that Rob made disappear.
Rob swiped his card, nearly emptying his checking account for a two-liter of Coke he probably wouldn’t even drink.
The “check engine” light blinked on as Rob pulled up to Paul’s Mom’s decaying house. A massive overgrown leafless tree in the front yard obscured most of the porch. Under the streetlight, the parts of the house visible through the branches looked like they had originally been painted white, but had degraded to an off-green. Compared to the sterile hallways of Rob’s ticky-tacky apartment complex, Paul’s house looked as if it were decomposing into the ground upon which it was built.
Rob parked the car and unhooked the loose latch on Paul’s rusty front gate. A thickheaded pit bull from the yard next door sprinted out, snarling and barking, teeth bared. The thick shouldered dog pressed its wide face into the slack of the leaning chain link fence. Ducking under branches and pushing tall weeds aside, Rob climbed the steps to Paul’s porch and knocked on the door.
Paul emerged carrying a three-quarters full bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he’d bought a few weeks ago but hadn’t drunk yet.
“How broke are you today?” Rob asked.
“I had ramen for breakfast.” Paul stepped out of his house and handed his friend the bottle. “You got the Coke, right?”
“Better believe it. Can you pitch in for some gas coming home?” Rob asked. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it back to my place.”
Paul nodded.
Paul led the way, pushing back the dead branches that grabbed at him like bony fingers through the front yard forest, returning to the driveway where Rob’s car was parked.
They rode together, Paul’s favorite heavy metal blaring. Rob tolerated the music.
Rob pulled into a gas station and turned off the car. He filled his tank up with what was left in his checking account. He climbed back into the car.
“I saw Dinero tonight. That methy bastard got my savings account.”
“You emptied your cup holder for him?” Paul asked. “What could have moved you to such a charitable act?”
“Well, shit, man, I don’t know. I had a hand full of change. I couldn’t say I didn’t have any,” Rob said.
“But no one made you hand it over. He didn’t threaten you, did he?”
“I mean he needed it more than I did, right? Poor people gotta look out for each other, right?”
Paul turned the music back on and cancelled out Rob’s voice. Rob realized he wasn’t even sure why he’d given Dinero the money. He’d told himself that he was obligated to hand it over morally or socially, but, Paul was right, he did have a choice. Dinero didn’t pull out a switchblade. He wasn’t starving on the side of the road. Rob thought he really hadn’t helped or hurt the old man in any real way. If he’d rejected him, the result would be the same—he’d still be out there panhandling. Maybe the old man bought another beer; maybe he was actually stranded and no one believed him. But, even if he were lost and trying to find his way home, the gas he could have bought with $1.35 wouldn’t have gotten him more than a few feet down the road.
Rob and Paul pulled up to the house. They assumed this was the right place because the street was littered with Mercedes and Lexus. The house looked like the capital building of a small wealthy nation. A collage of stone made a meandering path which led from the mail box to the porch steps. The grass was thick and clipped evenly at a uniform height. They could see flashing lights through the windows and heard vague rumbles of bass as they stepped out of Rob’s parked car. Paul carried the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the two-liter of Coke. Rob called Steven to make sure they weren’t about to crash the wrong party. The phone rang and went straight to voicemail. They called again. Steven spilled out the front door stumbling as he yelled “Where are you?” into the phone.
“Where have you been man? It’s crazy in there,” Steven said as he steadied himself against one of the columns on the portico. “The girls in there are unbelievable. I’m talking to this girl right now who said she’s a model. A fuckin’ model, man!”
The doors opened to a rolling smell of stale flowers and tobacco. Heat poured out of the room as if it was chemically bonded to the waves of bass. Sweat evaporated off bare perfumed skin carrying the small vaporous drops of erotic scents through the air, diffusing into the hazy cloud of tobacco smoke that hovered above the perspiring bodies packed too tightly across the makeshift living room dance floor. The lamps in the room were augmented with black-light bulbs. From the entrance to the dim white light outline of what looked like a sliding door across the expansive living room, there was a pulsating neon mass of bodies.
Paul handed Rob the bottles of Jack and the two-liter Coke and dissipated into the crowd. Steven pointed across the dance floor.
“Put the drinks in the kitchen over there,” Steven yelled. Rob moved toward the kitchen sliding through the mass of moist bodies.
Under the black light, the skin of the partygoers looked dim and purple with their eyes and teeth illuminated. Inside the undulating mass, the group looked like disembodied eyes and mouths bouncing through the sweaty perfumed haze. As Rob shuffled through the bodies, a girl in a neon pink striped top grabbed the bottle of whiskey from him, unscrewed the top and took a shot directly from the bottle. She wrapped her arms around him, dropping the bottle cap on the floor and sloshing whiskey onto the back of Rob’s shirt. She yelled into his ear, “I fuckin’ love you! Jack is my favorite!” She grabbed the back of Rob’s head with her free hand and leaned in to kiss him, but in the claustrophobic mess she missed his lips and landed on the corner of his mouth. Rob put the two-liter under his arm and unwrapped her from his body. He took back the bottle of whiskey and the girl melted back into the crowd.
As Rob entered the comforting white light of the kitchen through a sliding door, he wiped the girl’s whiskey spit from the corner of his mouth. There were a lot of people in the kitchen, but the music wasn’t quite as deafening and the people at least looked human under the white lighting. The heavy granite island was packed with bottles of liquor. Rob put the cap-less bottle of Jack with the other bottles of Jack and opened the chrome refrigerator to place the sealed two-liter of Coke with the rest of the mixers and chasers. He felt like he’d brought a pocket full of sand to the beach.
Rob stayed away from the dance floor and drank by himself in the kitchen, wondering what treasures he might find in the house.
Steven rematerialized from the crowd and lurched into the kitchen.
“Have you seen her?” Steven asked as he wiped sweat from his face.
Rob didn’t know who he was talking about and responded with a derisive “who?” He hated talking to Steven when Steven was this wasted.
“Dude, the model. The fuckin’ model. The fucking model. By far the hottest girl here. You can’t tell me you haven’t seen her.” Rob hadn’t really talked to anyone and the people seemed pretty interchangeable. Steven’s eyes didn’t open all the way anymore which meant he was not only faded, but had been pretty far gone for a while now. Rob tried to change the subject to relocating Paul.
“I don’t know where she is man, but have you seen Paul?” Rob asked.
“No, I’m looking for a model. A girl model. Not Paul. Paul’s not a girl model at all.”
Rob didn’t want to talk to Steven anymore, or even be at the party. He wanted to take something, find Paul and get out. He mentioned seeing the model somewhere out on the dance floor to get rid of Steven. Steven dove back into the black light to find her.
Rob wandered through the house trying to get as far away from the mob as possible. The house looked large from the street and was even larger inside. Though he knew the house was home for an entire family, he couldn’t help comparing the vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors to his studio efficiency apartment where the front door opened into the bedroom/kitchen.
On the far side of the house, Rob found the master bedroom. He lay down on the king size bed. The mattress stretched out further than his arm’s length and he sank into the thick down comforter.
Rob got off the bed. Soon he was rummaging through the drawers of the dresser. He wanted to touch everything. He wanted to have everything. He thought about how unfair it was that Paul couldn’t have the things that Steven’s friend’s parents had. They had such a nice house with so many nice things, why couldn’t they share? Rob remembered Dinero and knew why he gave him his money. Dinero wanted the money, and Rob had the money. That’s what good people do, Rob thought. Good people share what they have with others. I’m a good person, Rob thought, I deserve whatever I can find.
As he searched through the room, ignoring the banalities of socks and white undershirts, Rob found a silver money clip. The money clip was still in its packaging—a plastic sleeve wrapped in dark blue tissue paper and placed in a small gift box. The silver was engraved with “CS.” It was a perfect find. Valuable and small enough to slip into his pocket. He tucked it away and headed back to the party to find Paul.
Rob found Paul in the backyard sharing a joint with a few of Steven’s friends. He pulled Paul away to show him the money clip he just pinched. Rob snuck the clip out of his pocket trying to act smooth while showing off his loot.
“Did you fucking steal that?” Paul asked.
“Shit, man. Calm down. No one saw me take it,” Rob said.
“Do you even know whose house this is? His name is Cameron Schwab and he’s five feet behind me,” Paul said. Paul motioned to one of the guys he was smoking with outside. Cameron had smoked enough that his eyes looked like marble. Rob darted his hand with the clip back into his pocket.
“What’ll he care? You think his Dad can’t afford a new way to hold all his money?” Who can afford a gardener, but can’t buy another money clip? Rob thought.
“Who cares if his Dad can afford another? It’s not yours,” Paul said. Paul stopped talking in hushed tones. “Give it back.”
Rob could see Cameron and the group of Steven’s friends take notice behind them. Paul never joined in, but he’d seen Rob steal enough that Rob assumed Paul understood, or at least didn’t mind, the theft.
“Well it’s good that someone’s looking out for all these rich assholes,” Rob said.
“Paul, who’s that? He with you?” Cameron called from over Paul’s shoulder. “Give what back?” Cameron asked. Paul turned toward Cameron, while Rob slipped back into the party to try and escape through the crowd. Looking back, he saw Paul talking to Cameron. Rob pushed his way through the crowded living room dance floor. The dubstep screeching out of the speakers pounded heavy bass hits with the sound of an air raid siren in a rhythmic scream over the top of the synth. The glowing eyes and teeth all seemed to turn to him while he pushed through the dark purple bodies. Making a beeline to the door he bumped into the girl with the pink striped top, knocking the drink out of her hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” she tried to yell over the music. She pushed him in the chest knocking him into another person. The guy he hit pushed Rob back hard, making him collide with the body in front of him in a wild flail. The group erupted into a tightly packed mosh pit. Rob fell out of the mass onto a coffee table that had been pushed to the edge of the makeshift dance floor. A sharp corner snagged on his shirt and ripped part of the sleeve. Rob couldn’t quite tell, but it looked like Cameron and Paul were coming back in from outside. Closer to freedom, Rob bolted out the door.
Steven was hunched over on the porch puking into the bushes. Rob bent over next to him.
“We gotta roll out of here right now,” Rob said. He didn’t want to explain why he needed to leave so fast, but he figured Steven was too drunk to notice.
“Naw, I’m already home,” Steven said. He lay down in the grass.
Rob left without argument and sped out of the neighborhood. When the “check gauges” light lit up on his dashboard, Rob remembered he’d planned to have Paul pay for gas on the return trip. He didn’t have enough in the tank to make it home, but he did have enough to drive to Paul’s Mom’s house. He pulled up to the house with the massive dead tree hanging over the entrance.
How could Paul side with those jerks? Rob thought. He pulled out the money clip that was still in his pocket and ran his fingers across the “CS” etched in the silver. Rob didn’t know what Cameron’s father’s name was, but he guessed that the clip was a gift for his son—a one-percenter handing down the tools of their class to his over-privileged progeny. There was a cold karma to the silver and Rob enjoyed the feel of the gift in his hands. Without exploited silver miners, the materials would still be underground anyway, Rob thought. At least now the clip was in the hands of someone who could really appreciate it.
Rob worked his way through the branches and weeds and sat outside on Paul’s Mom’s porch waiting for Paul to get home. He knew Steven would be too drunk to drive and that Paul would drive Steven’s Lexus back to his Mom’s house where they’d both crash for the night.
Soon, Rob spotted Steven’s silver Lexus. The underbelly of the car scratched against the incline of the driveway as Paul pulled in.
“Thanks for bailing on me,” Paul yelled.
“You heard them. They were coming after me. What was I supposed to do?” Rob said.
“Asshole, I covered for you. Cameron didn’t hear what you were trying to steal,” Paul explained. “I told him you were trying to take your whiskey home, but I thought it was rude to leave with the gift you brought.” Paul stepped out of the car. “Not only did Cameron give you your fucked up cap-less bottle back,” Paul said, “but he gave you a new bottle too because he felt bad that you had to leave so early.” Paul pulled an unopened bottle of Jack out of the Lexus.
“What’s it matter to him anyway, he can just go buy another one,” Rob said. Rob had seen Paul upset before, but usually when they’d fight Paul would look angrily at the ground. Now Paul made direct, hard eye contact.
“Why’s it always about money with you? I know you look at Steven as ‘your rich friend.’ Does that make me your poor friend?”
The front yard was silent except for Steven dry-heaving in his Lexus. Rob and Paul sprinted back to the car to pull Steven out before he threw up on his leather seats. They carried his limp body to the porch. Paul grabbed a trash can from the curb and positioned Steven over the stinking bin. Steven cringed and pulled back. He heaved an alcoholic splattering onto Paul’s shoes.
“Drunk motherfucker,” Rob said. “They just don’t give a shit about us Paul. Even Steven. Rich people don’t hate us, or plot against us, they just don’t give a shit about us.”
“Who’s rich, though?” Paul asked.
“What?” Rob said.
“Who’s rich? To me, you’re pretty rich. You have a car. You have an apartment. I’m living with my Mom and eating microwave noodles every day. But compared to people like Dinero, begging in Wal-Mart parking lots, I’m living large.” Paul slid his shoes and socks off leaving them by the front door so he didn’t track puke through his house. “And what about Bill Gates or whoever runs Apple now that Steve Jobs died. You don’t think they look at Steven like he’s living in poverty?” Steven gurgled next to Rob, but didn’t throw up this time. “We’re not rich, and we’re not poor. Everybody wants more than what they’ve got.”
Paul went inside and came back with a few dollars in coins from an old cracked jar his mom collected change in. She took the jar to the grocery store once a week to convert the coins to whatever small amount of bills they were worth.
“That should be enough to get you home,” Paul said. “Steven’ll wander inside when he sobers up enough to stop puking. I’m done for the night.”
Paul locked the door behind him. Rob sat on the porch looking out across the street through the branches of the dead tree wrapped around Paul’s house. The branches crisscrossed each other at odd unpredictable angles making Rob feel claustrophobic. Rob thought about how Paul walks through the branches every morning. He just pushes them aside like the flimsy switches that they are, but when Rob tries to navigate them, he ends up scratched like his sleeve caught on the coffee table.
Rob felt the money clip in his pocket. The silver felt worthless. The justice he felt from taking the clip crumpled up and blew down the street like the last leaves off Paul’s dead tree. Rob pulled a branch aside to get a clearer view of the street, but the branch snapped back. Rob took the money clip and clipped together the two offending branches opening a small window through which he could watch the cars drive by. Rob sat staring through his makeshift window for a long while, and when he left, he left the clip clamped down on the branches. It didn’t really make much of a difference, but it was one less thicket to navigate through for Paul when he left in the morning.
