F. Wilson - An Enemy of the State

Anyway, Gabe's got a lot of time on his hands, like I said, and he hangs out here and plays checkers with me when things are slow. He'd rather play chess, I know, but I can't stand the game. Nothing happens for too long and I get impatient and try to break the game open with some wild gamble. And I always lose. So we play checkers or we don't play.

The new guy puts his hat on the counter and glances around. He looks uneasy. I know what's coming but I'm not going to help him out. There's a little dance we've got to do first.

“I need to buy a few things,” he says. His voice has a little tremor in it and close up like this I figure he's in his mid-twenties.

“Well, this is a general store,” I reply, getting real busy wiping down the counter, “and we've got all sorts of things. What're you interested in? Antiques? Hardware? Food?”

“I'm not looking for the usual stock.”

(The music begins to play)

I look at him with my best puzzled expression. “Just what is it you're after, friend?”

“Butter and eggs.”

“Nothing unusual about that. Got a whole cabinet full of both behind you there.”

(We're on our way to the dance floor)

“I'm not looking for that. I didn't come all the way out here to buy the same shit I can get in the city. I want the real thing.”

“You want the real thing, eh?” I say, meeting his eyes square for the first time. “You know damn well real butter and real eggs are illegal. I could go to jail for carrying that kind of stuff.”

(We dance)

Next to taking his money, this is the part I like best about dealing with a new customer. Usually I can dance the two of us around the subject of what he really wants for upwards of twenty or thirty minutes if I've a mind to. But this guy was a lot more direct than most and didn't waste any time getting down to the nitty-gritty. Still, he wasn't going to rob me of a little dance. I've got a dozen years of dealing under my belt and no green kid's gonna rob me of that.

A dozen years…doesn't seem that long. It was back then that the giraffes who were running the National Health Insurance program found out that they were spending way too much money taking care of people with diseases nobody was likely to cure for some time. The stroke and heart patients were the worst. With the presses at the Treasury working overtime and inflation getting wild, it got to the point where they either had to admit they'd made a mistake or do something drastic. Naturally, they got drastic.

The president declared a health emergency and Congress passed something called the National Health Maintenance Act which said that since certain citizens were behaving irresponsibly by abusing their bodies and thereby giving rise to chronic diseases which resulted in consumption of more that their fair share of medical care at public expense, it was resolved that, in the public interest and for the public good, certain commodities would henceforth and hereafter be either prescribed or strictly rationed. Or something like that.

Foods high in cholesterol and saturated fats headed the list. Next came tobacco and any alcoholic beverage over 30 proof.

Ah, the howls that went up from the public. But those were nothing compared to the screams of fear and anguish that arose from the dairy and egg industry which was facing immediate economic ruin. The Washington giraffes stood firm, however-it wasn't an election year-and used phrases like “bite the bullet” and “national interest” and “public good” until we were all ready to barf.

Nothing moved them.

Things quieted down after a while, as they always do. It helped, of course, that somebody in one of the drug companies had been working on an additive to chicken feed that would take just about all the cholesterol out of the yolk. It worked, and the poultry industry was saved.

The new eggs cost more-of course-and the removal of most of the cholesterol from the yolk also removed most of the taste, but at least the egg farmers had something to sell.

Butter was out. Definitely. No compromise. Too much of an “adverse effect on serum lipid levels,” whatever that means. You use polyunsaturated margarine or you use nothing. Case closed.

Well, almost closed. Most good citizen-type Americans hunkered down and learned to live with the Lipid Laws, as they came to be known. Why, I bet there's scads of fifteen-year-olds about who've never tasted real butter or a true, cholesterol-packed egg yolk. But we're not all good citizens. Especially me. Far as I'm concerned, there's nothing like two fried eggs-fried in butter- over easy, with bacon on the side, to start the day off. Every day. And I wasn't about to give that up.

I was strictly in the antiques trade then, and I knew just about every farmer in Jersey and Eastern Pennsylvania. So I found one who was making butter for himself and had him make a little extra for me. Then I found another who was keeping some hens aside and not giving them any of the special feed and had him hold a few eggs out for me.

One day I had a couple of friends over for breakfast and served them real eggs and toast with real butter. They almost strangled me trying to find out where I got the stuff. That's when I decided to add a sideline to my antique business.

I figured New York City to be the best place to start so I let word get around the antique dealers there that I could supply their customers with more than furniture. The response was wild and soon I was making more money running butter and eggs than I was running Victorian golden oak. I was a lipidlegger.

Didn't last, though. I was informed by two very pushy fellows of Mediterranean stock that if I wanted to do any lipid business in Manhattan, I'd either have to buy all my merchandise from their wholesale concern, or give them a very healthy chunk of my profits.

I decided it would be safer to stick close to home. Less volume, but less risky. I turned my antique shop up here by the Water Gap-that's the part of New Jersey you can get to without driving by all those refineries and reactors-into a general store.

A dozen years now.

“I heard you had the real thing for sale,” the guy says.

I shake my head. “Now where would you hear a thing like that?”

“New York.”

“New York? The only connection I have with New York is furnishing some antique dealers with a few pieces now and then. How'd you hear about me in New York?”

“Sam Gelbstein.”

I nod. Sam's a good customer. Good friend, too. He helped spread the word for me when I was leggin’ lipids into the city. “How you know Sam?”

“My uncle furnished most of his house with furniture he bought there.”

I still act suspicious-it's part of the dance-but I know if Sam sent him, he's all right. One little thing bothers me, though.

“How come you don't look for your butter and eggs in the city? I hear they're real easy to get there.”

“Yeah,” he says and twists his mouth. “They're also spoiled now and again and there's no arguing with the types that supply it. No money-back guarantees with those guys.”

I see his point. “And you figure this is closer to the source.”

He nods.

“One more question,” I say. “I don't deal in the stuff, of course”-still dancing-“but I'm curious how a young guy like you got a taste for contraband like eggs and butter.”

“Europe,” he says. “I went to school in Brussels and it's all still legal over there. Just can't get used to these damned substitutes.”

It all fit, so I go into the back and lift up the floor door. I keep a cooler down there and from it pull a dozen eggs and a half-kilo slab of butter. His eyes widen as I put them on the counter in front of him.

“Is this the real thing?” he asks. “No games?”