Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“Nine!” I shout.

“Eight!” she screams.

“Fine!” I say.

She laughs. I must admit, part of me is impressed.

She takes out her dollars and I pluck them from her hand, careful not to touch her ungloved fingers.

“Now can you take a break?” she asks.

“Is fine,” I say, after some thought.

We walk to curb across the street, so I can keep eyes on cart. She asks me where I am living and I tell her about Vortex Factory.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re turning into a real hipster.”

I do not know this word, so I just nod.

“It is good you are here,” I tell her.

She smiles at me.

“How come?”

“Because you must deliver this to Simon.”

I reach into coat and pull out wad of bills.

“It is a hundred and thirty dollars,” I tell her. “I calculate one week’s rent inside his house, plus the cost of board.”

She opens her mouth like she is going to argue, but I silence her with look of major violence.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’ll give it to him the next time I see him.”

“When will that be?” I ask. I am eager for my debt to be settled.

“I don’t know,” she says. “We’re kind of in a fight right now.”

“About what? Has he beaten you?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s just been impossible lately. He won’t let me throw an ACLU fund-raiser at his house. He says he cares about politics, but I don’t even think he’s registered to vote.”

She looks at my cart and reads out loud the name I have on sign.

“Sarah was my wife,” I explain. “I name business after her.”

She nods her head slowly.

“You must really miss her.”

“Is fine,” I say. “There is nothing to do about it.”

“What was she like?” she asks.

I shrug.

“I do not know how to describe her.”

“Is the pickle recipe hers?”

I shake my head.

“She did not waste time on pickles,” I say. “She was real cook. She made tzimmes, latkes, cabbage soups with schmaltz…”

I begin to see her in my mind, her curly brown hair and the freckle on her cheek. I try to resume story but cannot for some reason. It is hard to catch my breath.

“She sounds wonderful,” Claire says.

“She was good, strong help,” I say.

I clear my throat and stand up.

“Of course, she would not appreciate us talking for so long.”

She grins.

“Why not?”

“Because she did not like me taking breaks.”

As I am heading back to pickle cart, I look over shoulder.

“You must come back sometime!” I shout at her.

“Oh yeah?” she says.

“Of course. Every customer must return jar.”

I do not spend much time with my six roommates, because they keep strange hours. When I leave with cart at 4:00 a.m., they have all just gone to sleep. And when I return from work, at 10:00 p.m., they are out for nightly celebration.

I do not know what it is they celebrate. In all my time in Vortex Factory, I have yet to see them sell a single vortex, or anything else for that matter. I assume that just before I joined their house, they have had some major group success. It is only explanation for their joy.

I am not opposed to celebrations. In fact, I have been planning one for weeks. After selling my first batch of pickles, I went to Key Food and bought tin of herring. It cost me seven dollars — more than double peanut butter — but I purchased anyway. I said to myself, When I have ten thousands saved up, I will reward my body with this tasty fish.

By end of my first month in the Vortex, I am selling fifty jars a day. I learn to stagger batches in my closet, so there are always pickles that are ready. I am making six hundred dollars each shift, over three thousand dollars each week. One morning I count savings and I cannot believe it: I have nine thousand seven hundred twenty-seven dollars. That night, before sleep, I put special tin of herring in my coat. By lunch break, I hope, I will have the occasion to eat it.

I am setting up cart the next day when I hear my name spoken. I turn toward the voice and see Negro woman wearing man’s suit and holding clipboard.

“I’m Kalisha Sanders,” she says to me. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“The pickles have no glutens,” I recite. “The vegetables are freegan and the water is all locavore.”

“And do you have a vendor’s license?”

“A what?”

“A license,” she says. “For running a food cart.”

I try to make words, but I cannot. I am caught completely by surprise.

“I’m from the Department of Health,” says the Kalisha. “And I’ve had some complaints about your operation.”

My fists clench with fury.

“Who was the informer? Was it Simon Rich?”

She ignores me and picks up jar of pickles.

“Whoa,” she says. “Is that scum?”

“Is all-natural,” I murmur.

“You’re lucky there hasn’t been an E. coli outbreak.”

She takes out stack of papers and hands it to me.

“Here’s a summary of your violations. Vending without a license in a nonvending zone is one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. The health-code fines, altogether, come to two thousand seven hundred dollars.”

“Oh my God,” I say. “My God.”

She glances at my box of cash and sighs.

“I assume you haven’t declared any of your earnings for tax purposes.”

“Tax what?”

She hands me another form.

“Send this in with your payment to the city treasury,” she says. “And get this cart off the street. I don’t want to see you out here until you’re fully compliant.”

By the time I can make myself speak, she has started to walk away.

“Stop!” I say. “Wait. Let us talk about this.”

She turns around and squints at me.

“What is there to talk about?”

I take deep, slow breath to steady self. I have been in this situation before. I was leaving Slupsk when Cossacks asked me to pay them “nighttime road tax.” I gave them all vodkas and they let me through. The trick in these matters is to handle things delicately, with smooth words and manner.

“Here is bribe,” I say, throwing twenty-dollar bill at her. “Take it, please, and go.”

Her eyes widen and she takes step toward me.

“Did you just say what I think you said?”

I clear my throat. She is very good haggler, and I am impressed.

“ Thirty -dollar bribe,” I say. “Plus one free pickle jar each week.”

“Unbelievable,” she says.

She scribbles note on clipboard and then glares at me.

“Pay those fines quick,” she tells me. “Or I’ll shut you down for good.”

By the time I cart pickles back to Vortex Factory, my roommates are awake.

“Herschel’s in the house!” says the green-haired man. “Where’ve you been, killer?”

“I have been working,” I tell him, my voice low with misery. “But now I can work no more.”

“Cool,” the actress says. “Then you can get mimosas with us.”

“Thank you for invitation,” I say, “but today I have nothing to celebrate.”

I lock myself in room and put herring back in drawer. Then I lay the government documents on mattress. I understand parts of the forms, like “Name” and “Address.” But the rest confuses me and makes my head hurt.

I have dealt with American authorities before, when coming to Ellis Island. They made me wait in line for nineteen hours, then flipped up my eyelids and shoved wooden sticks into my eyeballs. It was not great, but I would take it over this “W-2.”

It is almost nightfall when I hear knock on my door.

“Wassup, Hersch,” says the green-haired man. He is drunk from celebrations.