Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“Our company believes in the value of all human beings,” she says. “We stand for the ninety-nine percent.”

She says many things like this to many people. Her words are crazy, but I do not stop her, because it is making more people buy our pickles. Every day, there are more and more customers lining up.

“This is so wonderful,” she says to me one night while helping me count out the day’s moneys.

“Yes,” I say. “At this rate, I will soon be rich.”

Claire laughs like I have made joke. She tells me she is taking leave of absence from her studies, to help me with company full-time. I am very surprised.

“Simon has allowed this?”

“I finally broke up with him,” she says. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. Every day I was with him, it was like I was losing a piece of my soul. I decided, if I’m going to invest in a relationship, I want it to be with somebody authentic. Somebody humble and principled. And real.”

She looks into my eyes and smiles.

“You know what I mean, Herschel?”

I nod. I have not really been listening, because I was busy counting moneys, but she said my name, so I know it is my turn to speak.

“Yes,” I say. “Is fine.”

She reaches into lockbox and squeezes my hand. Eventually, she lets go, and I am able to go back to counting moneys.

One day, I am at my pickle stand — sorry, one of my pickle stands — when two men in black suits show up. They say they are from Walmart and are trying to connect with youth market. It is their hope that I will collaborate with them on a “multiplatform, Millennial-targeted marketing campaign.”

I do not understand, and so, as usual, I let Claire speak.

“We’re not interested,” she says. “Please leave.”

I nod with agreement; these men have bought no pickles and are holding up the line.

“If you do not want to buy jars,” I say, “you must get out of here!”

The men in suits shrug and walk away. As soon as they are out of sight, my interns all applaud. I am confused.

“That was amazing!” Claire says as she throws her arms around me. “You totally blew off those corporate douche bags!”

“Is fine,” I say.

In the distance, I see the Walmart men climb into large black car. It is very long, I notice, and also very shiny. I begin to grow curious about them.

“Who is this Walmart?” I ask Claire.

“They’re one of the most evil corporations on earth,” she says. “They exploit immigrants, sell poisonous junk food, and destroy small businesses. It’s ridiculous. They think they can just show up here, write a check, and get whomever they want to do their bidding—”

I interrupt her.

“What is check?”

“It’s, like, money.”

I run so fast that both my shoes fall off. Eventually, after several blocks of screaming and waving my arms in the air, I catch up to these wonderful Walmart people. They open their door and I leap inside car before they have time to change their mind.

The deal is very fair. They give me two hundred thousand dollars, enough to make down payment on house that I need to defeat Simon. In exchange, I give them rights to my likeness, name, face, and identity, to use however they want, in unlimited ads, forever.

I also agree to sell pickle company to Walmart. Their plan is to rename it “Brooklyn Hipster Pickles” and replace all ingredients with chemicals.

“Is fine,” I say.

In exchange for giving them company, I receive thirty thousand shares of their precious, beautiful stock, which is valued at $74.34 per share.

I announce my news the next day at the Vortex Factory. My roommates are still sleeping, because it is not yet noon, but Claire and my interns are all present. It takes me long time to describe the deal, because I cannot stop dancing. Eventually, though, after much dancing, I am able to get the words out.

I assume my interns will join me in my dance, but instead they all stare at me with dead eyes. I have not seen such miserable faces since the Great Siege of Slupsk, when the children were told they must butcher and eat their pet rats.

“I can’t believe you took the money,” Claire whispers. “How could you just sell out like that?”

There are tears in her eyes; slowly, it dawns on me why she is so upset.

“I forgot to haggle,” I admit. “It was stupid. I should have demanded even more of their sweet, sweet dollars.”

Claire bangs her tiny fist against the wall.

“How could you be so selfish? ” she says. “It’s disgusting! I mean… what would Sarah say?”

I squint at her, confused. Sarah would be proud, of course. She would not join my dance, because her leg was lame and it shamed her. But she would clap her hands in time while I did my rich-man jig.

“I do not understand why you are upset,” I admit to Claire. “Is it because you want some portion of my moneys?”

She glares at me, her nostrils flared like angry horse.

“We didn’t join your company for money,” she seethes. “We joined because we believed in you!”

I look over at the interns.

“So none of you want money?”

They look at the ground, their faces slightly red.

“I wouldn’t mind some money,” one of them mumbles.

“Is fair,” I say, after some thought. “I will give you each bonus of ten dollars.”

The interns cheer.

“Also,” I announce, “from this day forth, you all shall have your freedom. Go! You are emancipate!”

“You’re the worst,” Claire says to me.

She starts to pack up all of her belongings: her folding computer, her other computer, her tablet machine, her shiny talking phone. Something gradually occurs to me.

“Oh,” I say. “I forgot. You are wealthy.”

Claire turns around and stares at me. Her face is pale.

“Excuse me?”

“That is why you do not care for money. Because you already have so much of it. For you, all of life is happy game.”

Her eyes begin to twitch.

“That is so rude, ” she says. “Life’s about more than money, Herschel!”

“Yes,” I say. “For those who already have it.”

She shakes her head with disgust.

“You know what?” she tells me. “You’re just like Simon.”

It is six weeks later when I see my great-great-grandson. I have moved into wide brownstone on his block, so I knew such a meeting was inevitable. But the encounter is still surprising, because it is four in the morning.

At first we pretend not to see each other. But there are no other people outside at this hour, and so it is hard to keep up ruse.

“Hello,” I say eventually.

“Hey,” he says. “Nice chain.”

I smile proudly. I had always dreamed of owning jewelry, so after buying house and crate of herring, I treated myself to necklace. It is simple, modest piece, just fifty golden links and my name spelled out in gems, with the S switched to dollar sign, so that it reads “Her$chel.”

“I got it inside black-man store,” I tell him. “They are the only ones who understood my style.”

“It’s cool you’re doing so well,” Simon says. “Congrats.”

I nod. I am waiting for him to ask me what my chain costs, but for some reason he does not do this.

“My chain cost seven thousand dollars,” I inform him.

“Congrats,” he says again.

There is something I want to ask him, but I do not know how to say it.

“Simon,” I say, “is there something wrong with the air on this street?”

He looks confused.

“The air?”

“Ever since I move here, I have been having problems with my breathing. It happens when I am trying at night to sleep. My heart becomes fast and I cannot fill up my lungs. I think there is possibly poison in the air.”