Jacob Wren - Rich and Poor

In business, the most profitable situation is always a pure monopoly. Monopolies are difficult to maintain and, over time, become increasingly dull to operate. As everyone knows, I prefer excitement. But I am a businessman and therefore the drive towards monopoly is in my blood. There is a considerable degree of governmental regulation against the forming of monopolies. But regulations require definitions, and in the real world definitions are always slippery. The legal framework for the various divisions within our organization is a constant source of negotiation. To what extent are the divisions interlinked parts of a single organization, and to what extent are they autonomous entities? In a strictly legal sense, these questions spread out infinitely in every direction. So while there is often speculation as to whether or not we are, statistically speaking, the single largest corporation in the world at any given time, I always insist that I do not consider our undertaking in these terms. I continue to think of us as a series of smaller, vibrant families that struggle to fully embody our common interests and drives.

We endlessly discussed how to proceed with Emmett’s ongoing role in the organization. Much of this debate took place in the years directly following his indictment. I was certain we could find a low-profile position for him within one of the safer divisions — far away from the most profitable, and controversial, core businesses — where he could relax for a few years until the optics of his situation grew more calm. Sadly, this was not how events played out, and in my more reflective moments I find myself wondering why our friendship had to suffer through what, to me, felt like eminently manageable, one might even say run-of-the-mill, corporate legal duress. Friendship is built on trust and, from my side of the equation, I trusted Emmett forever. But apparently this ‘forever’ was not mutual and, to my deep dismay, things went from bad to worse.

The more I have lived in the business world, the more I’ve come to believe that the drive towards monopoly contains within it what one might call a spiritual component. You want to take all the separate parts and make them whole again, unite them into one single entity. The desire for wholeness is little more than a desire for cohesion, the desire for things and people to work smoothly together rather than being at odds. Over the years, many have criticized the way our organization treated Emmett, but I have always tried to live without regrets. When you take chances, you invite scandal. Emmett fared worse in the investigation than many of our other employees, and the fact that he knew so many of the details that I personally had no knowledge of did not work to his overall advantage. He could joke his way out of anything but, in the end, could not joke his way out of everything. Nonetheless, he will always remain my favourite and my friend.

2.

Sometimes, around the end of the day, I aimlessly wander the building, hoping to accidentally encounter my target. I wander through hallway after hallway, reading the names on the doors, riding the elevators all the way to the top and back down to the parking lot. Emmett had shown me how to unlock my pass, so I can wander freely, saying hello to workers as they walk by, listening to their hesitant replies, unsure whether or not they had met me before. Security outside the building was tight, but once you were in, once you were gainfully employed, things were considerably more relaxed. A few times each evening I would see a security guard, who would glance down at my pass and then smile like the rest. The building was a sad, dull place. A place where people come to sate their misplaced ambition, or collect a pay cheque, thinking little more of it. A place where actions have only unexamined consequences. When the halls were empty you could feel the degree to which nothing lived here. Only work and stress, little real life. Ambitions galore but so few human desires. As I wandered I would think what it meant for me to have this job. I come here every day and do not mean any of it. It is a lie, an impersonation, a means to an end. How many people worked not in order to do the tasks they were actually doing, but instead only for the pay cheque or status. So many things were not what they actually were, not for their own sake, but means to various ends, some more noble, some less.

I step into the elevator and press the button down to the parking lot. I don’t have a car but, before heading home, thought I would wander through all the vehicles. Think about oil and status, who had already gone home and who was still here, working late. Instead of going down, the elevator first goes up, stops at a floor near the top. He gets in and smiles at me. It is a moment before I say hello, and when I do I can feel the recognition kick in. He still recognizes my voice far more than my face. We still go over my reports on the phone almost every week. He doesn’t remember my name and I don’t help him. Let us both stand here in the awkwardness for as long as possible. I realize I am no one to him, just another employee among millions. A moment later I have the piano wire around his neck and I’m tightening with every ounce of strength. It’s like riding a bull the way he smashes me against one wall, then the next, takes everything I have to just hold on. I am strangling him, can feel his breath leaving, yet it also feels like he has the upper hand. He’s at least twenty years older but maybe also twice as strong. Somehow he gets a few fingers under my wire, so it no longer entirely connects with his neck, as he smashes me against the elevator buttons and the doors open at some random floor. We are struggling out into the hallway. I’m pulling, he’s getting weaker, but I still don’t have him. I feel his teeth sinking into my wrist and I’m bleeding. Five, six times he smashes me into the wall, I can’t believe how hard, his teeth tearing into my other wrist. I swear I only let up for a millisecond, but it’s enough for him to break free. He collapses on the ground in front of me as I collapse back against the wall. We’re both exhausted and he’s not dead. His face is completely covered in my blood. So is my suit. He looks at me, gasping for breath, finding his words. He can see that I’m also spent so he takes his time, says he should probably call security but if I leave now, never come back, he’ll let me go. No questions asked. He doesn’t want the trouble of an investigation. In the way he says all this there is something strange, elated, as if he was excited to realize he still has so much fight left in him, that he still wants to live so viciously. I nod yes as he struggles to get back up, find his bearings. The moment he turns his back I once again charge. I don’t know what I’m thinking, have no plan, only rage. I have wanted this for so long, there is no way I can fail. To come so close and then fall short would be worse than death.

I no longer have the piano wire but, since his throat is already weakened, instinctively continue at his neck. He smashes me in the head before I manage to get my arm around him, some sort of awkward chokehold, struggling to get a firmer grip, but now it’s no use. He shed me once and he’s confident he can do it again, fingers in my eyes, fist smashing against my teeth too fast for me to bite and I lose my grip, my foot connecting with his stomach only once, with every ounce of my strength, before he has me by the ankle and I’m on the ground in front of him. Then a security guard rounds the corner and it’s done.

Only a few hours later I’m on a bus, all the money I have in an elastic band in my pocket. Once they had me in handcuffs, which a security guard first had to go fetch, the bastard again repeated his spiel about letting me go with no questions asked. He didn’t know why I wanted him dead, but there were lots of people who wanted him dead, for all sorts of reasons, many of them valid. As he was telling me this he was wiping the blood off his face and hands with an endless series of handy wipes from a box another guard also had to go get. At one moment he thinks to offer me one, then realizes my hands are cuffed behind my back and thinks better of it. He’s regaining his composure as he speaks. It’s like I’ve barely fazed him. And as he calmly explains that if I am ever seen in his vicinity again he will have no choice but to send me to jail — the kind of jail where you disappear forever, where they put a bag over your head and place you in infinite amounts of pain — I start to shake and then start to cry. I am not crying because I’m afraid of torture. I’m crying because I have failed so completely and I can’t stop, sobbing more and more violently. If he has the ability to send me off to some secret prison why doesn’t he do so now, why let me go, why take the risk. Because he wants to humiliate me, show me I’m no real threat, that he can take me any time, that he’s not afraid. He says maybe I did this because I wanted to become famous, but he’s not going to let it go public, not going to make me famous. He’s simply sending me away and I’ll disappear, remain as anonymous as I’ve always been. In a moment I’ll be gone like nothing had even happened.