Jacob Wren - Rich and Poor

On the bus I stare at my wrists, which I’ve hastily bandaged with some gauze and tape. I look like a suicide attempt. If others here look at me, that’s most likely what they think. I barely even know which way the bus is headed. I did ask when I got on, and learned the journey lasts fourteen hours. I wonder if I’m in too much pain to sleep, look down at the dirty white gauze lying limp in my lap, and my phone rings. It’s Emmett. He begins to explain that he has a plan, a plan he’s been working on for many years, and he needs my help. He has commissioned a computer virus and I’m the only one who can insert it into the system. The procedure will be extremely similar to the one I used to break open my pass. If everything goes well, and if I agree, he believes my actions could destroy the company almost entirely, or at the very least force the board to fire our target, replace him in their panicked search to curtail the disintegration. He goes on to carefully explain detail after detail, completely oblivious to the enormity of his bad timing as, once again, I begin to cry.

1.

I had hired a detective to trace his history, find out who he was and why he had attacked me. It was then I learned that Emmett had also hired a detective, from the same agency, the agency we most often use. We had both hired practically the same detective to find out about the same man, only Emmett had done so two years before me. How did they know each other? How does a concert pianist turned under-the-table dishwasher possibly meet an Ivy League operator like Emmett? I still have no fucking idea.

At first I spoke openly about the attack, laughed it off, said it reminded me of my days fighting other kids on the block, that I missed those days, was still up for a good rumble when the opportunity arose. But when I joked the reactions were rarely jovial. I realized there must be rumours. Who would want to attack me and why? Other companies looking to gain an edge? People I’d fucked over, former employees? My suspicion was this: as they speculated on where the attack originated, they simultaneously realized just how many people in the world had reason to desire my injury or death. Then it was no longer funny. It was as if there must be something wrong with me if I had so many enemies, had pissed off so many different kinds of people. I was tainted. If, off the top of your head, an endless list of possible avengers leap to mind, does that still leave me as a valid option? What evidence is there that I’m the one who should keep running the show? So I stopped mentioning the attack and no one else mentioned it either. And yet I could feel it was still in the air, worried I was becoming paranoid or, worse, that something had actually changed.

I still haven’t told anyone about the connection between the attack and Emmett. Everyone liked Emmett, and if they had to choose between me and him, who knows. Even I liked Emmett. For years after he left, I barely thought of him; it was as if I had thrown him out of my mind, and now I find myself thinking about him constantly, every day. What is the connection?

2.

I get off the bus and find a cheap hotel near the station. I lie on the bed with all the lights on, staring at the ceiling. My life is over. I have failed. I sit up, reach into my pocket, peel the elastic band from the slightly damp bills. My calculations are rough, but I think it might be enough to last about six months. It is everything I earned working for the people I hate, and the idea of spending it makes me feel absolutely sick. But there’s no point putting money in the garbage, and my disgust will certainly not aid me in making good decisions. Will I go back to washing dishes? Can I possibly stomach the idea of teaching children to play piano? Are there even children, or parents, who still care enough about playing classical piano these days that they are willing to pay someone properly to instruct them? I lie back down and instantly fall asleep. I don’t know how long I sleep, have no dreams, or none I can remember, and am awoken by the maid loudly knocking at the door. I yell that I’m still sleeping and she goes away. I believe she apologizes first but can’t quite hear her. I haven’t yelled at anyone in years, and fear my voice sounded angrier than I meant. The maid clearly doesn’t deserve my rage. And those who do are already far away.

I prop my head up on some pillows and slowly look around the room. There is nothing pleasing about it. It’s plain and worn down. It looks how I feel. The curtain is directly next to the bed and I draw it back. Sunlight streams past me, making the room look both brighter and worse. I have travelled here to nowhere, worried that if I stayed where I was, the bastard would have changed his mind and thrown me in jail. A few of the security guards had escorted me back to my apartment to gather up my belongings, to the drug store to buy gauze for my wrists, to the bank to withdraw whatever I had left and close my account, and finally to the train station. They did all of this with meticulous calm. They had their instructions and carefully guided me through each step. And the entire time I felt that if I had done anything out of line, even if I had made the wrong sudden movement, they would have killed me on the spot.

I go to the bathroom and shower, taking extra care to clean my damaged wrists, cleaning them carefully and then cleaning them again, as if they had been bitten by someone rabid. When I get out of the shower I take new gauze and re-bandage. As I do so, I think again about suicide. Is that the price for absolute failure? Could anything possibly happen in my life now that would redeem me? I also think about writing a book, my own autobiography, that would explain to the world everything that had happened and why. But who would publish such a book? Even to begin thinking about it seems impossible. I feel especially interested in writing about my time working for the people I hate. To reveal some of the hidden daily corruptions that lie just a few inches behind their advertised good image. But there are millions of books published every year exposing the world’s corruption, and the corruption of the world only increases. Each book, in its own way, has teeth but nothing to bite into. No clear way to attack. There are also millions of books each year pushing for things to remain the same, or teaching you how to make money at the expense of others. Everything balances out, but the balance is so deeply imperfect, always tilting further and further towards the worst.

Of course there is no point thinking this way, I try to tell myself as I step out into the much too dusty street and sunlight. You only think these things because your one and only plan was an overwhelming failure and this fact has affected your mood. I had asked at the counter which way was downtown, and find myself slowly walking in that direction.

1.

Today I did something strange: I re-read my own autobiography. Unsurprisingly, it was a fast read. I finished almost the entire thing on a single flight. So many aspects within it surprised me, incidents I had forgotten or that didn’t happen quite the way I recounted them. I am now trying to recall exactly why I agreed to write it in the first place. Why was I so forthcoming, so elaborate? I know myself, that I care what others think far more than anyone might suspect or realize. That I care about stupidities such as legacy. When I meet new people, I sometimes feel I can tell whether or not they’ve read the book by the way they treat me. Those who haven’t read it are easier to charm, while those who have are slightly on edge, almost suspicious. When I started the book I was convinced it was time to retire, but now, as they gracefully try to ease me out, push me towards a more symbolic leadership position, it seems I once again want to fight, hang on just a few more years.