Chapter 9
Rachel awoke with a start from a meme.
Am I cheating if I only dream about someone?
The modern world being what it is, moral questions only came in two extremes: unsolvable “trolley problems,” and semi-violent mob-based attacks on nonconformity. Morality was either impossible, or far too easy.
Yawning – to signal to Arlo that she had woken up in a relaxed state of mind, so he would not ask any questions – Rachel checked her phone. No reply from Oliver, no emails of interest – except for three informing her that her orders had been cancelled for lack of availability.
Rachel cocked her head as she heard a strange wailing sound coming from the street – like a combination of a speeding ambulance and a dying whale. Jumping quietly out of bed – Arlo was generally grumpy for the whole day if he was awakened too early – Rachel pulled back the edges of the blinds and looked down.
There was a thrift shop and a deli store across the street below, as well as an electronics store on the corner. A flash mob of hooded youths were streaming in and out of the electronics store, running off with boxes of every size. As she watched, three men in blue T-shirts – she could just see their nametags in the distance – ran out of the store, the tallest one yelling at a cell phone. The wailing of the mob, the sound of breaking glass, the screaming of the manager – all this combined into a whirlwind of panicked social decay.
Rachel shuddered. She waited for the sirens, the chaos, the scattering crowds and outraged business owners – but only the strange dim wailing continued. It was like the creak of a giant hinge unoiled for decades.
Gazing at the scene, Rachel felt both horror and a strange kind of distance. In her mind, she knew that she was only a few hundred yards from rampant criminality – but in her heart, she felt strangely disconnected, safe in her high perch – as if she were watching a movie. Her father used to love horror movies when she was a child, and constantly reminded Rachel that the actors just washed off the blood, collected a paycheck and went for drinks.
Now, looking down at the rampant thievery, Rachel felt the same detachment, as if the young men and women running off with the manager’s life savings were just extras in the background of a movie called – appropriately enough – Rachel.
“What’s going on?” complained Arlo, turning to her and squinting at the slight light.
He always complains as if everything is my fault, and I have just failed to fix it! thought Rachel – but her sudden bitterness was quashed by her memory of her early morning dream about…
“That’s a weird sound,” commented Arlo, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He always slept naked – au naturel was one of the two French phrases he knew – because, as he said, being a paramedic was a tough job, and if he died in his sleep, at least they could get a kick out of his body.
“Flash mob,” said Rachel – then added, in a petty manner, “…and good morning to you too!”
“Yeah, yeah,” grunted Arlo, in the manner of one who is too beautiful to be polite.
He walked over to the other side of the window and pulled open the blinds.
“Arlo, put something on!”
“It was good enough for the garden of Eden, it’s good enough for the neighbors!” He gazed down at the street. “I guess they’re not here to dance…”
Rachel shuddered. “We’ve got to move.”
“No justice, no peace…” murmured Arlo. Then, in a slightly more concerned tone, “No police either.” He shrugged. “Well, it’s only property, not worth shooting someone…”
After a moment when neither of them had anything to say, Rachel was startled by the volume of her phone as it rang.
“Holy crap!” cried Arlo, clapping his hands over his ears.
“Yes, I know, sorry,” muttered Rachel, grabbing it. “I had to turn it up at the gym, you know! Hello?”
“Rachel?”
“Hey, Ian, hi.” Rachel always liked to immediately identify male callers to Arlo, because she wanted to avoid his utter lack of jealousy.
“Sorry to barge in so early, have you heard from Oliver?”
Only in my dream, thought Rachel. “No, I’ve sent several messages.”
Ian sighed. “Yeah, he’s pretty battle scarred. Hang on, let me add him…”
Rachel felt a deep spasm of panic. She wished they had at least a tiny balcony for her to escape to – she thought of running up to the roof, but feared she might lose the connection.
“Arlo, could you grab me a bagel, I’m dying for one,” she said rapidly.
He cocked his golden head to one side. “Uh, babe, it’s a bit ‘Mad Max’ out there at the moment…”
“Right, right,” she muttered, wanting to thump her head and get it started somehow, because her infinite excuse generator seemed suddenly on the fritz.
There was a click on the line.
“Hello, this Oliver,” said a deep voice.
Rachel impatiently waved Arlo out of the room. He shrugged again, and went into the bathroom.
Ian said: “Hey, Oliver, sorry to jump you, but I did mention that my sister-in-law was interested in writing about the movement – and she’s pretty cool, she’s taken a lot of heat for this, and I just wanted to – connect you two, just in case you might break precedent and actually talk to someone…”
Pause.
Oliver said: “Me not responding to messages – wasn’t that clear enough?”
Ian said: “Look, I know it’s a favour, and I appreciate that, but – just a few minutes, that’s all. She’s on the line – Rachel?”
Rachel nodded dumbly, then answered.
Oliver sighed. “Rachel, nice to meet you – nothing personal, I’m sure you have the best of intentions, but frankly, watching reporters try to write about this movement is like – wait, is this being recorded?”
“No,” said Rachel. She heard the shower start up in the bathroom.
“Is this a working conversation, or just – introductions?”
Rachel cleared her throat. “If you’re asking whether this is off the record, then yes – this isn’t even deep background.”
Rachel was suddenly shocked by a shriek from the bathroom. Due to his almost complete lack of body fat, Arlo was ridiculously sensitive to changes in his environment, and had clearly misjudged his water temperature by a tenth of a degree.
Rachel frantically tried to cover the microphone.
Ian said, “Rachel – what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Oh, nothing, it’s just the TV…” Rachel smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand, imagining how it sounded, her watching horror movies at dawn. She half-ran out of the bedroom, into the cramped living room, and flopped into the easy chair by her work desk.
Ian was saying, “She’s independent, she doesn’t have an editorial board or shareholders or – other stakeholders.”
Oliver said, “Ian, we can’t be having this conversation with a reporter on the line. Call me back privately. Encrypted.”
Click.
Ian said, “I’m so sorry, Rachel. He’s been burned a lot. We all have…”
“Yeah, I get it – but it’s gonna be kind of tough for me to write an article without any sources.” Rachel struggled with a sudden tension in her heart. “You tell him – you tell him that this article is going to go ahead with or without him, and if he doesn’t talk to me, I’ll just have to – cherry pick from the online forums, and report on that!” She was almost panting.
Pause.
“Yeah, I’m not gonna tell him that.”
“Well, that’s your – choice. I just wanted you both to know the – lay of the land.”
“So – you’re really going to go through with it?”
“Absolutely.”
Rachel heard the low whistle.
“And it’s not going to be just a – hit piece?”
“Well, it would be infinitely easier to make it more balanced if someone would talk to me!”
Ian paused. “Do you know what – a threat that sounds like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you guys know exactly how much power you have. ‘Talk to me, or I’ll write whatever I want!’ But if people talk to you, you just cherry pick anyway – but it sounds like they’re participating!”
Rachel took a breath. “How is the pregnancy coming along?”
Pause.
“Did you hear what I said?” asked Ian.
Rachel sighed. “I don’t know how to get into media power dynamics with – family.”
“Cassie has decided to stay home.”
“What? Wow – that’s… When did she decide that?”
“We decided. Cassie is staying home, and I am not passing along any messages to Oliver.”
There was a click. Rachel had a sudden view of herself as one of those idiots in movies who keeps yelling at phones after a hang up.
She felt a wrenching shock inside, as Ian broke loose from his low status moorings in her pantheon of power, and burrowed up half a dozen layers, breaking bones and bile in the process.
Rachel was still sitting in the easy chair when Arlo padded in, his lean form wrapped in a thin towel of dubious colour.
“What drama started your day?” he asked mildly.
Wrong number, Rachel was about to say.
“Nothing, just – had a feeler out, got another rejection.”
“Oh, I thought that was your brother-in-law Ian.”
What if he checks my phone logs? thought Rachel in a sudden panic – but then remembered his elemental lack of curiosity about her life. She now loved what always bothered her.
Arlo’s job was leading children’s encounters with lemurs at the local zoo, and he left wearing his – well, he always called it a ‘uniform,’ but Rachel always referred to it as an ‘outfit’– soon after. Rachel had found it cute that he always wore his outfit on the way to work – but this morning, she had the distinct impression that her gorgeous boyfriend just looked like an overgrown Boy Scout.
As soon as he had left, Rachel dove to her computer and started stalking.
Of course, if pressed, she would have referred to it as research, but no – in the subterranean under-vaults of manipulative femininity, she was, in fact, studying her prey.
There wasn’t a massive amount online about Oliver. He ran an import/export business which seemed to be doing quite well – there was no mention of a wife or children – or even a girlfriend – which had her growing esteem for him falter. No matter how attractive a man may be, how much can he be worth if no other woman wants him?
After 30 minutes of research/stalking, the sirens finally arrived outside. Rachel barely heard them, buried deep in a forum thread speculating about Oliver’s history.
Fortunately for Rachel’s vanity, a number of female posters – she had to assume female, based on the name and picture – expressed their deep attraction to Oliver, along with a manic thirst to find out more about his background.
I wonder how he keeps his business going despite all this activism, thought Rachel – but then realised that most of his focus was overseas, where the straitjacket of political correctness was far looser, if it even existed at all.
Thinking of the levels of risk that Oliver was taking, Rachel found herself thrilled to the core. She was as enthralled with cancel culture as anyone, but since she was currently crawling under the whips of ideological rejection, she found the idea of someone blazing through life indifferent to petty opposition deeply appealing.
Rachel found out that Oliver was speaking at a business conference upstate, three days from now. Her heart began pounding again – and she suddenly felt the urge to stand up in his audience and scream out his ideological betrayals to everyone present, and everyone on the live stream, and everyone in the eternal future – and imagined all the people who had scorned her query letter turning on Oliver, contacting his family, contacting his suppliers and his bank and his payroll company – and nuking him entirely from the social and business landscape!
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned… So what if he just hung up on me, what kind of reporter would I be if I let that stop me?
I will get him to talk to me, thought Rachel grimly, before logging into her various business and social media accounts, and deleting her profile pictures.
I know, I know – I’m still tagged in other people’s photos, but it makes it slightly tougher…
Then, she called her hairdresser to make an appointment.
Chapter 10
Nothing about the way that Rachel presented herself at the conference was accidental. She was in a heedless state of pursuit, utterly without conscience.
The only chance Rachel had to notice her bad conscience was to realize she sought advice from no one – not even her sister, her closest confidant. (She did think of consulting Aunt Crystal, but found herself recoiling at the possibility that the chaotic older woman might approve.)
There is a certain style of business outfit that radiates salacious appeal, and Rachel aimed squarely at that bull’s-eye – and, in her estimation, hit it perfectly.
Like the backup dancers in the Robert Palmer video Addicted to Love – but without the kabuki makeup…
Through her experience reporting on the business world, Rachel knew that there were two types of successful conferences – the first, which attracted thousands – and the second, which attracted only dozens – but dozens of the most powerful and influential.
“Supply Chain Challenges” was not the sexiest title in the known universe, but Rachel could tell that the attendees were wealthy and powerful. The most successful people she knew never showed off anything but their own comfort in their own being. They were easy, convivial, positive, pleasant – and ruthless when needed, of course – and wore comfortable clothes over comfortable skin.
She paid the exorbitant entrance fee, then introduced herself as ‘Rochelle,’ which was duly written on the white sticker she placed just below her left collarbone. She mingled pleasantly, claiming to be an “observer.”
She went to a few presentations – which both alarmed and excited her – and then went to go and see Oliver speak.
Rachel expected thunderbolts, but got only light rain. Oliver was businesslike, mildly humorous, efficient and precise in his language – and wove endless streams of data into his speech. She had images of being carried along by an undulating sinewave, far off the chart into unknown blank whiteness.
She did ask a few well-researched questions, which were received politely. Standing up, she felt her heart falter at the possibility that he might recognize her, but there was no sign he did.
Over the lunch break, busy men – and a few women – dove into the glowing mini-portals of their cell phones to manage unimaginably complex and distant business affairs. Oliver sat alone in a corner of the sunlit cafeteria, staring mildly around the room, his phone nowhere to be seen.
Her heart pounding, Rachel boldly walked up and sat down in front of him. The conference was being held in a science centre, and the cafeteria was on the ground floor, with geographically-improbable plants leaning up against the giant windows, which in turn were plastered with silhouettes of birds.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
Rachel was somewhat disoriented by the fact that he did not give her the usual masculine ‘up and down’ – checking out her figure with the blinding speed that men imagined was unnoticeable by women.
Disappointingly, he looked directly into her eyes.
Her tongue froze in her mouth. She felt a sudden surge of temper as her wit and charm utterly vanished.
Radiating struggle, she expected Oliver to jump in and calm or comfort her in some manner.
Nope – he just gazed at her.
“You came to me,” he said eventually.
Rachel blinked, then cleared her throat. “I did,” she said in an artificially low tone, thinking – why on earth am I trying to sound like Elizabeth Holmes?
He laughed. “Do you want some of my food?”
She glanced at his wrap and salad. What?
“No – er…” Rachel tossed her head, suddenly nervous that it might fall off. At least that would be a conversation starter…
“You seem to be – the most free-market oriented speaker I’ve seen so far.”
He gazed at her. “Thank you.”
“It’s a compliment – I mean, it’s an observation, not a compliment…”
“I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Another silence. For a spasmodic moment, Rachel thought she saw Arlo with his back to her, talking on a phone, but on second glance, the figure was just a young woman wearing too much makeup.
Oliver was exciting her immensely, because he was not responding to her mere presence. He was not hostile, he was not curious – he was not interested. Just – neutral. Waiting, it seemed…
But for what? thought Rachel.
Oliver looked around the room again.
Rachel had a sudden urge to grab his wrap, and bite half of it off.
“There’s a lot going on inside,” said Oliver.
Does he mean – inside the conference, or inside me? thought Rachel. Oliver’s tone was the tiniest bit intimate, but he was just gazing around the room.
Rachel thought: I bet he would respond to honesty, but I cannot be honest…
“You know, it’s kind of rude…” said Oliver.
“Me?”
Oliver smiled. “Well yeah, you, a little – but I mean only giving us forty-five minutes for lunch. Most of us here grab like nine bites between phone calls – and now they’re just rushing us again. But of course most of the speakers here are just advertising themselves, and pay to come, so the organizers have to jam more in, to make money… You’re not speaking, are you?”
Rachel shook her head, realizing suddenly how accurately she was manifesting his statement.
After a moment, Oliver leaned forward. “Are you looking for a job? I’m not sure what’s going on here…”
Rachel felt a sudden urge to blurt out everything, confess everything – and eat his salad.
She leaned forward. “What are most of the people here – like?”
“In what way?”
“Socially? Do you – do business with them?”
“Are you from California? Most young women from California phrase just about everything as a – question?”
Rachel laughed. “Don’t you know? It’s rude to answer? A question with a question?”
Oliver smiled. “Got to be from the Valley.”
Rachel’s voice grew serious. “I don’t socialize with businesspeople, as a rule.”
Oliver considered her statement. He chose to say nothing – or had nothing to say.
Rachel’s words came out in a rush. “I think it’s crazy, how much we’re all taught to despise businessmen – and women, though that’s rarely mentioned – but we rely on – you all – for, like, everything!”
Oliver’s eyes sharpened, and she felt the first hint of curiosity.
“Why would I be interested in what everyone else thinks?” he murmured. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a kind of death wish,” said Rachel immediately. “Killing the goose that lays the golden egg, that sort of thing. Setting fire to the crops you need to survive the winter. Or maybe like a drug addict burning his stash, knowing that the withdrawal will probably kill him…”
Oliver pursed his lips. “That’s quite a pile of analogies. Is that what you think, or is that what you think other people think?”
“Oh, I’m paid to be… I’m an observer.”
Oliver nodded slowly. “There are a lot of better views than an import/export conference. Just about everyone here sits all day and sees the sun like twice a month. We’re all in danger of turning into question marks, posture-wise…”
Not you, though… thought Rachel. Her lips were suddenly bone dry, but she steadfastly refused to lick them.
The words erupted from Rachel’s heart. She did not even try to stop them. “My sister is having a baby, and she has decided to stay home.”
Oliver cocked his head. “Listen – Rochelle…”
She felt a sudden shock as Oliver approximated her name – he had absorbed it through peripheral vision perhaps, or with a glance so quick that she had not in fact noticed it.
“I don’t really know what’s going on here, perhaps you will excuse me. I need to make a few phone calls…”
Rachel felt an urge to grab his wrist. “I’m so sorry, I must be sounding crazy. So unprofessional…” She extended her hand. “You know my name. I work for – well, I’m self-employed, and I have an uncle in the business, and he suggested that I come here, to find out more about these – issues, in the supply chain. You know, import/export. I think there is a storm coming – or a vacuum, to be more precise. I want to know, for the people I care about… Everyone’s noticed the shortages, everyone thinks they’re just – temporary. I know it was crazy to blurt that out about my sister, but – I’m worried about her, and the baby of course… A friend of mine was trying to bottle feed her baby during the infant formula shortage crisis – it was actually pretty terrifying. I’m noticing that more and more of my orders are getting cancelled… I can’t get taxis, grocery stores are starting to look very post-Soviet. This conference is incredible – you’re all basically talking about the end of the world, but no one’s – panicking. I liked what you had to say – I’m not an expert, in no way, but I’m a pretty good judge of – character, and I think that there’s more that you could say, but for some reason – none of you are saying much… Except to each other, and in places like this…”
Rachel could see that Oliver was a very good listener. “You’d expect that reporters from mainstream publications would be all over this conference – but…” He sighed deeply. “We are trying to get the word out. No one cares,” he finished simply.
“Why not?”
Oliver shrugged, and she felt faint tremors of bitterness radiating off his frame. “Death wish?” He murmured. “Maybe you’re right…” He inhaled through his nose. “How far along is your sister?”
“Six months.”
Rachel could see various calculations racing through Oliver’s mind. She knew he had reached a conclusion long before he opened his mouth.
“Do you live in the city?”
“They live in the suburbs.”
“And you?”
Rachel nodded.
“With whom?”
Rachel swallowed. “No one.”
“Do you have a family cottage? Your parents?”
Rachel nodded.
“You need to think of…” Oliver blinked suddenly. “I need your phone.”
Without hesitation, Rachel handed it over. With an expert motion, Oliver popped the case and back off, then removed the battery.
“Nothing personal,” he said flatly, placing the three pieces in front of her.
“That was like watching a soldier with a gun.”
“A lot of weapons in the world… Okay, Rochelle. You need to think about – a backup. You didn’t get this from me, ok?”
“Backup? Like a – generator?”
Oliver smiled. “Well, that wouldn’t hurt either, but no – just another – way to live. In case the trucks stop rolling.”
“For how long?”
“Did you watch ‘Game of Thrones’?”
Rachel nodded.
“A long summer, followed by a long winter. We’ve had free stuff – paid for by money printing and debt – for two generations. The winter will be very long…”
“Are you…” Feeling short of breath, Rachel leaned further forward. “Are you a – survivalist?”
Oliver shrugged, picking at the remnants of his salad. “We all are. That’s what animals do.”
“What about – everyone else?”
He suppressed a smile. “That is a very – female response.”
“Excuse me?” said Rachel sharply.
Oliver was utterly unimpressed. “Come on – you tell me about your sister, then immediately pivot to the – world at large. You don’t have any children, right?”
Rachel looked down, shaking her head, then gazed up at Oliver. “Not yet.”
Oliver swallowed his last olive. “You can parent your real children, or you can pretend to parent the world. The two are total opposites.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Because of – what’s coming?”
“Because I haven’t found the right woman.”
“Maybe she hasn’t found you.”
Oliver shook his head. “It’s my job to – look.”
“No luck on the dating apps? Why not? You’re well over 6 feet.”
Oliver’s lip curled. “Women want six – six – six. 6 feet tall, sixpack, six-figure income. It’s pretty demonic really. Dating apps are just advertisements for degeneracy. The end…”
“You are – religious.”
He shrugged, holding her gaze. “There’s no escaping that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We all worship – something. To be more than the animals. You either worship something bigger than yourself, or you worship yourself. Humility to a higher power, or rampant narcissism. That’s all we get.”
Rachel shivered. “That’s…”
Oliver laughed suddenly. “Entirely too deep for a business conference. Sorry, you went through the portal into my – other personality.”
“I like that – personality.”
Oliver’s smile faded. “Oh, everyone loves all that – when it’s interesting, and different, and they just get to be – curious. When it becomes real, and they have to make – tough choices, they usually run for the hills. Or the dungeons…”
Gazing at him, Rachel imagined him sporting a medieval beard, and striding through a hail of arrows.
She smiled. “Well, you’re a little – different.”
He smiled back. “You have no idea.”
The blonde woman who had reminded her of Arlo walked up. She greeted Oliver warmly. He stood and shook her hand.
“Are you coming to the next talk?” she inquired.
Rachel felt her heart swell with excitement as Oliver turned down to look at her. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly.
“Stay,” said Rachel – drawing a ferocious look from the blonde woman. “You can watch me eat.”
Rachel was fascinated to watch a man torn between the will of two women. Normally she would see alternating flashes of fear, pride and desire. She expected Oliver to defer to whoever was the prettiest, or the most aggressive – or the most insistent.
But – none of that happened. Oliver just closed his eyes for a moment, then said: “I’m staying. Please give Rick my apologies.”
The woman laughed tensely. “Oh, you and your projects!” she said, glancing down at Rachel.
She lingered for a moment, perhaps hoping to be asked to join them.
Oliver sat back down.
“Well – take care, Ollie,” said the blonde woman, obviously planting ownership in the form of a nickname.
After she left, Rachel exhaled.
“Well, she likes you!”
“She does,” said Oliver in a neutral tone. “But I’m not sure she really wants to get to know me.”
“Oh, poor dear!”
He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s very pretty – and smart, to be here. What’s wrong with her? Do you have a problem with – women in general?”
Oliver’s frown deepened. He said nothing.
“Please, rush to your defence. It’s expected.”
Oliver grimaced. “I’ve never been a big fan of – what is expected.”
“Oh, a rebel, my my!”
Oliver stood. “I’ve just told you about – real dangers to your sister and her pregnancy. What’s with the stupid baby talk?”
Rachel’s cheeks colored. “Gosh, you’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. Frivolity is – a defence, I guess.”
After a moment, Oliver sat down and said, “What is your email address? I only send to encrypted providers.”
Rachel told him.
“Okay. I’m going to send you a list. Essential supplies, everything you need. Pass it on to your sister – or her husband, even better.” Oliver glanced up sharply. “She’s married?”
Rachel nodded. “Very happily. To her high school sweetheart.”
“That’s – good…” murmured Oliver. “Don’t mess around – it’s really important she gets this.”
“What did the woman mean – your ‘projects’?”
“Stacy? Oh, she thinks I’m a total – player.” Oliver sighed in exasperation. “She thinks I – scare women into – bed. Tell them about the end of the world, harvest their desperate desires.”
“I can’t imagine that,” said Rachel with simple honesty.
She was rewarded with a genuine smile.
“Are you religious?” asked Oliver suddenly – and held up a warning hand. “And please don’t give me any mumbo-jumbo about ‘spirituality.’”
Rachel nodded. “I suppose I am not allowed to talk about being a ‘seeker’ either?”
Oliver laughed. “God no!”
“Or who I think I was in a past life? Or my eerie psychic abilities? Or my endless sympathies towards the marginalized? Or my love of democracy? Exactly how many clichés would you like me to manifest, friend Oliver?”
It was the first time she had used his name. He threw back his head and laughed.
“So you just – sit down here and tell me that your sister is – pregnant, but then when I ask you a direct question, you give me the run around? Exactly how mad are you?”
Rachel smiled. “You have no idea…”
They stared at each other for a moment, lost in the shock of a surprising conversation.
A door opened, and a fat janitor entered the room wheeling a supply cart. He had a thin beard across his cheeks that struggled to imitate a visible jawline.
Rachel said: “Tell me about this – other personality.”
“Are you a feminist?” replied Oliver instantly.
In Rachel’s jumpy heart, in that most ancient of human dances, desire battled ideology. Slightly short of breath, she shrugged. “I don’t know what that – means, anymore. I like equality.”
“I like…” echoed Oliver. In that moment, he reminded her of Arlo, who seemed to be constantly trying to get her to listen to herself.
“I like – as in I prefer. It is superior to – inequality.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by – inequality?”
Rachel waved her hands. “Well, when there is a certain – disparity of outcomes, in society, it tends to destabilize things, creates a lot of resentment – and this may very well be due to a kind of bigotry or hostility on the part of – those in charge, those with the most resources…”
Rachel almost trailed off. The usual energetic insistence behind the words faded on her tongue.
Oliver pointed at the pudgy janitor emptying a garbage can. “Would you date him?”
Rachel smiled. “I wouldn’t automatically – exclude him.”
Oliver stood. “Shall I bring him over? You said you were single.”
Rachel stared at his belt buckle, then looked up. “We’re just having a – conversation.”
“I know,” murmured Oliver. “I’m afraid that’s all this – is.”
“What do you mean? Sit down.”
He sat, and brushed his dark hair back from his broad forehead. “Everyone loves the idea of – equality, until it affects their own choices…” Oliver exhaled deeply. “You and I both know that you would never give that janitor the time of day – and would consider it a real insult if he asked you out! You are looking for a high-quality man – I’m fine with that, good for you – which means you have to reject the vast majority of men. I can see that half-smile by the way… I know that you love the idea – the compliment – that you are in a position to choose, with regards to men. Women always talk about equality, but the bassist never gets any groupies. Have you ever been in a polyamorous relationship?”
Rachel shuddered slightly. “God no – though I don’t oppose them in – the abstract…”
“So, you prefer a monopoly with your partner – monogamy. You don’t share him, he doesn’t share you.”
Rachel laughed in a brittle manner. “Oh, but that’s just – sex. Not – property. Or money. That kind of redistribution.”
“But money is sex for men.”
“What? Excuse me?”
Oliver’s eyes seemed to have lost the ability to blink. “Men exist to provide resources for women and children. The more resources we can provide, the higher quality woman we can attract. Taking away a man’s…” Oliver changed course without warning. “Look – there are women out there who have no hair – would you be willing to shave your head to provide wigs for them?”
“But then I would be a woman without hair!”
“Cut it very short then.”
“I would do that for – a family member.”
“Right. You would not be willing to give up something attractive about you in order to – help someone else.”
Rachel smiled. “I would consider it…”
Oliver laughed. “Oh – come on! You haven’t done it, and you won’t do it – and I don’t blame you! I’m just pointing it out.”
“I don’t get your point.”
“If I said the government should cut off your hair, and hand it out to less attractive women, you would consider that a grave violation – a great evil, right?”
Rachel shrugged. “Let’s say that I would, so what?”
“This is what men face, in society. Women vote to take away our sexual market value – our money, our resources, our income – and consider that moral and right! But if men were to vote to take away women’s sexual market value, that would be – horrifying, evil!”
“Are we really going to open this can of worms?”
Oliver leaned forward. “Oh, it’s already open.”
“You don’t think women pay taxes?”
He snorted. “Women get about half a million dollars more out of the government than they pay in. For men, it’s the reverse.” Oliver smiled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to imply that you are bad at math.”
“But women do the vast majority of – unpaid labour! Housework, childrearing – you name it!”
“Rochelle,” said Oliver softly. “If it is truly unpaid, how do the women survive?”
She blinked. “I don’t follow…”
“If housework – women’s housework – is truly unpaid, how do they afford the house?”
Silence.
“How do they pay the bills? Who pays the bills?”
Silence.
“Your sister - she’s going to stay home with the baby – you call that unpaid labour, but who pays her bills then? Her husband… Her husband, yes?”
“But – some women work, and some men stay home with the children, and do the housework.”
“So?”
“So, that’s – the opposite of what you are saying.”
Oliver tilted his head forward slightly. “How so?”
“Well, because… Because the roles are reversed!”
“Again – so? How does that alter the principle?”
“It…”
“If I throw a ball up, then it falls down, has the principle of gravity been reversed?”
“Well, no – but women are underpaid!”
“Change of topic. Sign of defeat.”
“I concede nothing!”
“You are young and pretty, why should you?” smiled Oliver.
A brief silence.
Despite herself, Rachel glowed. “You’re saying that men – defer to me, because I am – as you say – pretty?”
“I’m saying that men who refused to defer to women, over the course of our evolution, tended to reproduce less. There were times in history when ten women reproduced for every one man. You joked earlier about telepathy and past lives – and it was funny – but those silly beliefs generally exist in the female population, because men want to reproduce more than they want to correct silly beliefs in women.”
“This is called the Gish Gallup…”
Oliver waved his hand. “I know, we have a lot of topics – let’s talk about income inequality. Women make seventy cents on the dollar, and that’s a sign of sexism and patriarchy, right?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“Because women do the majority of – housework and child raising, they are less available to the marketplace. Because employers are nervous about women getting pregnant, they tend to hire men. Because women are perceived to be overemotional and intellectually inferior, they – we – go to the back of the line at hiring time. When children and relatives – especially parents – get sick, women end up taking care of them. Women perform more community charity, have generally more demands outside of work, and don’t get enough sleep in this modern utopia we call society. Men get to be single-minded, women have to juggle about a thousand balls – of course that has an effect in the workplace…”
Oliver nodded slowly. “In your family, growing up, who paid most of the bills?”
“I’m not privy to the financial records of my parents.”
Oliver sighed. “If you had to guess.”
Rachel pursed her lips. “My father.”
“Who mostly paid for your mother’s food, shelter, healthcare, clothing, vacations, meals out, and so on?”
“My mother worked damn hard, thank you very much!”
Oliver was unruffled. “That is not what I asked. Can you repeat my question back?”
“This isn’t kindergarten!”
“Then it should be easy!”
Rachel sighed in exasperation. “Who paid my mother’s bills? Well first of all, she was very frugal – and second, yes, in return for all the work she was doing, my father did pay the bills.”
Oliver’s tone was soft, almost gentle. “Did you father thank your mother – show appreciation, for all the work she did?”
Rachel smiled thinly. “He was pretty good at that.”
“So, he – thanked her for the meals, and raising the kids, and running the household…”
“Yeah. Yes, he did.”
“How often?”
“Well, most days, as part of – grace – he thanked her for the meals. When he was looking for something – which happened a lot – she would always know where it was, and he would thank her for that. When I was a baby, she got sick, I had to go to daycare… But she kept going, kept things together – he thanked her for that, and for living… He really praised her for visiting his mother in the hospital – she almost lived there, for a while, when…” Rachel’s voice caught in her throat.
“She was appreciated,” murmured Oliver.
“Yeah…”
“Have you also – thanked your mom for everything she did?”
“Yes… Not as much as my father did… I should – really tell her… More.”
“What happened to your grandmother?”
Rachel blew out a breath. “She had a long illness. Drained the life right out of us, for a while… Quite a while. Death is kind of a vampire.”
Oliver nodded. “It can be. I’m sorry…”
Rachel shrugged. “Long time ago, now…”
Oliver took a deep breath. “I’m glad your mother feels appreciated. That’s important, right?”
“For women, it’s pretty much everything.”
“So…”
“So?”
Oliver’s face was very still as he spoke. “Rochelle – how often have you thanked your father for going to work and paying the bills?”
Silence.
Silence, and shock.
Oliver said: “How often did your mother thank your father for going to work and paying all the bills?”
Silence.
“You claim to like equality, but you and I both know that your father barely heard a word of praise or gratitude for his decades of hard labour…” Oliver’s voice grew even softer. “We also know that your dad risked divorce if he did not appreciate your mother – but your mother had no fear of him leaving her if she failed to appreciate him – at least, as far as you know, out in the open.”
Rachel frowned. “Oh, he knows that we – appreciate him.”
“How?”
“Well, his wife – loves him. We all – love him. I do say that, we all do!”
“Do you also say that you love your mother?”
“Of course!”
“So – if saying that you love someone is enough for her to feel appreciated, why do you also need to tell your mom how much you appreciate her housework?”
Rachel’s brows knit together. “It’s like – women need to feel a reason as to – why they are loved. Men just accept love without – needing more… I think…”
“What you think is…” Oliver sighed. “How do you think your father would react if you told him how much you appreciate him getting up and going to work for decades, to provide for his family?”
“I don’t know…” Rachel’s voice was honest, and openly curious.
Oliver rapidly reassembled her phone and handed it over. “Why don’t you call him, and find out?”
Rachel laughed. “Oh, I can’t…”
“Because..?”
Her cheeks turned slightly red. “Oh, because – because…”
“He’s at work,” said Oliver softly.
“He’s not – he doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“When he’s done work, you should tell him.”
Rachel’s head jerked back. “This has turned all kinds of – psychological, all of a sudden.”
“It’s not psychological at all,” said Oliver flatly. “It’s political.”
“Me – telling my dad I appreciate him is – political?”
“Deeply political. It’s all about power.”
Rachel snorted. “What – power?”
“Thanking people is a sign of – equality, which you say you love so much. The mistress does not thank her slave. The king does not thank his peasants. Thanking people reminds them that they do not have to serve you, that you appreciate the – favours. Men are afraid of women leaving them – and taking half their stuff, or more – so we constantly thank and praise women. Women don’t have to worry about – men running off, or actually running out of resources. Women don’t have to show appreciation for men, because they can get men’s resources by force!”
Rachel paused. “Ohhh, this is the part of the conversation you talked about earlier, when people don’t like your second personality.”
“Yes.”
“But – okay, I’ll bite… How do women get men’s resources by force?”
“Well, through voting, of course. Women vote to take away men’s money. That’s the welfare state, socialized medicine, retirement pensions – cushy government jobs all over the place, mostly staffed by women.”
“Men use welfare, healthcare and pensions!” exclaimed Rachel.
“Of course. But in every country, they only came into effect after women got the vote – and women use them far more than men do. And…” Oliver held up his hand, to forestall her response. “The point is – when have women ever gotten together and thanked men for all the taxes that men pay, to keep women in comparative luxury?”
“What are you talking about?”
Oliver’s voice rose slightly. “Where is the appreciation? Everyone talks about the ‘wage gap’ – no one ever talks about the ‘tax gap’! Men pay far more in taxes than women do, and women take far more government benefits than men do. The State is a giant machine the transfers wealth from men to women. Are we ever thanked for that? No, because we are in a master-slave relationship with woman. All this talk about ‘the patriarchy’ is just a cover for what’s really going on – what is statistically verifiable. We live in a predatory political matriarchy. And all this – I can see – comes as a complete shock to you! And you would totally pass a lie detector test if you were asked to condemn the ‘patriarchy.’ Essential information has been consistently withheld from you, and false narratives have been implanted.” Oliver snapped his fingers. “The media is the matrix. You are hypnotized, my friend. You are sleepwalking. Wake up.”
Rachel shook her head slightly, shivering. “This is all so – one-sided!”
“It’s not one-sided – it’s just the other side, which you view as extreme because of how far you are from the truth!”
She snorted. “Women benefit most from the government? Have you ever heard of the military-industrial complex? Who runs that, little old blue-haired ladies?”
“Oh, we’re going to talk about the military?” said Oliver scornfully. “When did you have to register for the draft?”
“Men start most of the wars, don’t…”
“No – factually false. Female rulers start more wars than male rulers. And how many men do you know who have the power to start a war? But most of the men you know can be drafted at a moment’s notice to go and die in a war started by the rulers! Is that ‘the patriarchy’? Do you really think that if men ruled the world, we would’ve designed a system where we pay most of the taxes, get few of the benefits, die sooner, get killed or injured on the job far more than women, lose custody of our children, have to pay alimony and child support for decades – and go to jail if we can’t, if we lose our job or get sick – do you really think that this is the best that male genius and ‘the patriarchy’ could possibly have come up with? The system that is supposed to ‘benefit men’ robs us blind, kills us younger, smashes our families, throws us in jail – far more than women by the way, for the exact same crimes – and you think that we actually invented this system that destroys us because – because – why? What is the evidence that the system benefits men at all?”
“More men are in positions of power!”
“Ruled over by female voters! And most men are exploited by political power, not in charge of it!”
“Then you all should take charge!”
“Ah,” said Oliver, his voice becoming soft again. “So – we are not in charge… And you see the dynamic here – I’m sure you do, you’re very smart… You have been trained to attack any complaints about inequality coming from men. We are not allowed to complain, we just have to go to work and pay the bills. Like livestock. Like cattle. Like slaves.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You think you are a slave? How much did you make last year?”
“$275,000. How much did you pay in taxes last year?”
Rachel swallowed. “Well, I’m self-employed, so I have a lot of – deductions.”
“How much?”
“I – got a refund…”
“So. I paid well over hundred thousand dollars in taxes – and you got a refund.” Oliver leaned forward. “From my wallet. And do you thank me? You do not. When I complain, you attack me. Because you own me. You exploit me. And everyone tells you that you are a victim. And you believe them!” Oliver’s words were angry, but his tone was sorrowful. “And I’m not mad at you – I genuinely sympathize with you. It’s a horrible situation, to keep reality away from people, to bury injustice in propaganda… It means that your conscience will get you – when you least expect it… That is why you are so nervous… It’s all so unfair, so wrong – you should never have been lied to in that way. But you have some responsibility as well, Rochelle – this information has been available for decades. But at this point, in your life, it’s too costly to turn around, to learn about true equality and sympathy and – simple gratitude…”
Oliver gestured at the room, the windows, the city.
“Everything around you is built by men. And – being appreciated is everything for men as well, and we are starving out here… And – to be honest – this is why the men here, at this conference, aren’t doing much to sound the alarm about what is coming. Half of them have been destroyed in family courts – and the other half saw their fathers going through the same machinery. Why would they work to save a system that destroys them?” He shrugged. “I’m afraid that most of the men here are in the ‘let it burn’ category.”
Rachel shivered. “And – you?”
Oliver shrugged. “I don’t – really think my opinion means that much. It’s burning either way.”
Rachel swallowed. “And your – point in telling me all this?”
Oliver smiled suddenly. “Don’t you ever just want to– tell the truth? It feels good…”
Rachel smiled back.
Oliver said: “Who is Arlo?”
She started. “What?”
“Arlo,” said Oliver patiently. “Before I turned your phone off, I saw the notifications.”
“Arlo is a – friend of mine.”
“Not a boyfriend?”
Rachel paused. “Sometimes, we are more than… We are friends with benefits.”
“How long have you been – friends with benefits?”
“A while…”
Oliver sighed. “That’s the issue – you have… You have been convinced that you are a victim, so your lack of conscience is – dangerous, to you and to others…”
He stood up abruptly. “Listen, I really have enjoyed the conversation. I’m going.”
Rachel’s sudden words erupted from a panicked corner of her heart: “What – what should I do?”
“For heaven’s sake…” said Oliver gently, leaning over her. “Go to church.”
Next Chapters https://freedomain.locals.com/post/3480816/the-present
