Private Callisto said a quick prayer. He shot his head up over the trenches, just for a second. That was enough time for a German sniper to intimately acquaint the inside of Callisto’s head with the inside of his helmet.
“Shit!,” I yelped involuntarily. Another private lobbed a dirty look and a grenade. I crawled over to Callisto and closed his eyes for him. They lolled back open.
“On me!,” our sergeant bellowed. Everyone in our platoon ran over, crouching, to his position.
“I’ve got good news for you boys, for once. Reinforcements from the North arrived last night. They cut off the Kraut supply lines. Those bastards are starving to death in those rat tunnels they clawed out over there." He took off his cap in fake mourning before belly laughing. It was out of place, on his face, in this camp, during this war. "We have all the time in the world now. They’re going to have to try to cross the no man’s land soon. Just keep your eyes open, like good ol’ Callisto over there, and make sure they don’t take us by surprise. Dismissed!”
Like errant blades of grass whittling a path through concrete, a tentative optimism sprung through cracks in cynicism, a release of long-held breath. A possible light at the end of the tunnel, or trench. We’ve been here for months now. I don’t think even a third of the original crew is still around, been leaving us one by one. Of course we’ve been doing the same to the other guys. I wonder if the Earth has drank her fill yet? I wonder if someone on their side tries to close the eyes of all the dead boys around him.
I walked through the trenches. Past the munitions, make a right at the hospital, you’ll hear it before you see it, and then keep going past the kitchen. It had rained recently and the ground squelched under my feet, soaking through the soles of my standard issue boots. It seems almost comically irrelevant when juxtaposed to the puddles of blood pooling in Callisto's boots but my sense is subordinate to my senses. I climbed the stairs to the watchtower, trying to angle my ankles to avoid the puddles in my socks. Here I could see the battlefield, albeit through a slit the size of my flask.
It was dark. If you didn't force yourself to think about something, anything, then your mind would use that time drawing monsters in every bush. And so I thought. There was a lot to think about.
The light at the end of the tunnel took the form of a bright, beautiful sunset. For once we could almost appreciate the oranges and reds and purples that spilled over the tops of the trenches. Nights were always tense but today we could rest a little easier knowing they were more scared of us than we were of them.
Were those...floaters?
Oh shit.
With the sun in our eyes no one saw the Germans crossing no man’s land until they were already more than halfway across. Maybe they were more scared of us than we were of them, but that just made them desperate.
I rang the alarms. Men stumbled out of tents with bloodshot eyes. Our gunners manned their posts and filled the air with bullets, smoke, screams. The sun meant they couldn't do much better than just shoot straight ahead but that was enough. Line after line, the Germans were cut down savagely. And yet line after line they kept coming. Stepping over each other just to be cut down and used as a step in turn. Seeds falling, never to grow. War cries to war wails. and the Germans retreated. Starving to death was more dignified than this. We took potshots at their backs. I saw them on the backs of my eyelids. And halos.
One of our lads took off after them. Then a few more did, and a few more after that until half the platoon was chasing after them. I joined in. Now wasn't the time to be alone.
The lads and I were yelling and laughing and cheering and releasing months of pent-up terror and humiliation. We ran towards God only knows what, but it had to be better than what we were leaving behind. We ran towards home, towards seeing our beautiful girlies and wives again, towards pints at the tavern and long hikes in the country. The grind was over. The machine of war had done its job and we were the leftover fuel in the tank that didn’t get burned up, shot, stabbed, or gassed.
I stopped running. I saw a German, no older than 20 crawling towards his trenches. His bloodstain-blue eyes met mine. He raised a hand towards me.
God help me, I gave him my canteen. “Shh” I raised my finger to my mouth.
I continued running.
Later that night we were in the trenches celebrating. The Germans had a ton of loot we brought back with us. We were dining on sausages and beer. The prisoners of war were being processed. I heard some of them scream every now and then over an accordion someone found.
“Oi, you hear that?” our sergeant said, motioning for the music to stop.
We all perked up and listened. There was a groan from over the trenches.
“You there, Private Ollander, check it out!”
*Shit.*
I got up from the firepit. I walked over to the trench wall, still hunchbacked out of habit, and said a prayer. I ducked my head up.
I found myself eye to blue-red eye with the German from before. “What are you doing,” I mouthed silently, stupidly.
A grin, cut with pain glanced over his face. In his right hand was a grenade. Struggling, slowly he raised his left hand towards it.
Very slowly. And yet I couldn’t have stopped him if I tried. And I did try. I tried to do anything. Grab his hand, shoot him, cry for help. But I couldn’t do anything. The sergeant and a few others noticed my freezing up and came a bit closer.
The German pulled the pin and with a final heave, rolled himself into the trench. From the last sparks an spasms of his dying brain a smile flowed.
GAME OVER
“Goddammit, what the hell was that?,” I yelled at the New Game screen, tearing off the VR headset.
“All’s fair in love and war,” Pete said, pulling off his VR headset. “And seeing how you looked into my eyes, I think there was a little love in that war.”
“That was you?”
“Yeah. I played dead. I couldn’t believe it when you gave me the water. Such a softie."
“Yeah, yeah, don’t be too proud of yourself. You basically cheated.”
“All’s fair. When're you gonna learn?”
“Whatever man, let’s get going.”
"Hold on a sec. C'mere." He put his headset on me. "See that score? 17,082? What'd you get."
"Ok, ok," I said, taking the headset off.
"Less than that huh? There's a lesson there."
"Yeah, don't play so many video games."
"They can be useful teaching devices."
I waited for Pete to pack up his things. So many things. I liked traveling light but Pete would pack his whole apartment in his bags if he could. So annoying.
We left the gaudy arcade and stepped into the glass and steel monotony of the hotel. I speed-walked towards the escalators; Pete rolled his suitcase over toes trying to keep up with me. I heard the clack-clack-clack as it passed over each tile get fainter and fainter as I left him behind.
The conference room doors towered before me. I put my hands on each door.
“You’re the smartest, strongest, best looking motherfucker in this room,” I said to myself.
“You’re the smartest, strongest, best looking motherfucker in this room.”
“You’re the smartest, strongest, best look-”
“Didn’t realize this was a marathon,” Pete panted at me, finally catching up.
“Dammit Pete, you broke my train of thought.”
“Sorry boss, you only get in 99 repetitions instead of 100?”
“Maybe if you tried it you’d be the one giving the speech.”
“I’m the smartest, strongest, best looking motherfucker in this room.”
“Nevermind, it sounds stupid when you do it. After all, you wouldn’t be the best looking motherfucker in any room I’m in.”
“That’s why you’re the one who brought up the cute blonde from the hotel bar last night and I’m the one who jerked myself off to sleep right? Oh wait, that’s not how it went down, is it?”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Don’t be too proud of yourself.”
“All’s fair.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Hey c’mon big guy, don’t get mad at me, you look so much better when you smile. That’s what they want to see. Perfect guy with the perfect life.”
“Ugh, you’re right. It ain’t easy being perfect.” I flashed a smile. “Let’s go help these folks.”
I got in one more repetition mentally, hoping Pete couldn’t read minds.
“Let’s do this.” I pushed open the doors. A field of heads, ripe for reaping, turned towards me.
Confident swagger, on.
Practiced smile, on. Showing just enough teeth to be friendly, not too much to be threatening.
Suit, on, and impeccable.
I walked past the rows and rows of heads to the mic. Pete walked in a minute after I did and slid into a seat, bumping his suitcase on every knee in the way. So annoying.
Quick jog up the stairs.
Two taps into the mic to make sure it’s on. Precise motions. Precision is key.
“Good morning St. Louis, HOW ARE WE DOING?” I yelled. I know how annoying that is. I know they know how annoying it is. But it wakes up sleepy crowds. Some of these people were already dozing off. Probably work two jobs. Or more.
“C’mon, I know we can do better than that!” To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t tell you if it we could or couldn't do better than that. Doesn’t matter anyway. This call and response is expected. It’s like a stamp of authenticity for these things.
“If you give me an hour of your time I promise I will help you buy your way out of your IHO.”
Bingo. Their attention was undivided.
“No waaaaay,” Pete cut in loudly.
I widened my smile about 20%. “I know some of you are wondering 'who is this guy and why should I trust him? I work three jobs, can barely make ends meet, and he’s asking me to give up some of my all-too-little time and money to listen to him talk.' Well I’ll tell you why.” Nip any concerns in the bud.
“My name is Joseph Andrews. My IHO ID is 4966587236-X, you can look me up and make sure everything I say is true. A few years ago I was a lot like you guys. At my wit's end. Prices going up, bills stacking up, waking up from a dream about ending up face down in a pool somewhere. Only thing not going up was my bank account. But I got out of it and I’m here to tell you that you can too.” I went back to that place, rolled myself around in that stink, bringing back just enough to line my words with an intuitive grout that everyone in this room could relate to. But I couldn’t linger, lest I be lost.
“And I’m sure you’re wondering how I turned it all around. And I’ll tell you. But let me tell you, I wish I had someone tell me what to do back then. It would’ve saved me a lot of time. And I’m here to save you all years off your life.” You could cut the sexual tension between them and my words with a knife.
"Those guys, the Whitewaters and Paxians and all the rest, aren't idiots. No, no, call them what you will but they're not stupid. They've got armies of nerds studying everything from macroeconomics to sentiment analysis. They know things are tough out there. And they know that affects their bottom lines." Tinge with bile.
"So occasionally they try to move the needle in their favor. And in this case its in your favor too. When things are a bit too economically disadvantageous they'll step in as something of an employer of last resort, acting a little kind of like a pressure release valve, taking some steam out of the system. They'll spin up jobs programs, but not quite like any job you might be familiar with. Jobs that actually dig you out of the hole. That's how I got out. And that's what I'm here to talk to you about today." The tension was cut.
"BOOOO!," Pete yelled. So many boos came out of the crowd you'd think I was Mario.
I let them get it all out. Smirk, left eyebrow up. "Come on now, at least hear me out. You came here for some out of the box thinking. How much more out of the box can you get?" Pause. Murmers, but no backlash. No one left either. Hungry crowd.
"So let’s pick up where we left off. I was broke, desperate, hungry. I’ve been in sales my whole life, not the best field to be in when no one has enough money to buy. So what does a guy like me do in that situation?
I IHO'd, much like I bet most of you have. The day after I IHO’d I had more money than I’d ever seen in my life. But like I bet most of you are all too aware, easy come easy go. The money was gone faster than I ever thought I could spend it." I let them wallow in it with me for a beat. Then I threw them a life raft.
"That's when Paxian threw me a life raft. That’s right, THE Paxian. The Paxian that so graciously allowed me to sell a part of myself, and I bet let a lot of you do the same. What I didn’t know was how closely they follow some of their investments. They knew I was hurting. They knew I was hungry." Not as hungry as some of the people in this crowd. judging by their sallow cheeks.
"This was back when Congress was debating letting kids IHO. Well, Paxian knew they were going to win. Their lobbyists and lawyers had been greasing the wheels for years. Their recruiter said something that it was like a chess match where you actually owned the other side’s pieces. They wanted to really hit the ground running once the bill passed, couldn’t risk one of the smaller IHO shops capturing that market. They cut deals with schools, ran commercials, had a whole social media wing. That streamer Biggzy was working with them, he got a cut of each IHO through his affiliate link. He’s retired now." I let that stew for a moment, let them salivate.
"Another one of their ‘task forces’ was ‘direct outreach.’ They wanted guys like me to go talk to these kids directly. At first I was appalled. Who wouldn’t be? You can roll out the red carpet to hell all you want, it doesn’t change the destination.” Heaving the bile came easier this time.
"The recruiter was funny. I asked him that and he puts all the papers down and leans back, arms crossed all casually." I assumed his pose. "Here's what he said."
"'Money, morals, time. Pick two out of three. There’s no shortcut, even for those of us 'on the inside'. We all obey the laws of socio-physics. He gave me an apologetic smile, shrugged his shoulders, a 'what can you do' chuckle." I gave the crowd an apologetic smile, shrugged my shoulders, gave a "can you believe this guy" chuckle.
"He was so nakedly open with me that it kind of shocked me. It was the confidence of someone with with the weight of the world behind him, inflating his sails. He continued, 'You're a smart guy. I knew you were, that's why I reached out. I can see the normal song and dance isn't working on you. There's a different angle here, a utilitarian calculus. You're in deep. Real deep. Cautionary tale level of deep. I'm sure you know what happens to those who get delisted. No need to ruin our lunch getting into that mess.'" Lunch was salmon. Weren't many of them left back then. Must've cost a ton. Even more now.
"I still wasn't convinced so here's how he continued; 'Here's how I see it Joe. There's a pretty large negative expected value if you don't accept. Let's call it negative one thousand, I don't know, dollars, bananas, happiness points. But if you sign up enough kids, you can wipe that out. And at the cost of what? These are smart kids, at least the first signups will be. Smarter than you anyhow. They'll probably use the money for med school or something actually productive. They're not going to end up one thousand in the hole. Let's say, oh, negative twenty on average. Some of them might even end up in the green. After all, that's why we do it, to help people. It's a little like selling lottery tickets.'
That's how these people think. Utilitarian calculus. Equations of struggle. Now, fifty kids times negative twenty ouchie units or whatever is minus one thousand. What happens if I sign up fifty one kids? Am I introducing more suffering into the world than I'm taking out? Of course I asked him that.
'Yes and no. Try this one on for size then, Einstein. Would you give someone a papercut to save a life? Sure hope so. Would you give two people a papercut? Three? At what point do you choose to let the other guy die? Way more than the amount of kids you'll sign up, I can assure you. And, if you get to that fifty first kid, if you're all settled up with Paxian, well then, that’s when you’ll start making the big bucks.'" That caught their attention. “‘We're not in the charity business, something closer to the vice business, vice-adjacent to be charitable. It's a warzone out there, and all's fair in love and war, so let’s start cutting,’ he finished, sliding me a sheet of paper. And so I say to you, let’s start cutting.” I dropped a stack of term sheets, waivers, and NDAs on the table in front of me and sat down.
Like errant blades of grass whittling a path through concrete, a tentative cynicism sprung through cracks in optimism, an intake of long-held breath.
Some brave soul walked up. A few dirty looks shot their way. Her shaky walk, breath, and smile told me she was terrified. Of being the center of attention? Or of making a mistake? But her shoulders were pushed back in a motion so unpracticed on her it felt mechanical, as if driven by a system of ropes and pulleys, and her hands were locked together, arms bent at all right angles. This was a woman who was surrounded by her anxieties; behind her, hunger, in front of her, deprivation.
“What’s your name?”
“Maddy.”
“Do you have any questions for me, Maddy?”
“Yeah, a few about terms and stuff, but like... um... I don't know how to phrase this, but like, is this something good people do?"
"Good people are like unicorns Maddy. I've never seen one, have you? The way I see it, trace anyone's actions far back enough and you'll find some poor sap being taken advantage of, for your benefit. Some mountaintop hermit's hands would probably run dirty if we really hosed him down. So no, this hypothetical good person probably wouldn't do this, because they're not here in the trenches with us. But this is something regular people do. Practical people. People like me. And you. Because we need to. If you wanna win you have to look your shadow in the eye and then befriend it."
"Yeah. It's like selling lotto tickets right?"
"Exactly."
"Expensive lotto tickets though."
"But lotto tickets nonetheless."
"Or maybe more like indulgences?"
"Indulgences?"
"Y'know, like the Catholic Church used to do. Selling tickets to heaven basically. Tickets to hope."
"I like that," I jotted down, "tickets to hope. Damned if you don't, maybe not so damned if you do."
"Do I get royalties if you use that?," she joked.
"You sign people up with those rhetorical flourishes of yours and you'll get a lot more than royalties." I gave her a warm smile.
She paused, then looked over her shoulder. Someone else had gotten up and was approaching the desk. She moved up. A line slowly formed behind her.
"You'll get all the details about the amount of Cap you'll need to sign up and everything else sent to your Paxian account. You're won't regret this." I handed her the packet and turned towards the next one. "You'll get all the details about the amount of Cap you'll need to sign up and everything else on your Paxian account. You're won't regret this."
Eventually they all signed up or left. Pete rolled his suitcase up.
"It's like watching Picasso at work. Unorthodox but effective. Why don't you just use the script they gave ya? Hey hun, heard you're having money troubles, yadda yadda and et cetera."
"It's a stupid script. Doesn't acknowledge the elephant in the room. You have to filter out the pious, then I'm left with the go-getters."
"Hungry crowd."
"Very."
"Well, I don't appreciate how you characterize me. I like to think I was a little more eloquent, not as nerdy. Utilitarian calculus, what the hell is that?."
"Rhetorical flourish."
"Whatever, as long as it works. My little Picasso. Pica-Joe! I knew I hit it out of the park when I saw your profile. You keep those signups coming, I'll keep the checks coming."
"Aye aye boss."
"I should get a royalty the way you use my pitch in yours. Or a lot more than royalties, that's what you said right? I'll see you tonight?," he winked.
"In your dreams maybe."
"She was kind of cute. Maybe I can catch up to her."
"Not with that suitcase."
"Just gotta run over a few toes. But hey, serious face on for a second; you can spin our conversation however you want to, paint yourself as some helpless gal I took for a spin and left on the side of the highway or something Do whatever it takes, say whatever it takes to get people signing, but I gotta disabuse you of the notion that you're some kind of victim, just in case you start actually believing it. I remember it differently, and you do too."
"Now," he smiled, "lets hit the trenches."
I saw a German, no older than 20 crawling towards his trenches. His bloodstain-blue eyes met mine. He raised a hand towards me. I gave him water. He drank greedily and I watched. I shot him between the eyes when he looked up to thank me.