SWNOVELS Chapter 3: The Virtue of Sin
Chapter 3: The Virtue of Sin:
“I couldn’t wait for success ... so I went ahead without it.”
- Jonathan Winters
Sam Hernandez was a drop out long before it was cool. Having never bought in to the system, he never missed it. He seemed to be remarkably unaware things had changed.
He didn’t seem to care what he did, as long as he got it done and made enough money to finance his eccentric hobbies. For example, over time, he had set up a private zoo, hosting only animals he found interesting or fun to watch. Care and feeding of this aging menagerie continued to eat into his finances. Local children would often drop by to gawk at the aging animals. Neighbors would often feed them out of misguided pity. His latest scheme was no less fated to lose money, but friends, family and business associates alike were too entertained to try to dissuade him.
On the other hand, he made gobs of cash on crass business ventures. He had somehow convinced three airports to expand his bars into strip clubs, then casinos, for weary business travellers. The terms were extortionate. The original business license was for a probationary six months, renewable annually. The rent was three times the retail rate for a bookstore. Sam was not worried; he knew once the impoverished cities became used to collecting these rents, they would never drop the lease. Still, maintaining the business cost a fortune in lawyer’s fees and “bribes” to the City Council (“for the community”).
He had a small, manufacturing facility in more-or-less abandoned Oakland, California, making sundry plastics items, where the orders were too small to justify the hassle of off-shoring. One suspects the only reason he got interested in it was the warehouse floor had wood-panelled offices. His employees were happy to go along with the ride. You would get the feeling that some of them, notably Alberto, would stick with him through it all, thick or thin.
Like a Hemingway hero, the man enjoyed wealth and women and was generous to random rouges. Remarkably non-introspective, no one quite knew what drove Sam. When asked directly why he was doing this or that, he gave rambling, evasive answers, as if he didn’t know himself. Invariably, the answering monologue was concluded with a muttering, “... those bastards...”
Buck was on a ‘break’ between research grants, and had wound up in The Saddle (sometimes referred to as “Sam’s living room”). The Saddle was more-or-less a standard dive bar, where with fresh cedar sawdust doing constant battle against the stale smell of spilled beer and spittle from chew. One of the stalls in the toilet was marked as ‘The office of Sam Hernandez’. Buck had been scanning the pub, trying to spot anyone who might be worth talking to. Sam was dressed like everyone else, jeans, cowboy boots, work shirt and some kind of corduroy vest, but the room gravitated around him as he was holding court. The guy was rich, no doubt, but was amusing to listen to, as well: jumping from topic to topic, insulting his friends (or hanger’s on?), and buying rounds of drinks (for forgiveness or perhaps out of generosity?).
Sam was complaining the panelling was fake, when Buck piped in: “No. It’s ugly, but I think its birch.”
“Well, damn it, you’re right! Shit. I should know that. You in construction, boy?”
“Not hardly!” Buck was happy to be mistaken for a normal person. “I used to do research on pine trees, for Weyerhaeuser”.
“No shit! Waddaya do now?”
Buck chuckles, “I am digging through the garbage, like everyone else.”
Sam seemed let down. He didn’t want to hear another hard luck story; he wanted to hear a good story.
Buck caught it and tried his luck. “Seriously... What does America have more of than any country in the World?”
Sam shot off, “Assholes?”
“Landfills! Full of high quality shit. Perhaps the greatest legacy of the 20th Century is our landfills. We have 300 year’s-worth of cast off Copper, Nickel, Tungsten, you name it. If we could mine our landfills, we could be exporting raw materials…”
Uncharacteristically, Sam waited for more.
I had a “Green Grant” to process garbage last year. Doing his best imitation of a businessman, Buck added, “But the capital investment was a bit rich for even the Government.”
“Huh? How much were you asking for, for Chrissake?”
Buck quickly doubled his grant proposal, “$150,000 a year for two ... er ... three years.”
“Boy, that’s not capital investment. I can hardly squeeze off a good shit for a hundred grand. Is that what they teach you in Business School? Fuck... more wasted tax dollars.” Sam seemed genuinely disappointed in Buck.
Buck’s heart sank. His fears were confirmed: he had no idea how to pitch his ideas. Even to a drunken cowboy. He had to think fast speak in Sam’s language.
“Yeah, I know, but that’s all that’s out there, and I even built a shit eating machine.”
Sam stopped, “Now that, I wanna see!”
Buck fumbled with his hand unit and scrolled through his files. “Well, here’s the only pic I have. It’s kind of blurry. I was going to try to get something printed up.”
Sam and the full entourage were now engaged, leaning over, squinting at the scrappy device.
“Well, I’ll be dipped! Does the thing work?”
“Kind of. It gets jammed after about a foot of stuff is fed in.”
Sam handed him a tattered, self-printed business card, wrapped in a $20 bill for effect: “Son, you drop by the ranch anytime… and bring that machine. The boys would love it. I have a whole barn-full of stuff that doesn’t work.”
Alberto volunteered, “It’s true. Sam here’s got a Museum of Failures – no offense. He collects them. Just take one look at Erasmus. Look at me!”
Everyone barked laughter.
“Kid, I like you,” he said putting his arms around Buck, “... you’re smart and you don’t B.S.” Anyway, I’m sure we could find some crap for you to do. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
Buck didn’t know where this was going, but liked the man. Buck didn’t have much of a choice. No one else was interested. Everyone else was busy thinking of reasons why it wouldn’t work or not to get involved. Sam clearly had no idea what Buck was doing. It didn’t matter to him. What he wanted or he stood to gain from the relationship was unclear: maybe a friend...maybe another nephew, to be added to his entourage of misfits.
That’s how it started. No pretence. Just two outcasts, facing off against ‘The Bastards.’