Burning Down George Orwell's House (18 page)

Ray leapt from the bench with the intention of tossing Pitcairn off the back of the boat, but the moment he stood the motor came to life and sent him toppling into the water. The cold sea filled his nose and mouth. He couldn't tell down from up until the weight of his body tugged him lower. The bubbles of his own breath rushed upward as if to save themselves. The tide pulled at his clothes and dragged him one direction or another. Seaweed and debris gyred around him until he managed to claw to the surface. He pulled a bit of air in and stayed afloat long enough to untie his boots. He kicked them off and they sank like expensive, leathery sacrifices to the gods and their spoiled children.

The sight of the Paps helped Ray regain a sense of direction. He treaded water long enough to watch Pitcairn return to the shore. He swam for it, but the dock never got any closer. Pitcairn lifted the destroyed bicycle from the back of his truck, carefully removed his panniers, and tossed the frame into the water. He threw the boxes from The Stores to the ground and then the truck evaporated into the distance.

The wet bandages around Ray's head made it difficult to see so he ripped them off. The undertow tugged at the legs of his trousers, but he didn't want to remove them because one pocket was stuffed with the cash he had brought to cover the expenses in Craighouse. He grew tired though and soon had no choice. He unbuttoned his pants, their pockets full of sterling, and let them sink.

It took an hour to crawl ashore. He lay on his back—in his
underwear—and caught his breath while the sun approached the horizon. The beach was made out of dull, round stones instead of sand. The tips of the Paps were lit up with the sun's last rays. A cold breeze swept over his skin. It would be dark soon and there were unidentified wild animals prowling the island. Possibly wolves. He was drenched, exhausted, humiliated, and the extreme thirst exacerbated the effects of his concussion.

Molly was probably sporting a new black eye or two already, but all Ray wanted to do was sleep. Find a cozy shrubbery and climb underneath for the night, for the rest of his miserable life. Yes, everyone had been right—he
was
miserable. Sleeping half naked and shivering amid a field of sheep sounded better than going home to an empty house and the knowledge that Molly had been dragged away against her will and beaten up again by her father. Yet he wandered home in the dark, the stacked boxes punishing the muscles of his arms. The shame irritated him as much as the wet underpants. His socked feet ached. The numbness started as a static-like tingle in his toes and fingers, then grew with each step. Something like shock or hypothermia sought to introduce itself to his nervous system. He made it to the back garden more by blind luck than through any understanding of the geography.

Several of the lights were on at Barnhill and Ray saw movement inside, or thought he did. The front door was unlocked. Another vivisected animal sat in a pile at the front door. He ran inside.

“Molly?” he yelled. He marched through the house, still without pants on. “Molly?”

No answer.

He went to the kitchen, poured a big dram of scotch, and carried it upstairs. The door to her room—or what had been her room—was closed. He poked his head in. All of her things were strewn around, including her paintings. He took the opportunity to examine her work up close. The extent of her artistic talent came as a surprise. He lingered over the self-portrait that she had been so careful to keep hidden. The thick brushwork conveyed a kind of aggression, like she couldn't get the paint on the canvas fast enough, but there was nothing haphazard about its application. The subtlety of her color palette—a thousand shades separating grey from blue—insisted upon a slow appraisal. He could look at her facial expression all night and never come to learn its depths. In the portrait, Molly had captured some sad understanding about herself that no teenage kid should have. Ray carried it to his bedroom. He took down a watercolor and hung Molly's bruised and naked image in its place.

The doors chimed to signal his arrival. Mrs. Kletzski sat on a stool behind the counter staring at her television screen. Through the tinny warble of the built-in speakers, the talk show sounded like a domestic dispute conducted through faulty bullhorns.

“Hello, Mrs. Kletzski.” Nothing. “Hello, Mrs. Kletzski!”

“Raymond, where have you been hiding?” She didn't turn the volume down and had to yell over a commercial for a budget airline. The racks behind her, typically full of plastic-sheathed clothes, were all but empty. Only a few suits, dresses, and laundry sacks remained.

“I was here on Saturday, Mrs. Kletzski.”

“Do you have your ticket?”

“No, Mrs. Kletzki, I'm sorry. I don't.”

“Let me see if I can find your slip!” She kept her receipts in a tall metal box with cardboard tabs for each letter of the alphabet. She flipped through each of them. “Let me see
here,” she said. “I'm not responsible for garments left over six weeks!”

“It's only been two days, Mrs. Kletzski.”

“They drop off their clothes—wedding dresses!—and leave them here like I'm supposed to look after them. What are they saving them for? Their second marriages? So do you know what I did?”

“What's that, Mrs. Kletzski?” He needed coffee.

“When I got back from church yesterday, I rented two dumpsters and took everything that was here for longer than six weeks and threw it out back.”

“Did you call the people? Maybe they just forgot.”

“I'm not responsible for garments left over six weeks! Here's your ticket. Says so right here! I let the bums come and take it all. Kept the hangers though—I can use those again!”

“Smart thinking. What do I owe you?”

Her show came back on and distracted her. She punched some numbers into the old cash register and the drawer opened with a
cha-ching
. “Twelve dollars and fifty-five cents.” She placed his credit card in a plastic tray and slid a bar over it to produce a three-ply impression and he signed the one on top. She handed him a carbon copy and went to retrieve his things. “Welter! What day is today?”

“Monday, Mrs. Kletzski.”

“How's Wednesday?”

“Perfect.”

“After ten o'clock!”

“After ten, Mrs. Kletzski, got it. Have a nice day,” he said, but she didn't hear him.

He spent the morning devising new and unusual ways to separate unwitting people from their paychecks and public-assistance payouts. His job, as he understood it, was to funnel money upward from the masses of consumers and into the already deep pockets of Logos's wealthy clients. He was performing a small, supporting role in a rebranding campaign for two banks that had merged. Nothing interesting.

The shitstorm arrived shortly after lunch. Ray's phone vibrated with a text from Bud:

The TVs in Bud's office were muted, maybe for the first time. “Have a seat,” he said. “I just got off the phone with Detroit.”

“The entire city?”

“No, just the part that was providing those big paychecks you were enjoying so much. Our friends the SUV makers have sold out.”

Was providing? Were enjoying?

“What do you mean sold out?”

“I mean sold-out sold out. Bought-by-another-company sold out. Took-the-money-and-ran sold out. Moving-to-China sold out.”

“What does that mean for us?”

“It means there's no ‘us' anymore, champ. You're off Oil Hogg.”

“What are you talking about? It was my idea.”

“Technically speaking, the idea is the property of Logos. The manufacturer will be moving operations to China. Chongqing, to be precise. I'm told it's in the south. Apparently the Chinese are crazy about SUVs—who knew? Looks like your little clusterfuck Oil Hogg idea helped speed along the sale.”

“What does that mean for the factories in Detroit? There have to be thousands of people working there.”

“What do you think it means? Those grease monkeys better start packing their bags and learning Sichuan or they're shit out of luck.”

Ray had never wanted a drink so bad. Thousands of honest, hardworking Americans—people a lot like his father—were going to be out on the streets looking for jobs. He had cost those people their livelihoods.

“Also,” Bud said, “you're getting promoted. You're going to take the lead on our next major strategic partnership. It's a doozy. It's the corporate sector and the federal government rolled into one big, spicy meatball of profit. We're talking the big time here and you, my man, are going to run the show.”

Ray was afraid to ask. “I'm afraid to ask,” he said.

“We are talking horizontal directional drilling for a big dog playa in the emerging geo-thermal solutions sector.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I'm fracking serious. Do you see what I just did there? Fracking, get it? It's short for hydraulic fracturing.”

“I know what it is. The answer is no.”

“What do you mean no? Don't be a dick.”

“Bud, I … thank you for the offer … but …”

“But what?”

“Have you seen what these companies do? They are literally destroying the ground beneath our feet. People have gas flames shooting out of their kitchen faucets.”

“Try to look at the big picture. If you can do for these guys what you did for the SUV manufacturers—and the board is convinced that you can—you will own the advertising world. We'll have to call it rayvertising from now on. Think of your career.”

“I can't even believe you're serious. Fracking? I wouldn't be able to sleep at night.”

“You can't sleep at night anyway. It's also a bit too late for moralizing, don't you think? Whether you're in charge or someone else is, this partnership is going to happen. Your petty hang-ups won't stop anyone from drilling for natural gas. The circus doesn't shut down because an elephant tramples one clown. They paint some other jerk's face and shove him out there.”

“Leave me out of this. I've done enough damage. I'd rather go back to rescripting the same three cereal ads and toothpaste commercials.”

“No you wouldn't. We really need you on this and I might
be in a position to sweeten the pot. What if just as soon as we're done with these motherfrackers I can convince the board to let you take on an environmental charity, pro boner? Would that make it worth it to you?”

“No, I don't know. I need to think about it.”

“Save the trees! Hug the whales! We'll get all of the resources of Logos behind whatever dumbshit charity will help you put your crybaby concerns to rest. We wouldn't want the company to be seen as a horde of savages willing to despoil the planet for a few lousy bucks. We are that, of course—we just don't want to be seen that way. Did I mention the large raise this promotion will entail?”

“How big of a raise?”

“You are going to become wealthy beyond the dreams of mere mortals, I promise you.”

Maybe … just maybe … this was the exact break Ray needed. Making more money would put him in a better position to reconcile with Helen if he could prove once and for all that he was a responsible, levelheaded adult capable of compartmentalizing his work and personal life. He would gladly put any moral qualms aside if it meant patching things up and moving back home. It was time to grow up and be a professional as well as a great husband. It would be a new beginning for both of them. They could start over. “I want to think about it.”

“What's this ‘think about it' shit? I'm bestowing upon you the creative and financial opportunity of a lifetime.”

“I appreciate that—I really do—but after I have my appointment with Helen on Wednesday I'd like to get out of town and clear my head. I'm thinking about going up to Wisconsin, maybe drying out for a few days. I'm hoping to bring her with me. I can use the time to do some research about the benefits of clean, natural gas, and if it turns out I have something useful to say that won't make me want to hurt myself I promise you that I will build the best market-driven solution this company has ever seen.”

“That's what I'm talking about, Rey Momo. You'll need to assemble a team and we'll start the initial meet-and-greets when you get back.”

“I'll consider it, but I'm not saying I would feel good about it.”

“No one gives a flying fuck how you feel.”

“See you next week,” Ray said. He stood to leave. “Thank you.”

“You deserve it.”

Ray packed his things and shuffled back to his neighborhood with his thought processes trapped in an infinite feedback loop. Logos was going to take on this project no matter what. Maybe he could hold his nose and do the work. He passed an empty lot that a few days ago had been a store or office or apartment building. Someone had stenciled
ORWELL WAS AN OPTIMIST
in huge letters on the exposed wall.

He stopped. The sight was beautiful—and so true. Things were even worse than what was described in
Nineteen
Eighty-Four
. Not even Orwell could have even predicted the absolute disintegration of privacy. Or the emergence of social media as a means of control. Instead of telescreens, we had smartphones. Instead of thoughtcrimes we had political correctness. What was the Internet if not a way for Big Brother to track our very thoughts?

Could he really help a hydraulic fracturing company repair its public image? To refuse the job would mean letting his father down and letting himself down too. If Ray could pull this one off it would definitively prove his theories about Orwell's usefulness to the advertising sector. Building on what he had done with Oil Hogg, he could revolutionize the entire goddamn industry.