Chapter Thirteen: The Money Tree
In which Tabby's philanthropy can go horribly wrong, and right.
Chapter Thirteen: The Money Tree
From one end to the other, The Barrel Road District smokes like some apocalypse movie. Empty apartments and downed telephone poles. Flaming, crackling trash cans. A darkness permeated by only sorrow, rot, and wandering shadows. Huddled together are hundreds of tents and cardboard boxes, makeshift homes for the people that families like mine and Jeffrey’s have bled dry and left to marinate in our sewage. Shopping carriages are shuffled along containing meager treasures accumulated over lifetimes homelessness.
From the backseat a cracking voice says, “just don’t murder me is all.”
“Shhhh,” I say.
There are only so many ways I can describe giving away my fortune but suffice it to say it feels good every time. Riding shotgun, Jeffrey’s pasted with a gleeful smile. Knees locked together, clenched stomach, bit lip. Clenched in his hands are the wrinkled ends of a garbage bag that was filled to the brim with stacks of what else but money.
Jeffrey says, “that was exciting!”
From the backseat a little voice says, “I still have plans for my life.”
Jeffrey says, “put on your seatbelt please.”
There’s a hesitant click and I press the gas and we move on
The boy in the back is Brendan Cobb. Couldn’t be any more than fourteen. Picked him up on the outskirts of the BRD. Caught my eye cause he reminded me of my favorite boy. Sitting between two dumpsters, amongst a heap of discarded mattresses he’d looked up as we passed. Like everyone else, his eyes followed our fresh from the showroom BMW cruising through the worst part of town, but unlike all of them, he waved a tiny hand poked out of the end of a war-torn leather jacket and we stopped. Coming to the curb in a pair of Punky Brewster mismatched shoes, jeans torn at the knees, he stops a safe distance away, and bends over to see into the car.
Rolling down the tinted window, Jeffrey leans out, asks, “you hungry?” Then looks down into his own lap like he’s a moron. Kind of is a moron. Of course, the kid is hungry.
Before you say it, yes, I know they’re not our playthings. Our original thought was to just throw the money out the window, bundle by bundle until it was all gone, all guiltily like Jesse Pinkman. But then I saw this little one and my heart broke. Next the dumpsters a group of scraggly women passed around a bowl of what looks like leftover stew ignoring our transaction. A gaggle of runaway teens under a tarp share a joint. A distrustful cadre of African Americans eye the BMW like it’s from outer space. It is from outer space but the look of wonder as we stop. We’re like- no, are aliens.
Brendan smirks, like he’s done this a million times, asks, “you holding?”
The implication being if we were willing to give a minor drugs then we couldn’t be cops. Though I can imagine a night’s stay in a jail or in juvie might be better than his present living circumstances, but who knows. I tap Jeff on the leg and point to the bag and shrug.
Reaching down, Jeff takes out a wad and tosses it to the kid, who catches it, like in another life he played baseball, football, or something like that. Imagine what steps brought him all the way from the sunny fields of Ohio, or wherever, catching fly balls to this place.
Jeff says, “go eat, kid.”
Looking over the wad like it’s monopoly money Brendan asks, “is this a joke? Like for a TikTok?” Then looks around and back to my handsome Jeffrey.
Before, I’d asked myself what happens when you don’t get to confront your abuser? Do you live out of spite? For sure it’s a healthy step in the grieving process but will it do anything to help us heal? God knows we’ve got a lot of that to do. The jig may be up, and we, Jeffrey and I know the true game but for real there’s no escape. We can only watch as astounded onlookers share in the awe that is being lifted out of the murk, there’s a momentary pleasure, then it’s gone. I suppose a lot of my moments from now on will be like this.
Jeff says, “no joke, kid. Stay safe.” And Jeff signals me to move on.
The nearby women, teens and such, eye Brendan with his wad of money. They stop their quacking clattering of bowls and plastic silverware. So many eyes now. Too many. Shuffling out of their holes and peeking around corners it’s a bit like when Dorothy frees the munchkins from the wicked witch of the west. Shrinking into himself Brendan takes the wad and shuffles it into his underwear. Popping their heads out of dumpsters and cubbies and tents they can smell what we’re shoveling, and they want some too.
Waddling to Brendan like a herky-jerky marionette, a woman dressed a bit like an 18th century side-show freak looks over him shoulder, asks, “what you got there Brenny? Somethin’ for all of us?” Surrounding the car and the boy, it’s like they appeared out of the darkness. Like vampires or ghouls, they loom around the car. Out the windshield, side, and rearview mirrors the world is closing in. There’s a smell like cooked hot garbage.
Under his breath, Jeff asks, “what do we do?”
Thinking on his toes, Brendan says, “let me into the car.”
The lady says, “not without letting us see what you’ve got first.”
From over the car a man shouts, “yeah, whatcha got there?”
Since it was our plan in the first place, I don’t see any reason not to go forward with it. So, reaching between Jeff’s sculpted thighs, I take out a wad and lilt it out the window. Before it was even halfway out, it was gone like they were Hungry-Hungry Hippos. I do another, and another, and another. Jeff does the same all while Brendan is jostled about by the stomping, moshing crowd. Pushed right to the door, his face pressed against the jam. Thumping, bumping, and rocking the frame it’s like those zombie movies where the heroine and hero have nowhere else to hide but of course they’re found by their smell. Living blue blood. Before long the bag is half empty and it looks as though they might tear the car down piece by piece.
I ask, “should we go?”
Jeff says, “no, they’re just rabble and they need a little umph.”
That’s when after a moment of hesitation, Jeff reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a pistol. Gods, I hadn’t even noticed it. Been there the entire date and through our tryst. Not that I’d have eyes for something like that, but for this mild mannered, soft, pretty boy to have a gun was unthinkable.
“Back up!” He shouts.
Within a second, they’ve made space, and some run for cover.
Brendan is smiling, impressed by the size of the weapon.
Opening the door, Jeff steps out the gun pointed at the shrinking mob, says, “I want you all to make an orderly line starting here,” then points to the ground.
It’s tough giving away money.
One by one they line up behind each other. Funny that money and force breeds civility. Where before they were willing to tear Brendan apart for a mere $5,000 now, they’ll wait their turn. One by one and each by each they approach Jeff hat in hand, and he fills it with a short stack. Some even say thank you. A lady with a baby attached to an exposed dirty breast sheds tears and kneels.
“No,” Jeff says then waves her away with the gun.
At the last the bag is empty, a gnarled old man almost leaning over his toes wearing nothing but a wife beater I’m sure was pure white at one point but is now deep brown. Wrapped around his wrist is a leash attached to a little Pekinese dog whose hair is strung with ticks and mats and missing fur. Jeff turns the bag upside down and nothing comes out. Unflinching, Brendan reaches into his ratty old underwear, shuffles out the ball-smelling wad and hands it to the elder who eyes it, confusedly lifts it to his face, takes his finger, and zips through it like a deck of cards. Sniffs it as if he’d know the smell of real money from fake and a smile works the corners of his mouth exposing no teeth. Maybe he’d had a few crumpled sweaty 10 dollar bills saved for sodas and cheap fast food but never this much. Inasmuch as he could, the old man skips away into the darkness his little dog toddling aside him.
During the entire scuffle, lineup, and transactions, I haven’t moved from my seat. Entranced by Jeffrey’s sudden command. His abrupt use of shoulder wide stance and powerful tone, it’s like the longer we occupy these new bodies, the more favorable genetic abilities are unlocked. But the fact I didn’t move out of fear worries me. Like where did all my umph go? How will I be the manager when I go back to Walmart?
The crowd is gone, the line is gone and only Brendan remains, unsullied, unbridled, and completely beholden to the towering Jeff, who’d finally let the gun lilt to his side. The little one’s teeth aren’t so bad as he smiles up with a look of wonder in his green eyes. He smitten with my man that way that boys look up to heroes and want to be them.
To Brendan, Jeff says, “you didn’t have to do that. I have more.”
Cutting him off, Brendan says, “how else would I get you to take me with you? Now you owe me.”
Shuffling the bag into his fist, Jeff says, “I suppose I do,” then waves with the gun for the boy to get into the car. As if released from a trance, Jeff shakes his head at the weapon in his hand, eyes it in the flat of his palm like he himself didn’t even know where it came from, then shuffles it back into the holster in his suit.
Hopping into the car, excited, overjoyed, Brendan sinks into the red leather bucket seat, removes his worn hat to reveal a tousled clump of sticky matted hair, says, “Jeez guys all that just the have a piece of my ass. I must be special.”
Jeff reaches out to touch my shoulder, asks, “were you hurt?”
I shake my head, ask, “was that good for you?”
“Yeah,” Jeff says.
Where before, Jeffrey and I hid our good deeds behind a shroud, now it was all in the open. Even sitting in the back of my new car. Whatever possessed us to take him, I’m sure even that demon has a reason. It’s like I’m progressing by regressing. Needing to save my little brother all over again. Maybe this time I’ll succeed.
Jeff asks Brendan, “you didn’t leave anything you needed right?”
In the rear view mirror, Brendan shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair repeatedly like to shape it from hat head into bed head. Does a pretty good job too. Looks a bit like Brad Pitt’s Fight Club hair. Licking the palm of his hand he takes a sticky glob of spit and rubs it on his face and neck leaving a clean swipe through the dirt on his cheeks. He does this repeatedly. Once sufficiently clean, he takes the same hand and runs it through his armpit, smells it and winces at the odor.
He asks, “I don’t smell too good. You guys have a shower?”
Noticing this, Jeff says solidly, “we are not gonna fuck you, kid.”
The boy looks down into his lap, in disbelief says, “Actually, I’ve never done a woman before,” then, “you’ll have to tell me what to do,” then looking out the window says, “only do what people tell me to do and it’s usually pretty weird.” Running his hand along the sleek leather interior, he says, “least I got to ride in a nice car.” Using his teeth, he cleans the dirt from under his fingernails. Rolling the wad of grime on his tongue, he decides against spitting in on the floor and gulps it down.
Jeff asks, “you really don’t believe me, do you?”
Brendan says, “Nah it’s okay. You don’t have to lie. Most pedos are lonely guys who just want to have somebody pay attention to them. They got some weird fantasies. I had one guy ask me to let him pick my nose and eat it. Dude gave me fifty dollars too.”
Jeff and I eye each other. It would take a lot of convincing for this little one. So instead of consummating our new forgone conclusion of a relationship we were all about making this kids’ night.
He says, “another guy wanted me to eat beans and fart bare assed in his face while he jerked off. That was two-hundred dollars. I stayed in a hotel that night. Got Uber Eats to deliver McDonald’s.”
Leaving the BRD, we take the highway weaving through the traffic until we’re back in the city proper. Brendan lets his eyes widen and wow at the lights, cars, glistening spires, and road signs. Then after a silent ten minutes cruising around we park at the CVS and Brendan’s peeking out the front window between us.
He says, “you don’t have to buy condoms. I’ll take a shot in the ass. You both look pretty clean.”
Jeffrey says, “I’ll be back,” then opens the door, and stops. Then he leans over to me and plants a kiss on me that I accept without question. It’s like he knows we have a lifetime of fucking ahead of us and it can wait until after we’re done being good people. Stepping out Magnanimous’ book flops out of his pocket and onto the seat. The corners are worn as if it’s been his favorite book for like a thousand years. It’s bloated from all the post-its and bookmarks. Probably he read it in the tub too.
I hand the book back to Brendan, say, “read that. He’s probably gonna be a while.”
Turning it over and over in his hands, Brendan says, “I would if I could read,” then chuckles under his breath. Then, “you guys really don’t have to accommodate so much. I’ll just take the money and go after you’re done with me.”
Turning to him, I say, “accommodate is a pretty big word for a boy who can’t read.”
As if caught in a lie, Brendan averts his eyes, looks out the window, says, “it’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, then, “I’m bored. Tell me the rest of your story?”
Brendan says, “you guys get off on some weird shit.”
I shrug.
Come to find out Brendan’s been on the road since he was 9. Says he’s 15 now. I was close on my guess. Started in Ann Arbor MI, when his mother married an abusive drunk and he ran away. So far as he knows she never bothered looking for him. She might even be dead. Since then, he’s train hopped, hitched, hiked, traveled, slept in gutters and sewers, under McDonald’s benches, eaten out of the trash, lived in abandoned homes, in open fields, and most of all in the beds of married men while their wives were away. According to him he’s the master of car-play blow and hand jobs. Got biceps and triceps like cannons. Even worked his arms out of the flight jacket to show me. He did indeed have two baseball sized biceps supposedly from working and jerking a million dicks. A power bottom he’d taken men the width of soda cans and the length of lamp posts. According to him on his last visit to the freebee clinic he’s vaccinated against HPV, monkey pox, Covid, takes pRep, and he’s neg as of last week or at least undetectable. Avoids drugs at all costs ‘cept maybe a little weed and beer sometimes but otherwise, he has no pimp, no worries, no infections, no education, and no debts. He’ll do anything so long as he’s paid well.
There’s something in the tone of his voice I can’t quite place. It’s contrived and apathetic. Like he’s told the story a thousand times and got tired of it. But who else would ask? Not that I know much other than my own disgusted feelings about pedos, I can’t imagine any of them would want to know more about him than what he could do for them in bed. Sharing that type of information would give them more power over him than they already had. I can’t imagine they’d share anything in return; that would give him power over them.
I say, “that’s your story?”
He says, “uh-huh,” then he looks me in the eyes for a long time like as if to see if I believe him. Most of what he said was probably lies but I’m okay with that. Maybe he’d read a thousand eyes that way and knew what to look for. Even with my new beauty I can’t hide it. He says whipcord quick, “you know it’s okay, don’t worry, I’ll go. It’s nice enough you helped all those people back there. Thanks for the ride in the nice car,” then reaches to unbuckle his belt, leans the passenger seat forward, and grabs for the handle.
My heart turns all sharp and my eyes water.
He’d rather be raped than disbelieved.
I say, “I believe you.”
He stops with his fingers poised on the door handle.
I reveal, “my friend and I are the two wealthiest people on the planet as of today. You see my mother died this morning and his parents died this afternoon. We’ve just discovered a plot by the upper echelon of the entire world to maintain the status quo of wealthy, rich, middle class, poor, and destitute. We’ve broken our conditioning to hate the lower class and, other than our present appearance refuse to maintain a standard of beauty and prowess that would otherwise make people jealous. We refuse to have children for the good of our class and are willing to do anything to make up for the pain our families wrought around the world. On our parents deaths we were given compliments of exemplary DNA that changed us from homely Walmart shelf stocker and gas station attendant to this.” I wave at my body, say, “It’s true yesterday morning I looked like a chubby pig and now I’m this. We’re supposed to live languid lives of luxury all while sucking the world dry along with all the other lavish trillionaires. All of this to prevent humanities ascendancy to interplanetary congress with beings from other planets and galaxies. These aliens have seen humanities underbelly-.”
I stop ‘cause Brendan falls back into his seat and laughs like he hasn’t laughed in forever. Even clutching his belly and losing his breath like a teenage boy should. The way he’s become human to me, his eyes like big green lakes, his cheeks reddened suffused with blood, his knees to his chest, my god I start laughing with him.
As if the bag of newly printed bills wasn’t enough evidence for him, he’s curled up in the backseat. Catching his breath he says, “that was good. Better than my story. I almost believed you until the aliens part.” Then, “I think I’ll stay just to see what you two are all about.”
I say, “okay, there’s a catch though.”
He sighs, says, “just don’t murder me is all. I still have plans for my life.”
Coming out the doors of the CVS, Jeff had four bags filled to the brim with I don’t know what and suddenly I’ve got an idea.
Looking at Brendan, who’d calmed considerably, in earnest, I say, “we’re not going to murder you.” I say, “the catch is you have to stay with us, accept every gift we have to offer, be polite, and no turning tricks.”
As Jeff gets into the car and settles the bags into his lap, Brendan says, “you want me all to yourselves?” Then, sitting back in the seat, buckling up once again, he says, “I see.”
Jeff says, “I got soap, shampoo, back scrubber, toe, and nail clippers, toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, - hey,” he stops mid-sentence, says, “you know I didn’t even ask. Where are we going from here?”
I say, “I was just thinking about that.” Then I look into the backseat again where Brendan is sitting almost pleased with the book in his lap smiling, it’s like for all this time since he’s been on the road and blowing old truckers, he knows exactly how to take instruction so he doesn’t get hurt.