From section I: Sardine Lethargy
We are not allowed to address him by his real name, for that would breach the confidentiality of many and might cause a spiral of events regrettable for our children, children’s children, and so on. It is a potential caution. For the same reason, his mentor and former colleague is also to remain anonymous.
Our first dip into the mind of this man takes us to a private island off the coast of New England, where he was on a retreat with his mentor. The man, our hero in this examination, has just emerged from the ocean. His bald head rose first and broke the water’s surface. Then his eyes appeared slowly through the sea’s gentle ripple. When the nose found air, his ascent picked up speed. His mouth popped agape and his shoulders accelerated as his full body leapt up with the power of toes against sand bar depths. His chest reached towards the soft, mid afternoon sun. The knees tasted daylight. Then gravity pulled the man back under the water surface once again, settling toes back into wet sand, until the waves balanced against his waist line. He stood for a moment looking deep to the apparent emptiness of the expansive horizon. He dripped. He dripped a lot. He is, as far as we are concerned: The Drippy Man.
After an hour of staring out at a dark blue sea hitting a soft, lighter blue sky, breathing gentle yet deep inhalations through the nose, expanding a diaphragm not accustomed to the luxury of an audible sigh, The Drippy Man turned his back, breaking the fixation of his gaze. He returned to the beach where his elder friend awaited. The Drippy Man was pink from sunburn. He wrapped his bald head with a towel, shielding it from the sun’s harsh rays. Ozone terrorism peeled cancerous sections from long lost friends, whose corpses remained brushed over with sand that scattered and layered in the desert breeze. The Drippy Man stood proud in his turban as he poked each leg into a tattered pair of jeans. He did the same with his arms into a sea green sweater, stitched with the image of a light house, pulling it from where it had rested on the transom of a row boat. The Drippy Man, still not quite dry despite the wicked sea breeze slapping at his back, cast a taller shadow with the help of his make shift turban. He sighed as the keys in his pocket scraped his leg. He hated thin pockets. He hated feeling things knick his flesh and the dread his condom-thin pocket would rip and spill his essential possessions.
The Drippy Man thought of a nightmare he had before this vacation. He dreamt that he had been scalped at the hands of rugged mountain bandits, peeling the pasty white skin above his turban tan line to reveal the bright red tissue underneath. He had awoken and looked in the mirror, unsure whether he could truly blend in with different cultures. This throbbing lack of confidence for undercover games threatened to sink his efficiency and reputation. A disguise always left its mark, just as underwear left indentations on a naked waist. The turban tan line could disturb otherwise thorough immersion in a terrible land. And his fear only increased as he watched a drop of sweat hitting his forehead, creating a sheen that called more attention to the line’s prominence.
He took a seat next to his elder friend in the sea shell speckled sands after brushing aside bits which could poke into his skin. The elder friend had been through similar jaunts as The Drippy Man and had coached The Drippy Man. A well meaning mentor he was. The elder friend steered clear of the sea on this day and instead enjoyed the dry rays of sun. As mentioned, his anonymity is equally vital, thus we will call him, The Dry Advisor. The Dry Advisor feebly picked up a piece of shell and tossed it to the rushing waves meeting the shoreline. The Drippy Man picked three bits of shell and exploded the bits with accompanying sand grains in a spew upon the sea. The Dry Advisor chuckled and flashed a side ways glance at The Drippy Man with warm judgment and wry acknowledgement. The Drippy Man nodded towards the row boat resting in the sands, away from the surf.
“Want to take it for a spin?”
The Dry Advisor scoffed. “I dare say I have no fight in me to pull against the tides.”
“You’re yellow! The sea looks gentle.”
“I tell you from experience.”
“You’re an old man.”
The two shared a little laugh. The elder friend jumped to his feet with readied fists and a popping grin.
“I’ll show you what I can do!”
The Dry Advisor proceeded to create playful punching and pouncing noises from the dry friction of his lips. They gathered their towels and brushed the sand from their bottoms as they departed from the beach.
Dusk whipped in, blooming further amidst the blue specks dancing upon the red orange fall of a lavender melted sky, tickling their beach simmered appetites. Through the kitchen’s window, it looked like a painting. The Dry Advisor let the pan siphon the heat from the small wood stove. Two grilled cheese sandwiches bronzed, smoking slightly from the pan’s burning touch. A cool wind rapped through a drafty door, a tingle of sea salt mingling with the accumulation of heat and smoke in the kitchen.
“An appetizer as the lobster boils,” announced The Dry Advisor.
The Drippy Man huddled close behind The Dry Advisor, who was focused intently on preparing dinner. As he clutched his beer in its iron stein, The Drippy Man took in the ambience of the house. Hidden amidst a thin field on the center of a secluded island, every item had a tinge of antiquity, from the wood stove to the 18th century furniture and paintings dating to the American Revolution. An odor danced from the surface of the woodwork from several centuries prior, providing a substantial vibration of a tantalizing yet unfamiliar nostalgia. The house itself was built just after the Revolution, and inspired many lively discussions between The Drippy Man and his Dry Advisor on previous retreats. Sections of the house remained with original elements, any addition and refurbishing was done with the aesthetic design to replicate the appeal of the estate when it first was erected for a wealthy statesman, a figure of high effectiveness, an old Bostonian escaping to solitude after the flourish of a post-British rule. Ironically, The Drippy Man and The Dry Advisor stood in front of a framed map detailing the British colonization of America, an aged yellowing etching. Here they stood before its overwhelming size, two hundred and fifty six days after the very first Independence Day celebration.
The Dry Advisor often alluded to harboring a sense of jealousy towards the elation of those celebrating July 4th at its incarnation - the depth of their relief from a tyranny, the jolly opportunity to recreate a nation. The world had been at their doorstep, asking them to infuse the governance with a pulse of fresh air for all men. That dream was now, in 2032, co-opted by a new ruling body, lending governance a cold sleek step further in the passage of a dark legislation. Both men here could agree on a shared fear of the disintegration of democratic idealism as the nation’s leaders continued to fall prey to bureaucratic trickery of what was really an aggressive monarchy, whose bloodline passed through by a deed and whose throne was occupied by a symbol.
The Dry Advisor had worked for the Central Intelligence Agency before its reconfiguration to an agency now called Protective Intelligence. During its reformation, The Dry Advisor became a mentor to The Drippy Man and developed the young, eager, and malleable agent into a force to be employed in the protection of the nation’s major investments. The investments were intricate and difficult to trace, as was the entire make up of the global financial system, immersed in murky representations and legislation. Both the nation and the corporation employed these men for espionage – the greater good of keeping these investments safe at an absolute minimum of complications. The Drippy Man worked directly with The Dry Advisor for many years. The aged Dry Advisor now worked solely as a consultant, so his only interaction with The Drippy Man was purely social. However, the men could hardly refrain from talking colorfully on their work.
Their conversation ceased abruptly with the entry of an oddly-shaped man whose body resembled a certain vegetable. He was a thickset fellow with calloused and jaundiced skin and a patch of brown hair, a frizzy upheaval. We will call him Bell Pepper. Bell Pepper sidled up beside The Drippy Man and looked at the grilled cheese in his hand. The Drippy Man, a bit uncomfortable at the heaviness of the gaze, politely apologized and asked Bell Pepper if he would like one.
“Why is one of your legs fatter than the other?” asked Bell Pepper.
The Drippy Man realized Bell Pepper was not looking at his sandwich but towards the inconsistency of his leg sizes.
“You always get your kicks pointing out defects?” retorted The Drippy Man.
“Just curious. Never seen anything like it before.”
“I was raised not to feel shame and hide my legs in baggy pants.”
“So you flaunt your deformity by wearing short shorts?”
“Like you flaunt your pockmarks by not wearing a mask?”
Bell Pepper backed away, kicking wide the screen door, making an exit to a porch over hanging a dune of sand that curved into a jagged upward jab of rock.
“He is quite sensitive,” commented The Dry Advisor.
“Who is he?”
“A fellow who once manipulated the money in your wallet but now curses the fellow who does.”
The Drippy Man attempted to deduce an identity from the Dry Advisor’s hint but could not arrive at a name. He excused himself and went out onto the porch to make nice with Bell Pepper and, as a good neighbor, get to know this fellow. Bell Pepper perched over the railing’s edge, face buried.
“I’m sorry if I overreacted. My last comment was a little harsh,” The Drippy Man offered a soft hand on the back of Bell Pepper’s sweaty t-shirt.
“No man, don’t apologize. I am not used to being a loafer and somehow I felt threatened by you and had the urge to pick you apart.”
“No need to feel threatened; I’m only here for the Holiday weekend. Then I’m off.”
“You a friend of his?”
“Yes, you?”
“Client. I guess.”
“Oh?”
Bell Pepper once again buried his face, closing himself from further inquisition. The voice, however, had carried over into the memory bounce of The Drippy Man’s mind, and it dawned on him. This fellow’s timber matched that of the desperate bully on the other end of the phone line, tapped and taped and played before him years ago in a debriefing. Once the Federal Reserve had crumbled under the revision of Congress and its power, the creation and oversight of the nation’s currency was owned by an unnamed investor, wealthy enough to bail out the toxic deficit of the government itself. After the government lost its spending power, it was now a business entity that was, in turn, purchased by a limited partnership. The heftiness of the purchase and controversy surrounding it no doubt motivated the shroud of secrecy of the ownership. The public display was by symbol only +++. America: The Transaction.
The Drippy Man realized the identity of this cantankerous loafer, the exiled chairman of the fallen Federal Reserve, fighting for his very financial existence as the unit of currency was completely overhauled and regulated by +++. We cannot identify the unit of currency here, as its name was trademarked but we will refer to it as orema. The Drippy Man’s confident movements took on the nervous jitters of a young man finding himself in the company of an infamous celebrity. He backed away from Bell Pepper as though he had been grazed by a shark and returned to the kitchen.
The Dry Advisor gripped a red lobster with a tong, holding the shelled creature above the pot, steam dripping back. The Drippy Man startled his elder friend by bursting at him with a vigorous question.
“I see you’re up to some freelance of a different nature?”
