Chapter Eighteen
Nels grew up an only child in an upper middle class family on Chicago’s north shore. He was the son of working professionals, which made great amounts of money as the stock market reached new heights at the turn of the twenty first century. As his parent’s wealth and comfortable trappings increased Nels’ ambitions reacted diametrically, arguably hitting the lowest point when his parents mentioned, “Trust fund.”
Bright but lazy, Nels graduated near the bottom of his high school class, missed the deadlines for college applications, and subsequently attended but flunked out of junior college. Unemployed, and living at his parent’s tony estate, Nels saw a future in which after he moved his parents into an assisted living facility he’d remodel their home into a swinging bachelor pad festooned with bear skins rugs and mirrored ceilings. For years, he’d been pressing his parents to consider the move when they turned fifty five. The youngest age they became eligible for residency.
Beyond outliving his parents, and repurposing their home to better suit his lifestyle, Nels’ interests in life centered on smoking dope, getting laid, and growing his hair. As Nels entered his early thirties, his metamorphosis was nearly complete. He simply needed his parents to finalize the details on his trust, the trust to start writing checks, and his parents to hand over their house keys. When he completed those milestones, Nels would be one of the few in life who can proudly proclaim they’ve realized their dream. In Nels case, he will emerge as the highly coveted, but elusive, trustafarian; an unemployable, trust fund baby sporting dreadlocks, and a holier than thou socialist agenda.
The turn of events that derailed Nels’ plans for a life of work avoidance, and led to his employment at G.O.D., began innocently enough and like almost every other day since Nels dropped out of junior college ten years before. As Nels’ parents quietly shared a basket of warm blueberry scones, and read separate sections of the Wall Street Journal, the calm of their quiet suburban morning was violated.
Nels pulled into their driveway, windows down, while his truck stereo blasted the acerbic rants of the Sex Pistols. He misjudged the distance to the back end of his parents Mercedes and clunked loudly into its bumper. “Oops,” he burped, as the Mercedes rocked back and forth. The car’s alarm rang out at the violation and cycled through its myriad sounds, from depth charged submarine to imploding nuclear facility. Nels killed the rumbling diesel engine of his truck. As he stepped from his vehicle, a beer bottle fell to the driveway, rolled loudly to the street, and testified to his slightly inebriated state.
His arrival woke the majority of the neighborhood. As the neighbors peeked out from behind their blinds, they shook their heads in sad resignation to his sorry state and spoke of the wasted talent, the disappointment, and the shame. The neighbors knew of what they spoke, for many of them had adult children asleep in the bedrooms of their youth.
Crooked and unsteady as he went, Nels walked to the front door with a can of beer in one hand, and the last beer in the six-pack dangling from the plastic stringer at his side. As he entered the house Nels overshot the tiled entranceway and noisily bumped into the wall. A framed picture crashed to the floor. “Oops,” he muttered, as he fumbled to answer his phone.
In the foyer, Nels launched into a mostly one sided conversation centered on the evils of capitalism, “Marta, I read your rebuttal to my Facebook post, and I’m going to tell you why you’re wrong. Those in favor of chains and any like Wal-Mart brethren will scream this is capitalism, and that capitalism is the backbone of America. That’s a skewed perspective. This is the evil of commoditization, in which every town offers the same retail experience and customer service is provided by minimum wage employees absent choice and education.
As goes retail so go the arts, with the same uninspired music pumped from corporate rock stations, coast to coast. As a result, they and the music, even the Goddamn music in the elevators, kills your self-esteem. Page couldn’t take it. Music absent the artist’s intent as Pena, channeled through Miller, never gets caught in the funky shit going down in the city. Caught instead in the funky stuff, whatever that is. You couldn’t pay me to run that corporation.” His rant threw his diaphragm out of sync, and he began to hiccup.
Looking at his wife, Nels father spoke resignedly, “I think he means they wouldn’t pay him to run that place. I don’t think they’d pay him to do anything. I don’t think he’s employable.” It was Wednesday, at six thirty in the morning.
Finished with his diatribe, with whoever might also be up at this hour and in the mood to talk to the intoxicated Nels, Nels smiled at his parents. He winked at his mother, and clicking his cheek like a chipmunk snapped his fingers. The snap culminated in his index finger pointing at the person to whom he spoke, “Moms I’d love one of your full on omelets. You know the one where you separately sauté the ingredients and then combine them. It’s so much more flavorful that way, and decidedly better than what I get at the bistros. How about you get after that while I freshen up a bit?”
Nels held out the last can of beer on the stringer. “Pops? No? You sure? It’s still frosty and cold. Alright then, no sense letting it waste.” As he walked down the hall to his room, alternately bumping off both walls with his shoulders, he opened the last can of beer and shouted over his shoulder, “Make sure to use the organic eggs and cold pressed olive oil.” As he turned into his room he slammed into the wall and a second picture crashed to the floor. “Oops!” Again, he hiccupped.
His mother’s unspoken response was to give him the finger.
Fifteen minutes later, Nels walked back into the kitchen from whatever freshening up had occurred. The only noticeable difference in Nels’ before and after state was the reek of patoulli oil and the music which blared from a set of headphones he wasn’t previously wearing. Disappointed at not finding his mother slaving at the range, Nels voiced his displeasure, “When did we adopt a no hot breakfast policy?” Nels sat, and dined on organic orange juice and the remains of the blueberry scones.
As he watched his thirty-something, nappy headed son eat, Nels’ father ran the math in his head. Nels wore newly bought vintage jeans ($285), an unbuttoned dress shirt ($300), Birkenstock sandals ($150) and a Rolex ($4,500). He wasn’t certain the electronics’ cost, but the oversized headphones looked expensive and the smart phone appeared to be new. As he saw the future clearly, perhaps for the first time, his father had an epiphany. But, before his father could speak, Nels phone rang.
Nels launched into another of his monologues, in which he impugned corporate America and its leadership. “No Marta, my issue with running a corporation is the wanton abuse of power. Greatness is not found in the benevolent dictator. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. No, you look at Tolkien, Frodo notwithstanding. Look at Hussein in Iraq.” Nels’ slightly drunken state compromised his hearing, and he grew louder, “My problem with corporate America is deeper than the leadership. I object to the devaluation of life. In their twenties, the young Turks don’t believe the statistics will apply as they are all certain they will run the show. In their thirties, reality begins to set in, but the Turks are screwed with a mortgage, bitchy wife, and shitty kids. In their forties, and God help them as their destiny becomes clear, they stand waiting for those above to fail or die. In their fifties, they pray to survive the downsizing, as they hide beneath their desk to avoid being seen. Dante’s ninth circle has nothing on daily life in the corporate world as a middle-aged Director.
Spend your life to earn a fifteen year service award, the terrestrial equivalent of the shitty bag of peanuts you fight over on a flight. They aren’t worth a nickel when you’re feet are grounded, but you need to rationalize how you’ve spent your life. I’ll be no party to a wasted life, measuring time’s passage by the number of times I’m forced to change my password at work.”
Nels shook his head and vehemently disagreed to Mara’s response, “No that is incorrect. I drive the Mog beca
use I’m not going to participate in the denigration of American entrepreneurialism. You saw what The Man did to Tucker? I’ll be no part of that.”
Timing Nels need to pause, as even the disenfranchised youth of the wealthy require oxygen, his Father interrupted. “Nels, my young man, your mother and I have finalized the provisions of your trust.”
Nels moved the phone from his ear, excited this would be the day he realized his life’s dream. From the unattended phone Marta’s tinny, nasal voice could be heard ranting.
“Nels, your trust will pay three fold whatever you post on the adjusted gross income line of your federal tax return, or that you can prove in income. No sense involving the federal government if we don’t have to, eh, old sport? Until age eighty that is. Upon your eightieth birthday, you will inherit the family fortune, or, more accurately, whatever we have not spent.”
It was news to his wife, but she was still pissed off about the omelet and broken pictures, and played along, “I think eighty two would make more sense.”
Her husband nodded his assent, and a quick bump of the knuckles sealed the deal. “Eighty two then, old sport,” his father corrected. “The trust pays three fold what you earn until age eighty two, at which time whatever money that remains is yours to squander as you see fit.” His father then laid out the mathematical principle that would govern Nel’s life, “Three times zero, equals zero.”
The color ran from Nels face, and he weakly asked, “You what?” His phone fell to the floor.
“Oops,” said his mother.
His father handed him a page from the classified ads. Boldly circled in red ink sat a customer service posting for G.O.D., whose only requirements was the ability to dial a telephone and speak. Bingo, his dad thought when he circled the ad twenty minutes ago, I’ve seen him do both. Circled on a separate page was a rental apartment that hit at the heart of the matter: Cheap Apartment in Shitty Area.
Incentives clarified, and knowing their son’s motivation to be limited to those instances which were self serving, his parents gently kicked their thirty something son from their house. While Nels finished his breakfast, his parents haphazardly packed his belongings in a dozen cardboard boxes and hurriedly tossed the boxes into the back of his 1974 Unimog. With the truck packed his parents stood and waited for the now procrastinating Nels to finish breakfast.
Nels slowly drank his glass of orange juice. His mother, tired of the wait, took the glass from his hand before he’d finished. His father then pulled Nels chair, with Nels still in it, from the table.
Nels stood, sighed loudly, and then walked unsteadily to the front door. The same door through which he’d entered less than an hour before.
As he walked, his mother commented he looked drunk.
His father refuted her concern, “No drunker than when he arrived. We’ll deny we saw him.”
“Nels,” his mother yelled as Nels walked from the house. “Take the route by the school. Follow the school zone signs.” She answered her husband’s puzzled look, “The way the moms drive and text he’ll never be noticed if he weaves.”
Her husband repeated himself, “We’ll deny we saw him.”
Nels lumbered from the house in the strange, German military vehicle. As he drove away, Nels looked more like a crusader on a relief mission than he did a middle aged trusafarian forced from his parent’s upscale mansion.
As Nels rounded the corner, his parents ran inside and grabbed the phone book. Looking under ‘Locksmiths,’ his father found an ad to re-key the locks.
His mother hurriedly dialed the phone. “Do you re-key locks?” she asked hopefully.
“We do. We are running a Slacker Offspring Special for forty five dollars per door. It’s very popular in the north shore area.”
“Perfect. How soon can you get here?” Nels was lazy; he wasn’t stupid. Given the chance he’d return by day’s end.
With his key no longer opening the door to his parent’s manor, Nel’s life became wholly consumed with reclaiming that which he’d let slip through his fingers. Accustomed to life’s luxuries, Nels required the steady income gainful employment provided, or more precisely the steady income gainful employment plus threefold your adjusted gross income provided, to sate his desires. Nels current plan is to invent something, anything really, that pays well enough to allow him to empty his trust in a single year and retire. His obsession with retirement, or, more accurately, work avoidance, has led to an endless stream of inventions and a host of get rich quick schemes, none of which share any commonality other than the mind of Nels, the place where the ideas were born.
After seeing a grilled cheese featuring the Virgin Mary sell on eBay for $30,000, Nels quickly developed the Jesus Toaster; a silhouetted foil wafer which was placed inside a toaster to produce religious images on an as needed basis. With his patent pending, he had yet to reap the financial benefits, although he’d electrocuted himself a half dozen times developing the product and burned through a hundred bucks worth of foil and wonder bread. The toaster segued to an online store that featured all the major religious figures and a smattering of holiday inspired offerings burnt into the bread of your choice, including, but not limited to, panini, grilled cheese or toast. Pending his first order, he was hoping the phone call from Rico might have been just that customer. Answering the phone, he found it to be Rico.
Enticed by the carrot Rico dangled, Nels quickly returned to Rico’s office and rapped his knuckles against the door. At the knock, Rico looked up and asked the question which was foremost on his mind, “Nels what’s the story on the black eyes?”
“I was testing a recent innovation in the world of gravity sports. I’ve got an opportunity for one more investor if you’re interested.” Nels threw in his patented chipmunk noise, wink, and finger snap to try and close the deal.
“You were what?” Rico ignored the investor question. Both he and Nels knew Rico lived paycheck to paycheck, and Nels wasn’t much of an inventor.
“On Saturday, with the snow falling, I jumped off the toll bridge on the south side of Chicago to see if the Humpty worked. My head slammed into my knees when I hit the water.”
“To see if what worked?” Rico quickly moved to the real question, “Why would you do something so stupid?”
“The Humpty is my latest invention. It’s an egg shaped device with a flat standing platform intended for the recreational pleasure of jumping off large bridges into the water below. Between the egg shaped bottom and the standing platform sits a half dozen springs. The springs dissipate the force upon impact. You experience the joy of free falling, but without the water enema.”
“Why would you build this?”
“I figured I’d go the bungee jump one better. It’s like parachuting without the plane or parachute. Fortunes were made off the bungee, and this could be the next big thing.”
“We saw how well parachuting worked for Alan.”
“I wouldn’t call that parachuting, as much as gravity having its way with you.”
“Needless to say the force was a little more than you expected?” As he reflected on Nel’s logic, Rico asked a second question, “Who made fortunes off the bungee?”
“Many people got very rich. Anyway, I either misjudged the height of the jump, the dissipative properties of the Humpty, or both. It’s entirely possible the jump would have been safer without the Humpty, which may force me to reposition the product as something that creates the illusion of landing from a great height. The black eyes aren’t the worst part. I had to be rescued by my buddy in a rowboat, and the prototype Humpty now rests on the bottom of the inlet. The fact that it displaced less water than it weighed was a design flaw I hadn’t considered, until the Humpty pulled me underwater, like an anchor. My accomplice threw me a lifeline from the rowboat and winched me from the icy depths. Man that water was cold, but it was big air.”
Behind Nels, and from nowhere, Cuddy appeared as if summone
d by an evil incantation and broke into the conversation. “You want big air boy? Pull my finger.” He stuck his finger in Nels face. Nels, caught off guard, flinched involuntarily. Cuddy’s finger smelled like sauerkraut.
As his finger waggled in Nels’ face, Cuddy raised his right foot off the ground, as if kick starting an imaginary motorcycle. Cuddy’s face strained in concentration, his eyes bulged, and the veins in his forehead pulsed heavily. He seemed on the edge of losing consciousness.
A look of concern passed between Rico and Nels. “Stroke?” Rico mouthed, expecting the morbidly obese Cuddy to crash to the ground at any minute.
Nels nodded, and answered, “I think so.”
Rico began to rise from the chair to run for medical assistance, but before he reached the door Cuddy sent forth a fart that rocked the floor.
“Big air. That’s big air. Breathe deep boys. That’s Irene’s chicken salad. You can smell the feathers.” Cuddy laughed, and as he as he waddled away his body tilted dramatically from side to side to accommodate his sizable mass. His passage was slow and difficult, and as he went he slapped the boxes of office supplies in approval.
Rico was in shock. He didn’t see that every day, and certainly not from the Chief Operating Officer of a public company.
Nels had tears running down his face.
“You crying?” Rico asked in concern that Nels might be injured.
“No, my eyes are burning. I’ve never been that close to ground zero. That’s the type of thing that keeps Homeland Security up at night. Late at night.”
“Why don’t you step inside and close the door? Let’s keep as much of the breathable air in the office as we can.” Per Rico’s suggestion Nels stepped into the office and quickly closed the door behind him.
Rico smiled, “I’ve a sure fire business opportunity, and I’m letting you in on the ground floor.”
Nels leaned forward and greedily rubbed his hands together, “Do tell.”