The Financial Lives Of the Poets

peanuts and dust and is, all in all, a shambling mess of a man. Our nickname for him in the newsroom was always Bubble Boy. In the old caveman days, we’d have pushed him out of the pack and let the wild dogs get him. Today, Bubble Boy wears the requisite uniform of a news reporter, the outfit of small town city councilmen and strip- mall

insurance agents-reluctant business attire-khaki pants, mismatched jacket, a short-sleeved button shirt whose lumpy collar rejects the badly looped tie like a drunk rejects a liver transplant. Still, it makes me wistful, seeing-in uniform-a soldier from my old decimated unit.

“It is…you know…illegal,” I tell Ike.

“Yeah, but is it…illegal-illegal? Isn’t it more like wink-wink-nudge-nudge illegal?” He shrugs. “It’s just pot.”

“I’m pretty sure running your own grow operation is illegal-illegal. Besides, I don’t want to end up paranoid like these guys, Ike. You should see them. The lawyer’s creepy intense. And the grower? I thought he might start crying at any minute.”

Ike swirls the dregs of his coffee and throws it back. Sets his cup down. “So…what are you gonna do?”

“For now…stick to my original plan. First, go sell this.” I hold up my messenger bag, which is on the chair next to me, and which contains a baggie with the three ounces I got from Monte last night. “Tonight, go get the rest of my two pounds. Sell that. Buy more. Keep going until I’m on top of my debts.”

“How long will that take?”

“I made sixty percent on a few hundred bucks this week without even trying, so assuming I can keep selling, even at a fifty percent profit…spread the word…keep using the money to buy more weed…” I grab a napkin and sketch out the numbers for him. “At fifty percent-say I roll my original investment over four times-nine grand becomes thirteen-five becomes twenty becomes thirty becomes, what…forty-five thousand? That’s all I’d need. Show me another 300 percent profit I can make in a few weeks.”

Ike spins the napkin to see the numbers: 9, 13.5, 20, 30, 45. “How much is that?”

Below those numbers, I write: 2, 3, 4.5, 6.75, 10 pounds.

He adds it up, scoffs. “You’re gonna sell twenty-six pounds of pot?”

“I think so, yeah. From what I’ve seen, there’s no shortage of buyers. I’m telling you, Ike, this thing spreads virally-everyone knows a weed-smoker who can’t find any, who doesn’t want to buy lawn clippings from his kids’ friends, or risk going to jail.” This is true. I’ve already gotten extra orders from friends of both Amber and Richard. “Then, after a month or two…I quit with my forty-five grand. Get caught up on the house, pay private school tuition.”

“Then what?”

“Then…I’ll go back to work. I got a job offer…sort of…”

“From who?”

I say into my coffee cup: “Earl Ruscom.”

Ike winces like someone who has just heard that Earl Ruscom had offered his friend a job. “Not his stupid good-newspaper.”

“He’s done his homework this time. Problem is, early on, he can’t pay much.”

“How much is not much?”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty?” Ike, on deck for the next layoff, gapes. “Is it that bad out there?”

I channel Earl: “It ain’t rainin’ silver dollars.”

And then a yawn overtakes me and something about it bothers me…it’s like a deep crack in the plaster…and I begin to worry: what if this good mood, this seeming good fortune, the clarity with which I can finally see my way through this trouble, what if it’s all just a further sign of my deterioration, some trick of sleep deprivation…

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping much.” Or at all-

Ike checks his watch. “Shit, I gotta go.” Ike stands wearily. “I’ll say this about your new life, Matt. You’re the only person I know who has anything to talk about right now other than budget deficits and layoffs and the death of newspapers.”

Ike nods at one of the stripper-baristas on his way out; she makes his day by continuing to ignore him. Then Ike sticks his head back in the kitchen, where Marty is making pies and sandwiches for the afternoon rush. I can hear Marty’s gravelly, light East Coast accent: “Hey paperboy. How’s the news business?”

“Insolvent,” Ike says, and with that, he’s gone.

I should get going too, but it feels like something is caught in my throat (why should it be so troubling, a simple yawn?). I swirl the last of my latte, drain it and-

“Mind if we join you?”

I look up. Two tall guys loom over the table, the bright ceiling lights behind them. I have to squint to see their faces. One guy is my age, balding, wearing glasses, a sports coat and open-collared shirt. The other guy is younger, with hard-parted brown hair, and a leather bomber jacket over a sweater.

“No, I was just leaving. You can have the table.” I start to gather my stuff.

“We don’t want to drive you away.” The younger guy smiles. “Why don’t you sit down with us for a minute, Matthew?”

Oh shit. Shit, shit. Cops. Anyone who ever worked as a newspaper reporter can spot cops. Especially when there are two of them; in pairs, they give off a vaguely threatening Kafkaesque civil servant vibe.

No, I tell myself, don’t be paranoid. They’re not cops. It’s this season of paranoia, that’s all. No reason to think they’re cops.

They sit and I get a better look at them. The older one-shiny head, half-smile and glasses, the toughest accountant at the firm-slides a card forward. The card has a shield on it.

Yep. Cops.

Shit shit shit.

They smile.

I clear my throat. Pick up the card. Greg Reese. Lieutenant. State Police. Coordinator, Regional Drug Task Force. Shit shit shit shit.

The younger guy is one of those people who smiles for no reason. He picks up the napkin I have set down. He shows it to the older one. “Ten pounds? Of what?”

“Concrete,” I say. My face flushes. “For my driveway.”

“Come on.” Lt. Reese frowns. “You’re paving a driveway with ten pounds of concrete?”

“Patching it.”

I nonchalantly reach over to my messenger bag, on the chair next to me, and lower it to my sweating, twitching feet. Inside that bag, next to the empty journal that I began not writing in when I lost my job, sits a Ziploc baggy with three ounces of what I hoped would be the first blocks of my pyramid of wealth, my recovery, my last hope, three ounces of recently harvested grade-A knock-off B.C. bud. I slowly scoot the bag away with my foot.

“Hey man, you okay?” asks the bald one, Lt. Reese. He must be the good cop.

“Fine.” Okay, think: (A) They would need a warrant or something, wouldn’t they, some kind of cause before they arrested me? (B) And how could they possibly know? (C) They can’t just search people (can they?). (D) Don’t panic. (E-I) Deny, deny, deny, deny, deny. (J) Yes, nothing to worry about. (K) Don’t give them permission to search your bag. (L) Don’t panic. (M) Stop panicking.

“I’m gonna get some coffee,” says the younger one, still with that inane cult smile. “You want some, Matthew?”

“No. Thanks.” My heart beats in my temples. “I gotta get going.”

Most suspects make their mistakes in the first five minutes. Be coy. Quiet. Reserved. Wait, did I just think of myself as a suspect? Shit, shit-

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Young Cop asks.

(N) Don’t talk unnecessarily; guilty people ramble.

I shake my head no.

“You work for the newspaper, right,” he says through those perfect white teeth. “I was media liaison officer for