Chapter Five

And, lo, the winds did blow, but not greatly, enough to increase the greenness of a select few of the minions aboard. It blew not enough to dent the enjoyment of the crew, who now found it possible to resume the deck, as the tossing of the boat was more than adequate to ensure that the lawyers, secretaries, assistants, and clerks, would stay below, dedicatedly applying themselves to their jobs to distract their baser selves from the discomfort caused by the rocking of the boat.

Down in the hold, where the cargo of this schooner was carried, otherwise known as the main salon, the cargo of this schooner was cloistered combing carefully copious quantities of papers, the cargo, of course, being the lawyers, their secretaries, assistants and clerks. The papers included every scrap of knowledge available to such a team as they, which was considerable. One thing to say in the defense of the government clerk is that, in the interest or preserving his job, he collects such a mountain of information that mere mortals lack the ability to sort through it or arrange it in any meaningful way. However, when the trawl is hauled by the man or woman with infinite job security to match his infinite patience, whose pay comes not from the value he generates, but rather from the benefit he provides to his political masters, which pay being shouldered by witless and often careless taxpayers, indeed, which pay produces an army of like-minded men and women, to whom the task of sorting all this information is nearly a pleasure, providing a sense of accomplishment, of a job well done, of doing something meaningful as they help to corral yet another oppressor of the little man, when the trawl is hauled by such a small army, even such as was possessed by our man the prosecutor, such a trawl will find any offense no matter how little, and, far more importantly, will find a pattern of offenses.

In our lives, all of us have often acted selfishly or obdurately, behaved in a manner not befitting a giant of industry. Most of us never become giants of industry, so most of us can continue to gain pleasure in our petty lives, sarcastically stating things that would end the career of the average politician, and doing so with the pleasant impunity of those that simply do not matter. However, should we present ourselves for high political position, or try to attain great success in business, or, even, win the lottery, all this information instantly becomes public, because it makes the rest of us able to sleep, knowing that, while others may have achieved success, they are just as venal and petty as the rest of us. A true pure character, rational and forceful in his application of ethics, presents a conundrum that leads many to dislike such on the grounds that he must be phony.

In the salon, they squinted. Hours of scrutiny in the dim mood lighting common to overly dark wooded rooms such as this salon had donated to everyone a pain of prodigal proportions in their heads, as if their spirit was trying to escape their skulls. Long had they subjugated themselves to this sort of necessity, however, and, lubricated with small amounts of alcohol and large amounts of caffeine, they pressed on, reading press release after press release, hundreds of police reports on people who might be our industrialist, but turned out to be not. Nor were there any scandalous pieces in the cheap rags. Even the Enquirer enquired not about our man the industrialist.

Some papers there were that discussed his odd lifestyle, but leavened were they with begrudging admiration for his singular pursuit of his own way, for had not Frank Sinatra himself, the chairman of the board, sang with fierce pride of having done it his way? In the end, it is that the countrymen appreciate the man who blazes his own trail, and the sympathy developed for such a person, oft dubbed maverick, often covers a myriad of sin, such that the man may survive the intended assassination.

Papers there were that discussed his business practices, often pointing out that some of his transactions put paid to organizations that had lasted for a hundred years, but ended always that he had seen to it that every one of their employees received aid and compensation such that they endured no hardship.

Papers littered the floor describing how he had achieved the ouster of this or that of his rivals' production, leading to reduced income on their part, but, inevitably did he hire more, often hiring from his very competitors. Also, in no case could it be demonstrated that the sudden disappearance of goods from his rivals from retail centers was a result of anything but the simple preference of consumers for the things he made, aided by the larger margins his things fetched, thus demonstrating his things so superior that people would happily pay a double premium to gain them.

Nay, there was nothing so far in all the papers that would provide any sort of public outrage at the very name of our industrialist. Never for him the peccadilloes of the upper class, so did he adore his wife. Never for him the wild children so often the bane of the successful, since the man who is forceful and takes risks but gets them right often begets the child that is forceful and takes risks but gets them wrong. Often, though, the public can be gulled into believing it is bad parenting or unhappy childhood that leads to such misbehaving, that it is a cry for help from a poor, beleaguered child who just wants to be truly loved. No, our industrialist's daughter was of singular character, studious and astute, whose behavior at school, at home, and amongst her peers was nothing short of saintly.

His things were in an immaculate state of repair. Never had he any pattern of neglect leading to death or dismemberment, never had he had a person in his employ who, once injured, suffered even so much as hardship for the rest of his life. Never had any of his business, once having made an error leading to damage, failed to make it right, well above the requirement of law or public opinion. Such was his dedication to humanity that he himself would investigate any allegation of impropriety, and the only common screeds against him said that he was too ready to agree that his companies had caused damage, such that often he was hounded by gold-diggers and layabouts that would see him pay them for mere allegations, but such were often met with offers of employment, in some cases accepting and going on to become productive members of society. The rest were either relentlessly exposed or paid, as our industrialist felt that it was necessary that the public felt he was fair.

After these classes of disaster, few possibilities remained. The public fails to get particularly excited about traffic tickets, not that there were any, and is not interested in anything of that sort. It is barely interested in tax evasion, as evading taxes is kind of a fond dream of most of the public anyway.

No, after the first fourteen hours or so of work, as the small army was beginning to straggle off to bed (being noted by our prosecutor as to which were weakest and thus working long past the point of effectiveness) it became more and more apparent that the only avenue of destruction that would effect ruin against our industrialist was the one already embarked on, that of proving him a ruinous monopolist. The prosecutor noted that there still remained his lap dog and several of the more ambitious clerks with him, although they seemed to largely be useless at this late an hour, and he retired, signalling that they, too, may retire.

Chapter Four

So the great prosecutor left for vacation. Such a dedicated man was he, such a defender of the little people, so dedicated to fraternité was he, that he took with him several hundred pounds of records, case law and aides, consisting of secretaries, legal researchers and junior lawyers. He brought these, so the public was told, because they needed a break and he was joyous to give them that break. While the press conference was underway explaining his magnanimitude, stevedores loaded up the schooner in preparation for their holiday at sea. Despite that one or two of his aides were fairly green at the prospect, they all put their best face on about the spectacular opportunity afforded them and how it solidified the prosecutor's bona fides as a man who helped the little guy. A master of whitewash was our man the prosecutor.

The schooner set sail later that day, bearing the gleaming smiles of the supposed revelers, much as it carried the brass in its brightwork, or, more precisely, like it carried the paint that covered up some of the age-damaged wood. Should I say that the rot under the smiles was the same as that of the rot under the paint? Nay, these aides were good folk. Much like the soldier in an unpopular foreign war, they had chosen to acquire their food in this way, many of them not really knowing what it meant. Lost wives, lost families, lost opportunities and angry relatives they all had as a result of the dedication of their boss, and this presented yet another opportunity for them to abandon all hope of any personal development in the pursuit of their master's relentless ambition.

Oh, sure, they knew their master would provide for them well enough, so long as they kept producing, but they also knew they were about as well thought of by their master as the brass work on the ship; it served a purpose, but was completely replaceable once tarnished, broken or simply less pretty than a new piece.

Had not this very thing come to pass not a hundred days previously? The man with the paunch belly had built the perfect case against a mob boss, lovingly laying down each detail, laboriously constructing each stroke of evidence, endlessly researching precedent and carefully stoking public opinion, until such a day as it was felt that a trial might succeed. When the day came to announce the attorney who would stand up and take credit for all the work, had it not been another attorney with good hair, another rising star attaching himself to our man the prosecutor, who had stood up and told all and sundry the nature of the crime, strode purposefully into court and carried the day with the power of the oratory constructed for him? So furious was the owner of the paunch belly that he quit, accepted a small bribe to not relay his story to the newspapers and began teaching history at a high school. But, our story is not about him.

See, he doesn't have good enough hair to take on the evils of this world, the titans of industry cynically amassing fortunes on the backs of the downtrodden, pushing the capitalist manifesto on people and demanding they pay, by constructing things the people want and artfully marketing those things. A man sees a car advertisement on television and thinks to himself that he wants that car. He doesn't need it; he has a perfectly usable piece of junk not six or seven years old, decaying of rust, or, more precisely, possessing of a rust patch or two, with the flaky radio, and besides, it gets worse mileage. So thinking, off he goes and buys the new car, trading in his serviceable old clunker in the process. When it is determined he cannot pay for the car, he gets blamed for making a bad decision, but wants to blame the television for luring him into the decision that caused him both ruin and embarrassment, for, see, he now has neither his old car nor his new one.

But, a man with good hair, now, that's a man that can help. That's a man that can comment on the situation and say something must be done. He can then get into his flashy car and drive off, content that some silliness will ensue when the proper committees have met. Somehow, the man who traded his car must get a car, because without a car, he cannot work, work to pay for his house, work to pay for his clothes, work to pay for his things, and work to pay for his food, and will become another burden of the state. So, the last-chance loan is born. The man can now buy another car on credit, this one cheaper and more suited to his stature, as determined by a government test, this one with a loan that is harder to default on, with terms set by an administrator who has nothing but good intentions where he is concerned. It is also a loan that is a millstone because he cannot sell the car at all, being rather upside-down on it due to the favorable terms enforced by the administrator, but it doesn't matter because he now has a car befitting his stature. But, this is not his story, either.

One of the aides on the schooner did have such a loan on such a car. Several others had such a loan on their house, forever concerned about losing it and all the equity they had amassed simply by failing to pay a loan. The shackles we must draw in our mind around the hands of these poor, working people are nonetheless effective for being metaphorical. Here on the schooner sit they, for one reason or another, he of the fine hair with naked ambition, they of the mortgage with fear of loss, those of the family with concern for their offsprings' wellbeing, them that are married somewhat happy of the respite from the complaining about them never being home and them what used to be married struggling with the myriad economic woes the state of not being married anymore inevitably carries.

They were not focused. I guess that is the main point here. There sat junior fine-hair, like a lap dog, nearly panting his approval at every word uttered by his master, but remaining just as clueless as the most wind-brained Cocker Spaniel as to the meanings of the words being uttered. Oh, sure, provide him with a script and coach him on the talking points, and he was a spectacular success, but it was often rumored he had a string hanging out his back, and if you pulled it, he would emit phrases not entirely inappropriate to the question being asked.

The rest of the motley crew of the great schooner, that is, the crew of lawyers, gaggle of attorneys, not the real crew, who kept to themselves as much as possible, keenly aware of their need to eat but also distasteful of the proximity to such a magnum of Moriarties. They kept to the area of the ship without the Egyptian linen and gold-plated bath fixtures, where simple pleasures could be engaged in, and copulate they did. Arguably, they produced more than did the attorneys, as at least five new souls were added to push back against the drudgery of life during this trip. But, this story is not about them.

It is about the attorneys, dammit, and it is difficult to stay on topic because they are so dull. Each and every one is decked out in Neiman Marcus or some such, chosen for them by the sales lady who assured them it was just the right combination of conservative and bold, leading to them being essentially interchangeable. It was a sort of camouflage, these threads of theirs, as nobody stood out, so nobody could get picked on.

And they draped themselves around the room, as if hangers for their expensive clothes, a sort of collection of moving mannequins, as they talked about the upcoming case, pretending to bend their massive collective brains to the task of felling a man. A brainstorming session they called it, but, seized with the decorum of years of brown nosing and general political correctness, their session rose little above a brain squall. And, this would not have been the squall possessing of the fine, gentle, warm rain so common and beloved in the Pacific Isles, but the wind blown useless squall that throws mud in your eye common to desert dwellers, for, indeed, it was a hot wind escaping the average lawyer blunderbuss, a wind that generated little but wilting, that parched those it contacted, rendering them helplessly grasping for some streak of joy, some rose in the desert, maybe a glass of water.

They, the budding lawyers, were immune. When one's soul has been roughly used long enough, it ceases to need much in the way of sustenance, that sustenance being the whimsy to gaze upon a flower, or, worse, to ruminate that one has never seen a poem as lovely as a tree. Perhaps there is a whimsy in the ordered braying of the American Pinstriped Brown Nosed Lawyer, but if there is, I certainly have not found it.

And so they worked late into the night, and, for no apparent reason, began again early the next day, congratulating themselves on their continued dedication.