Scarecrow Gods by Weston Ochse Page B

glanced at the other men and chuckled.
    “Mr. Goldman?” asked John softly.
    The man slowed, then stopped his counting.
    “There is no fast and easy way to be a human being,” said John.
    Mr. Goldman sat back, paused and licked his lips. With a sigh, he grabbed the bills he’d just recently counted and placed them back on his stack.
    “Fuck him,” he said, to the laughter of his fellow players. “I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”
    Ortega recognized it as the truth, but was confused by the sadness in the man’s voice.
    The other players clapped him on the back. They laughed, agreeing that they would have done the same.
    “Be true to yourself, Mr. Goldman. You are well on your way.” John turned to Ortega and gestured for them to leave.
    “We lost our humanity when we gained capitalism. Too much money and too little concern.”
    “But he didn’t show any concern for the ex-wife or the boyfriend.”
    “That’s because it’s how he feels. It wasn’t the money that kept him from paying, it was his hatred. Hatred is a true emotion. One thing capitalism does create is the necessity to mask feelings. It makes people solve problems with money, to hide behind the almighty dollar. It is so much easier to throw money at a problem than to just examine yourself.”
    “Wait a minute. It seemed like he was trying to give more money than he was allowed to give. Am I right?”
    “Exactly.”
    “And each of those men, Goldman, Adams, and the other two are trying to give away their money? Is that how they win?”
    “Yes. And maybe. You see, they’d already asked to join. In fact, they were going to give their money to me when they arrived.”
    “Then why. . .”
    “If they give it away, what have they learned?” interrupted John. “This way they at least give it away for good reasons. As long as they’re true to themselves, they’re learning.”
    “So what does the winner get?”
    “Who is the winner?”
    “Based on your rules, I suppose the one who gives his money away first.”
    “That’s what they think too,” said John laughing a husky body laugh. “It really doesn’t matter. You see, they’re learning about themselves. A lot of it isn’t pleasant.”
    “Then who wins?”
    “They all do.”
    Agent Ortega left with his head spinning. He’d anticipated an easy strong arm, maybe a few extra bucks to take care of his wife’s credit card bills. Instead, he’d been given a dissertation on capitalism and humility.
    As Ortega pulled into the parking lot of the Sorry Gulch Saloon, he decided that he’d go back sometime when he was off duty. He hadn’t the money to play Monopoly, but maybe there was something else for him. As he pushed through the tavern doors he realized he’d never asked about illegals. Somehow he’d forgotten.
    * * *
    John watched the agent leave. Instead of heading back to the cafeteria, he headed for the nearest dormitory. The man was sadly confused. Then again, who wasn’t? John’s message was not for the meek. There were many who’d rather see him lying beside the edge of the road bleeding rather than have him improving the state of humanity.
    Before he opened the door he pressed a button secreted in the wall. He counted to ten, then entered. He entered and was immediately surrounded by several women, each wanting to touch him, feel him. John smiled and grabbed their caressing hands, forcefully yet gently pushing them aside.
    The room was like an army barracks. Along both walls, single bunks were separated by two-door wall lockers. At the foot of each bunk were white wooden footlockers which held any excess that couldn’t fit inside the lockers. And that was it. The women, like the men, were not allowed any more space for their material goods. They’d come to the church to concentrate on their souls, not their bodies. In many cases, this had caused problems, but given the choice to leave with it all or to stay with less, they almost always chose to stay.
    This