The Presidents and Varro

Nothing can be easy in the real world. You need to sell stuff to buy stuff unless you decide to grow stuff and live on gas and the strength of your back. I despise the narrative of the evolution of society. There is no evolution, we just find alternative ways to make it difficult. Now, I’m not saying the life of a gladiator in Rome, or a slave in the West Indies could be as tragic as mine. They were a lot tougher and dealt with emotions differently. I deal with my emotions by taking Valium… it’s not easier. I don’t get by on handouts, the truth is no one does. That is about the only thing I believe now: no handouts. A free lunch doesn’t exist… I mean technically it doesn’t; if you have balls and nothing too serious to lose then I suppose you could figure something out with regards to a free lunch. I remember old uncle Richie used to say, leave with something kid, don’t waste your speech. He was right I suppose, but I can also see where he was wrong. He didn’t have a wife or a sister and died from lung cancer, a heavy smoker from his early days, he was a vibrant loner. Growing up I saw the way he did things and I liked it but now I realize I can’t do it the same or I may end up hanging out with nephews every weekend and going on fishing trips with my brother and his in-laws. Not a bad lifestyle, just not for me.

For now, I sell. A realtor, top of the line. My business consults with hog factories and other farmland, a very promising subsection of the real estate game. I’m not entirely sure how I ended up here but I suppose that poking around the right roads and driveways I’ve managed to meet enough people interested in what I have to consult them. Another thing about farmers is that they all know each other, like petty thieves checking on who’s got more and who’s struggling for the moment. When it comes to business, however, they all refer to me because dealing with a realtor or a lawyer is not what these people look forward to. They just want to raise some hogs.

I don’t like all aspects of my job, I mean it's not bad, but it smells like shit and I find myself explaining things three or four times to these people because sometimes they just don’t get it. One client I had, his name was Lyndon Kirkland, a very intelligent and humble man. He was a big fan of the Romans, particularly Varro, who wrote profoundly on farming. Lyndon always wore plaid flannels and jeans on every single occasion we met. His face aged with years of hard work and the grey mustache that weaves its way down the side of his mouth always made way for an obnoxious chortle, even at the stupidest jokes. Apart from being the man he was, the problem I had with Lyndon was that he had been laundering obscene amounts of money through the farm’s expenses. I had no interest to ask how or why he was doing this because honestly there was no point in asking. I had one job and that was to close the sale of the farm, but I couldn’t do that without disclosing the farm’s price-to-revenue ratio. So I told him, “Lyndon, listen man, I know this isn’t right and I’m not sure how, but we need to do some amending to the numbers here.”

He told me that there was no issue and to make a big deal out of it would only attract more attention from potential buyers. I replied, “Lyndon the average revenue per square meter is thirteen times every other farm within 200 miles. Every tax official is watching you right now and they’ll be watching even more closely when you sell because that’s when the paperwork is submitted and it all becomes official.”

I thought I had explained myself clearly but he denied any idea of paperwork and that he could just sell the farm for cash to a Belorussian with whom he had been in contact. He even accused me of failing to do my job because he had found his client and struck a deal without any of my help. In the end, I finally talked him into some account editing and he sold it to a millionaire from New Mexico, a retired border patrol agent. I didn’t have much interest in where he found his millions either. Around the time of that deal, I was taking a lot more than just Valium, I really don’t know how I held it together at some of those meetings because the pressure of professional work really gets to me, and I get overwhelmed. Athletes always talk about how they deal with their nerves before a big game, but I’m not an athlete, I’m a professional businessman and that is octaves more stressful. I can’t have a bad game, a bad game in the farm estate business is like sustaining a career-ending injury from a holiday snorkel in the Turks and Caicos.

What I’m trying to say is that… I guess what I mean to say, is that you look like an idiot from the inside and out. You don’t have people backing you or looking to help you. In fact, I would say that most colleagues would like to see you fail because that means they get a better chance of winning the sales award at the end of the month. A hefty bonus of $5,000. Imagine that… what would Varro think if your business partners were willing to turn their back on you for an extra bag of rice at the end of the month. I don’t know shit about Varro but I know for a fact that he would not be impressed… I say he would be disgusted.

All this time on the road tires me out. I’m sick of milkshakes and fast food and the trucks and the snow in the winters. It’s dangerous for me. I’m not a bad driver but I’m not the best either and like I said I get overwhelmed. I wonder if I’ll crash and die in some mountain gorge and it’ll be so bad the forensics won’t be able to identify the body and then what would my brother think? He’d be like… I don’t know, he’d be like ‘where’s Gerry’? And I won’t be able to say anything because I’m dead in a mountain gorge with my Valium and the last milkshake I’ll ever have. A real tragedy… even Lyndon would be disappointed because he said something about the longest part of the journey is passing the gate, but I’m stuck in this loop of milkshakes and burgers and I haven’t seen any God damned gate… so, what’s next? Where do I go? I don’t know, like I said, it was never easy.