The Death of Capitalism

Ernest sat in the back of his jail cell wearing an expression no one in his adult life had ever seen. It was the look of a man trying to think, and despite his best efforts to dive into the depths of reason he couldn’t for the life of him understand how he ended up in this mess. Merely one day earlier Ernest was ready to turn a new leaf, obtaining an interview at the finest diner establishment San Francisco has to offer. A dishwasher position might not seem like much to some, but for a 28-year-old man who’s previous forms of employment included selling ground oregano to tourists and occasionally grabbing a tip jar at the local coffee shops, this was a life changing choice.

At 12:00pm the previous day Ernest sat in the back of the crowded bus on his way to Gary’s Diner. Between his frayed Misfits shirt and patchy shorts sporting a variety of colored stains he didn’t look like a man on his way to an interview, but tucked inside his green backpack were the professional clothes he planned to switch into. Two stops before his own the crowding on the bus reached an unbearable point as it was always prone to do in the Tenderloin. He pretended not to notice the glares he was receiving from the squashed passengers standing by him as he leaned comfortably back taking up two full seats.

“You could at least move your legs for her!” Ernest turned his eyes first towards the young man with a ridiculous braided beard speaking to him before noticing the little old lady holding onto the nearest pole for dear life as the bouncing of the speeding bus flung her about.

“She looks fine,” he shrugged before turning his attention back out the window. If the old lady wanted a seat, she should’ve gotten on earlier. The man scoffed in obvious disgust but did nothing more. When Ernest’s stop came he grabbed his bag and began shoving through the swarm of people ahead of him to get off, only half noticing as his backpack knocked the elderly lady firmly into the seat he had just departed. Once free from the confines of the bus Ernest slipped into a nearby doorway so he could throw on the shirt and pants his roommate Darrell loaned him.

“Aw what the fuck, they’re all wet!”

Assuming Darell hadn’t properly dried the clothes he began pulling them out with annoyance. Once he saw the shirt he realized being wet would be the least of his problems as the previously white shirt he was holding was clearly coated in blood. Digging deeper into the bag he found a pair of blood soaked pants and tie to match.

Ernest had two thoughts almost simultaneously as he saw the sight before him. The first was so obvious it was barely worth thinking, which was “I don’t think I can wear these to my interview.” The second thought was that he should probably head back home immediately to figure out why his bastard roommate had sent him off with bloodstained clothes for such an important interview.

Two bus transfers and a quarter mile walk later he found himself standing over the bed of the hungover scumbag he was looking for.

“Wake up Dipshit!”

The figure below him groaned before opening a bleary eye. “Quit fuckin’ yelling, I’m already up,” he whined before painfully pulling himself into a sitting position.

Ernest watched as he ran his hand over his face and through tangled strands of long greasy hair. Bloodshot eyes scanned him questioningly before landing on the backpack that was being shaken in front of him.

“Weren’t you going to an interview?” Darell croaked out.

“I was, before I saw the joke you packed for me.” Ernest dumped the bag upside down onto the bed. Darell stared for a split second before scrambling out of the bed, landing ungracefully on the ground with his ankle trapped in his beige duvet.

“What the fuck Ernest! Aw man please tell me you didn’t fucking kill somebody,” Darell moaned, “and in my fucking clothes too.”

“Quit messing around, what is this, pig’s blood or something? You think this is funny? I thought you wanted me to get a job!”

“Of course I want you to get a job, you haven’t paid rent in four months,” Darrell grumbled as he picked himself up off the floor. “And I didn’t pack you bloody clothes, you watched me pack them for you earlier! These aren’t even the same pants I packed, they’re pinstriped.”

Ernest didn’t pretend to understand what ‘pinstriped’ meant but when he looked closer at the soaked pants laying on the bed he did recognize they looked different than the ones he had picked out the night before. The shirt was a different cut as well. He turned his attention to the bag in his hand and noticed the green backpack he’d left with this morning had also somehow changed to grey. Based on Darell’s expression he had come to the same realization.

“Dammit Ernest did you lose my backpack?”

Ernest didn’t bother answering. He instead started digging around the other pockets of the bag, pulling out a nutrigrain bar, a dirty comb, and finally, a brown wallet. After pocketing the $12 inside he scanned the ID and realized he recognized the face. It was the bearded man from the bus.

“Holy shit,” Darell said beside him. At first Ernest thought he must recognize the guy too before realizing his attention was elsewhere. Bunched up in the shirt on the bed were four bundles of bloodsoaked cash. “There must be $10,000 here.”

Ernest tried to swallow but his mouth had gone dry.

“Finally. Finally I get some good luck!” he laughed, picking up one of the stacks. “Do you know how loaded we can get with this? And I was going to work at that pisstain of a diner! Ha! Here,” he pushed one of the bundles into Darell’s hand before pocketing the other three, “I think that should cover the rent you keep moaning about.”

Darell shoved the money back into his hand. “Ernest, are you fucking high?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. Ernest hadn’t been sober for a full day since middle school and he sure as hell wasn’t going to end that streak for a measly interview. “You think I’m going to take this to the landlord? It’s soaked in blood! You can’t spend this anywhere.”

This was a hurdle Ernest had not considered. The elation he had momentarily felt started to drain out of him. Of course things would go this way. Fuming, he stared down at the stupid face of the man from the bus before suddenly getting an idea.

“Fine, we can’t spend this money. But I bet this guy has plenty more” he exclaimed victoriously, shaking the wallet in front of Darell’s bemused face. “This guy loses a sack full of bloody clothes and a fuckton of money, he’s obviously going to want it back. So what if we offer it with a nice fee?”

“I thought you were ‘turning a new leaf?’ What happened to finally being ‘ready to face the real world?’”

Ernest waved him off, “I was high when I came up with that.”

“You’re high now!”

He shrugged and began using his dirty fingernails to try to work out the ID from the wallet. The guy’s name was Erick Luggins. He lived close by.

“I’m going over there,” Ernest declared over his shoulder as he walked out of Darrell’s room and started sorting through their messy kitchen. Beneath the mountain of pizza boxes and beer cans he managed to find a piece of paper and sharpie, the perfect instruments for his ingenious plan.

‘IF YOU WANT YOUR BAG FULL OF YOU-KNOW-WHAT BACK, YOUR GOING TO HAVE TO PAY FOR IT. CALL ME.’

Underneath he scribbled his burner phone number with the name “BILL” written beside it. No need to let this psychopath know his real name or number.

“This seems a bit dangerous,” griped Darell, who had followed him to the kitchen. “You really want to be fucking with a guy who carries around shit like this on the bus?”

“He’s the one that left his bag just sitting out for anyone to grab. If anything we’re paying him a service, I don’t think asking for a reward for our kindness is too much to ask.”

“Yes, kindly helping a murderer cover up his crime.”

“You’re making this a bigger deal than it is. Just drive me over there, I leave the note, the guy calls and we make the swap out. Easy as that.”

“No. Look you can do whatever the hell you want Ern, but I don’t want to be a part of this.”

“Dammit it Darell, can’t you just trust me?” He was met with a withering stare that was enough of an answer.

“Fine, don’t trust me. Just remember you need the money too. I know they’ve been cutting your hours at the grocery store and rent’s not getting cheaper. I’m just trying to be a helpful roommate,” he finished with all the authenticity he could muster.

“Roommates pay rent. You’re just a squatter, Ernest,” Darell grumbled, but the fight was seeping out of him. He gnawed at his lip as he considered the situation, eyes darting from his ingenuine friend’s face to the pile of unpaid bills on the kitchen table behind him. “Fine, but if it doesn’t work I’m taking this shit to the police. I don’t want to get wrapped up in whatever is going on here and if it starts to go south, I’m out.”

Fourteen tense minutes later they were outside the apartment listed on the ID. Ernest listened briefly at the door before sliding the note through the mail slot.

“Now we just gotta wait,” he told Darell calmly as he slunk back into the car.

‘Just waiting’ as it turned out was a lot more stressful than he expected. Ernest might be a scumbag of the highest order, but this type of thing was way above his nonexistent paygrade. As the hours ticked on back in their apartment he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that he might have gotten in way over his head. Around 6pm in the middle of a bout of aimless pacing a thought he had never had before entered his mind: Maybe I should have gone to the cops. These disturbing musings were halted as the buzzing of his burner phone caught his attention.

“What’s up?” he answered in a poorly disguised voice that sounded more nasally than threatening.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” the pissed off voice on the other end of the phone barked.

“I’m not playing any games, Erick,” he wheezed with as much confidence as he could muster, “I saw what was in the bag and if you want it back you’re going to have to pay up.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“And how much are you expecting me to pay you for my bag?”

“....Five thousand?” he didn’t mean for it to come out as a question. From the corner of his eye he saw Darell drop his head into his hands.

The voice on the other end laughed without a drop of humor. “Yeah I’m going to have to pass. How about this, Ernest,” his heart dropped into his stomach, “you come give me back my bag right now, and I don’t have to come over to your place and grab it from you. You’re only a few blocks away, right?”

Ernest hung up the phone. How could this guy have known that? Did he follow Darell and him home? Is there someone outside watching them right now?

“Ernest what did he say?” Darell called out as his panicked accomplice dashed across the room, shutting all the blinds.

“He knows who we are,” came his choked out reply, “he knows where we live. I think we’re fucked.” He didn’t hear a reply as he ran into his own room to shut the curtains, he just felt a dull pain hit the top of his spine.

“Ernest you fucking idiot!” Another sharp pain hit the side of his head as he flipped around, seeing Darell in the hallway aiming a remote right at his head now that he had already chucked both of his shoes. Ernest managed to duck in time to miss the flying object before it broke apart against the wall behind him. “I told you I didn’t want to get involved with this! I told you this was a bad idea, but you didn’t listen!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know he’d find us like this? What the hell do you want me to do?”

Instead of answering, Darell turned around and stormed into his bedroom. Briefly Ernest thought he had just left to cool down, but a moment later Darell had barged back in holding the messily repacked backpack..

“Take it to the police. Now. Or I swear to god Ernest I’m throwing your shit out onto the balcony and burning it.”

The wheels in his head spun as he desperately tried to think of some other answer to this problem. If he stuck around it was only a matter of time before Erick arrived, and judging by the content of the bag in front of him it wasn’t going to be for a friendly chat. He felt a headache coming on, perhaps due to the fact he had never allowed himself to think this hard before, though more likely from the copious amount of speed and weed he’d smoked throughout the day. Either way he couldn’t ponder the issue further, and decided with immense reservation that Darell might be right.

They drove in silence to the station up the street before Darell dropped him off. Ernest mused to himself as he walked in with the backpack wrapped in his arms that this was the first time he’d ever entered a police station by choice.

“I have evidence of crime. And I need protection.” Ernest dropped the bag onto the counter in front of a short cop with a buzzcut looking at him with obvious distaste.

“Take a seat,” the cop nodded towards the wall. He opened his mouth to argue back, to tell him how serious this was, but the man silenced him with a look before picking up the bag with a gloved hand and taking it into a locked hallway on the left.

When he finally was called into a back room to speak with an officer it was with a relief he never expected a police station could give him. The bag sat on a desk in front of a stern looking female cop giving him a look of suspicion he was greatly accustomed to.

“Where’d you get this bag?” They clearly weren’t starting with pleasantries.

“On the bus. It’s not mine!”

“I’m aware of that,” she told him flatly. This was surprising news. Maybe they were already aware of the crime. Ernest briefly wondered if maybe the evidence he brought in was the final piece of the puzzle the cops had been looking for. The idea of reward money entered his mind once again. He was pulled out of his imagination by a knock on the door

In came the buzzcut cop from the front lobby and at his side was a man with a braided beard. Ernest jumped from his seat and backed towards the wall.

“Holy shit that’s him! That’s the guy!” The cops in the room ignored him.

“Is this your bag?” Buzzcut cop asked.

“Yeah! I didn’t think you’d find it that fast.” Ernest just stared at the encounter, completely dumbstruck. He knew the cops were corrupt, but this was beyond his imagination.

“You’re just going to let him take his bag? He killed someone, man! Look at the bag! It’s full of bloody clothes!”

“It’s fake blood you fucking idiot. It’s a Halloween costume.”

“Halloween?” Ernest racked his mind trying to think of the date. It wasn’t something he really paid a lot of attention to. Come to think of it, it was sometime in October. “But what about all the money?”

“You mean the $1,000,000 bills in here? They’re fake, dude. It’s all part of the costume.”

“What kinda costume is that?”

“It’s The Death of Capitalism,” Erick announced smugly, folding his arms, “it’s a political statement.”

“I don’t get it.”

“No shit.”

Ernest started shaking his head back and forth, not understanding the situation unfolding before him. “Then how’d you know where I live?”

“You wrote your note on the back of one of your bills. It had your address and full name on it,” the female cop told him, trying with minimal effort to hide her amusement. Ernest thought back and did recall finding that piece of paper pretty close to where he kept all the bills he never paid. At this, everything finally clicked together. There was never a murder, it was all just a misunderstanding. He burst into a fit of laughter.

“So that’s it then? There wasn’t any crime? Am I good to just leave then?”

“Fuck no,” the female cop laughed, “you spent your day trying to blackmail this guy and then came in here high off your ass with stolen property. You’re not going anywhere.”

And with that, Ernest found himself locked up for the night. Being here gave him plenty of time to think though, and Ernest came to some amazing conclusions. He was finally ready to change, he was going to turn a new leaf this time. He was ready to face the real world. It was time to get his shit together and finally find a real job, maybe even pay Darell rent for once. He just hoped he’d remember this plan when he sobered up in the morning.