Las Vegas for Vegans (2 page)

That they'd want to screw their own shareholders …'

‘What? He wasn't warned? Is that what you want to believe? That you had to be a prophet to see how this was going to play out?' The man with glossy black hair sitting next to Devon had cut in and now the third man was forcing his way in with his views.

‘But that's what they called him—the fucking ‘Oracle'. The fucking ‘Maestro'. Did he tell anyone he'd decided on a fucking funeral march?' The swearing barely marred the elegant voice. The use of the word ‘fuck' was just something to give his soft voice bones. ‘A fucking elegy,' he said in conclusion, but the one with perfect teeth began talking a torrent again.

Devon thought they were more interesting when the volume was up on his music. His father talked enough about all of this. Men like George Soros and Warren Buffett felt like uncles. Ones who were never pleasant when they visited and who took over the house; changing the music to what they wanted to listen to; the television to programs they needed to see. He picked a song called ‘Wolf Like Me', by TV on the Radio.

The train vibrated and swayed. It rocked and let Devon touch the man next to him at the hip, the knee and the shoulder. He felt his warmth. The commuter's face was so smooth it made Devon want to run the back of his hand across the man's cheek.

All three of the young men wore wedding rings. Devon liked the idea of wearing one of those gold bands but knew that wasn't likely to happen because he was probably gay. He never thought about making love with men. Didn't dream about them or fantasise about men in elaborate sexual positions.

Problem was, that was true for women as well. He didn't know what he was, but women didn't really exist, so he was most likely gay. Secretly he probably wanted all three of these men to stick themselves into him even if the thought frightened him. That was the thing—you never knew what was behind the fear.

As the train vibrated and swayed he felt the suffocating presence of his father very near him as well. But he knew how to push his father away so that even when he was very close, like now, he was somewhere else. In science fiction they called it a different dimension. The world was the same here, but in
this
dimension, his father had never existed. And if Devon had never existed as well, that was also fine. You couldn't be unhappy about never being born. You couldn't be anything.

When the song ‘Wolf Like Me' finished the band played another song which was all right, but he switched to Built to Spill and played his favourite song by them, ‘I Would Hurt a Fly'.

The three men rode into the city with Devon and they got off at the same time. It looked like they were all friends. Devon was delighted to be able to follow them under the station to where the underpass came out, onto Degraves Street.

They didn't stop debating the whole way. To Devon they looked like glorious heroes of a noble capitalism. Their hands and arms suggesting traffic could be directed through any and all confusion. Their forceful group stride—that forward momentum would carry the day. Stepping up the slumping tired stairs and out into the city's busy morning light, three strident visionaries.

Devon knew he needed to have his headphones turned up with ‘Black Steel' by Tricky playing for the illusion to work, but he allowed himself these fantasies when he could find them. If there was no truth in a trick then there was nothing at all that would catch your eye. The rabbit had to disappear, not necessarily into thin air, but it did have to vanish.

Devon wondered whether it was even possible that these three men might possess the secret to the causes and solutions to the Global Financial Crisis. They moved through hundreds of people pushing past on their ways to wherever they were working. All part of the problem. All part of the solution. And these three like seers, looking into their complex interweaving and intermingling, trying to discover a way to understand it all and solve it for them. The people of Melbourne just went on into their own discrete worlds.

Devon was going out of his way now, following these three men. The thought of being late finally pulled him out of the thrall he was in. He turned down Collins Street and headed towards King.

His dad talked about the GFC a lot as well, and despite having understood the markets for over thirty years, he didn't have an easy solution either. He didn't go in for blaming people like Greenspan or Bush, Senator Phil Gramm, Abby Cohen or Kathleen Corbet.

Roland Beckett blamed a lack of discipline. The principle Devon had been hearing about since he could crawl. That the world only had one true motivation—Survival. The two sides of that one principle were Fear and Force. The only two valid responses—Discipline and Drive. All the talk of love in Devon's songs was nothing more than folly. A lack of discipline and a waste of drive. When Devon focused on his own survival, he didn't feel
the force
Roland liked to emphasise. All Devon really saw around him was fear.

Devon played a song called ‘100%' by Sonic Youth and got to work only a minute before he was supposed to start. Usually he liked to be at least ten minutes early.

Devon was asked to help out with the sorting today. There were other jobs he preferred but Warwick had called in sick again. He called in sick almost every week. He was already past his allotted sick leave and his colleagues in the mailroom had gone from thinking the guy was skating on thin ice to wondering why he hadn't been given the sack already.

Roland Beckett could have got Devon a job anywhere in the tower but he wanted Devon to work his way up from the mailroom. Said you only appreciate the top when you've been at the bottom. Devon didn't mind. Soon he'd be going back to uni anyway. He should have gone last year but Devon had taken a bottle of pills and that ruined a whole semester; derailed him for a while in general. Roland thought he'd be ready for it after a year in the mailroom. If not, then there were ways and means of getting up into those offices on floors in the twenties and thirties. Roland would make that happen but first Devon had to show some grit.

The sorting was mind-numbing. Devon could allow himself to drift free and let his hands just throw the letters out to their appropriate destinations. He could ease away the pressure of holding down his thoughts. He could let his father come close again without worrying about the suffocation and crush. Devon looked only at the letters and let a few hours pass. The paper cuts were distant events he didn't need to worry about.

Music played into his ears and he didn't have to hear the people talking around him. He listened to two albums by Jane's Addiction, replaying ‘;Three Days' and ‘Ocean Size'. He loved it when Perry Farrell sang about how he was born with a heart of stone, how he seemed to pause for the briefest moment, allowing that image to settle in Devon's mind, and then went on singing about how this heart of stone wasn't just hard like a rock but could be shattered into fragments.

It wasn't what had happened to Devon's father this morning. Roland had a normal heart and it just got worn down with time and in the end it spluttered and stuttered. Finally stopped working, like an old toaster. One last flash of heat and that was it.

Devon didn't know what Perry Farrell meant but Devon wondered if he had a heart of stone too, because there were fragments and pieces, splintering shards in his brain, and somehow this might explain why most of the time he felt nothing—but when he did, it tore through him into places that could only gasp and tremble.

Mr Waterston found Devon in the toilet. Devon sometimes went into a cubicle and sat there reading the walls and listening to his music. Often he sat there for as long as fifteen minutes. No-one said anything about it, but Mr Waterston knocked on the toilet door like it was Devon's office and told him Mr Cornell wanted to see him. Devon could see Mr Waterston's shoes below the door so he couldn't pretend he didn't hear him.

Devon had been trying to think about what happened this morning, what he'd done and what it would mean now that Roland was dead, and what that would feel like when the numbness and confusion lifted. But Devon had been living numb and confused a long time. His dad alive had driven so much distortion through his ears that his death didn't change the distortion still roaring in his head.

Through the door, Mr Waterston told Devon he was to go up to Mr Cornell's office, now, and he didn't go away until Devon told him he'd go up as soon as he was done. On the toilet wall someone had written what was probably the name of a band—Perils of Paradise. It reminded Devon of a song he'd heard with the lyrics ‘pain in paradise is a pleasure in hell'. Devon got up and flushed the toilet even though he hadn't used it.

From the toilet to the elevator he'd kept repeating a phrase in his head. Sometimes this could go on for days. The same word, or a sentence, going through his skull again and again. He wished he could stop it. From the toilet to the elevator he had been repeating the two words ‘studiously aloof'. It just didn't sound right. Was ‘studiously' even a word? Even though he knew it was, the final f in ‘aloof' made him think it should be ‘studio-fly'. Which was wrong. ‘Aloof' also sounded false. What kind of word was that? So it kept going through his mind as he caught the elevator that would stop only up above floor 17. ‘Studiously aloof'. Over and again.

And then it got worse. Looking at the numbers scroll through 1 to 17 without the possibility of stopping, he got a feeling of déjà vu. It seemed pleasant to most people but to Devon it came with the fear that it wouldn't end. The déjà vu could start repeating as well until everything he was looking at and everything he was thinking came with the feeling of déjà vu. The stain in the carpet in the corner of the lift.
Noticing
the stain in the carpet. The déjà vu itself. This trembling feeling he had going through his whole body. The vibration of the lift as it rose and finally broke the seventeenth floor and kept rising now towards the twentieth. The slight pause as though the lift wanted to stop at the twentieth but kept going. All of it, something that had happened before. Even the thought of his father at home in the kitchen, pulling open his business shirt and popping out those two buttons. Déjà vu in those two buttons.

Devon tried to push his thoughts away to something else. He thought about the birds his mother had bought him for his tenth birthday. The déjà vu followed him there but he couldn't help it. Now he was thinking about how his mother had decided to buy the cage full of brightly coloured Dutch Frill Canaries because he'd begged for so long, even against Roland's wishes. A big, wonderful cage that was meant to go in his room but when he got them home he found that they were noisy and he couldn't sleep with them that near his bed. So they went downstairs. They were too noisy for Roland as well and they were moved to the back porch. Roland told Devon they were Devon's birds, so it was Devon's duty to feed them. But he forgot and Rose began feeding them.

His mother's medication affected her memory though, and all the birds starved to death a few weeks later. No-one removed them from the ornate bamboo cage because Roland said they were still Devon's responsibility and they just made Rose cry when she saw them. Then one day, Devon came home and climbed the stairs to his bedroom and found that Roland had taken the long jar that the Becketts normally used for spaghetti and filled it with the ten brightly coloured canaries. It was sitting on Devon's school desk like it was a present for him. No-one threw it away and Devon watched them begin to decay. Maybe he was supposed to throw them out but he just couldn't touch the glass and they started to seem pretty in that long, air-tight glass jar. Eventually they disappeared, as Roland finally dealt with the birds he'd insisted were a bad idea from the start.

The lift got to the top of the elevator shaft and released Devon. He turned Tindersticks off because they weren't helping him with his déjà vu or the memory. He put on Mogwai's album
Come on Die Young.
Skipped it to the song, ‘may nothing but happiness come through your door'.

The office had a breathtaking view of Melbourne but Mr Cornell wouldn't have been able to tell Devon if it was raining without turning around to check.

On one of the walls was a portrait of Hyman Minsky, an economist Mr Cornell particularly liked to quote. Roland had told Devon that the repetitions over the last six months, of the same mantra, were maddening. ‘Extended periods of healthy growth convince people to take ever larger risks, and eventually, when enough people have enough risky bets on the table, the smallest trouble can have catastrophic results.' In short, it was all about cycles but at the moment Mr Cornell wasn't thinking about his mantra or Minsky. He was talking on the phone, giving someone harried directions regarding a meeting. As soon as he hung up he was speaking to Devon.

‘Get those white things out of your ears.'

‘Oh, sorry.' Devon turned his iPod off and took out the earphones.

Mr Cornell was in his late fifties but he looked older. It took energy to talk as aggressively as he wanted. He took a deep breath. ‘Where's Roland?'

‘He's not here?'

‘Don't be an idiot, son.'

‘I thought he was here. He's not here?'

‘Don't be a fucking idiot, Devon! What's happening?'

‘I left for work. I always leave, like, twenty minutes before him.'

‘What? What do you mean “before him”?'

‘What?'

‘Basic question, son. Basic! The answer is …'

‘Well … I've got to get to the train on time. And he drives. So he leaves later.'

‘But you work in the same building. How do you not come in together?'

‘He says it teaches me discipline. To use timetables and trains. If he drives me, then it's a luxury I haven't earned. He …'

‘Son, I'm asking you where your father is.'