Optimizing America: Optimizing America, #1

By Jarl Jensen

You can't expect to win when the system is rigged.

 

AS SEEN ON FOX NEWS, CBS, NBC and USA TODAY

 

One man will level the field.  

Justin Wolfe sets out on a tour to promote 'The Big Solution', his book that outlines a simple economic platform that would turn a corrupt system on its head. Despite the urging from his best friend, Federal Reserve Board hopeful Evan White, Wolfe has no intention of running for office. But when his ideas begin to catch fire with the masses, the two friends find themselves swept up in a presidential campaign that threatens not only their public standing, but their very lives.
 "Our world is remarkably automated. Resources remain in abundant supply. And by most standard measures, the economy appears to be humming along. Life should be so simple. So prosperous. And yet the vast majority of people still aren't making a decent living. America's promise of equal opportunity has become a distant memory. But I, Justin Wolfe, have a plan to finally change the dynamics that have been holding this country back. Imagine a simple idea that could change the world forever. An idea that will deliver us from this economic train-wreck and prevent further hardships from falling on the shoulders of future generations. Shouldn't we get started?"  --Justin Wolfe

In a political thriller for the ages, Jarl Jensen achieves something no other author has achieved. He crafts an exciting story around disruptive solutions that would dismantle and rebuild our global economic system. Through vivid scenery, memorable characters, and intense drama, he encourages the reader to ponder hardline questions that challenge modern political punditry, shatter the "news-in-a-loop" cycle, and change the way we think about the distribution of wealth. In this way, this page-turning thriller is more than just a page-turning thriller. It is a means to optimize America, to spark hope for a brighter future, and to change the world forever.

REVIEWS
"Jarl Jensen entertains and enlightens with one of the clearest explanations of what is broken with the economy and how to fix it. His metaphors help explain the future that rushes towards all of us." -- P.G. Sundling, award-winning author of The Internet President: None of the Above

"Author Jarl Jensen has the courage to place before the public a novel that is not only searingly written as a story but also points out the flaws in our current society.  This book is not only a fine thriller but it also should be on the Required Reading list for all of us." - - Grady Harp HALL OF FAME TOP 50 REVIEWER

WHAT TO EXPECT
A well written story that is thought provoking
No action without a purpose, no mind numbing heroics without a cause
Your perspective on life, the world and how the future can get better... WILL CHANGE!
 

From the Author
This is a book I had to write.  I am an inventor and make a living working with ideas.  What do you do with an idea that is more important than the next iPhone?  An idea that isn't about a product or a service.  It's an idea that will change the world.   I decided to write a story that is entertaining, fun and enlightening.  As a father of three kids, it's important to me that the future is not apocalyptic.  Yet, despite all our technology the future looks worse than ever before in history.  I wrote this book to give my kids a better future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jarl Jensen
• Release date: Nov 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781393455684

Book preview

Book 1 in ‘The Wolfe Trilogy’

Jarl Jensen

Text Copyright © 2017 Jarl Jensen

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781097625000

Dedication

This book was written with the best of intentions for my wife Susan and the future for my kids, Grace, Hugh & Finn and the future for all of us.  The world is in crisis, but there is a solution that nobody is talking about. Debt is running amok on global, national, corporate, and personal levels. Governing has become impossible, as spending has to be rationalized for even the most human purposes. Corporations have to lay off staff to compete in a global economy. People have to cut back their spending to pay for school debt, mortgages, and credit card bills. Trade used to build peace, but now we talk about trade wars. The United States has been in an unending war against terror with no end in sight. Something is fundamentally wrong with the system, and this book exposes the reader to both the problem and the solution.

Note to the Reader

This is not intended to be against Trump or republicans.  The few sentences that disparage the right are only in jest.  This book is fundamentally about building a sustainable and prosperous future for everyone.

Book 2 ‘Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil’

Now available

Book 3 ‘The Big Solution’

Now available – By far the best of the three

Table of Contents    

Table of Contents 

Prologue Jackson Hole   

Chapter 1 How the Game Is Rigged 

The Parable of the Lifeboat: Part 1 of 2 

Chapter 2 The Bloomfield Residence 

Chapter 3 Bach Sands     

Chapter 4 Cocktails with the Arts Department

Chapter 5 The Payout   

Chapter 6 Tea Party   

Chapter 7 The Bloomfield Team   

Chapter 8 The Countermovement  

Chapter 9 Dancing with Bernie 

Chapter 10 A Better Idea Comes Along 

Chapter 11 YPO   

Chapter 12 Something Missing   

Chapter 13 Youth Revolt   

Chapter 14 Economic Stimulus 

Chapter 15 Driverless   

Chapter 16 The UN   

Chapter 17 The Smoking Gun   

Chapter 18 The Debate   

Chapter 19 Election Night in America 

The Parable of the Lifeboat: Part 2 

Prologue  Jackson Hole 

When asked what the poor would eat during a bread shortage, a French princess once said, Let them eat cake.

Today, the Federal Reserve says, Let them have jobs . . . but not too many . . . After all, we don’t want inflation to make us raise our interest rates.

In retrospect, at least the princess thought the people should have something sweet to eat.

—Justin Wolfe

At least he had proven he knew how to shoot a gun. He tried to take comfort in that fact as he led the walk back to the sprawling, barn-like clubhouse at the base of the Tetons. The oversized rubber waders joggling at his hips served only to enhance that awkward sensation that everyone was watching him, and laughing.

Evan White, owner of the waders, hated himself for being so gullible. The night before, he had made the mistake of asking Stan Powell, the board’s battle-tested vice chairman of the Committee on Financial Stability, about what an uninitiated young man who’d packed solely for a closed-door economics meeting might wear to a trap shooting range. Before joining the Fed, Powell had served as treasury secretary under two presidents and had been a partner at one of the world’s largest investment firms, making him one of the most powerful economists in the world. So Evan shouldn’t have been surprised that the sly old bastard was rather gifted in the art of taking the new guy down a few pegs.

It’s a good thing you asked, the chairman had said, his inflection reminiscent of Cape Cod aristocracy. I know this sounds strange, but they set a couple of the stations down in the water. This place is famous for its fly fishing, of course, so I guess they wanted their shooting range to reflect the reputation. Those stations are like duck hunting, but with clay pigeons in place of the ducks.

Evan had nodded, trying to hide how unprepared he felt, but Powell had picked up on it immediately.

I take it you didn’t bring your waders, the CEO said.

Only pair I’ve ever owned, I keep at my dad’s house, Evan explained. He’s big into fishing, but I’m more of a hunter myself.

A hunter, you say? Powell sounded impressed. I trust you’ll show well at the shoot tomorrow then.

Evan gave a shrug. About that, he had no doubt. So where do I get waders at this hour?

That was how Evan had found himself tearing around Teton Village the night before, in search of a sporting goods store open late on a chilly Wednesday in early September 2023. When finally, he found a place with the lights still on, the only waders they had left in stock were these camo-brown rubber things in XXXL. Since he was five foot eight and 165 pounds, he looked like he was trying to rock a military-grade parachute as pants. But, hell, he needed waders. So he charged them to his AMEX and rushed back to the hotel to study.

Soon the cameras and microphones would descend on this idyllic place like worker drones, and all the world’s most renowned economic thinkers would jockey for position to remark on policy in front of the small group of men who dictated the very nature of how the US economy ran. But before all that could happen, the board would hold a small, confidential meeting where commercial bankers could weigh in privately on the state of the economy and help set the agenda for the upcoming annual Economic Policy Symposium. It was the bankers’ right, after all, since they did own the Federal Reserve.

So, Evan stayed up much of the night analyzing government debt with the plan to politely ask the board if they thought it was sustainable, given the sheer size of the damn thing. He was hoping the question would impress the others because the position he so coveted—to become an associate member and policy advisor for the Federal Reserve—was not yet his. Not officially, anyway. It was probably just a formality, but the bankers still had to vote.

When he showed up to the shoot the next morning in the waders, he slumped at the sight of the others. They were a small group of board members and banking CEOs, and they’d all had a good, hearty laugh at him. Every last one of them wore the formal black of a high-level economics meeting, rifles slung comfortably on their shoulders. They looked as casual as mafia dons, while Evan presented as the Elmer Fudd of high finance.

So . . . , Evan had said, trying not to sound as embarrassed as he knew he must look. There aren’t any water stations, are there, Stan?

The laugh in reply was uproarious.

Evan shook it off, then proceeded to prove he was far better at shooting a rifle than he was at sniffing a prank. He locked and loaded with all the effortless grace of a marine sniper. He reveled in how the others seemed awed, and maybe a little intimidated, by his precision. He’d hit twenty-nine out of thirty pigeons and had only missed the one because the disc fired at ground level and had broken against a rock before he could get the shot off. He should have been granted another disc in that scenario, but the others insisted that he’d missed the shot, and he didn’t want to argue over something so inconsequential.

The best part was that, meanwhile, Powell was having a miserable time of it. Silently Evan had relished the sight of the former treasury secretary cracking off miss after miss for the first ten shots or so. Powell’s hit percentage was so poor that one of the longer tenured board members had started calling him Ten Percent, to the roiling delight of everyone but Evan, who didn’t dare even crack a smile. He knew he might need Powell’s vote, so he resisted the strong urge to pay him back for the waders.

But he would remember Ten Percent—would file it away for later. And he would use this piece of information about Powell to his advantage at some point. The secretary had been a member of the board since Bush’s first term, Evan knew. That meant he’d been coming to these exclusive economic symposiums held annually at Jackson Hole for at least twenty years. The other members of the board looked like they could ace this course with both eyes closed. How in the hell was it possible that Powell couldn’t shoot?

Gotta admit, young man, I might’ve underestimated you.

Evan felt the clap on his shoulder and looked up to see Michael Wellington, chairman of the Committee on Consumer and Community Affairs, sneering down at him. Wellington towered over Evan, his teeth shimmering, his thick hair impeccably groomed and polar-bear white.

You took the prank in stride, Wellington explained. And you didn’t even mouth off when you had the opportunity.

I know my place, Evan said, trying to sound humble.

Good on you. You are, I might remind, the youngest associate candidate we’ve ever had.

Evan allowed a smile. I guess I should be thanking Stan for the hazing, then. If you guys didn’t give me a hard time, I’d be worried.

At that, Wellington’s stride slowed, and he suddenly looked like he tasted something sour. Evan didn’t know what to make of it, but he suspected maybe it was just Wellington’s way of destabilizing an opponent. Probably that expression had thrown more than a few people off guard during more than a few negotiations. Wellington had gotten his start as a hell of a litigator, after all.

You know a little something about being the youngest man on a team, Evan said.

If the insight registered as profound, Wellington didn’t show it. He just kept pursing his lips like he needed to spit. You read my bio.

Evan furrowed his brow, wondering if this was the place to be casual or to try flattery. He elected to walk the middle road. Pretty decent ascent for an attorney. Couple years of practice and you’re becoming the youngest full professor at GW. Decade later, you’re the youngest man ever to run the law center, and you’re drawing the eye of the Clintons. I mean, how many economic policy roles have you not filled in Washington?

Not many, Wellington said flatly.

There was no pride in the man’s tone, which made Evan wonder if maybe Wellington wasn’t one of those ultra-successful people for whom life was never fully satisfying. Evan never could wrap his mind around that particular ethos. Over the course of his long career, Wellington had known more power than all but a handful of people on the planet. He was as legendary for his economic soothsaying as he was for his negotiation skills. And somehow, he had become a man so wealthy that even his yacht had a yacht. Still, he always had a way of looking and sounding borderline disgusted with himself.

Well, young man, if you don’t mind a little unsolicited advice, I can tell you how to impress this bunch today. Wellington finally returned to full stride as they crossed the reclaimed-wood bridge over the trickling stream that ran between the putting green and the circular drive outside the clubhouse.

Oh yeah? Evan said, expecting another round of hazing.

Wellington tucked his jowly chin into his neck and performed a reflux gulp. Just keep your mouth shut. Stick to the agenda. Don’t get out of line.

You mean I can’t ask questions?

Wouldn’t advise it.

Evan lowered his head. But I thought I was here to show the board that I could be of value. I wanted to ask about the debt.

Wellington closed his eyes as if bracing to be disappointed. Listen, he grumbled, you need to—

If you’ll humor me, Evan interrupted, it just seems like the debt has been on this unsustainable trajectory since pretty much the turn of this century. I mean, at this rate it doesn’t seem possible for the government to ever pay it back.

Wellington sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. His aggressively diamond-encrusted cuff links glinted in the midmorning light, and Evan thought he caught a glimpse of a high-end Patek under the monogrammed cuffs. With an odd sense of shame, Evan wondered if Wellington realized that his watch had cost more than Evan’s house and that the price tag on his cuff links exceeded what Evan’s old man had made in his last year before retirement at his lifelong union job.

Young man, Wellington said, his Carolina accent rising to full chirp, we’re talking about one of the finest, best run, and most important organizations in human history. If you hope to support it, you’d do well to keep those kinds of ideas to yourself.

All at once, Evan felt exactly as small as Wellington had surely intended to make him feel. He knew it was true. Even if he had been honored to receive the board’s invitation to consider him for the associate advisory position, and even if he could handle a rifle better than any of them, he was still an outsider. Still the guy in the unnecessary waders. Plus, Evan and everyone else in this group knew that he wouldn’t even be here if not for the man who had pulled the strings to get him the invite.

They had reached the door to the clubhouse now, and once they stepped inside, Wellington pulled Evan to the side so he could speak to him in a lower tone as the others entered behind them.

Don’t worry about government debt anyhow, he said. The debt isn’t a problem. At least so long as interest rates are low. And I’ll tell you, Evan, nobody that we serve wants higher interest rates.

Evan tried and failed to hide the fact that an objection quickly leapt to his mind.

Don’t play that card, young man, Wellington said before Evan could speak. We’ve already shown the world how well quantitative easing works. Think about it. Not even fifteen years back, we bought $4.5 trillion of government debt, and now look where we are. We can easily do it again.

With a sigh, Evan decided to let it go. He wanted to say exactly what he had said to his father a dozen times while the two of them debated over cans of Coors on the porch out front of the old man’s house. He wanted to say that America’s deficits allowed countries like China to buy the debt and artificially increase the value of the dollar. He wanted to point out how much less competitive that made the American workforce. And he wanted to ask how this board could justify throwing another $4.5 trillion at the government and the country’s biggest banks when the majority of Americans had so much trouble simply making ends meet. But Evan could see that arguing with this man, particularly in the clubhouse lobby in full view of the other voters on the board, wouldn’t do him any good.

No, if he wanted to make the kinds of changes he was here to make, he would need to follow Wellington’s advice and keep his mouth shut. At least for now.

So, with his mouth properly shut, he followed Wellington through the big, rustic lobby of the clubhouse into the rifle room beyond. Here, Evan and the others checked their firearms and then filed penguin-like down the wide hallway that connected the clubhouse to the hotel and the private conference room that would host the meeting. As they walked, the other board members and their banking executive friends making conversation about sabermetrics and bourbon and anything but economics, Evan slowed to where he could bring up the rear of the pack. He had never been more glad to have a room on the first floor of a hotel, because if he hurried, he might be able to steal away and change before the meeting got started. Of course, he would have to do it discreetly—he didn’t care to subject himself to another round of derisive laughter by announcing that he wanted to change out of his waders before the meeting. So, he would hang back and duck into his room when he could be sure no one was looking.

When they reached the comparatively glittering lobby of the hotel, he waited for the others to turn the corner toward the conference center wing before he took off for his room.

Never in his life had he changed into a suit so quickly. And when he looked himself over in the full-length mirror beside the bathroom of his suite, black tie on white shirt under a fine suit in Armani gray, he could sense that his personal record would stand for as long as he lived. Then he bolted for the conference room and managed to sit down, calm and un-sweating, the fact that he’d changed going completely unnoticed by the bankers and the other members of the board, precisely as the chairman cleared his throat for attention.

I call to order this meeting of the Board of the Federal Reserve, the chairman said, using that same flare for theatrics that had always made him such a hit on cable news.

Evan felt suddenly and completely nervous. Sure, Walter Levy had been granted the chairmanship during Spade’s first term a mere seven years back, but Evan still felt like he had been watching the old bear call the shots for the Fed since back when he was a boy. Levy’s tenure had been wildly successful. His propensity for anticipating and reacting to leading economic indicators had in part ushered in a new era for the financial markets. Some would point to the continued stagnation of the jobs picture and the increasing turmoil on all matters related to trade as evidence that Levy was a bit too exclusionist to fit into a twenty-first-century economy, but he certainly had the president’s ear. And with the Dow at 21,000 when he took office and charging toward 40,000 at present, who alive could truly question the mark he’d made?

Whatever the case, Evan still couldn’t help but feel a little starstruck to share space with a man who’d spent so much time on TV. Levy had that same confident, almost lyrical way of speaking as he went around the table and called each board member by name. Evan tensed when the roll call reached him and did his best not to visibly deflate when the old bear passed him over without announcement. When Levy got to Powell, he introduced him not as the vice chairman of the Committee on Financial Stability, but as Ten Percent Powell, to emphatic laughter. When it was finished, the chairman went on to introduce the CEOs of the top three commercial banks, all three quite familiar to Evan, given the sheer weight of their gravitas and their wealth.

Well then, gentlemen, Levy said through the din, I’d say we can dispense with the nonsense and get down to the agenda.

Evan followed suit as the others opened their printed and bound agendas and flipped past the table of contents. It had been such a long time since Evan had looked at an actual paper document. The forgotten smell of paper greeted him like an old friend. The scent took him back to his college days, bringing a smile to his face when he recalled a night of cramming for a freshman-level microeconomic theory and public policy final on his roommate’s Adderall. He’d studied all the wrong material but had still aced the exam. That was the first time he’d realized his aptitude for the discipline.

The election next year means tension, gentleman, Levy was saying. Make no mistake. But also, don’t lose much sleep, because I have it on good authority that Congress has the votes to abolish the 22nd Amendment.

So, it’s true? Powell said, looking not at all surprised. Spade plans to run again.

Levy shrugged. Who better to guide us through the Great Islamic War?

You don’t change horses midstream, said the man that Evan recognized as Lloyd Blankfein, the ever-grinning CEO of Goldman Sachs.

Just like FDR, said the big-shouldered, well-tanned CEO of Bank of America.

The horses thing was Lincoln, Levy corrected.

The rest of them cajoled one another for a time, everyone looking entirely pleased.

The national debate about a third term for Harold Spade had dominated the news cycle for much of the previous three weeks. Evan had heard both sides of the argument from dozens of logical angles, but he still wasn’t sure which side he would take on the subject. The truth was that he cared almost not at all about politics. What made sense to him were the economic levers, and if he could somehow advise this board to pull the levers that would lead to economic expansion instead of simply wealth generation for the wealthiest Americans, what would it matter which party the president represented, or even if he stayed in office past a second term?

Well, I don’t know anything about horses or streams, said the faux-grandfatherly CEO of Citibank, but I’ll tell you, the banking industry’s never been stronger.

And you’ve never been richer, Evan thought.

We owe it all to Levy, Blankfein said, and Evan couldn’t help but notice the glistening affection in the man’s eyes as he said it.

Hear, hear, Wellington said.

Seriously, though, Walter, Powell said, it’s uncanny. We don’t just run the economy. We run the government. Your easing strategy has been a stroke of genius. Never mind the White House. Congress can’t do a thing without low interest rates on issued treasury bonds.

Now, now, Stan, Levy said dismissively. Let’s not pat ourselves on the back too vigorously. We are, after all, supposed to serve both the public and private components.

I’d say we’re crushing the latter, Wellington said.

After more enthusiasm from the group, Levy finally got everyone back on track with the agenda. Even though he’d memorized the thing already, Evan still glanced down at the first page, which he knew covered the latest employment statistics.

Another steady year at full employment levels, Levy noted.

Reflexively Evan shook his head, because the number he saw depicted a 5% rate of unemployment. He wanted to ask about that but remembered Wellington’s warning, so he kept his mouth shut. His heart skipped, however, when Levy called his name, the old bear having apparently noticed the head shake.

Yes, Mr. Waders—I mean, Mr. White? he said, to laughter.

Evan felt the color drain from his face, but he didn’t flinch.

You looked like you wanted to say something about full employment, Levy said.

Every instinct told Evan to swallow the thought and move on. But numbers never lied, and he couldn’t simply sit there while the country’s top economists and bankers brushed aside one of the most important ones. On the one hand, challenging Walter Levy—one of Evan’s truest personal heroes—in front of the board seemed like a terrible idea. On the other, the only reason the strings were pulled to get him here was because Evan promised to introduce new ideas to the Fed.

I’m just confused about how we can call five percent unemployment full employment, he said before he could stop himself. I mean, that’s, what? Four million people still looking for work?

Levy sighed and shook his head. We call it full employment because actual full employment is both impossible and damaging.

Evan disagreed on both the impossible and damaging fronts but said nothing.

And you seem to be forgetting that there are millions of open job positions, Levy continued. There are even more open jobs than that four million number you quoted. In other words, if all those jobs were filled, we would have full employment.

Then there’s the flip side to that, Blankfein said eagerly. If everyone has a job, then what does an employer do when he needs to fill a role?

Great point, Lloyd, Levy said. If there’s no pool of qualified candidates for employers to draw from, they can’t fill open positions. The employer suffers, and as a result, the business suffers. If this happens enough, the markets suffer and then the whole economy suffers.

A rush of heat rose to Evan’s cheeks. He thought about his sister Diane, a nurse practitioner, a brilliant mind and a tireless worker who hadn’t been able to find a job since the most recent reform of the government’s healthcare act. So, for employment to be healthy, four million people have to be unproductive?

Is there a problem, Mr. White? Wellington said, a warning in his tone.

Four million unemployed seems like an unnecessarily large price to pay just so it’s easier for employers to find workers. Why aren’t we putting people first and corporations second?

The others began to chatter. Levy carved through the noise and leveled a stern gaze on Evan.

Look, the chairman said, if unemployment gets too low, then inflation will heat up and we’ll have to raise interest rates.

Now the board rumbled in agreement. Evan worried that he might have already found himself wandering into a fight with the top dog, so he made sure to sound as placating as possible.

Obviously you know far better than I do, he said, looking down at the agenda, so if I’m out of line, please tell me to shut up and we’ll move on.

Several of the men chuckled. Levy didn’t break his gaze.

No, please, the chairman said, smiling hungrily. Continue.

Evan sighed and shook his head. He wanted desperately to say that the country would benefit from a little inflation, as