Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil: Optimizing America, #2

By Jarl Jensen

Benevolent billionaire Justin Wolfe establishes an autonomous economic experiment on a farm near Savannah, Georgia. The theory: give people the means to advance in life through daily direct deposits and even the formerly homeless can become entrepreneurs who contribute meaningfully to society.   

Wolfe tasks economics whiz kid Evan White to roll out an advanced economic system that creates a higher standard of living than most citizens in neighboring Savannah enjoy. All this from the entrepreneurial spirit of homeless people bussed in from around the country.  

The farm gets national attention as a 60 Minutes crew shows up to report on the farm. Tensions rise as Justin clashes with his tech billionaire friend Elliot Larson and Federal Reserve Banker Lloyd Blankfein at a Jekyll Island party. The ensuing bad press puts the farm under increasing pressure by those who do not want it to succeed.  

 "Resources while abundant do not make it to a vast number of people. And for many, the economy is a members-only system they do not get access to. Life is naturally inclusive. All it takes is life.  And yet a vast number of people are left out of modern society.  America's promise of equal opportunity is a lie for people without money.  I am Justin Wolfe and I believe that the economy can take care of the poor, which frees up the government to pay down its debt.  This farm will prove that our economy needs to evolve if we are going to transition into a sustainable future."  
--Justin Wolfe

This is a spellbinding story with remarkable characters: the disheveled potpourri of humanity's lost souls who are America's homeless; the turbulent young technology billionaire; the hapless recluse who runs the janitorial services on the farm; the young and profane farmer's daughter whose cooking brings the farm to life; the uproariously funny Pete Smiley; the devilishly arrogant Elliot Larson; the carefree movie theater entrepreneur; the hard working members of the farm; and Muna, an Ethiopian immigrant who became homeless before turning bread into a business. These and other members of the farm just outside Savannah act as a strange ensemble, with alliances, hostilities, and intrigues that thrive on a farm where anybody can find an opportunity to make their life better. 
 

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." 

"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!
 

READER REACTIONS
"This book is amazing!" - SJ
"Made Me See the Economy of the USA and the World Through New Eyes - Amazing!"
"How To Make The World A Better Place"
 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jarl Jensen
• Release date: Jan 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781709416880

Book preview

Showdown

in the Economy

of Good and Evil

Book 2 in ‘The Wolfe Trilogy’

By Jarl Jensen

Text Copyright © 2019 Jarl Jensen

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781709416880

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. Mass shootings, suicides, overdoses and terror attacks are devastating the whole world.  Something is fundamentally wrong with the system, and this book exposes the reader to both the problem and the solution.

Book 3 ‘The Big Solution’ is now AVAILABLE!

Review’s for ‘THE BIG SOLUTION’

The vision and the thinking we need.

–JACK CANFIELD, AUTHOR, CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL

This is not a conspiracy theory! This isn’t even a twisted fantasy. This is the truth.

–LARS BERNDORFF, ROCK STAR

Table of Contents 

The Island:  A Parable

Chapter 1 The Van

Chapter 2 The World’s Most Remarkable Wristwatch

Chapter 3 The Showers

Dylan Elan Powers The Cancer

Chapter 4 The Kitchen

Chapter 5 Jesus Saves

Chapter 6 The Keys to the Universe

Chapter 7 Money for Nothing

Chapter 8 Jekyll Island

Chapter 9 Tilting at Windmills

Dylan Elan Powers The Change

Chapter 10 That Stupid Fuckin’ Clock

Dylan Elan Powers The Choice

Chapter 11 Bankruptcy and Other Tragedies

Chapter 12 Your People, My People

Chapter 13 The Very Last Person on Earth That Nora Pastor Wanted to See

Chapter 14 Movie Night

Dylan Elan Powers The Trigger

Chapter 15 Bread and Gold

Chapter 16 Conflict Food

Dylan Elan Powers The Diagnosis

Chapter 17 Crying Foul

Chapter 18 The Matrix

Chapter 19 Messaging

Dylan Elan Powers The Case

Chapter 20 When Unrest Becomes Stampy

Chapter 21 Insurgent Markets

Chapter 22 Aftermath

Dylan Elan Powers The Declaration of Independence

Chapter 23 Entering the Matrix

Dylan Elan Powers The Bread of Life

Chapter 24 Mass

Chapter 25 Western Omelet

Chapter 26 The Big Solution

The Planet: A Parable

The Island:  A Parable

There once was an island in the middle of the Pacific, an idyllic place inhabited by a small population of several thousand extremely happy people. On this island, everyone slept late, worked a little, played with their children, took siestas with their loved ones, and then spent every evening strolling around the village, sipping wine, and listening to music with their friends.

The islanders had an unusual way of working with each other. They did not use money. Instead, they exchanged notes that each represented one hour of work. They had decided long ago that two working hours was enough, and so everyone on the island earned two notes from every workday. The islanders would then trade the notes based on the value of one hour of work.

Everyone accepted that the structure of this system of exchange was simple and predictable. They would use these notes to buy food, and the people who sold the food would use the extra notes they received to have that food cooked, hire someone to clean their houses, and pay for improvements to their lives. In this way, everyone exchanged the notes fairly and worked together to ensure that their happy, generally carefree existence could continue.

One day, an American explorer arrived on his big yacht. He was immediately taken with the island’s natural beauty, but he scoffed at the meager existence of the people who lived there. I’m a Harvard MBA, he said, and I can help the people of this island.

When the islanders pointed out that they didn’t think they needed help, he scoffed a second time.

You people will never have a big yacht like me, he said. I borrowed $100 million to pay for this luxurious paradise on the water. What you people need is a banking system that lets you borrow money so that you can buy bigger and better things.

When the islanders expressed confusion, he explained that the process was simple.

You could establish a bank, and that bank will print out more of your work notes for the promise that the borrower will pay the debt back.

Satisfied that he would soon change everyone’s lives for the better, the wealthy man sipped the islanders’ wine, sat back, and enjoyed the music for a moment. But then he found himself distracted by a buzzing from his satellite phone. When the American was finished with his very important call, one of the islanders approached him.

If a banker printed more notes, the islander said, then we would all have to work longer and harder because there would be a greater number of notes in circulation. Why would we want to work longer and harder?

The American’s laugh was big and loud—ha-ha-HAAA! Work, my friends, will bring you joy. The more you work, the more your society can progress. For instance, all your lives would be greatly improved with a coal power plant. Of course, you can’t build a coal power plant without borrowing some money—big construction projects require debt financing—but the good news is that they don’t cost much to construct these days. Your new bank would have no trouble loaning you the notes you would need. And once the power plant is up and running, you can have electric lights and buy electronics like this cool satellite phone I have here.

Another islander looked sheepishly at the American. How long would it take before we could have a coal power plant and cool satellite phones? he asked.

Fifteen to twenty years, the American replied.

The islanders pondered this thought for a time.

How many people would we need to build this plant? one of them asked.

A power plant is a big job, the American said. It’ll create so much work. Probably half of you would have new jobs working on building the plant.

But then who will do all the fishing and farming and fermenting so we have food and wine to enjoy?

Those who don’t work on the plant will have even more work to produce the food and wine you need.

So for fifteen to twenty years, we will all have to work harder without any reward?

The American smiled. Your reward will come at the end. You’ll have to deal with all the debris and pollution that comes with building a power plant, but it’s all in the name of progress. And it will all be worth it in the end.

And what happens in the end?

That’s the best part, the American said with a knee-slapping laugh. The banker in your society, along with a few others who manage to create successful businesses, will be wealthy enough to buy a yacht like mine. Then they will be able to cruise the oceans whenever they want, looking for beautiful places like this one.

The banker and a few others? one islander asked. What about everybody else?

And I’ve been wondering, another islander cut in, will our island still be one of those beautiful places after we build the coal power plant?

The American’s satellite phone rang. It was his banker. The American excused himself. I have to get back to work, he said. A yacht like this doesn’t pay for itself, you know.

Chapter 1 The Van

The value of a person is in their wants and needs, not in their wallets.

—Justin Wolfe

The windowless passenger van crested the hill and began its descent toward the Farm. It would arrive in less than two minutes, and then it would be all anyone could do to keep order in the place. Evan White enjoyed this part of the job almost as much as he enjoyed random nosebleeds.

If you might be willin’ to suffer another reminder, Mr. White, drawled the voice, then I’m just gonna come right out and say it. Over in the livin’ quarters, we’re still positively swimmin’ in shit.

Evan’s shoulders tightened in a way that made them look like an extension of his face. He had already been struggling with the same pang of anxiety he experienced every time he had to visit the machine shed, but now the tension redoubled because he knew all too well that David’s point was not meant to be figurative.

We could use a plumber is what I’m sayin’.

Yeah, well I need a line cook, said Nora Pastor, budding young entrepreneur, extraordinary chef, and honest-to-goodness farmer’s daughter whose words, no matter how innocuous, always seemed to make Evan blush.

Evan blushed.

Next to Nora slouched Laz Hammond, a transplant all the way from Seattle’s various homeless shelters. I hate to say it, Laz said nonetheless, but we need a mechanic more than anything. Damn thresher is acting up again, and now is not the time for an idle machine. His gaze was wild, for not long ago, Laz had lost his job to a million-dollar robot, an event that had fostered in him an almost religious fear of machines. Why Laz had volunteered to run the decidedly machine-laden harvest, Evan couldn’t quite understand, but against all odds, he was pretty damn good at it.

The harvest isn’t for another month yet, Nora reminded. And the restaurant won’t survive that long if we can’t improve efficiency to table.

Well if you want to go jabbing your hand into that thresher, you be my guest. But I assure you that I will not be the one to lose an arm to ignorance. How’d you like that, Chef? Think maybe having to slice and dice one-handed would improve your efficiency to table?

Nora smiled in that radiant way of hers.

Evan tried to ignore the déjà vu of having to endure this same old conversation for the sixth time this year. This wasn’t the first van, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Here the little group of friends would arrive every month or so, doing the same things over and over.

While the others bickered, a soft breeze slid over the fields, feathering the wheat on either side of the gravel road on which the van was kicking up dust. Evan wanted to take comfort in the fact that at least the wheat harvest would be strong. Back home in Illinois, the farmers would’ve referred to this one as a bumper crop. Whatever they called it here in the countryside just west of Savannah, Georgia, maybe it would turn this whole flagging operation around.

On top of the Farm itself, they already ran a farm-to-table restaurant that was hemorrhaging money, the greenhouse operated at a loss, and lately, there was talk of opening a bakery because of its high profit margins. It didn’t seem to bother anyone that the Farm didn’t have any bakers in residence. Just another go-nowhere idea that smelled a little like desperation. So maybe a healthy wheat crop would finally boost them into the black. Or maybe there would be someone—anyone—in this approaching van who could deliver a moonshot innovation that would take this weird Farm from failing experiment to exciting reality.

Probably not.

You two’ve got it all wrong, David said. What good is a crop and the food it produces if we can’t figure out how to quit stockpilin’ the by-product?

Everyone, even Evan, paused to glance sidelong at David, who looked pleased with himself, as always.

No, this was not Illinois. Gone were Evan’s comforts of knowing his place in the world. Less than a year ago, he’d been a grad student at Northwestern’s renowned school of economics. His high marks had made him something of a wunderkind in the discipline. He’d secured dozens of eager job offers that would have made perfect sense to accept. But instead, he’d found himself swayed by an unexpected proposition from Justin Wolfe, America’s youngest and highest-profile billionaire. Now, having transitioned from grad school to this Farm in Georgia, in an upside-down world where the Cubs were the best team in baseball and Donald Trump was somehow the Republican nominee for president, Evan White had gone from econ superstar to king of the nerds.

I don’t know what I’ll do if Darcy calls in sick again, Nora said.

You think you’ve got a layabout problem? Laz asked. Try assembling a team to detassel corn.

You can’t blame ’em, David said. How’re they supposed to get any sleep with that stench hangin’ in the air? While the other two kept up their argument, David nudged Evan with his elbow. What do you say, Mr. White? Whose job you hopin’ we fill today?

The van had reached the valley and would arrive in maybe sixty seconds. Evan had done his best to restrain himself, but now it was time to play the role for which he’d been hired.

We don’t fill jobs, he said. That’s just not what we do.

Everyone looked at him quizzically, but it was Nora’s gaze that made him avert his eyes.

I’m not some kind of jobs master, Evan continued. "This Farm isn’t about assigning work. It’s about creating opportunities for formerly homeless people to want to work."

We’ve had precious little of that lately, Laz said with a snort.

The last couple van loads have been a mite on the lazy side, David agreed.

Evan pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, an act that gravity quickly rendered useless as he nervously stared at his feet. Yeah, I’ll grant you that. But if you remember, the van back in May was the same, and look at them now. They’re all working. Wanting a nicer meal or dessert after dinner turns out to be a pretty strong incentive to contribute.

"What do you mean nicer meal? Nora said. Is there something wrong with my red beans and rice?"

Evan blushed. No, he said too quickly. No, I, um.

I’m just messing with you, Nora said with a smile. I have to sample it every day. I know it’s shit.

Anyway, people like nice things. Evan said this more to the men so that he could avoid eye contact with Nora. "No matter how unused to working they are when they get here, eventually they come around to wanting to work to improve their lives."

Unused to working, Laz said with a chuff. That’s one way to put it.

We still call that lazy where I come from, David said.

Nora gave him a playful tap on the shoulder. You come from here, bonehead.

And here’s where we’re changing the game, Laz agreed.

In the real world, Evan said.

Oh, so we’re not the real world now?

In the real world, Evan continued, none of these people had homes, and they almost never had any money. How were they supposed to do anything for each other? Here, where they have a little money, now they’re able to contribute to a greater good for the first time in years—and maybe in their whole lives. They can make food, give shelter, clean up, work the fields, entertain. So, yeah, we don’t assign jobs. We just give them the spark. It’s up to them to bring it to flame.

As the van made the last sweeping turn before it would arrive outside the shed, Evan could feel the others staring and blinking at him.

You’re pretty passionate for a nerd, David said.

Nora’s laugh was musical. Nothing wrong with nerds. Or passion.

Evan blushed. Their gazes lingered on him for longer than made him comfortable, so he forced himself to speak the first thing that came to his mind. Everyone has wants and needs.

I’ll say, Laz offered.

David gave a throaty laugh.

You know what I mean, Evan said. "Everybody’s motivated to eat better food, have a softer bed, take a shower, get some nicer clothes. Otherwise, you’re basically just comatose. Yeah, a person who’s been forced to live in the streets is less used to working every day, but nobody really wants to sit around forever. It’s why you see so many homeless people gathering things. They push around carts of junk they collect along the way. They’re motivated to gain material goods. It’s a matter of survival. It’s instinctual. Given enough time, everyone starts looking for opportunity to improve what they have."

The van pulled up and stopped broadside ten feet away from the little group that had come to greet its occupants. A glint of sunlight off its passenger window forced Evan to squint. Its off-white paint was rusting at almost every seam. Smoke billowed from its tailpipe. And it was still rollicking on its ancient shocks even as the driver finished throwing it into park.

Anyway, Evan said, you three have been arguing about nothing. I can’t control who’s on that van or what their skills are. He held up his clipboard. All I know is their names and a little about where they came from. What matters is that there are six of them, they were homeless yesterday, and today, they start contributing to our little experiment. Could be anyone in there.

The van rocked again as the driver got out on the opposite side.

"Well, we’ve all read the Tribune," Laz said.

"I’m a Mornin’ News man myself," David corrected.

Whatever the hell paper, Laz snapped. They all say the same thing. This Farm’s bringing in all the riffraff. Whole van could be full of thieves.

Could be a murderer in there.

Or a Mexican rapist, Nora said.

Laz laughed.

Anyway, you get what you get, Evan said.

The driver rounded the back of the van and stubbed out his cigarette. The sight of him was so surprising that it took Evan a moment to believe his eyes. Usually the hospital that performed the psychological evaluations sent their own driver. But there instead stood the founder of this Farm. Evan had spoken to him many times and had seen him on TV many more times than that, but this would be the first he would meet him in the flesh. He was taller than Evan would have guessed, his shoulders broad, and his sport coat wrinkled in the way only expensive clothes can wrinkle. In all of America, there were only fifty or so people wealthier than Justin Wolfe, and none of those wealthier people were younger than his thirty-seven years.

Evan couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had wanted so badly to impress a person with the first words out of his mouth. He had rehearsed this moment again and again. But now, everything that leapt to mind sounded a little too fanboy when he thought it through. So there he stood, trying not to look like he was shaking as he frantically searched for something to say to his employer—and let’s be honest—his hero.

Mr. Wolfe, I . . . he started to say, but Justin turned on his heel and ran back around to the driver’s side of the van as if he’d forgotten something.

Evan used the extra moment to chide himself. Think of something meaningful to say, dipshit, he thought. Dude just bought the Cleveland Browns. Ask him about the Cleveland fucking Browns.

So, how ’bout them Cleveland fucking Browns? Evan said the moment Justin returned. He didn’t need to see David’s perplexed, sidelong stare to immediately hate himself for speaking these words. He just felt fortunate that their intended recipient either hadn’t heard them or had decided to ignore them, impossibly stupid as they were.

Whatever the case, Justin Wolfe seemed far more interested in fiddling with the keys he’d just retrieved from the ignition. I gotta tell you, he said as he strode over to the van’s side door, I’m glad we brought the camera. Because that’s one hell of a group in there.

Camera? Evan thought.

Justin didn’t explain what he meant. Instead, he gave an easy smile and leaned in to slide a key into the lock.

Evan had seen this same sliding door wrenched open at least a dozen times in the past year, so he knew what to expect. The door was rusted and old, and as such, it would catch halfway down the track. Then, once the person opening the door got it straightened out, he could yank it back the rest of the way. Inside would be three rows of bench seats packed end to end with confused, anxious, and skeptical-looking homeless people who smelled of car travel laced with the Irish Spring soap they handed out at the hospital. The faces of these people were always weather worn and world weary, their clothes donated and ill fitting. And every last one of them, to a man and to a woman, would always want to know two things as soon as the sunlight hit them:

1) Where’s the food?

2) Where’s my cot?

This time, though, everything was different.

This time, Mr. Wolfe struggled quite a lot more than did the usual driver at getting the door open. He prodded and hacked at it like a man trying to open a can of tuna with a steak knife.

This time, once Mr. Wolfe finally did manage to get the thing open, Evan spotted a very different kind of person occupying the front row of seats.

This time, before any of the homeless men and women on the van could debark, out climbed an improbably tall, handlebar-mustachioed hipster-type with a shoulder-mounted video camera. Before Evan could ask what was going on, Handlebar was firing up the camera and shoving it in Evan’s face.

This the guy? Handlebar asked over his shoulder.

Uh, Evan said.

He looked past the cameraman to see a familiar face stepping out of the van behind him—a face so familiar that Evan had to tell himself he couldn’t possibly have this right. The face looked like it belonged to Pete fucking Smiley. Evan knew this not because he was a habitual watcher of 60 Minutes or even because he was a particularly avid consumer of pop culture. Evan knew this because his grandmother used to find Pete fucking Smiley awfully attractive, and she never minded saying so whenever a preteen Evan found himself wiling away the evening hours at her house while his parents were out.

Pete Smiley? Evan asked to the winds.

Pete Smiley did not reply. He was too busy listening to something Mr. Wolfe was telling him as he stared at his reflection in the passenger window and adjusted his tie.

Confused as Evan was to be leering down the business end of a camera, his friends didn’t let it bother them. Laz, David, and even Nora stepped past him and Handlebar without a second glance, all of them rushing to intercept the Farm’s newest residents climbing out of the van.

Mr. Wolfe? Evan called out.

Mr. Wolfe was still speaking to Pete Smiley.

We weren’t expecting an interview, Evan said, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. "Or you, for that matter. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Having finished his conversation with Mr. Smiley, Mr. Wolfe performed a general wave in Evan’s direction, turned, narrowed his eyes coolly, and made his way toward the farmhouse as fast as his 1985 special-edition Jordans could carry him.

Evan was glad that his friends were otherwise engaged, because he wouldn’t have wanted them to see the magnitude of his terror about being left here like this. No explanation. No twenty-four hours’ notice so he could spend a sleepless night thinking about what he would say to defend the concept of this Farm. No opportunity to dress himself properly for a nationally televised interview. No chance to wipe down his sweat-covered face. Come to think of it, it didn’t appear that he would be granted the benefit of sitting in one of those chairs where a snarky young woman or flamboyant young man applied the kind of makeup that would prevent him from looking like a drippy corpse on TV. Pete Smiley was wearing a pound of exactly that kind of makeup.

But no. There Evan stood, makeup-less, his hair windblown by a mid-80s wind, his mind screaming at him about how unprepared he was to answer even the simplest questions. Suddenly he was aware of the moisture in his armpits. He could practically see the sweat stains creeping down his sleeves, and knew without a doubt that, no matter what happened from this point forward, the resulting footage would feature him spouting awkward answers and walking around with his arms pressed tightly to his sides like some kind of sunburned automaton. The thought made Evan feel slightly like leaking into his pants.

Why? Evan heard himself saying.

Handlebar cocked a smile and glanced back at Mr. Smiley, who had started in on fixing his hair.

For a moment, Evan was angry.

But then Pete Smiley was striding toward him through the hot Savannah sun, looking very much like a man ready to interview Evan White for 60 Minutes, and Evan’s anger blubbered back into abject terror. Mr. Smiley’s lips peeled back—not into a smile, but into an expression of know-everything ease, the kind of look one can only earn from decades in front of a camera. This man had stood in war zones while bombs exploded on ridges in the background and bullets whizzed past his head. His expression gave the impression that he had never been frightened in his life.

Evan, meanwhile, had never been more frightened in his life.

Uh, he said.

Justin didn’t tell you, Mr. Smiley said. It wasn’t a question, but he paused as if expecting an answer.

Evan couldn’t speak.

Should’ve figured, Mr. Smiley said. He sucked in a breath. He looked tired, Pete Smiley. Or maybe bored. "We’re doing a piece for 60 Minutes."

No shit, Evan wanted to say. But he didn’t. Evan couldn’t speak. His hands were sweating.

It’s not a bother. I promise you won’t be heavily featured in the final product. Justin simply said you’d be the guy to talk to about all the back-office stuff. Mr. Smiley glanced at Handlebar. What did he call him, Stephen?

Handlebar Stephen pulled back from his camera’s viewfinder to glance up at the sky, aloof. Uh, his numbers guy.

That’s right, Mr. Smiley said. He called you his numbers guy. So, Numbers Guy, you ready to tell us how this operation works?

Though he knew very well that this camera wasn’t broadcasting to the masses at this very moment—instead, this was a recording that would be carefully edited, spliced, and turned into something watchable to be aired weeks or maybe even months down the road—Evan couldn’t help but feel like every eye in America was peering at him through that convex lens.

Uh, he said.

Nothing.

A childhood full of loving support from his parents and grandparents. A lifetime of sharpening his mind in school. A keen, unflinching focus on economics. The endorsement as a Numbers Guy from one of the wealthiest and most charismatic men in the world. The simple proof that he had built the economics behind this Farm from the ground up, and as such, there was no one on this planet more knowledgeable about its workings or