
 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

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 :`$$$$$$bc  :`$$$$c     ::`$$$$$$$$$$$$c`:"$$$$????$$b "$$$$c,   `$$h
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        `::`$$$$$b    `::`;"       ` ;;;:'''                           t h e
         `::,????),     `::'                       n e o - c o m i n t e r n
          `::::::`                     e l e c t r o n i c   m a g a z i n e

                                           n e o - c o m i n t e r n . c o m

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

  s u b v e r s i v e   l i t e r a t u r e   f o r
  s u b v e r t e d   p e o p l e
                                                m a r c h  3 1 s t , 2 0 0 2
                                                         e d i t o r - b m c

 -    -   -  - ----==={ I N S T A L L M E N T   1 9 5 }===---- -  -   -    -

                                                             w r i t e r s :

                                                         j e t   j a g u a r
                                                     
 -    -   -  - ----==={        F E A T U R E S        }===---- -  -   -    -


                              The Value of Money
                                 by Jet Jaguar


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
                          e d i t o r ' s   n o t e
 -    -   -  - ---==={PLEASE DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING!}===--- -  -   -    -

  Just a silly thought:

  If I could explain the word "orange" in a hundred pages I would have a
  best-selling novella on my hands.  I am not talking about describing the
  appearance of the colour but capturing the feel of it.  If I could capture
  the energy within it, if I could paint that picture, then maybe I could
  transcend the senses.

  Once I knew this girl who said that she felt sorry for the colour orange.
  When I asked her why, she told me to look around my room and count how
  many objects I could spot that were orange.  There were 17 of them.  She
  said that my room was a bad example and that most people have two or zero.
  I told her that if most people believed in private ownership then wouldn't
  do that either.

  I'd rather be more like orange than most colours.  Orange thinks for
  itself.  Sure it builds on the ideas of red and yellow, but then it goes
  off in its own direction.  Nobody does it like orange does.  People don't
  give much attention to most colours, but orange is one that always stands
  out.

  Maybe it's a good thing that that the whole world isn't orange, because
  then blue or some other equally boring colour would be the one.  The one
  that I love most.

  Maybe orange is the colour that we should all look up to.  Maybe we should
  stand boldly, firmly confident, and reflect our colour of light into the
  eye of every person, whether they smile or squint at our brightness.

                              
 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
                             THE VALUE OF MONEY                         
 -    -   -  - -- -------======{by Jet Jaguar}======------- -- -  -   -    -

  I was new to the scene when I first saw Mr. Lucky Dime.  Like everyone
  else hitting the underground club circuit, I found my way to Fusion's
  nightclub.  Fusion's was little more than a large basement with
  spray-painted walls pretending to be interior design.  It was a qualified
  dump, but you didn't go there for ambience.  You went there for the
  speakers that poured music as old as themselves into the room.  This was
  the last place in the city where you could dance to Kraftwerk, the Smiths,
  or Bauhaus without being assaulted by the khaki-wearing masses.

  I'd be a liar if I said I noticed Lucky from the get-go.  It was Marie I
  noticed first.  She was twirling to the latest song from the Cocteau
  Twins.  I think it was the backless dress that did me in.  As she danced,
  her bare muscles moved in a rhythm which promised sex.  My eyes followed
  her throughout the dance floor.  When she left it, my eyes followed her to
  a gathering of goth beauties in mixtures of feathers, latex, and chains.

  I watched Marie every time I went to Fusion's.  She would always hang out
  with the same crew of handsome boys and pretty girls in black garb.  Soon
  I began to notice him as he squatting there like a gargoyle; chubby and
  dark-skinned in his brown suit and black hat playing with my Marie's
  henna-red tresses.

  I couldn't believe I'd never noticed him before, but once I did I noticed
  him everywhere.  He didn't seem popular with the club-kid masses, but the
  major players, bouncers, and DJs all seemed to know him.  His lips always
  seemed to have between them expensive black Russian cigarettes with a gold
  filter band.  I hated him.

  It's wasn't till months later as I was making my way down the shadowy
  gangway that led to Fusion's entrance that I met him.  Quick, heavy steps
  were coming up behind me.  I turned quickly with my fists clenched as I
  was infused with a hit of paranoia.

  "You heading in?  Come on!  Come on!" he said as threw his fat arm around
  my shoulders and pushed me into the club before I could say "no" or knock
  him out.  Simon, the bouncer, high-fived him as the cashier winked at him
  through an Egyptian eye of kohl.

  "Lucky Dime!  How's it going, brotha?" 

  "Pretty good, pretty good!  It's a Lucky Dime world, you know!" 

  Simon laughed and I suppressed a frown as Lucky whirled on his heels and 
  flashed a million-watt smile at the mohawked girl behind the counter.  He 
  tipped his fedora exposing his close-cropped and newly-dyed pink hair
  which clashed with his brown skin.

  "Maggie,"  he purred.  "You're magnificent." 

  "Oh my god!  You're magnificent!  I love your hair!  Is that a friend of 
  yours?" Linda rattled off like a semi-automatic.

  "Sure.  He's very cool people."

  Maggie waved me through.  For the first time since I've been coming here,
  I got into Fusion's for free just like one of the regulars.  It was only
  three dollars, but that was three dollars I could spend on a beer.  We
  were walking down the stairs into the club area when I saw something wrong
  with Lucky Dime's suit. 

  "You have a big dark spot on your jacket." 

  "Hah!  Yeah, you just can't find a perfect suit at the thrift store.  I 
  mean, look at this fucked-up hat." 

  He took his hat off to show me the badly worn-out hatband.  I, instead, 
  noticed the unmoving coin tucked underneath the band. 

  "What's that?" 

  "That's my lucky dime." he said nonchalantly. 

  "You believe in luck?"

  "Nah, man, we make our own luck through our decisions.  It's just that I
  found it in my shoe shortly after New Year's Day a couple of winters ago.
  I never got rid of it for sentimental reasons.  Cause of the new year and
  all that shit.  I do know my life has been different ever since.  You
  know how it is; it makes me feel lucky."

  I didn't understand what he was talking about, but at least the enigma of
  his name was solved.

  Over the next few weeks, Lucky brought me into his circle.  I would walk
  into Fusion's where Maggie and Simon would wave me on.  I would then walk
  downstairs to the table the others affectionately named "Lucky's table"
  and talk to Marie.  She was more wonderful than I could hope her to be.

  As for Lucky Dime, I began to realize that how strange his lifestyle
  really was.  He never paid to get into any club in the scene, nor did he
  ever pay for his drinks at Fusion's.  His stylish clothes were all
  second-hand; he just had an eye for fashion.

  The people who hung out with him did so because they knew Lucky would
  never hurt them.  A conversation with him was always a conversation and
  not a trick into his bed.  This only made them want him more; I'd catch
  the slight licking of lips and whispers between friends as Lucky rambled
  on about the latest book he'd read.

  He'd just sit there with his hat on his lap blabbing; ignoring the
  attention I wanted while rubbing the spot where his special dime was.
  Every time I caught Marie looking at him how I knew she would look at me
  if he wasn't around I hated him more.

  Other than that dime, I don't think money mattered to him.  He never
  talked about cash or work, but when he finally pulled money out of his
  pocket he would treat us with the zest of a 70s-era drug dealer.  He would
  excuse himself for a bit and return with a tray filled with an assortment
  of delicious drinks. 

  After nearly drowning us in liquor at the club, he would then take some of
  us to Las Palmas restaurant for a midnight supper and sate us with
  espresso, Cuban sandwiches, and pastries.  His wallet would be registering
  empty after a night like this, but he never seemed to mind.

  You couldn't help hang out with Lucky and not wonder where his money came
  from.  One night at Fusion's, The Creature's "Fury Eyes" began to play.
  As happens in every club in the known world when that song plays, every
  goth got up and ran to the dance floor.  Only Lucky and me were left at
  the table.  I asked him the question that was on my mind.

  "Does it really matter?" he said with a large grin.  "Maybe I'm living on
  a trust fund; maybe I'm hustling for dollars.  If I told you what I did,
  would your perceptions of me change?  Wouldn't we still be good friends?"

  "It's not that, Lucky.  I'm just curious.  You're a poor guy who seems to
  live for free and the times you do have money, you spend tons of money!
  Doesn't it bother you to spend money like that?  I mean, can you afford
  to?

  "Money isn't important to me.  It shouldn't be to anyone.  These nights
  with Marie, Paulie, Pete and the rest of you, that's all that's really
  important to me.  The only money I care about is the dime glued to my
  hat."

  He laughed and I wanted him dead.  Some hatreds are so deep that they will
  give themselves any excuse to live.  Lucky Dime wasn't the guy I thought
  he was, but this only made me hate him even more.  He didn't care about
  popularity, sex, or real money.  It seemed that the only thing he loved
  was that fucking dime and, in turn, the fucking universe loved him for it!

  The idea of someone like him in my scene enjoying free drinks and the
  company of beautiful women was too much.  The fact that I owed all my new
  friends to him was worse.  The way Lucky Dime lived ruined my ideals on
  how life was.  At that point that I started believing in his dime too!

  It was this instant of belief suddenly fueled my desire to tear his dime
  away from him.  After all, wasn't it his dime that defined him?  The only
  way I could hurt him was through that object of his love and devotion.

  When he got up to dance to the last half of the song, he left his hat on
  the table.  I didn't allow the time for my conscience to think of guilt.
  I ripped that dime right off that battered hat.  As soon as I saw him
  coming near me with sweat and smile on his fat face, I showed him his
  beloved dime.  Then I flung it into the darkness of the dance floor. 
 
  And right there in the club, Lucky Dime, who was known to plop down small 
  fortunes to entertain his friends, looked as if he would shed a tear for
  10 cents.  He stomped out of Fusion's and in my head popped up the happy
  realization that I had destroyed Lucky Dime. 

  Weeks passed with no sight of the former Lucky Dime.  The universe made 
  sense to me again.  It was a universe without Lucky Dime, but still filled 
  with his friends and would-be lovers that should have been mine in the
  first place.

  Soon afterwards, rumors began to circulate that Fusion's was going to
  close down.  All of us would sit around the table wondering what would
  become of the scene.  Depression surrounded was abound at the club.  The
  music was no longer as reassuring; the drinks were no longer as sweet.
  Everyone was sniping at everyone else; even Marie and me were not getting
  along.  One night, every table in in the club was announcing Fusion's last
  night.  It promised the last night would be the greatest in the
  underground scene's history.

  Some of the "in" people began to ask me if I knew where Lucky Dime was.
  I  kept hearing that it would be a shame if he wasn't there for the last
  hurrah.  Since him and me were such good friends, I should tell him all
  about it was the usual arguement.  I promised that I would try to find
  him and invite him, then I made sure to all forget about it.
 
  The final night came much too quickly.  I walked into the club, ready to
  tell Marie how much I loved her.  Instead I was stopped by Simon's
  massive hand on my chest and the sight of the newly resurrected Lucky
  Dime.  As soon as Lucky saw me, he ran up and threw me into the wall.  I
  looked to Simon, but there was no thought of help in those eyes.  I then
  turned to Maggie and there was malice on her face too. 

  "I thought you were gone!  I destroyed you, motherfucker!" 

  "Jesus!  Because you threw away a coin?  It's a fucking dime, man!  How
  stupid are you?  I should have never brought you in, but I felt sorry for
  you because you were always staring at us with such jealousy on your face.
  Didn't I treat you right?  Didn't I take a little outcast like you and
  make you popular?  I told you we make our own luck.  When you betrayed me,
  you made yourself a lot of bad luck, kid."

  Lucky Dime began smashing my face.  In a panic, my head screamed for
  Simon.  Why the hell wasn't he stopping this?  I was part of the "in"
  crowd!  Wasn't I entitled to the same special privileges and protection as
  the man hitting me?  Simon never stopped him throughout the beating.
  Instead, he watched the door to make sure no one interrupted Lucky.  I
  wanted to fall to the floor, but his punches pinned me to the wall and I
  was forced to stay up the whole time.  He then held my chin in his hand
  and looked at my face sadly before letting me go.

  "All I ever wanted was a place where everyone could get together and be 
  friends.  Throw this piece of shit out, Simon."

  "Sure thing, boss."

  Then it became clear.  The free drinks, no cover, his connections;
  Lucky's was no mere club-kid.  Fusion's was his place.  Simon grabbed me
  by the front of my leather jacket and pushed me out the door.  He rocked
  my head back with two huge fists then dropped me to the ground.

  "Do you know how much it cost that man to run this place?  Or how much
  cash he lost when he treated punk kids like you to freebies?  How he was
  just scraping together a living?  I kept telling him that if kept who he
  was secret someone like you would try to fuck him over someday.  He didn't
  care, he was growing broke because he loved this scene and wanted to be a
  part of it.  Now the scene is over and I'm out of a job.  You ruined it
  for everyone, fucker."

  I was wiping my lip clean when Simon went into his pocket and pulled out
  a small bag which he threw at me. 

  "He said to give you this.  Three dollars," he said as he casually wiped
  my blood onto his black shirt.  "The price of the cover to get in."

  I didn't know what he was talking about.  He must have seen the confusion
  on my face.

  "Look inside and do the math, Judas."

  I opened the bag as Simon began to close the door.  The rapidly
  disappearing rectangle of illumination from the doorway showed me it was
  filled with dimes.

  30 silvery pieces shined in the ray of light.  Then there was nothing but
  darkness.
                                            

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

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 c o p y r i g h t   2 0 0 2   b y                             #195-03/31/02
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