{"id":16322,"date":"2020-08-01T00:00:26","date_gmt":"2020-08-01T05:00:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/?p=16322"},"modified":"2020-07-31T23:54:16","modified_gmt":"2020-08-01T04:54:16","slug":"1457980228-11","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/16322","title":{"rendered":"$1,457,980,228.11"},"content":{"rendered":"

Your bank statement balance reads $1,457,980,228.11.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You refresh, look again. $1,457,980,228.11. You log off, log back on. $1,457,980,228.11.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s a glitch, you think, as you turn your computer off, go to leave your apartment. They\u2019ll fix it.<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019re canvassing beneath the R\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Building as a member of the Action in Action Street Team. You took the job after a series of gigs in retail, all of which were unfulfilling, soul-sucking, drowned you in corporate bullshit that finally and totally soured you to the American capitalistic regime. Action in Action, in that regard, is an antidote. Their mission is to actively and aggressively campaign against Chicagoland businesses that engage in poor practices \u2013 ethically, environmentally, economically, morally. They\u2019re grassroots and young and staffed with people like you \u2013 twentysomethings, progressive and full of a genuine desire to make a difference. One of their biggest targets is the D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 corporation, probably the worst offender of all in this city, their horrors exponentially worsened by the fact that they house themselves in the R\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Building, a gigantic, bluish glass structure whose highest spire literally pierces the clouds, like a lance piercing the very skin of the planet.<\/span><\/p>\n

You spend four hours every day \u2013 part-time pay, hourly wage, a contracted employee for tax purposes \u2013 asking street passersby how their day is going, in an effort to spur them into conversation and educate them about D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013. You just want to talk, explain the injustices, expand someone\u2019s understanding of the cyclical doom of capitalism just a little, just a pinch, anything, really, to move us forward. Would a donation into your Action in Action-branded fanny pack be appreciated? Sure. Is that what you lead with? No, because you\u2019re not part of the problem. If the conversation goes there, then fine, though; if someone is friendly enough, fine. Some are friendly. Some are not. Most are not.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s disheartening. But you persist. This work is important.<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019re working with Cassie today. Cassie is short, no taller than five three, and she has an undercut and wears baggy pants and oversized boots. You looked her up on Twitter and Instagram once when you were endlessly surfing the internet, as per usual. She has thousands of followers. She has shared pictures of herself from various rallies in Chicago, Milwaukee, elsewhere; she\u2019s very involved; she knows people who are very involved; she is on the right side of history. She\u2019s bisexual. You are very attracted to her.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

When your shift ends the twosome who are supposed to relieve you don\u2019t show up. You wait around for ten minutes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Cassie rolls her eyes, as if to say: no one really cares, right, no one really cares, except us. We really care.<\/span><\/p>\n

She says she can\u2019t wait around anymore because she\u2019s meeting friends for brunch, so you too leave, walk with her to the El. Your talk is typical: what her plans for tonight are (reading, tweeting productively); what your plans for tonight are (nothing); what the weather is supposed to be tomorrow (the same as it is today); what the weather is today (overcast). While you\u2019re both waiting for the train to arrive you crack a banal joke and she laughs, and you see her teeth, bright and evenly straight and perfect.<\/span><\/p>\n

You say very little to each other for twenty minutes until she gets off at Belmont, gives you a tiny wave.<\/span><\/p>\n

Walking from your stop at Berwyn you find an ATM, lodged in the side of an unoccupied building a few blocks from your apartment. The machine prints a small paper slip with your balance stamped on it. It reads $1,457,980,228.11.<\/span><\/p>\n

At this point you\u2019re a little weirded out so you go home and shower and pop two Benadryl and knock yourself into another mid-day nap.<\/span><\/p>\n

By the time you wake up it\u2019s nighttime. Almost ten. Disoriented, you shower again, look at your bank statement again, see it\u2019s still at $1,457,980,228.11, and decide to take an impromptu and mostly unprecedented walk down your block. If this was a glitch, you think, pulling your coat around your chest to block the springtime cold, it probably would\u2019ve resolved itself by now, right? Except maybe not. It\u2019s only been a business day. A business day is just a day, but shorter, somehow? Not entirely clear. But when you\u2019ve talked to banks in the past about your credit card debt they usually said that your balance would be fully updated in one to two business days. So maybe it\u2019ll be fixed tomorrow? Also, you don\u2019t even know the money is real. It\u2019s a weird string, $1,457,980,228.11. Seems random. If anything, you\u2019d be doing a disservice to the bank <\/span>and <\/span><\/i>to yourself if you didn\u2019t, you know, purchase something \u2013 something small, obviously \u2013 just to make sure the money is real, which would mean it\u2019s a real problem, which would mean when you <\/span>do<\/span><\/i> ultimately call the bank, which you totally will, you won\u2019t be wasting anyone\u2019s time. Right? Again, just like, a bag of chips, or one beer. Two. Two would still be under ten dollars, which seems appropriate, which seems like not going overboard. And if it\u2019s a little over, ten, eleven, fifteen, even, that\u2019s still fine, because think: in the grand scheme of things, in the context of, say, one of the executives for D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013, holed up in the evil fortress of the R\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Building, what is twenty dollars? It\u2019s nothing. Those executives blow their noses with twenty dollar bills. They use them as napkins for their eighty dollar lunches, discussing how much money they\u2019re going to get by enacting their societal misery, damning everyone except themselves to perpetual financial woe. Assholes. Fuck them. You spending the money is a protest, in its own way. That\u2019s what it is. You spending the money is an act of protest and if anyone tries to stop you they are infringing on your rights.<\/span><\/p>\n

You stop in at the Taquer\u00eda, which is still open, which never seems to close. You order two chorizo tacos, no, three, and an orange Jarritos. After you\u2019ve eaten, a bit too quickly, you go back to the ATM, print your balance. It\u2019s changed. $1,457,980,219.45. The tacos and the Jarritos cost $8.66. You do the mental math. Then you give up and do the math on your phone. It checks out. You turn around to look behind you. There are a few older people out with their dogs and some kids in sweatshirts with their hands tucked into their pockets walking briskly down the street, avoiding eye contact with you, with everyone else.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You go back to the Taquer\u00eda. You order another taco.<\/span><\/p>\n

Too full, you wander. You\u2019re not really looking for anything. You just want to walk. Feel the air on your face. Look at the fronts of the restaurants, watch the people eating, drinking, spending time with friends, enjoying whatever moments they\u2019re experiencing. Most are your age. Most are healthy and infused with youth. Somehow you find yourself in a bar, leaning against the counter, asking for beer, some kind of swill, which, no, actually, you flag down the bartender, scratch that order, give me a whisky. What kind? Something nice. More than ten bucks. You sip the drink and it stings your throat. You turn, reflexively cough. You see Cassie.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s a beat, a moment between you recognizing each other \u2013 is it really her, yes, it is \u2013 but once she sees who you are she smiles, beams. She says Hey! with the energy of an excitable puppy. She gives you a hug \u2013 she\u2019s never hugged you before \u2013 and, unintentionally, you smell her hair; it smells clean, sugary.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m here with my friends, she says post-hello, gesturing vaguely behind her to the friends in question. You don\u2019t know any of them, and she doesn\u2019t invite you to join.<\/span><\/p>\n

We\u2019re up here from Lakeview, she says. Even in the darkness of the bar, a halo of light borders her face, cosmic and effervescent.<\/span><\/p>\n

I live around here, you offer.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She gasps.<\/span><\/p>\n

I love this neighborhood! she says. It\u2019s not gentrified yet, which is so nice, and so rare. Sometimes I think the whole city is turning into a playground for white people. It sucks.<\/span><\/p>\n

You are both white.<\/span><\/p>\n

I should get back to my friends, she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

Do you want to grab coffee sometime, you say.<\/span><\/p>\n

She looks at you. Kind of cocks her head, like she\u2019s trying to parse out exactly what it was you just asked her, and why. Maybe it\u2019s the double-digit whisky clouding your eyes, but she looks confused. Confounded.<\/span><\/p>\n

If you want, you say. No pressure.<\/span><\/p>\n

No, she says, shouts, in order to be heard. No. Yeah. Yes. Let\u2019s do that.<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh.<\/span><\/p>\n

Let\u2019s do that.<\/span><\/p>\n

You make some excuse, say you have to leave. Practically sprint back home, beneath the tracks of the El, the cars above screeching through the night, a rusted symphony.<\/span><\/p>\n

You sleep well. It\u2019s a bright day, warm, moist. Your laptop is open at your bedside, your bank\u2019s online portal still static from the previous day. You refresh, log back in. Examine the balance. $1,457,980,219.45. Still. Persistent. Therefore: real.<\/span><\/p>\n

You pay off one credit card. In totality. Wait two hours. Check your balance again. Check your phone, your email. Nothing, no failure of payment. You pay off your other card. You look at the two balances of $0.00, staring into you like god eyes.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The student loans. The biggest of the numbers. You wipe them out, extinguish them, like a great fire smothered by sand. As you click through the payment prompts you feel some poisoned part of yourself expelled from your body. Your apartment appears brighter. The dead bugs seem smaller. The windows less cracked, floorboards less creaky. You stare at your wall and the plaster seems to spackle itself. You think you smell cookies baking, somewhere.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You text Cassie.<\/span><\/p>\n

How would you like to do dinner instead, you ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

You know she\u2019s going to agree before she even does. You know the date is going to go well. You know that it will lead to a second. And a third. You know these things, even though they haven\u2019t happened yet.<\/span><\/p>\n

But you are sure. Unimpeachably sure.<\/span><\/p>\n

So yes, you and Cassie start dating. It makes sense, the two of you. Like you, she only works twenty hour weeks, so you have plenty of time for each other. You wander around the city, because it requires no money, because you want to be mindful of her means, not inadvertently grandstand through your wealth, although not wealth, it\u2019s not wealth, it\u2019s just money, wealth is what D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 has; you are not wealthy, you are not one of them. So you explore. To the west, to the north, to the south. Deep downtown, around the R\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Building but not directly beneath it. Absorbing the sights, discerning the river. Cassie stands by your side and rests her head against your shoulder and in these moments you feel a sense of worth and belonging. You go to the zoo, see the gorillas, laugh at them as they shove fruit haphazardly into their mouths and look about them as if there is a perpetual humming in their ears.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Of course you get dinner, sometimes, occasionally. Nothing too extravagant. You\u2019re dating. You go out to dinner when you\u2019re dating. You also go to the movies. You also go to bars, dives, some sports pubs, maybe even clubs, every so often, the ones downtown, if you happen to be in the area. When you\u2019re there, when you\u2019re dancing with her, you congeal and equate to the patrons around you, like run-off from a clean stream.<\/span><\/p>\n

You make love. It\u2019s kind, it\u2019s full of compassion and care. Her body is small and heats through your sheets, through your skin. You fall asleep in each other\u2019s arms.<\/span><\/p>\n

One morning she tells you she\u2019s thinking about quitting Action in Action.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are other ways to help, she says, other ways that are more utilitarian, in the long run. You know?<\/span><\/p>\n

You do know.<\/span><\/p>\n

You wanna quit too? she asks. It could be, I don\u2019t know, kinda fun, in a weird way. We could stake out our own change. We could plan rallies. We could make calls. We could raise money. Start an organization of our own.<\/span><\/p>\n

Cassie looks determined, looks sure. You\u2019ve noticed that she can be a bit impulsive \u2013 it\u2019s charming, endearing \u2013 but these impulses usually either fizzle into dust or are borne out through inconsequential things, like where to eat, which El line to take west, whatever. This is larger. She smiles, and when she smiles it makes you happy, so largely happy.<\/span><\/p>\n

What will you do for work, you ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

What will <\/span>you <\/span><\/i>do for work, she asks back.<\/span><\/p>\n

She laughs, holds your hands and kisses you. Thirty minutes later you\u2019ve both quit, no notice, and you shower together to celebrate, slick with steam, slick with satisfaction.<\/span><\/p>\n

Weeks pass. You both learn to cook. You buy meat and produce from Whole Foods. You make roasts, pan-sear pork and steak. You braise vegetables, leeks, mushrooms, expensive stalks with confusing names. You buy these groceries, but of course you do, because you can afford it, because all that money is still there, less than $1,457,980,228.11, sure, but still so much, still so far from being gone. You never tell her about it. The money. It seems irrelevant, somehow. Things are good. Money, you know from D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013, spoils humanity. So why spoil this?<\/span><\/p>\n

When the city becomes boring and learned, you travel. You start close. Indianapolis. Columbus. The twin cities. The western coast of Michigan, resort towns, beaches, <\/span>beaches <\/span><\/i>in the Midwest, some geographic sleight of hand. Sometimes you drive; usually you fly. You meet up with Cassie\u2019s friends from college; they have high-paying jobs and luxury apartments; you wonder what it must be like being so rich, then stop yourself, laugh, internally. You go to New York, Boston. To San Francisco, Denver. You and Cassie\u2019s friends get drinks and joke and dance, as giggly and full of life as children. Their families own cottages in remote outposts in this great, although still flawed, yes, let\u2019s not forget that, nation, so you go there, too. Montana. Wyoming. Cabins nestled in the mountains of Tennessee, along the coast of Alabama. Everywhere. Cassie\u2019s friends are everywhere. Interconnected Cassie. It makes you feel significant, important, necessary.<\/span><\/p>\n

Also, just so you\u2019re clear to yourself, the R\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Building and the D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 corporation are still there, but we are all strong, and we are with the cause in spirit, because our voice is our greatest weapon, and also the tulip festival in Holland, Michigan only happens once a year, Cassie tells you, and she certainly isn\u2019t wrong.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Which, speaking of that, it\u2019s fall now, and nothing is different and there is still so, so much money. In a moment of slight insecurity, or perhaps too-bald self-awareness, you offhandedly mention to Cassie that maybe it\u2019s time for you both to hit the ground running on that organization, ha ha. Cassie blinks.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I <\/span>guess <\/span><\/i>we could do that, she says as she chops a carrot. But, you know, there are still more ways we need to plan. Ways we can help in the interim. You know?<\/span><\/p>\n

What ways, you ask, genuine.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ugh, I hate slicing carrots, she says, pushing the cutting board away from her. Here, babe. You do it for me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everything remains perfect.<\/span><\/p>\n

You plan to meet her parents over a lazy weekend in October \u2013 Patrick and Pat, about whom you\u2019ve heard dozens of stories, some good, but most bad, critical. They are conservative. They do not understand Cassie or her passions. Their house is in the suburbs. It\u2019s just north of the city and just north of Evanston, a few blocks away from Sheridan, one of the larger homes, one of the <\/span>very <\/span><\/i>much larger homes. There are at least three floors, maybe four. Inside it\u2019s very white and there are more sofas than seem necessary. The entire house smells like fresh linen, even though you never see a washing machine.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Patrick and Pat are grey-haired, handsome. They look like they jog every day. They smile and hug you in a familiar way and immediately you feel like these people are your parents and will be your parents forever. Their kindness is immediate and unrelenting, cocooning and safe. Pat gives you coffee, tells you to make yourself at home, turn on the television, adjust the thermostat, whatever you need, sweetie, our home is your home. Patrick is fatherly, asks you where you\u2019re from, how you and Cassie met, where you went to college, what you studied, whether or not you liked it. They only ask Cassie a few questions as you all sit in their den, their blonde labradoodle (Ditka) nuzzling you with its dripping snout. Cassie seems uninterested, or maybe embarrassed. At a certain point her parents ask her how the apartment is. They ask her if she would like them to take her car in for an oil change. They ask her how she\u2019s doing on money.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dinner is prepared by a chef who appears from nowhere and the plates are whisked away by a matron who also appears from nowhere, disappears into nowhere, is never seen or heard again once the apple pie is brought out, oven-warm, to be split between the four of you. Patrick, lubricated by two whisky sours, finally mentions that he is in \u201cResources.\u201d Pat is a management consultant. Both of their offices are downtown, although, they say, the two of them travel so much that they can\u2019t even remember the last time they stepped foot in either of those buildings, heh heh heh. Pat works right by the river, a giant glass structure that stares down onto Wacker. You\u2019re familiar. You ask Patrick where he works.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He answers your question.<\/span><\/p>\n

Things click. Immediately it makes sense.<\/span><\/p>\n

That night you and Cassie sleep in the same room, her old bedroom, and you fuck. It is riskless fucking. Her parents\u2019 bedroom is on the opposite side of their home; you could scream, full-throated, and they would not hear you. You don\u2019t. But you could.<\/span><\/p>\n

Afterwards you cradle each other, holding hands, fingers weakly interlaced.<\/span><\/p>\n

So your dad, you say.<\/span><\/p>\n

Come on, she says. <\/span>I\u2019m<\/span><\/i> one of the good guys. That\u2019s what\u2019s important.<\/span><\/p>\n

We still haven\u2019t talked about that new organization. Or done anything else to help, for that matter. No rallies, no\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

And whose fault is that.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s a good question. But, you suppose, you\u2019ve been busy, the two of you. All those friends, all those valuable memories. The D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 corporation isn\u2019t going anywhere, you\u2019ve thought to yourself. Neither is your money. Neither is your time.<\/span><\/p>\n

So I\u2019m rich, Cassie says. Everyone is rich, babe. You\u2019re one to talk. Where\u2019s your money from, huh.<\/span><\/p>\n

You shrug.<\/span> I don\u2019t really think about it, you say.<\/span><\/p>\n

And you don\u2019t. Think about it. The amount has decreased, yes, but it\u2019s still large. Ten digits. A one, then a four, then a five, then a seven, and so on, and so on, almost all of the numbers unchanged until you arrive at its end, those last six digits save for the decimal, which is insignificant, pennies are just pennies, you would throw pennies off of a building just to see what happens, and you have, and you did, because wasn\u2019t there that time out in Albany when you\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

None of this is important.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next day it\u2019s warm, unseasonably warm for October, so you all go out to the lake. Patrick sails, obviously. His boat is large and bounteous, striped blue, eerily clean. It rocks calmly as the four of you step aboard and you wonder, if you were to jump off of it and swim as far as you could into Lake Michigan, would anyone panic or would they instead all laugh, roll their eyes at you lovingly, throw you a life preserver and mandate you grab ahold.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s champagne. It\u2019s dry, arresting. Patrick and Pat drink copiously; Cassie drinks copiously; you, therefore, drink, copiously. There is blurring. The lake is grey and ice-cold; you reach out, run your hand along the ebbing water; its frigidity stings you.<\/span><\/p>\n

Careful there, Patrick says. He\u2019s behind you. You rise, apologize, because your brain is gently flooded, because you don\u2019t know what else to say.<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019re a stand-up person, he says, grabbing you by the shoulder, pulling you in for a hug. You catch a whiff of the crick of his neck; he smells evergreen, preserved.<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019re really good for Cassie, he goes on. She needs someone like you. Someone caring, and friendly, who\u2019s going to push her in the right direction. Lord knows I can\u2019t.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The sailboat, anchored, you hope, strikes a choppy wave. You feel your stomach kick up against your ribcage.<\/span><\/p>\n

I keep the checks coming, though, he says. I keep \u2018em coming, and coming, and coming. I don\u2019t know. Her politics, eh, you know, I don\u2019t agree, I don\u2019t agree with her standing outside my place of work, spreading her gossip. But I let her do it. She\u2019s passionate. She\u2019s not doing any harm, and she\u2019ll grow out of it, you know. But she <\/span>is<\/span><\/i> my daughter. I love her. I love her more than God Himself. You know when she was a baby, I\u2019d take her out to the lake, right along the coast here, and we\u2019d watch the boats, and she\u2019d smile that big smile of hers, and\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

He stops. Whether out of emotional inundation or some other force, you can\u2019t be sure.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

When you have children of your own, you\u2019ll understand, he says, and pats you on the shoulder, a signal that this interaction is over, that he\u2019s culled from you what he needs.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dizzied, you wander about the deck of the sailboat, look out to the lake, look east, or what you think is east, then west, or what you think is west, and you see land, and then other land, but mostly you see water, and overcast fall sky, and a hint of sun above the clouds, sun that can\u2019t break through. The water smells rank and fungal. Somehow, you\u2019re holding a finger sandwich. You put it on the ship\u2019s railing and it slips into the lake, floats on the roof of the water for a moment, then sinks below, fading out of sight.<\/span><\/p>\n

You feel a greasy embrace, and turn around and see Cassie. She\u2019s never been so radiant, so full and virile and cold. She\u2019s wearing a heavy shawl over a one-piece that makes her look like a flesh-colored fish. Her large-framed sunglasses hide her eyes; you can see yourself in them; you look wan and sated. She smiles a crooked smile, tilts her head to the side like a snake arching in aggression.<\/span><\/p>\n

You having fun, she says, a statement, not a question.<\/span><\/p>\n

You peck her on the forehead. She tastes like oil and synthetic banana, sunscreen and compressed air.<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe it\u2019s the champagne, she says, but I need to tell you.<\/span><\/p>\n

You arch your eyebrows, like you\u2019re supposed to.<\/span><\/p>\n

I need to tell you that I love you.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She puts her hands to her mouth, as if suppressing vomit.<\/span><\/p>\n

I love you, she repeats. I love you. For real. I love you.<\/span><\/p>\n

And you embrace. She kisses you, her tongue scabbarding into your mouth like a knife into old fruit. You realize this is it, as you kiss her, as you pull back, as you say it too, as she says it again, again. You see beyond. You see you and Cassie move through the next months. More travel. More exploration. A shared apartment; new furniture, artwork, loud rugs; a dog, a cat; matching 401(k)s. You move through the years. There is a proposal. There is a wedding. All of your friends, her friends, are there, and you, they, are happy. Cassie\u2019s parents take you in as their own child, and you are indebted to them, their kindness. You take a job at D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013, on Patrick\u2019s recommendation \u2013 something administrative but with benefits, a clear path to promotion, company stock and infinite security. It\u2019s money you don\u2019t need, but it\u2019s money you can use, money that can be put towards the down-payment on a house in the suburbs, enough space for the dog, enough space for anything. Cassie, still passionate, still caring, does non-profit work. She does found her own organization, eventually, truly; its intentions are good; you\u2019re not sure what it is that they do; it\u2019s not that important. She realizes she can do more, and she runs for public office. She campaigns well; you self-finance; the years pass and she is elected to positions of greater and greater importance. She is loved by the people who look like her and who look like you, who share your experiences, your story. You make a difference, together. Maybe you have children; maybe you don\u2019t. If you do, you give them the world. They play in your yard. They see Disneyworld; they see Graceland; they see the farthest corners of the earth. They attend the best schools; they succeed. You and Cassie are proud, protected, secure. The future doubles back on itself, minimizes, becomes a block of promise, impenetrable, foretold, gospel. In the present, you kiss Cassie again, bile ascending from the pit of your stomach. This is it. The world, the world you own now, has been cracked open at its mid-section, splayed beneath you like a butchered bird \u2013 flightless, dumb, certainly diseased.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

PAUL RIKER<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Your bank statement balance reads $1,457,980,228.11.\u00a0\u00a0 You refresh, look again. $1,457,980,228.11. You log off, log back on. $1,457,980,228.11.\u00a0 It\u2019s a glitch, you think, as you turn your computer off, go to leave your apartment. They\u2019ll fix it. You\u2019re canvassing beneath the R\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Building as a member of the Action in Action Street Team. You took […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2211,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[65],"tags":[20],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4fg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16322"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2211"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16322"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16322\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16384,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16322\/revisions\/16384"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16322"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16322"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16322"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}