Occupy the Living Room

Don’t get me started.

            That’s the worst thing you can do. Give me that little opening, and that’s it, you’re done. Cooked - boerwors on the braai pit, chicken over the charcoal.

            I don’t know how many times I’d told her that. And after all that she still let me in.

            We were watching the World Cup on tv.

            “Do you know how much Messi makes?”

            That was enough for me.

            “The extreme wealth of some people is obscene. What do they do to deserve all that luxury? Does what they contribute really justify so much money being funnelled into them, sponging it all up?” I said. It was a question but I wasn’t very interested in an answer. “I don’t think so. You can’t tell me that the contributions to society or community or whatever entity beyond their own little egos you might think of, that actors or athletes or celebrities or CEO’s or lawyers or politicians or whoever you care to name, merit the mountains of rewards that are bestowed upon them!”

            I took a long pull off the beer. Outside a couple of cars had pulled up in front of my place and the occupants had piled out to piss in the street and throw their empties into the weeds that lined the sidewalks. House music blasted from the open car doors sounding like a wrecking yard.

            I lived on a little side street of a major byway. People were forever pulling on in to take a breather, apparently - eat a sandwich, have a drink, smoke a joint, engage in a lover’s quarrel after an all night party, make a call on the cell, or just have a little party like these assholes were doing at that moment.

            “I like freedom to do as I please as much as anyone, but I propose that we impose a threshold. Beyond that threshold, you can accumulate no more wealth. That’s it! You’re done! We’ll allow for a range of affluence, from the poor to the slightly well-off, but no one gets to be filthy rich, hogging everything for themselves…Marx was right, but that didn’t work, so this is the least we can do.”

            “Who decides on the threshold?”

            “Either by referendum, or a consensus of the wise.”

            Even I had to laugh at that.

            With a few slams of their silver doors and some stupid toots off their tuned hooters along with violent prodding of their surrogate genitals the sudden party was over and it was quiet again. Before the revving sound of their ripping through the gears had subsided a gaggle of souls scuffed up the street from Beaufort, singing in a spontaneous harmony. They sang well, a joy ringing through the night.

            “We’ll call it capped capitalism. This much and no more!” I demonstrated the level of the threshold with my hand.

            “But who decides?”

            “Yes, that’s tough. Who decides? Someone has to. There’s no doubt that there has to be some coercion. People will not do this voluntarily. That was the moment for Che, when he went from being an idealist to a murderer. People will not do this voluntarily. Fuck!”

            She leaned my way to kiss me, but I passed it off.

            “But we can’t let this continue, this rape of the people, this crap! Suffering these useless parasites sucking every ounce of resource to sooth their precious egos!”

            Since the kiss didn’t work, she handed me my beer. I took a huge hit. A drunken soul was stumbling down the street toward Beaufort, shouting gibberish. His footsteps scraped the street like shovels against a resistant soil. I listened to him, and in that moment felt a clean kinship.