Trader bit into a jelly doughnut and wiped his thick fingers on his flannel pajamas as his wife stirred about in the kitchen, clanging cookware, rummaging and rooting through a cluttered cabinet for the frying pan.
“Do you have to make so much racket?” Trader yelled from his office on the other side of the spec house he and his wife would soon sell for a handsome profit.
Trader was very clever with his investments and had become a wealthy man over recent years. His modus operandi was simple. He would buy a lot in an exclusive neighborhood that did not allow spec houses. He would build a house, live in it for one year, then sell it, claiming that his position with the governor necessitated privacy and security, both of which were somehow violated, forcing him to move yet again. Although the neighbors had his scam figured out, no one could prove that he was really building a spec house, even though each of the ten homes he had sold so far were identical and rather generic. Pointed letters from the neighborhood association had been ineffective and completely ignored, and Trader’s pattern had become an addiction.
He loved moving. Perhaps it provided the only drama in his otherwise artificial, mendacious life. Several months out of every year Trader ordered his wife about, supervising her packing and cracking the whip over his contractor’s spinning head, goading him into escalating the building schedule, all the while yelling “Hurry up! Hurry up! We’ve got to move in two weeks and the new house had better be ready! Don’t you screw with me!”
“But we haven’t even put the wiring in yet,” the contractor had pleaded with Trader just last week.
“How long can that possibly take?” Trader fired back.
“And you haven’t picked out paints yet.”
“Just use the same damn eggshell white you’ve used on the other ten houses, you fool!” Trader yelled over the phone. “And the same off-white Burbur carpet, you idiot! And the same brass Williamsburgy light fixtures, you ninny! And the same pulls and door knobs from Home Depot, you meathead!”
It was vital that Trader play a sovereign role when he was in his own castle. The rest of the time, he was a toady for the governor and no one could possibly understand how hard that was on a man’s ego unless he had experienced it firsthand. Do this, do that. Use a different word.
Rewrite that paragraph. Oh, I changed my mind. Let’s tell the press this instead. Where’s my magnifying glass? Leave my office now! I’m not feeling well.
At least Trader’s demanding and unrewarding career had taught him the value of manipulation, revenge, and profiteering. Thanks to the Internet, it wouldn’t be long before he would be a self-made millionaire if his latest investment scheme was successful.
“Major? You haven’t told me which you’d like for breakfast. Sausage or bacon? Raisin toast or muffins? Grits with or without cheese?” his wife yelled from the kitchen as cookware clanged.
“What are you doing in there? Practicing percussion for the goddamn symphony?” Trader yelled back. “I want it all.”
Thank goodness their kids were off in boarding school and college and Trader didn’t have to listen to their noisy nonstop feet and grating voices. His wife was disruptive enough, and sound certainly carried in their new house just like it had in the other ten. Trader was getting close to fifty, and if all went according to plan, he could retire soon and focus on cyber crimes. Trader frowned, deep in thought, as he read the latest Trooper Truth essay again and then composed a provocative anonymous e-mail.
Dear Trooper Truth,
I am the great-great grandson of a Confederate spy, so maybe it is in my DNA (ha ha) to be unable to resist leaking intelligence. I say ha ha because I knew you would appreciate my witty reference to DNA since you have written about it before. I happen to have reason to know that the governor has no intention of trapping any speeders on Tangier Island. He could care less. His true motivation for launching VASCAR there was to create a mess that someone else would be blamed for. I’m sure you’ll want to mention that in your next essay. By the way, I was very sorry to hear about Popeye. Has it occurred to you that maybe someone stole the helpless little dog fora reason? And if someone has information re: Dr. Faux or anyone else, is there a reward?