Family Values - Part II by Erik Olsen The meatloaf had just arrived when a knock came on the door. Gerald Lurpson was sitting resolutely in his chair, clutching silverware in his two meaty hands, a fork in one, a knife in the other. His ample ass enveloped the seat like warm, uncooked dough over a pizza makers' fist. His wife Betty stood at the end of the table holding the hot white baking dish. The meatloaf bubbled. Over her right hand, she wore a pot holder which, though in earlier days bore the embroidered image of a famous cartoon duck, was now so scorched and torn that it more closely resembled something found in the remnants of a plane crash, the aftermath of some horrible tragedy. At Gerald's right, sat his son Gern, who, with the exception of a poor complexion and a far greater quantity of hair, could have passed for a miniature version of his father. "You gonna get that?" Gerald asked, looking at no one in particular. "Honey, get the door," Mrs. Lurpson said to Gern. "But, mom, I just sat…" "Get the goddamned door!" Gerald ordered his son. Gern struggled from his seat like a freshly unearthed grub, and waddled out of the kitchen. His feet could be heard coming to a stop in the foyer by the front door. The Lurpsons listened intently. They heard the sound of voices. "Who is it?" Gerald called. "Dad, it's the…" there was a short pause followed by some muffled conversation. "The Fabulator!" "The what?" Gerald yelled back. There was more muffled conversation. "The Valuator, Dad, a...it's a guy from the government." Gerald heaved a heavy, frustrated sigh. "Goddamned it," he said to his wife. "Probably the goddamned census bureau or something." Then, to Gern, "Tell him to go away!" "Dad, he says it's important! He wants to talk to you!" A pause. A muffled voice. "To all of us!" "Well, I'll be a…" Gerald began to exert himself by hoisting his ponderous buttocks from the chair. He sat back down and the chair groaned. "Aw, shit. Look, you tell him that we're in the middle of dinner, and that if he…" "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Lurpson." The voice was calm, polite, perhaps even slightly effeminate. The man now stood in the kitchen doorway. Gerald looked at him suspiciously. The man was unusually tall, and very slender, of an overall ratio that seemed just short of being ridiculous. He had a long nose that pointed at Gerald like a finger, an accustion, perched on top of which was a pair of thin gold wire-framed glasses with very round lenses. He wore a very black suit, a thin red tie and a crisp white shirt. He held a briefcase in one hand, and in the other, pinched at the tips of two long, bony fingers, a black fedora. Gerald hadn't seen a fedora in a long time. "Sorry doesn't do it, fella. My family and I are eating dinner." "I'm aware of that Mr. Lurpson. It has been my experience that dinnertime is the often only time that a family can be found together. Such is the state of things today." The man held out his hand to Gerald, who took it cautiously. "I am sorry to intrude, but my name is Roger Shuntworth. I am with the United States Bureau of Valuation. We are conducting our annual survey, and your name was selected…" "The Bureau of Who?" Gerald interrupted. "The US Bureau of Valuation. The BOV. The USBOV. Created as part of the Family Values Act of 1998. Surely you read about it, or…don't you read the paper?" "I read it. I read the sports pages. Sometimes the newsy stuff when I get the time." "Oh, I see," the man said, methodically placing his hat and briefcase on the floor and taking a small spiral-bound writing tablet from his coat pocket. He flipped open the book and began to write something down on one of its pages. Gerald watched, his negligible forehead furrowing deeply. "Hey, whatcha doing there?" he said. The man wrote for a another moment and then looked up. "I'm sorry. Just taking a few notes. Now, where was I?" "You were telling us what you're doing here." "Oh, yes. As I said, I'm from the USBOV and your name was randomly selected this year by a computer to have your, that is you and your family's, valuation assessed. What that means - which I know was your next question - is that the government wants to know how to value you, should any reason ever arise in the future to exercise that value." "Uh?" Gerald said, his face a mask of confusion, as if he had just been asked to solve Fermat's Theorem. This prompted the man to once again scribble a few notes in his book. He spoke as he wrote: "You see, Mr. Lurpson, by determining value, we learn what things are worth. We learn what rational people in normal circumstances are willing to pay. Everything has a value. It is merely a question of determining what that value is, or what the market will bear." Gerald took a deep swig of his Miller Genuine Draft. "So, like, you want to know how much I make? Is that it?" "Actually, no. We already know that. We know exactly what income bracket you are in, and what your level of education is. We know what your house and all your other assets are worth. We know how much is in your 401K, and what it cost you to buy the 18-foot bass fishing boat that sits in your garage. We are aware of what you spent last year on groceries, beer, and 13 separate performances of the World Wrestling Federation. We are also aware of the amount for which you sold your last car, as well as what you reported that price to be to the IRS." Gerald started. Lurpson held up a hand. "But don't worry, Mr. Lurpson, we are not the IRS. We do not collect tariffs. As I said, we are merely valuators." Gerald adroitly levered off a triangulated wedge of meatloaf with his fork and stabbed it. He wagged the chunk at Shuntworth. "So, if you know all that, Mr. Shuntworth. Then how come you gotta come here? To my house? Ain't all that other stuff enough for you?" "Not quite. You see, what we don't know, because you have never been valued before, is what your other, um, aspects are worth." "Aspects?" Gerald stuck the meatloaf chunk in his mouth, his teeth worked the chunk over, quickly turning it into a meat-like paste, heavily accented with the flavor of his saliva. "A crude term, to be sure. But one which serves its purpose." Gerald watched the man, his brain similarly processing the information thus provided. Gern, meanwhile, content that he had done his filial duty by answering the door and establishing the initial contact with this man, had given up all attempts to follow the conversation. He had already spooned a large slab of meatloaf onto his plate, coronated it with ketchup, and was busy pouring a thick saffron-colored cheese product over the top of a split baked potato. Shuntworth continued: "Let me explain. As you may remember from grade school, the material value of our bodies - aside from our organs - is not very high. About $4.50 at current market price for the water, bone meal and protein that can be derived from your muscle tissue. The figure fluctuates by a few standard deviations, of course. Some people have more muscle mass than others, some have more fat. We also must take into account various other factors like contribution and potential. There is no determining this value without having a valuator present, he who determines what your body might fetch on the open market." "Well then, Mr. Valuator," Gerald said confidently, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his stomach. "Tell me, what's this body of mine worth?" He gazed expectantly at his family, hoping they would share the joke and take pride from dad's cleverness. Shuntworth frowned. "I've hardly begun the valuation, Mr. Lurpson." "That doesn't matter. Give me a ball park figure. An approximation, as one of you smart fellas might put it." Shuntworth's gaze fell briefly to his notebook. He scribbled a few figures down and drew a heavy line across the bottom. His eyes then rose slowly, settling upon Gerald. There was a sadness in them. "Unfortunately, Mr. Lurpson, while you seem to be rich in fatty tissue, the current market rate for fat is, on the average, quite low. With over 50 percent of Americans now considered clinically obese, the market is, if you'll forgive the pun, glutted." Gerald nodded. "Of course," Shuntworth continued, "human organs have much more value. Although in your case…" he paused. "Yeah? In my case?" "In your case, I'd have to say…well, it is impossible at this moment to give you an exact figure. If you have access to the internet, we can lookup the going rate for various organs on the organ exchange. Do you by chance have access to the internet, Mr. Lurpson?" "The inter-what?" Shuntworth squinted and tapped his pencil on his chin. "Never mind," he said. He scribbled again on the pad, erased a row and scribbled some more. Finally, he looked up. "I will venture to estimate, that your organs would currently fetch around $150." He paused. "Total." Gerald reacted with a mixture of surprise, anger and obvious hurt. "A hundred and fifty bucks total? For my organs?" "Well, judging by your weight and the amount of exercise you undertake each day - which I am guessing is close to none - your heart is almost useless. As for your liver, well, let's see, I've estimated that you consume on average three beers a day. That gives you an Annual Liver Disintegration Factor of 4.8." Shuntworth removed a small electronic device from his suit pocket and pressed its buttons. He sniffed the air. "You smoke, therefore your lungs cannot even be employed as fertilizer. As for kidneys, and I'm being generous here, we might get $50 a piece. The remaining $50 is about what your sundry glands and minor organs are worth." "Of course, none of this includes your Future Contribution Potential, or FCP." "My huh?" "The FCP is a metric we use to determine the value that you and your family are likely to contribute to society. It's based on statistic methodologies that will create an index of contributory factors such as your children's earning potential, a Lifetime Achievement Factor, and a Positive Social Benefit quotient that is derived from a multiple regression analysis of…" Not long into Shuntworth's explanation, Gerald's face glazed over, taking on the expression of a supermarket trout wrapped beneath cellophane. Shuntworth took notice of this, stopped speaking and ran his tongue over his top teeth. "The technique was developed by Nobel-prize winners," he said finally. "What about my brain?" Gerald queried, assuming the use of the word brain alone would suggest intelligence. Shuntworth laughed, then caught himself, realizing immediately he had committed a serious breach of professional protocol. "Please forgive me, Mr. Lurpson. That was extremely rude, and I apologize. The fact is that in medical science today, brain transplants are not yet a viable operation. Therefore, your brain does not count as a transplantable organ. Brains have been fetching relatively high values in the research market, however, universities and such, but I'm afraid that the highest demand is for brains of a - how should I say this? - very high caliber. Your Einsteins and such." "Oh, I see. And I'm no Einstein, so my brain ain't worth diddley." "Correct," said Shuntworth, relieved that Gerald understood and yet did not do anything unpredictable, like try to wound him with his fork. It had happened before. "Well, I'll be a goddamned..." "I understand your concern, Mr. Lurpson, but remember, these values are not for direct compensation. You will not see any financial remuneration from the value of you and your family. This is primarily for government accounting purposes. In case of emergency." "Emergency?" "It's a bit too complicated an issue to delve into much further, Mr. Lurpson. If it's OK, I need to continue my valuation and move on to the rest of your family." "Now wait just a minute," Gerald said, banging a heavy fist on the table. Forks, spoons and knives jumped, as did Gern. Mrs. Lurpson, showing no reaction, went into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of Jell-O veined with Cool Whip. Gern looked at the Jell-O and smiled. Gerald suddenly became very suspicious of the man who entered his kitchen just a short time before. "Look here, Mr. Valuator, what exactly are you doing? Who do you really work for?" Shuntworth sighed, wondering as he had so many times before why he didn't go into an occupatin that perhaps better suited his disposition, like extermination. "I am sympathetic with your concerns, Mr. Lurpson. Be assured that I am performing a service for all of us. As for whom I work, I told you, I work for the USBOV, but more than that, let's just say I work for the market." "The market?" "Yes, Mr. Lurpson, the market. That magnificent system, so complex not even the greatest human minds can fully grasp it, it is like a living organism, a sentient being, that faithfully serves us all, that determines the value of everything there is to value. The market, Mr. Lurpson, that has given you everthing you have. The market, for lack of a better word, is God." The look on Gerald's face betrayed serious bafflement, as if the two hemispheres of his brain were suddenly engaged in a Civil War, the outcome of which was uncertain, but sure to be bloody. Finally, an expression crawled over his face that suggested understanding. "Are you trying to say you are figuring out the value of...my family?" "Yes, Mr. Lurpson! Yes!" Shuntworth exclaimed, his face broadcasting genuine pleasure. He held his pencil straight up and raised it high. "That is EXACTLY what I am doing." "But, how are you...how can you do that? How can you know what we are worth?" "I don't have to know. The market already knows. Such is the genius of the market, Mr. Lurpson. There is no fooling it, not for long anyway. The market is pure, it is dynamic; in fact, if I weren't a trained empiricist, I'd even say it was magical. It is all around us all the time, guiding our actions, influencing the direction of human events. The market is the most wonderful system ever crafted by man. A servant to the market, I am. We all are." Shuntworth bowed his head as if he were a Christian pilgrim standing before the Holy Sepulcher. Gerald remained unconvinced, and it occurred to him that Shuntworth sounded at that moment a lot like Yoda. Mrs. Lurpson, who had not been paying much attention to the conversation between the man from the government and her husband, thought it was time to adhere to the conventions of good neighborliness. "Would you like something to drink Mr. Shuntworth? Water, juice, beer?" Shuntworth caught himself, realzing he'd been more emotional than was proper. He really coulnd't help himself, though. The market was magical. As much as he knew the numbers by heart, the equations and accounting principles that made up his world, the mathematics that described the machinery of global markets, there was something else there. Something alive. The threads that made the magnificent tapestry of the market what it was, the blood that flowed through it veins. And he, Shuntworth, felt like he had some control over it. That was such a wonderful feeling. Still, at this moment he felt slightly embarrassed, reacting as he did before a client. He smoothed out some invisible wrinkles in his well-starched suit jacket. "No thank you, Mrs. Lurpson. But it is kind of you to offer. Now then, your son's name is Gern, is that correct?" At the mention of his name, Gern's face suddenly sprang to life. His eyes focussed quickly, darting almost insect-like to Shuntworth. Shuntworth took notice of this and wrote something down in his notebook. "On average, how much TV does he watch in a day?" "What on earth does this have to do with what he's worth?" asked Gerald. "Please, Mr. Lurpson. It's just routine. We use an index for determining FCP. These questions are very important, so please be as accurate as possible." "I dunno. I suppose about an hour or so." Shuntworth bent his head and looked at Gerald over the top of his glasses. "Seriously, Mr. Lurpson. I need you to cooperate. This is very important." Shuntworth now turned to Lurpson's wife, who had taken a seat and now appeared eager to participate in the conversation. "Jell-O, Mr. Shuntworth?" she offered. "No thank you, Mrs. Lurpson," he turned to her. "Mrs. Lurpson, can you tell me how much TV Gern watches?" She smiled, glad to be of help. "Oh, let's see. He comes home from school at about 2:30, sits down and watches cartoons, then Wheel of Fortune, then the sitcoms come on, and finally, he's in bed at around, say, 9:30 or 10. Of course, often there's homework to do. We're very strict about having him do his school work. On many school nights, we forbid him to watch more than three hours of TV." "I see," said Shuntworth, scribbling. "Now, what if the boy is a straight-A student?" Gerald asked, rubbing his chin in a way he imagined made him appear thoughtful. "Does that help his FC…?" "P. It certainly does. Straight-A students will likely have a tremendous value to society. This is statistically proven." Gerald looked at Gern. Gern looked at his father and then at his Jell-O. Gerald reconsidered. "What about being a good athlete? What if the kid was going to be captain of the wrestling team?" Shuntworth looked dubiously at Gern, who wore a short-sleeved shirt that said Megadeath and whose arms seemed to possess the consistency of cottage cheese. "The record is mixed there. The tendency is for athletes to have their professional peaks in high school or college. After that their values decline, although many go on to work in the lower income trades - plumbers, truck drivers, construction workers, bar bouncers - which as we all know are absolutely necessary. However, looking at your son, it seems a bit, well, ambitious to consider him a good athlete, don't you think?" Gerald took a long look at Gern, who was busy tapping the side of his Jell-O bowl and watching the rubbery mound jiggle. The boy then spooned a large quantity of it into his mouth. He looked up at his father and laughed, and a surprisingly large mass of gelatinous goo, an admixture of cherry-flavored Jell-O, Cool-whip and snot, peeped its head out of one nostril and snuck quickly back inside. Sadly, the mass was not sucked back into Gern's esophagus, where it might have eventually made its way into his stomach and been digested, but rather took a wrong turn into his trachea, causing his face to turn red and his eyes to bulge. "Ack!" Gern said. "Are you all right, son?" Gerald asked. "It appears he's choking," said Shuntworth. "Oh my Goodness, Gern, try to cough, honey!" Mrs. Shuntworth exclaimed with genuine motherly concern. "Ack!" Gern replied. There was panic around the table as Gern's face turned from a somewhat healthy-looking piglet-pink to a more moss-colored green. Gerald rose from his seat and began to smack the boy hard on the back, doing so once a bit too hard, so that Gern's face plunged into his Jell-O, thereby restoring his pinkish hue, albeit with artificial coloring. "He really doesn't look well. Perhaps we should call a doctor," advised Shuntworth. "Doctor, hell," said Gerald, moving directly behind his son and in the process pushing past Shuntworth so that the government man fell back against the wall. Gerald wrapped his two arms around Gern's stomach, grabbed his right wrist in his left hand, and placed his face against his son's back so that it appeared as if were giving the boy a great fatherly hug. Shuntworth seemed touched by this, as a faint smile crept over his face. He lifted his notepad and crossed out something he had written earlier. "Ready, boy?" "Ack!" Gern said, though not really in reply. Gerald, his fists clasped (thumb side in) just below Gern's rib cage and above the navel, proceeded to perform a picture perfect Heimlich maneuver on his son: a succinct, fluid inward motion with his arms and fists that caused the air in the lungs to be forcibly expelled, thereby seeking escape through the path of least resistance, which in this case happened to be a large glob of phlegm and Jell-O. The glob, warmed by Gern's windpipe, thereby making it softer and more adhesive, sprang from Gern's lips and landed with a splat on Shuntworth's notebook. The substance took Shuntworth by surprise, and he recoiled, wearing an expression that can best be described as "filled with horror". Sadly, since he was already against the wall, Shuntworth smacked his head with enough force to knock the heavy, glass-framed poster of the Budweiser women off the wall, which came down hard on top of his head, thereby rendering him unconscious. Gern, his windpipe free of the glutinous obstruction, breathed heavily now, his eyes wide and his lips forming an ovaloid shape, a combination that made him look decidedly fish-like. "Ouugh," he said. "Oh my goodness," said Mrs. Lurpson. Shuntworth was bleeding from the head, and remained unconscious. He let out a soft moan and a few bubbles of silvery spittle swelled and burst upon his lips. "Oh my goodness," repeated Mrs. Lurpson. All three family members now looked down upon Mr. Shuntworth, who looked quite peaceful there, unconscious on the floor. A silence settled among them as they looked down at Shuntworth, sharing something intangible, but strong and noticable, an event, a powerful, emotional connection that passed between them. Father gazed at son, wife gazed at husband, son gazed at his Jell-O. A great confluence of forces that spoke of connectivity in the deepest sense, of blood and bone and twisted strands of matter that carried information over the eons and connected people. Family. "Unghm," Gern said. THE END Other stories: The Family Values Trilogy - Part 1 The Recipe Roommate Wanted Stalin in Seattle home   |  writing   |  professional   |  gallery   |  qtvrs   |  e-mail me  |