Keep the Change: Money Is Canceled

Copyright © 2009 by M.C.(Bo) Olson

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-4559-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-4560-5 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-4561-2 (dj)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009931620

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 7/24/2009

Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE

The Sniper and the General

CHAPTER TWO

The Root Of All Evil

CHAPTER THREE

A Monumental Price

CHAPTER FOUR

Consigned To the Tomb

CHAPTER FIVE

Unprecedented Miracle

CHAPTER SIX

As Meaningless as Millionaire

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chin-ups

CHAPTER EIGHT

Unenlightened Pilgrims

CHAPTER NINE

A Bribe For The Ego

CHAPTER TEN

A Blaze of Direction

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Come Hell or High Water

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Likely Story

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Worthless Scraps of Paper

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Stale Dated Formula

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Voice And The Bulldozer

CHATER SIXTEEN

August 15th Roundup

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Big Deal

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Big Sky Finale

The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.

___Albert Einstein___

PREFACE

The seeds from which this story grew were planted at an early age in the author’s life. Born in the dirty thirties in a family whose existence seemed to be totally dependent on this intrusive phantom called money. It prevented quality relationships in the family. There was, and sometimes still is, a very real resentment for life’s dependence on money, especially when there isn’t much. And there is this constant, internal battle between what’s the right way and wrong way to acquire enough. Being torn by concepts such as; the good people should have more than the bad people, and the rich people, the ones with lots of money, could at least share their table scraps with the poor so they don’t starve to death. These can be headaches and heartaches, but the damned money itself provides the means for it to be controlled.

So with a great deal of head banging and devious planning and at the same time trying to figure out a way to balance things in the world, a decision was made that there was no choice. The only way to solve these dilemmas without destroying the planet was to start over. Yes, cancel all the currencies. What power. What control and what responsibility. Revenge did not contain euphoria or great satisfaction. Then miraculously, the writing itself revealed an amazing replacement idea. The control machinery might take a while to be converted and change is like a turtle, but it wins the race.

-----M.C. (Bo) Olson-----

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For Mom, who wanted to be a writer.

To Evie, Lloyd, Julie and Terri.

Thanks to Brenda, Carol, Penny, Allen, Dianne and Theresa, readers and encouragers of my attempts to tell this story and for the many times they couldn’t understand why I couldn’t write about something simple.

Thanks to L.L. who said, Go for it, when I announced that I was going to write this stuff.

Thanks to Ed. Brogden who explained how a story was constructed.

Thanks to the staff at the Bank of Nova Scotia in Brights Grove and a fine manager, Warren Parrot.

Thanks to Joe and Pam and Digital Friends Computers.

Thanks to the late Jack Boland and his influence at The Unity Church in Warren Michigan.

Thanks to Gina Mendoza Arizmendi, my soul mentor.

Thank you so much Kathy Raymond and the iUniverse staff.

A very special thanks to Robert Danielak of The Robert Gusay Literary Agency for the great review of my work.

To all the authors who first

wrote,

and then had the fortitude

to follow through

and have their

work

published so myself

and society

could

share their thoughts and ideas.

INTRODUCTION

Money’s Final Heartbeat

A vacuum was created one crazy, unfathomable day in June. The calendar flipped backward that day. Yup, society and history will remember it as June 6th/0000, a year for starting over. The vacuum continued and waited. A panorama of a worldwide congregation harkened in hope it would receive sounds or a sign from somewhere…. anywhere, the sky, the wind, or God himself. People reported graffiti, cloud formations and unusual births. Witches and warlocks offered predictions. "Hush! …. A lot of folks did not wish to break the silence for fear they’d miss that special moment of magic. Something that could find a clue to solving the nightmare everyone had been subjected to. Every breeze stirred imagination that an answer was close at hand.

Four vital services would remain in tact. The mail service was cut to a military courier system, priority mail only. Astonishingly the health care system, free from regulation as well as manipulation ran with a new exhilaration of energetic hope. Volunteers, soothsayers, hands-on-healers, practitioners, medicine men, rehki masters, and beginners and acupuncturists appeared ready and at the service of everyone’s well being. Some patients, who no longer found an advantage to being ill, recovered.

I feel a great opportunity has been presented to me, a Native Indian medicine man announced. It seems that my destiny has changed. I must do my best to save the white man. He has no land you know, here in North America. He paid money for it. Chief Washington warned that no one owned the land but God himself. The chief took the money though, but maybe all money deals are up for review because of the present circumstances.

Some gas stations were left unattended. Many collected the old currency just in case. Transportation, manned primarily by gypsies and apprentices grumbled along much slower and disinterested than prior to the resounding thud of money’s final heartbeat.

Communications would become better than ever. The Internet was left in tact while TV stations and newspaper services were put under temporary suspension. Rumors abounded concerning the reasons for the moratorium. Because of the traumatic vulnerability of everyone, society became hypernervous. Anxiety brought with it the creeps. World leaders were taking no chances that some psychotic, loosely wrapped dramatist might take advantage, maybe find a way to use the situation to hold the planet hostage. On the positive side, fax messages and E-mail zipped around the globe. Innovative ideas and constructive suggestions were shared and compared.

The world would find it absurd trying to proceed without the old habits using money to buy, protect, analyze, scheme and screw one another, but they dug in. Society began to search for a different process. Great minds shifted their focus. They turned away from the symptoms, away from temporary haywire, bandaged type of quick fixes. They were brought right down to it, right to the skinned knees of it. They rooted through the debris. They looked for the cause, the source and hope for a way out.

And in the midst of it all was tall, pale, slim, empty eyed Ted Drumberg, editor of The New York Digger and his muscular, rumpled, red haired, riveting eyed, ace reporter, Able Waters who found themselves sucked into chasing the unknown and vowing to make some sense of it, never guessing the uniqueness of their discovery. Ted continued to spend many hours in the almost deserted building that had sheltered his office those many years. Only his footsteps echoed along the halls. Only his door banged shut from the wind while the majestic presses stood in silent confusion and waited for an explanation of their idleness. It wasn’t that he couldn’t accept what happened. It was the familiar tenacity, not giving up, not knowing how to surrender and ready in anticipation of the resurrection or some hint of a clue in the midst of the muddle. Time was not wasted. Ted decided to pick out stories from Able’s submissions and classify them. He intended to separate the more unique individuals’ tales from the others. Able jumped right into the unexplored environment so the stories he submitted contained both constructive ideas and bizarre reactions.

And copies were made with an objective to provide hope of the possibility that at least one or perhaps all contained clues to identify a solution. Even routine incidents that would normally be ignored were strip-searched. The experiences were viewed with different eyes as well as ideas. The innocent, guilty and in some cases the unwilling revealed their fateful tales. They told of bewilderment and anger. They spoke of disbelief and promised revenge. They prayed for guidance and protection. Some were relieved and some were devastated. Sometimes even absurd solutions were documented. Some reactions carried powerful suggestions for changing the entire direction and purpose of the human race.

Able randomly walked, ran, rode and flew from Canada to Central America and sent his news to the office of The New York Digger; dramas of people who reacted and acted and some who simply could not cope with the uncertainty. There were stories that contained information relative to the reconstruction of the scene of the crime…. a very necessary component for solving a mystery.

In a telephone conversation Ted discussed a plan with Able to put together a package of stories and forward them to relevant agencies around the globe. They’d be sent to the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of Canada and The President of Mexico, Chavez in Venezuela and other heads of state around the world including Kadafy, Puten and Castro of Cuba. Agencies such as the Central Bank in the U.S., The Bank of Canada, The World Bank, The Master Investor Bank in Atlanta, and Curren Mooney, professor of economics in Los Angeles. Packages were also mailed to The Arms Sales Corp. and The International Monetary Fund. Every parcel contained a list of those who received the information and encouraged collaboration. Ted included a brief explanation of why the stories were sent.

To Those With Faith And Resilience;

The enclosed accounts may provide entertainment possibly even amusement, but their true purpose is to assist in finding a clue to our revival. Perhaps we’ll see a revelation in the circumstances that have shaken the foundations of every living soul. These articles might be used as reminders of some of the unfortunate situations that were going unnoticed or more realistically unattended prior to the rude awakening this planet has received. I do hope they will be preserved and used as references and souvenirs during our recovery. Allow them to remind us of the day the future past and present converged into one significant moment of surprise and changed the dynamics of life forever.

Yours truly,

Ted W. Drumberg.

Crime rate on the planet dipped to an all time low. There was no money to pay for crime so how could it be profitable? An open-minded attitude was needed to observe with the same patience as waiting for spilled water to find its normal level. Some folks took advantage of the situation and had a picnic with the family, the first time in years. Neighbors had time to say hello to one another and talk about their family instead of their job. Everyone became the same color and the same creed. There was time to identify their deepest desires and forgotten blessings. Able continued his search, confronting emotions, unsure of the future, yet determined. And more and more he was driven by the realization that everyone had witnessed that mysterious event. You know the one. When one of life’s unexpected barfs shows up at the party unannounced.

CHAPTER ONE

The Sniper and the General

Can’t? What the hell do you mean, we can’t? Able’s eyes were wide open.

Don’t be so damned naive! It’s not that we can’t, we don’t want to put an outrageous story like that in print! Ted Drumberg’s mind was searching while he tried to reason. He knew Able well enough to be ready for a barrage.

We’re not going to let the other news services get the jump on us are we? We’ll never get a crack at a story like this again, never. Think about it for Christ’s sake! Think man!

If you’d shut up for a minute I might be able to think. It’s too damned speculative yet… the whole idea has too many unbelievable consequences. It’s too bizarre! It’s just plain scary! We’ll wait and see if Reuters takes a shot at explaining it.

Crazy! Able threw his hands in the air. That’s just plain crazy! That goes against every basic principle of the news business.

Ted’s words were deliberate. If the monetary system has evaporated, it destroys an entire empire that was built on the foundation of economic principles. The residue of that system will leave scars of influence for a very long time. He held his chin a moment.

"Picture the pyramids suddenly devoured by parasites or blown away by the wind? Imagine the principle of combustion becoming invalid…overnight. We’ve been whisked into uncharted territory, unexplainable reality. We have no language to interpret devastation of this caliber. Without some sort of reinstatement, history will completely change and God knows what it will do in reference to evolution. Ted rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floor.

Without confirmation, an announcement that the world monetary system crashed, burned and the ashes blew into space gives us nothing more than a headline: MONEY IS CANCELLED."

Ted Drumberg printed stories in a five-cent scribbler before he learned to write. He was born an only child on a farm when things were poor as dirt and tough as Dempsey. The treasures hidden under his bed included a couple of pencils, scraps of writing paper and toy soldiers. Tales of grandeur, mystery and safety were created there and protected him from the family battles between people he loved and feared. Acres of wheat fields that rolled and swayed and whispered beckoned his intelligence to explore itself in the same context of freedoms. Later he qualified for a scholarship and escaped.

Journalism became Ted’s first interest and love. It sent him to New York where providence made a position available with The New York Digger and exposed him to the unfamiliar reality of a big city. Bulldog attitude landed him a job on a temporary, trial basis. Twenty-five years later found him behind the desk of the senior editor, a position that provided motivation and satisfaction, and a charge he savored to this very unsettling day.

As a new resident of the big city, Ted had met a lady and fell over his heels in love. Then she disappeared. He’d gone to look for her in Chicago and hired an inexpensive, private investigator to help him. His name was Able Waters and he worked out of a grubby little office after his parole. His case was reviewed and the board decided he had acted impulsively, but humanely in his reaction to his friend’s action. The search for Ted’s lady was not a success, but Able’s skills were exposed both as a humanitarian and a hound in relentless pursuit of information.

Able (Slippery) Waters had been a bum who made a living from gossip and tragedy. His stint behind bars was for helping a friend carry out a robbery. The friend panicked and became violent. Able was charged with manslaughter because he dealt with his friend’s anger a little too harshly. He died. The life of the intended victim was spared as a result. The incident served as a paradigm for a strategy to live by.

Ted persuaded him to move to New York and work with the paper where, in time he became a hotshot reporter, a ravenous eagle. The very appropriate nickname was well earned. He’d slipped out of more lawsuits than movie stars had marriages and his reputation labeled him a hound that sniffed at everything. A magnetic nose pulled stories right out of the scrap heap. The tousled shock of auburn hair and sad, penetrating green eyes were remnants of growing up in the streets and provided the seasoning often referred by Einstein.

Over the years a personal network was developed with contacts in the damndest places, contacts that he primed and promised. If Able slept at all it was between phone calls or on the way to an assignment. When asked if he considered himself a work-aholic he replied, No, I’m a life-aholic. I’ve been given a certain amount of time and I’d rather live it than sleep it. Thanks for your interest.

Ted and Able became the nerve center and the life’s blood of the New York Digger. Today they stood like the Sniper and the General and overlooked the battlefield. Both were pondering strategy... to attack or retreat… to report or observe during a time that no one would have dreamed would ever come. The Sniper narrowed his focus on a specific target while the General contemplated the war.

I respect both your enthusiasm and attitude and always have Abe. We’ve worked well together because of our mutual admiration, don’t you think?

Yes, sure, but you’ve never backed away from a story before!

A few moments ago you told me to think. Did you mean think like you or like me?

C’mon Ted, stop the shit. If you’ve got an idea, let’s get to it.

Okay, assume that our monetary system has vanished.

What do you mean assume? Don’t you think the info from my informant is authentic?

Ted turned to face Able head on, and with a quick nod of his head spoke precisely. Do you think I would meet you here in the middle of the night if I didn’t think the story was real? Of course I think it’s authentic. Time and experience taught me not to panic no matter how much excitement is generated by the information. Today more than ever it’s necessary to run the story through my mind before we consider sending it to press.

Get to the point, Able said, impatiently beating the dust out of his hat.

Yes, certainly. Sit down! The monetary collapse is a world-wide headline. Ted spoke calmly as his mind wended a stealthy path into the unfamiliar. The real stories are the ones behind that headline.... the ones that deal with the effect this unbelievable change will have on the individual. How will society function, and why? Is this merely a temporary annoyance to shake the sleepwalkers awake, or an opportunity to come up with a better system? What would a replacement look like, feel like, etc. Well what do yu’ think Abe? Isn’t that it?

We don’t have verification of any of it yet.

True, and every mother’s kid will scour their imagination as well as the solar system looking for verifications of today’s headline. I suggest we stay ahead of the competition and pursue the reactions. That’s what sells newspapers… or used to. You know what I mean!

Able flexed and stretched as if the predicament had crept into his body. He stood up, blinked, nodded, straightened his hat and winced. What if there’s nothing to pay us with? What if it’s gone? And what if it never comes back? Could we find a purpose or incentive without money? What’r the options? Do we have any? God what an abortion! I don’t ever remember loving an assignment so much that I would work for nothing.

Another thing…. our perspective, do we look at it like it’s over, like the old money system is wrecked…. never to be seen again? My God that’s a scary idea. Could the end of an era happen just like that? Ted quizzed himself, but the questions were directed to Able.

Nahhh, of course not, Able said. There was definitely the hesitation of doubt in his response. If it has we’ll have some wild adjustments to make. History says people are damned resilient. If this is permanent we’ll see. In the mean time we can’t just sit here and turn into dirtied diapers. The situation is beyond definition or interpretation, stranger than bizarre, but it sure as hell won’t lack challenge! We’ve faced a few and we’ve never backed away from a sticky situation, so let’s take a crack at this one.

You were saying last week you wanted something you could really sink your teeth into. Now that your wish has been granted you’ll have to find a way to…. maybe use the Internet for out of town and out of country stuff. As far as I’m concerned you’ve got carte blanche to use whatever you want. I don’t see how, given the crazy circumstances we need worry about expenses.

Hey, that’s right. There’s no limit on anything is there?

Seems not.

There’s a hell of a lot of people who over the years have become beholdin’ to me, Able said, kinda thinking out loud. If cash has no trading power right now, its time I collect some overdue favors with leads to stories, places to stay, transportation, things like that. He lifted his head and pointed his nose at the ceiling. If he was sniffing the wind it brought a look of satisfaction, a secret message or something. Okay Ted, he announced. I’ve got an idea. I’m out’a here.

Ted watched Able’s mental warm up. I think I’ll attempt an imaginative page or two concerning some economic incidents that took place before today’s mess. It’ll give a little insight, maybe a profile of monetary policy, maybe a prologue to your stories. Don’t get me wrong Able, God only knows what kind of adventures you’ll run into on your travels. I’ll wait for a report before I make too many assumptions. Try to stay in touch. Good luck! They saluted thumbs up.

Able left the musty odor of his aftershave along with the promise to scoop every rag in existence, determined to cut a path through the jungle of uncertainty and investigate individual stories that might contain clues for an alternative to the system that vanished.

It was quiet after Able left. Ted groped around behind his desk in the dim light of predawn. Verification came over the wire service. There were no specific details, just cold unmistakable facts. Able’s information was right on the money. The system was down and dead. The indispensable god had kicked the bucket.

A well-worn cover on the old Remington typewriter was removed. Ted cracked his knuckles and stretched his hands like a pianist about to give a great performance. Let me see… excitement began to guide his fingers. It called for imaginative journalism, special stuff right from the gut. A story to move readers in the direction of encouragement and remind them of a faith they may have discarded, combining hope and information synonymous with the Digger. It began:

******

N.Y.--- June 6: This date, June 6, is identified with many significant historical events and today it added another. The incident is so shocking that the usual newsmongers are leery of making fools of themselves trying to report it. The New York Digger will speculate that change is difficult and acceptance tests our social fiber’s core.

A story as sensational as this requires every newsperson to search for an edge, literally falling over one another trying to out-sensationalize the competition. Its uniqueness has disabled the usual barnstormers as everyone approaches the alien jumble like a pack of coyotes that sneaked up on an abandoned carcass. They’re wary of a trap and hope instinct will validate their mistrust and there’s speculation that the competition may pounce on the remains and discover it’s poisoned.

Today’s situation might expose the media and provide a mirror in which to see ourselves as we really have become, how devious we have become. Where did our integrity go? Was it lost to conformity or to fear? Have we become slaves to what conformity dictates? Is that why we opt for fantasy and sensationalism? Is that what rationalization does, gives us permission to avoid the truth? Is the truth too real, too mundane? If we tell the truth we’re subject to lawsuits. How convenient. How enslaving. The profound truth is labeled politically incorrect. How non-descriptive. How boring. What happened to plain old common sense?

These are questions to my own beloved, chosen vocation… the news business. The predicament created by today’s horrific surprise has a humbling effect on every one of us. Humility has the power to enlighten. Today’s adversity might be labeled politically incorrect, but that won’t change any of it…. not one iota. Neither will it alter the truth.

Astrologists will announce that they had foreseen the whole mess. The religious folks, the gurus and the prophets will say, behold the Anti-Christ. The card readers and crystal ball gazers will add, We told you so, and as if that wasn’t enough we at the Digger are about to throw our two cents worth into the same soup kettle. A gentle stir might reveal some nourishment from potluck. Bear with us as we attempt to combine facts and speculation relative to the events that contributed to the nervous break down of the monetary system.

A while back the International Monetary Fund held a headline-capturing meeting and some decisions were made. Verdicts were reached on evidence from a pile of irrelevant statistics. In one instance an underdeveloped country, identified as poorly managed, had its self-esteem reduced to that of a rejected rubber boot. Their society would not make a blip on the radar screen. Then the glass beads were handed out and a loan was granted. They were beat up and given money to heal their wounds, but one would be hard pressed to find any compassion in the transaction. The report went on to explain the preposterous likelihood of their country ever on God’s green earth finding means to pay the interest on their thirty-five billion dollar debt, let alone the principal. No mention was made of what would be used as collateral to secure the loan. Perhaps it was a chattel mortgage on their culture?

A second country had its credit rating analyzed. It qualified for a loan because it paid back one-tenth of one percent of the interest on the forty billion dollars it owed. Bravo! Again there was no mention of collateral. Perhaps it was a portion of one of their political leader’s Swiss bank accounts? Heaven forbid! The Fund and The World Bank neglected to inform the public which bank or banks owned the entire planet, and no one dared guess how long it would take for the planet to get itself out of debt.

If one were to use common sense as a consultant and acknowledge the wisdom derived from the recognition of spiritual existence, it might explain that an unrecognized