With the job market like a small still pool filled with juvenile sharks, out-of-work hungry souls arrive to stay at Cascadia on a weekly basis. When they interview to be disciples, they claim they can subsist on bread and mangoes, crackers and salsa, roasted potatoes with fennel. They can sleep in the hay in the barn, are happy with the army surplus tents in the field.
But soon they want a roof that doesn’t leak, indoor plumbing, walls that don’t bell out in the cold wind off the mountain. They want a room of their own, forced air heat, double paned windows where they can stand and gaze into the encroaching forest, safe. They want a red leather couch, a periwinkle gown, access to a T1 line.
All of which Angry Beaver welcomes. It’s his work to take the depthless, faultless, unending supply of desire and transform it into a commodity. Or, when needs must, satisfy it with a commodity—which he calls “investing in the means to respond to the crisis at large.” If he gives them a cot in a tent, he can expect them to clean the stables—even with the cows mooing “Yes, you can!” at them. If he gives them a room, he can send them to town to work as petition signature gatherers—their morning starting with his exhortation to “Create the change you wish to see in the world!” A red leather couch creates an obligation to engage in higher priced acts. “Change will not come,” Angry Beaver has been known to intone in the dark. “So we must. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”
Angry Beaver specializes in a hybrid gift economy, the commodity exchange that creates a feeling bond.
So when he finds himself in his front room surrounded by damp disciples with others at the door unable to fit in, all wearing three or more layers, all therefore smelling of sheep (in one way or another), and all demanding better housing, he notes that their foreheads are as luminous as flowers under a burning moon. And that it’s probably time to get cash from one of Rat’s holes, collar Reynard, and go house hunting. Reynard insists on bringing Happy Dog, whom he now claims as his cousin and friend.
Angry Beaver’s only interested in foreclosures offered for short sale. Which is why they end up looking at this beauty. The owners are willing to sell it fast if the new owners move it soon. True, it only has two bedrooms, but Angry Beaver is certain he can construct an addition suitable warren of six in the attic.
It comes with wallpaper and carpet, ready to be laid down.
The front door exists and is invitingly open. And the window glass is amazingly unbroken.
One of the downstairs rooms is almost free of debris.
And the other is only partially filled with banister railings.
Upstairs some squatter has tried to create a place of solace with sewing machine, pew, and ice box.
There’s black mold in the stairwell, but nothing a few gallons of paint won’t fix.
The second floor full balcony is by far the best feature. Angry Beaver can envision a sun room to house another three and that decides him. He’s instructing Reynard to make the deal when Happy Dog jumps on the railing and starts barking about haunting monsters and furry ghosts.
Without even turning around, Angry Beaver yanks him down and tells him all food will turn to fire in his mouth if he doesn’t get quiet quick. Spending money can make Angry Beaver short.
A few minutes later, when out of reach, Unhappy Dog asks Angry Beaver why they’re always making money out of the suffering of others.
“What else can you do with suffering?” Angry Beaver asks him. “What can the poor make but love and mistakes?”
