Chapter 18 in the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
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By the time del Sol bursts above the saddle between Truchas Peak and Santa Fe Baldy, Jake’s five miles into his ride along the high road to Taos. Just past the shotgun blasted sign indicating Chimayo’s eight miles out he’s so busy dodging unfilled potholes he forgets to remind himself to turn around before entering the heroin crossfire zone; that imaginary line distinguishing high plains desert mostly managed by coyotes and the valley region below controlled by cartels. The good thing about this route is there’s little traffic because tourist, like most Northern New Mexicans, prefer to leave ripping the lid off a new day to those more ambitious.
Today’s bike was acquired at the pre-pandemic estate sale of a Los Alamos physicist who died from prostate cancer. There’s a certain irony in riding for hours with your butt balanced on a tiny seat that can cause cancer but Jake’s not thinking about that, he’s recalling the way Emelia teased him about buying “another bike.” He chose this bike today because after last night he needs the soft steady glide of a well-built touring bike.
Forgetting to remember, Jake coasts down the winding road into Chimayo lost to the cadence of thought; he’s rerunning his assessment on the mathematical prudence of Miguel not trading for the last down card. With the wisdom of wagering twenty grand in question, he needs additional confirmation he played the game correctly or Jon and Theo won’t stop teasing him. The Monte Hall Paradox stipulates players should always trade for the last down card, but such assertions come with caveats. For example, it’d be foolish to trade when holding an ace since there’s zero chance the down card’s better. After re-running the numbers, Jake’s previous conclusion holds. “I’d have traded, but that dumb-ass doesn’t know shit about math.”
His triumphant celebration abruptly ends with the awakened realization he’s entered the crossfire zone. The perils of his predicament startle him into a panicked u-turn just as he’s riding past the Santuario known for granting miracles. Rising in the saddle to accelerate, he simultaneously crouches to avoid presenting too large a target. Anyone who routinely reads the Rio Grande Sun or the Santa Fe New Mexican papers knows it’s not uncommon for outsiders to get shot for such transgressions.
Pushing hard into the peddles causes Jake to confront that another consequence of losing himself in thought is the successful way he can ignore how cold mountain air tightens his knees and numbs his fingers. With painful effort mixing with a huge dose of adrenaline, the increased cadence works his knees back to life. Unfortunately, not much can be done for his fingers, but who has time to think about that when fleeing for their life. Jake maintains his crouched pace until safely outside the danger zone, then to calm down, he allows the mesmerizing aroma of piñon smoke that’s settled over the valley like a comforting blanket to provide needed sedation. May nights are still cold in Northern New Mexico, so most valley homes stoke overnight fires and nothing’s more intoxicating than the aroma emanating from a piñon fire – except of course for bourbon, usually, but not after last night.
Before long, the thoughtlessness of the deserted road allows Jake to construct a framework for Dominic’s tax model. He begins by calculating values each first order parameter would have to achieve in order for the hypothesis to hold. For starters, federal Tax Freedom Day currently occurs in May, which Jake whimsical wonders is perhaps the significance of Cinco de Mayo? He compensates for state and local taxes by averaging high rates paid in liberal states with lower rates paid in conservative states. This slides Tax Freedom Day out to mid-June, which means all the money Americans earn from January first until mid-June goes to support a mostly wasteful, completely corrupt, and staggeringly incompetent government bureaucracy. “At least for the forty-eight percent of us who bother to work,” He adds for extra measure.
With that calculation complete, he next projects future government spending based on past performance and politician’s passion for buying votes and determines taxes need to increase 27.57% by 2032 in order for the government to remain solvent. That pushes Tax Freedom Day out to October first; the start of the next fiscal year, which means, “Dominic’s probably right.”
It’s well past eight by the time Jake’s showered, changed into work clothes, had his second cup of coffee, and wanders to the Distillery to reassemble his pump. Notably absent is Quando, who on most mornings is reliably at Jake’s side with a slobbery tennis ball and unwavering optimism. Today though, Quando’s maintaining his protective vigil in front of Sympatico’s door and still addressing Jake with derision whenever he passes. By late morning, the whiskey Still is drained, a batch of previously fermented blue corn mash is loaded into the Still, and a new batch of Mula mash is underway.
“Finally,” Jake sighs slipping off his sweat stained leather gloves, “order restored.” Predictably his mood ticks up, starting a new batch of spirits is akin to giving birth to something that someday is going to be special. Jake’s always held that spirits are metaphysical insomuch as they capture the embodiment of all the shit going on when made. “This freaking batch,” he rationalizes, “is gonna be as insanely surreal.” He rests on a pallet of blue corn brought into the Mash House on a forklift thinking about the many times Emelia would watch him, usually offering suggestions that made the mash better.
As good as his morning’s been, it simply can’t be sustained, especially given the way Theresa demonstratively storms into the Mash House. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking?” she shouts, dispensing with conversational pleasantries. Theresa glares deep into the far end of the wooden Mash House where Jake’s working inside what looks like a long stall. There’s a pallet containing fifty-pound bags of organic blue corn suspended waist high by a forklift at the stall’s entrance. Jake’s busy unloading bags and spreading kernels around the damp concrete floor. Un-flinched by Theresa’s outburst, Jake calmly finishes casting the currently bag about before straightening his stiff back and wiping corn dust coated sweat from his forehead.
“That’s the same thing Quando keeps asking.” Jake uses his worn leather gloves to swat azure dust off his deeply faded jeans and dark blue T-shirt. His work shirt is the same as the ones sold in his tasting room, except his is torn in several places and the fermentation equation imprinted across the front is badly worn and barely readable.
“Can I assume you’re hiding here to work on your apology?” Theresa demands.
“Technically, you can assume whatever you want.” Jake flops both arms over the stall’s top wooden plank smiling. “That’s the primary premise of assumptions.” He reaches for the water bottle resting on the edge of the pallet. “The challenge of course is determining whether or not your assumption’s valid.” He leans against the stall unscrewing the bottle top, he takes a long drink then stops to appreciate how fine water feels after hard work. Jake looks at Theresa successfully avoiding her glare. “Ya know,” he smiles, “sometimes with you it’s like having a second wife.”
“Emelia would never let you get away with last night!”
“Hell, she’d be the one initiating.”
“Oh!” Theresa stammers. She came in angry over what Jake did, now she’s upset for his blatant indifference. “I pray for you!”
“Always good to get a shout-out from someone connected.”
Theresa accepts from experience she can’t shame Jake into feeling bad so instead, reaches into her tool bag to deploy a woman’s other powerful leverage. “That poor woman thinks you were hitting on her.”
“That’s absurd,” Jake begins updating the distillery log that’s laying open on the pallet.
“You were maybe having fun, but she took it much different.”
“Tell her I was joking.” Jake’s only partially listening because making Mula is off the books, so he needs to carefully account for the blue corn he’s consuming without it appearing that he’s producing anything. This requires elevating bookkeeping to creative art. Luckily, it’s not overly difficult given the level of competency at the Treasury Department.
“Tell her yourself,” Theresa demands wanting Jake to own last night.
Jake looks up from his distillery logbook. “We both know you’re far more skilled at smoothing such things over.” Jake and Theresa have had similar conversations many times before, usually involving customer relations. The one thing Theresa’s learned is Jake won’t do a thing to resolve conflict, he just moves on. In a couple of hours, he’ll forget about last night, which means if she doesn’t fix this, it’ll fester worse than the mash he’s malting.
“You’re right of course, you’ll only makes matters worse. I plan to also instruct her on how to deal with you.”
“Deal with me?”
“I’m constantly being asked to write a how-to book, last year’s crush crew insisted.”
Jake mulls over the many fascinating machinations this presents. “There’s an entire group at the Lab who’d love to contribute.”
Even in the midst of her anger, Theresa’s compelled to admit it would be funny so, rather than continue her one-sided argument, she joins in. “The obvious problem is we’d run up against a page limit.”
“Nah, it’d be pretty straightforward,” Jake quickly counters, “don’t talk to me before coffee. Don’t say stupid stuff. And-”
“Never suggest you’re even remotely wrong about anything.”
“Cause I never am.” Jake smiles at his self-effacing humor as he steps back into the stall effortlessly yanking a fifty-pound bag off the pallet. “It’s settled then, you’ll talk to Sympatico and assume the duties of Editor-and-chief.”
Theresa watches Jake effortlessly slice the next grain bag open with the skill of a magician’s sleight of hand, admiring the grace and efficiency of his motion. There’s something about his relationship with work that’s special, never before has she seen anyone with such an affinity; a strange mixture of reverence, good humor, and intensity. She respects Jake more than anyone after Hector. Not just for how he works, but for who he is, and how he lives; even given his obvious flaws and especially after all he’s gone through. She often wonders how a man like him can be a Distiller when clearly, he’s meant for more. She wants to know how a woman like her can raise boys to become men like him. Sadly, she always concludes, it’s not possible; men like him are not made, they just are. “Do I have a choice?” She starts to leave but only gets as far as the entryway before turning around. “Remember, today’s interview day.”
Jake pops up surprised, “interviews?”
“The assistant Distiller’s position. You asked Francisco, to send people over.”
“Too busy,” he flatly states before immediately returning to work.
“They start at three.”
“Can’t do it, I’m in the middle of making Mu-” Jake stops in time, one thing a career in the nuclear bomb building business teaches you is how to keep secrets, and how to recover from near fatal slips. “Mash,” he finishes with a flurry. “Got a new batch of bourbon going and you know how I am when mashing?”
“Know, it’s an entire chapter in my book. I’ll come get you at three.”
Jake watches Theresa make her way across the parking lot. “Send Quando,” he shouts. “Nothing worse than a judgmental dog.”
