The United States, if you believe the myth, was built by grit, tenacity, long hours, and great determination. Heedless of risk, these men and women of yesteryear passed along to their progeny the unquenchable desire to gamble it all for even the slightest slice of the American pie. Arriving on our shores with but pennies in hand, they built empires; brick by brick, aisle by aisle, and yes, storefront by storefront. Peddling their wares in a hundred different languages, they made good on the ultimate promise: work hard, and the streets will indeed be paved with gold. Sure, there were pitfalls: rising prices, brutal competition, labor strife, and yes, the occasional graft. Protection money, in the parlance of the times, with unshakable enforcement at the street level.
But by 1985, the beak-wetting had graduated to full-on war. Firebombings, rape, and a murder or two to keep things honest. And in that little slice of heaven known as New York City, the profit motive had all but been replaced by a lift-and-carry system of capitalism. They take, you give, and the books better reflect the shrinkage. Inventory never stopped flying off the shelves, only the cash registers stayed good and empty. As for the occasional dollar bills that managed to make their way into the till, gone by sundown, once the real creeps came out to play. In the face of such anarchy, one might expect to find boarded up windows and a mere Potemkin village of commerce. Far from it, friends. Instead, a thriving, bustling bastion of business. Jobs and plenty, just like they storybooks claimed.
So here’s to ‘em. Nevermind the threats, beatdowns, blood, and carnage, these small business owners persevered. Rent for a song, so we’ll accept the odds. Could die any time, but I’m not stuck with a bad lease. The nation’s highest mortality rate, but inspections stopped somewhere around the Nixon years. Water damage, mold, broken glass strewn about; all in a day’s work. And no one’s levying fines. Sure, you could set your watch to the armed robberies and employees throwing down their aprons in disgust, but sans contracts, rules, and even what passed for a minimum wage, it was a true Wild West. In a neighborhood with 90% unemployment, you set the terms. If they hesitate, remind them there’s a loaded Glock behind the counter. Knives and mace if you’re a pussy.
While we don’t meet every last soul with the chops to turn on the lights for a day’s pay, we meet enough of them to establish that here, on God’s greatest acre, is the very fabric that set Lady Liberty’s lamp alight. Bennett, for one. Fixing meters for the cab company for the better part of a century. Far from glamorous, but it keeps the creditors at bay. Day after day, night after night, he toils in anonymity until he can’t take it anymore. For his trouble, a blasted shop, rendered useless forevermore. But he’ll be back. Maybe he’ll relocate to the Laundromat. I hear some old man, wife’s throat ripped open, is ready to sell. Thankfully, Bennett isn’t the sort to let the fiery end to a life of toil stop him cold. Dreams die, only to be born again.
Then there’s the liquor store owner, Overpriced ice cream and cheap vodka to chase away the demons. Sure, every other customer sticks a piece in your face, but you’re a people person at heart. And since the robbers run the gamut, you’re not about to get hardened. If there’s a prejudice, it’s against the sort who grabs the contents of a display case without paying. So when a guy like Kersey wanders in and actually plunks down two bits, it’s a cause for celebration. Something to tell the missus. Hell, a story for the grandchildren. Sure, you got shot at the very next night, but for a time, you had some change to jingle in a hand that hasn’t stopped shaking in who knows how long.
Or the manager of the local market. Fine, you spend half your day looking at surveillance footage of crimes in progress, but since the city never actually stipulated that someone had to be watching the live cameras, you’ll have plausible deniability to burn. As for the officer on duty, he’s your cousin, and he hasn’t been right since he was thrown from that rooftop one hazy summer. Can’t hold anyone accountable if there aren’t any witnesses. Again, wonderful folks. Salt of the earth. Happy to personally oversee the sale of that night’s dinner to a lovely young lady who had but hours to live. She’d be raped and left for dead on a filthy mattress, but damn it all, her last act above ground was to buy your rib roast. That’s undeniable pride. And you can run on that for weeks.
Still, the ultimate entrepreneur is the one man who seems to have avoided the bloodbath. A clean store without a bullet hole to be found. Maybe some graffiti now and again, but no chalk outlines to ruin the newly installed vinyl floor. How does he do it? Why does lady luck shine in his direction?
Quite simple, really. Don’t ask questions. Rent PO Boxes to anyone and everyone, no ID required. Not even a name. Frankly, I’d prefer to close my eyes while handing you the key, but that might not sit right. People are touchy that way. Moreover, you won’t charge a dime. Terms? Fuck that nonsense. Keep the box as long as you like. You show up once, that’s cool. Still hauling away packages a decade in, it’s none of my concern. But there’s more. You’ll accept any delivery. If there’s an illegal package from Beirut, take it up with customs. Poisons, potions, dynamite; it’s all coming in one door, and leaving out the other with happy customers in tow. What they do with it doesn’t matter to me. All I ask is that you open your goodies on your own time. Can’t report what I don’t see.
He’s the guy who traffics exclusively in plain brown wrappers and dubious points of origin. And yes, word gets around. You’re handing out keys all day long. No register or safe, because no money changes hands. A public service, just because. No robberies, because there’s nothing to steal. Happiness by the pound, like a never-ending Christmas. As the rest of you fight off the flames, he’ll be taking a smoke break out back. Things are humming along so nicely, there’s talk of a second location. Smoke damage and brain matter to clear up, but they’re throwing in a window A/C unit for no extra charge.
Say what you will about capitalism, it’s the only economic system that would dare operate in a war zone. Blood money, sure, but even the dying have needs. The communists can have their food deserts, price controls, and ergonomic devices, but we’ll be over here, keeping America afloat. Destroyed every other day by the same bloody savages, we’re like the Ho Chi Minh Trail; dust ourselves off and rebuild, time and time again. In a flash, while the rest of the world is sleeping. Capital, after all, never tires. And for the heroic business minds of Death Wish 3, they’re at your service, not even pausing for that day’s funeral.
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