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Libertarian vs. libertarian
It’s not so much the concept as the word that frightens me. Anarchist. Sounds like anti-Christ if you say it enough times. I looked my new neighbor up and down, wondering if I could take him if things turned violent. Intending to respond in an offhand or witty manner, I said, “Wha?” “An anarchist.” He seemed pleased by my reaction. I wondered if he was really an anarchist, or if he just liked telling people that to see what they did. “I generally don’t drop that into a conversation—it’s so tense in here I may as well have pulled out a bomb—but you seem reasonable.” Cringing at the bomb reference, I attempted a feeble smile. The situation felt offensive to my quiet Republican neighborhood. I glanced around, searching for possible (or obvious) weapons. Questions surfaced, and I asked, “So, uh, how does this anarchy business work?” His grin widened. He got up and went to a box that sat on the floor behind me, and rummaged around in it for a few moments. “Ah, here it is,” he murmured. “Atlas Shrugged.” He presented a much-loved hardback copy to me, holding the book with both hands. I squeezed the can of soda between my knees and accepted it in the same manner. “Read that.” “I did, back in my college days.” He snatched the book, returned it to the box, and dug into another box. I turned in my chair to watch him. “Ah, this one,” he whispered, struggling to pull an enormous tome from the bottom of the box. “Atlas Shrugged is a great introduction to an individualist philosophy. But this book will show you how anarchism works.” He once again presented the book with two hands, but this time he seemed to need both hands. I jammed my soda in between my knees again, and accepted the book. Man, Economy, and State, by Murray Rothbard. At least a thousand pages resided between the covers of this intimidating volume. I gave Jim another feeble smile. “It should only take you a week or so to get through. A little light reading for you, eh?” I kept the weak smile in place. Did this kid honestly expect that I would read this? I have a job, after all. How did Jim afford this house, anyway? I made an abrupt change to a different subject. “So what is it that you do, Jim?” “I’m tellin’ ya, read that, it’ll tell you everything.” “No, what do you do. Are you employed?” Suddenly I wondered if he dealt drugs or sold bombs out of his two-car garage. Perhaps he organized revolutions. Perhaps he was part of the anarchist protests that appear at the Group of Eight conferences and such. “Computers. I write programs.” This sent him off into yet another alien world. He must have been explaining his work in great detail, but all I really caught was that first part. I nodded occasionally and wondered if he would try to give me a programming book. His talk turned back to anarchism, and then he made a U-turn and asked what I did for a living. “I work over at Monsanto, in human resources. Been there just over 20 years.” The conversation stayed on light topics, and Jim asked about my wife, Rebecca, and we had a long, serious discussion about ice hockey and Jim’s Dodge Viper. When I crossed my yard to return home, one soda, two beers, and a contact high later, still carrying Man, Economy, and State, Rebecca’s car sat in the garage already. “Dinner!” Rebecca called out when I opened the door. * * * * * The next morning at work, I skimmed the headlines at cnn.com, and saw an article about anarchists protesting at the World Economic Forum. No government, I thought. No taxes. No military. No politicians. No national security. I shook my head, and resumed the more proper task of checking e-mail.
“Good, I’m good.” I suddenly remembered that Tom had extreme political views. “And yourself?” “Not bad. Another morning, another ten bucks out of my check and into oblivion.” Yes, that sort of thing is what I remembered about Tom. I don’t even look at how much is automatically deducted when I get my check, but Tom likes to talk about it. I’m pretty apolitical, but I decided to see if I could get Tom going. “They’ve got to take care of everything somehow, don’t they?” “They? They? I’m forty-six, I’ll take care of myself. I don’t need the government to baby me. My mother still does enough of that.” I chuckled. Tom was humorous, if odd. “Rebecca can act like a mother hen when it suits her, but she doesn’t supply me with a road to drive to work on, or the education it took to get this job.” I shuffled a few papers on my desk. Discomfort set in, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. Government was just necessary. Tom laughed. “You’re not serious, right?” “Yeah, yeah, I am.” I forced myself to look at him casually. No more of this burying my head in memos like an ostrich. “Oh, come on.” Tom sat in a chair opposite mine, the one next to the window. “Roads and education could easily be privatized. There are already private schools. Private industries are much more efficient anyway.” He looked at me with interest. The situation gave me the same feeling I get when Sarah, the office evangelist, has a casual conversation with me. I know she’s worrying about my soul constantly. I got the impression Tom planned to convert me. But convert me to what? “Well, yeah, schools.” I felt stupid. I had even attended private school until college. “But Tom, private roads?” “Sure, private roads. Just imagine how safe and efficient they’d be. You know businessmen love a profit. If they could build roads, there’d be a road leading anywhere you could possibly want to go. And it wouldn’t take ‘em forever to construct it either. And they wouldn’t be full of potholes. Ever heard of Awdal?” I had leaned back in my chair while he was talking, and I shook my head no in answer to his question, but that somehow threw off my balance. My feet flailed under the desk to find solid ground. “Awdal Roads Company. It’s in Somalia. Somalia’s a bit messy right now, you know. This private company is in there building roads through the wilderness. Somalia has become a hotbed of capitalism since they entered a state of anarchy.” I had forgotten that anarchy actually existed somewhere on this modern planet. “Of course, it’s a bit chaotic right now, and they’ll eventually need a bit of government just for defense. There’s a lot of internal conflict in Somalia, between the tribes. But the roads will be taken care of now, privately.” My mind flailed around, looking for something to say, and I decided procrastination was the best tactic. “That’s interesting, Tom. Say, what are you doing Thursday night? Rebecca wants to have you over for dinner.” “I have a meeting on Thursday evening, sorry.” Tom looked a bit confused at the sudden subject change. Just then the vice president walked past my open door, and glanced inside. I’m sure his glance saw two lazy executives taking a pre-midmorning break. Tom saw him too. “How about Friday, then?” I touched the mouse to take the screensaver off my monitor, and shuffled the same papers some more. “Sure, sure, Friday’s great.” Tom shuffled his stack of papers. “We’ll see you around seven, then.” I refilled the paper tray in my printer. Tom fiddled with a pen. I smiled, amused at how falsely productive we appeared. Tom was damn good at it. He was so good at appearing busy that I suspected his actual position at the company had become a sinecure. From there the day went downhill, progressing in the usual manner, with impromptu meetings between the scheduled ones, phone calls, emails, then lunch, repeat, go home. * * * * * “Hello, dear.” Rebecca kissed the side of my mouth primly. “Hello. What’s for dinner tonight?” “Chicken. And mashed potatoes. I met our new neighbor today, Jim. What a sweet boy he is. Did you see his kitchen? Not a thing in it. The whole house is full of computers and books. What a way to live. Sherry across the street noticed that, too. She’s having hemorrhoid surgery tomorrow, you know--” “So you met Jim?” Rebecca honestly doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice when she’s interrupted. “Yes, dear, I already mentioned that. In fact, I invited him over to dinner Friday night. I told him--” “I invited Tom from the office to dinner Friday night.” Having Tom and Jim together could create a very interesting dinner discussion. “Tom Dowless? What a nice man. We’ll have a little party. We should invite another female, although I think Tom may, uh…never mind.” She paused. “He’s divorced.” “Oh, of course. Why don’t we ask your niece, Aryn, to come to dinner? Oh, Aryn and Jim would make such a cute couple! Why—” “No!” Aryn doesn’t need to meet any anarchists. Rebecca probably didn’t know Jim was an anarchist; I’m sure Jim hadn’t been able to get a word into the conversation, much less push off a book on her. “Let’s just keep our little party as is. I’m going to read before dinner.” “You’re probably right, dear.” Rebecca headed toward the kitchen, still talking, undaunted by the fact she now had no audience. Her voice drifted into the kitchen, and I heard the phone being dialed. I listened intently for a moment, to be sure she wasn’t calling Aryn. Satisfied, I sat in my favorite armchair and opened Man, Economy, and State. I didn’t actually read, but skimmed the words, looking for ones I liked. However, the sentences and not merely the words soon caught my eyes, and I read deeply, drinking in not only the strict academic prose but also the forceful logic. Two hundred pages later, when I marked my place and put down the book, my mind felt full and my stomach felt unsettled. Had I really read right through dinner, until Rebecca was already in bed? And had all that time been spent amidst the pages of a book on anarchist theory? I switched off the lamp and headed to the kitchen. Friday night would be interesting. I looked forward to it. * * * * * “Jim! How are you? Do come in! Would you like a drink?” Rebecca eagerly ate our guest as soon as the door opened. “Rebecca dear! I’m wonderful, now that I’m here. How are you? I would love a gin and tonic.” Jim smiled and embraced her warmly. Rebecca danced away to get his drink. Jim came toward me, and we shook hands. “How’s work going?” My mind was very preoccupied with tonight, and Jim’s polite, mundane question threw me off. “Fine, fine, just fine.” The doorbell trilled, and despite a desire to pounce on the door, I calmly walked toward it. “By the way, a fellow from work is coming to dinner tonight.” “Tom Dowless? I know all about him.” Jim moved his eyes in Rebecca’s direction and back again. We both grinned. Rebecca came flying into the room and beat me to the door. “Tom! Oh, it’s so good to see you again, come right inside, I think it’s starting to rain. Tom, this is Jim; Jim, this is Tom. Tom, I just made Jim a gin and tonic. Oh my, that sounds funny! Jim and gin. Anyway, would you like a drink?” “Gin and tonic for me, too.” Tom smiled benevolently at Rebecca. She was almost stereotypical, with her ceaseless female chatter, but she was sweet and harmless and generally beloved. Perhaps because she knew when it was amusing to prattle and when it was wise to be quiet. Tom, Jim, and I drifted into the living room. Jim immediately noticed Man, Economy, and State and the bookmark dangling from the middle. “You’ve been reading it! Tell me, what do you think?” Jim turned to Tom. “I gave him this book just a few days ago, and look how much he’s read already!” “That’s a tough one to get through.” Tom gave me an odd glance. “Don’t tell me you’ve read it!” Jim looked shocked. “Don’t tell me you’ve read it!” Tom laughed. The men shook hands, like brothers. I stood there, bewildered. Was there a brotherhood of men who had read this book? “It looks like you’re getting hit with libertarianism wherever you turn. You’ve got me preaching at ya at work, and if Jim gave you Man, Economy, and State, I’m sure he’s working on you too.” “I let Rothbard do my preaching for me,” Jim said, and Tom laughed. “I thought I was going to be the only freedom-minded person in the tri-state area when I got here!” “Oh, no, there’s quite a few around here. I was just at the Libertarian Party meeting last night.” Jim’s smile drooped. “You’ve read Rothbard and you’re still going to Party meetings?” “Sure. We gotta get the word out somehow.” “You voted in the last election, didn’t you? For Harry Browne.” “Of course, didn’t you?” “No! I don’t vote.” Jim took a long draught of his gin and tonic. “Come on, it’s totally against the Non-Aggression Principle.” “How so?” Tom looked offended. “The whole Non-Aggression Principle is that one should not initiate force, right? Well, isn’t the whole democratic process the will of the majority being forced upon everyone else?” Jim set down his glass. “You’re a Libertarian with a capital L.” Jim looked at me. “I can tell you all about him. He’s very active in the Libertarian Party, and donates large amounts of money. He attends Libertarian conferences. He reads Cato’s publications. He has subscriptions to Reason and Liberty.” Jim strode toward Tom. “He carries a concealed weapon--” Jim pulled back Tom’s jacket and reached for his gun, which was indeed there. “—but there’s not a round in the chamber.” Jim gutted the revolver, and sure enough, no bullets. Jim reached under his own jacket and pulled out a .45 Glock. He turned it over in his hands, and looked at it lovingly, then put it back in the holster. He returned his attention to Tom. “And he’s a trekkie.” “You do love Star Trek,” I said, but Tom wasn’t listening. “You’re an anarchist, aren’t you?” Tom regarded Jim with a mixture of admiration and contempt. “Anarchist, anarcho-capitalist, market anarchist, propertarian anarchist, contrarian, voluntaryist, individualist, free-market anarchist, radical libertarian—take your pick!” said Jim cheerfully. “I can tell you all about him.” Tom looked at me. “He’s a 20-something idealist who works with computers for a living and lives with them for company. He smokes pot. He belongs to more anarchist online bulletin boards than you knew existed, and has more people on his instant messaging list than were in your high school’s graduating class.” Tom stepped closer to Jim. I stepped back from both of them. This was getting stranger and stranger by the moment. Where was my hostess, my Rebecca? “You love Rothbard, send money to the Ludwig von Mises Institute, and you go to their conferences. You’ve thought about moving to Somalia--” Tom stepped even closer to Jim. “—and you’re gay.” I fully expected Jim to punch him. The tension in the room was thick and unusual, and their faces twisted. Then Jim grabbed Tom, and kissed him. I took another step back. Tom clapped his arms around Jim. I took yet another step back. They broke apart, looked at me, and headed for the front door, hand in hand. I remained standing there after they were gone. That didn’t go exactly as I had planned. Rebecca’s voice came from the hallway behind me. “You were right dear, Jim and Tom make a much better couple than Jim and Aryn.”
Rachael Anne Fajardo is a student at Florida State University in Tallahassee. |
“I’m
an anarchist.”
