The New Philosophy of Qum
John Hayes
I am rocking in my old wicker chair, sipping vodka on the rocks and waiting for the ball game to start when the little blue man materializes.
“Hello,” I say. Since I switched to vodka nothing surprises me.
“My name is Qum,” he says.
“Care for baseball?” I ask. “Good game this afternoon, winner should be in first place.”
“No baseball in Acari,” he replies. “What is it? A gambling game.”
“I might go a buck or two on this one.”
“In your money, How much is that?”
“Oh, buy you about a double slug of this stuff.” I pour him a double shot of vodka.
He drinks it, turns green and holds his glass out for more. Qum is about three feet tall and has pointed ears and head. He has an unusually thick neck but overall is well proportioned.
He wiggles his pointed ears, a sign, I subsequently learn, that he is thinking.
“Are these bucks difficult to get?” he asks.
“Very. Men kill to get them. Even go into politics.”
“This is very good stuff” he says draining his glass. “We will need more.” He wiggles his ears, “Therefore we need more money.”
I notice that my bottle is about empty.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say. I take a good look at his short blue body. “Who the hell are you?” I ask.
“Qum, I already told you that.”
“Okay, what are you?”
“On Acari I was a highly eminent gambler. Twelve afternoons ago during a high stakes game I made the mistake of taking advantage of our most high premier.”
“You mean cheated?
“No, took advantage of. I didn’t know it was the high premier. She’s supposed to handle affairs of state in the afternoon, not gamble.”
“Think of the good side,” I say. “Anytime a politician is not tending to business, they can’t do any harm.”
“Please, don’t interrupt,” he wiggles his ears. “As I was about to say I was exiled to Earth,” he holds out his glass. I pour each of us a drink, “We’re out,” I say.
“Is it true?” he asks, not understanding the significance of my statement, “that with your bucks one can acquire rustic estates, ample vodka, gorgeous women and total enjoyment.”
“I have always heard that, but it requires far more bucks than I will ever have.”
“We shall see,” says Qum. I look up to see my wallet floating thru the air and into his hand. He withdraws my five dollars and says we shall parlay it into a fortune. I point out that picking pockets is frowned on by the law and could even get one busted in the nose.
“Tut, tut,” says Qum. “We shall gamble.”
“With five dollars?”
“Certainly, we shall bet on a sure thing. This ball game, for instance, who’s playing?”
“Yankees and Red Sox.”
He forms an ellipse on my porch floor using pink chalk. A white “Z” slowly forms.
He wiggles his ears, “The Yankees will win,” he says.
“With Caruso pitching at home, this I already know.”
“Poor odds?”
“Terrible.”
“Perhaps something else?
“Can you figure the sixth at Sportsman?” I hand him my racing sheet.
Qum draws an ellipse on the porch floor with pink chalk. A “Z” slowly forms. He wiggles his ears.
“If you always get a “Z” from the pink chalk why do it?” I ask.
“Holy Cow,” he declares is a winner. “It helps me to wiggle,” he adds.
Holy Cow is paying thirty to one so I phone in my bet. At the end of the sixth we have one hundred and fifty dollars, less tax.
I drive to my bookies, pick up my money, buy more vodka and return to my house. Qum is rocking as he scrutinizes the ball game.
He looks at me, “Explain this game to me. What’s it all about?”
“Winning.” I pour each of us a stiff drink.
We are both thirsty and drink heavily while making plans for the future. The plans are simple. We will win every race at Sportsman. The next day we start off fine but at the end of the fifth I learn that Qum is not infallible. He points out to me that he needs vodka to predict accurately and as I need a drink myself we drive to “Happy Harry’s, the used car friend you can turn to” and leave there minus my Celica but with 395 dollars. We purchase a gallon of vodka and return to my place for some serious thinking.
The next day Qum mentions that this is not a good race day so I suggest the stock market. Qum is a natural at this. Initially, except for vodka and a few other necessities, we reinvest our winnings. But as our dollars accumulate we acquire two sport cars, a rustic estate, one fair race horse, many cases of vodka, all our friends drink vodka, and lots of gorgeous friends, both male and female. Qum takes to women like he does to vodka and we are both blissfully unaware that our money is going backward on the market.
It is not long after our money starts going backward on the market that Qum busts into my room early one morning waving the financial page of the “Times” in my face.
“Go away,” I say.
“Nothing doing,” he shouts and shoves the financial page under my nose. I ignore it and reach gratefully for the vodka which his other hand holds. Qum steadies it to my mouth. It hits my stomach and spews up on the floor as I thoughtfully lean over the side of the bed.
“Try another,” says Qum, handing me a second shot. This one stays down.
“You’ll have to clean it up yourself,” he says pointing to the mess I have made on the floor.
“Why not Arthur?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?” I echo his word.
“Gone. Everyone’s gone. We’re broke.”
“Betty too?”
“Just as soon as she realized we were broke,” Qum says.
“Gad!”
“It’s our own fault,” he shoves another slug in my general direction.
I take it with fervor, “Yeah, that guy at the broker’s office told us to watch our investments.”
“Speculations,” says Qum. “Okay, up and at them and back to work.” He pauses and wiggles his ears. “And no more partying.”
“No more partying?”
“Right.”
“But why have money if we can’t spend it?” I ask.
“For its own sake.”
“Its own sake?”
“Dollar upon dollar for its own sake. Wealth for itself!” he shouts.
“The means shall be our ends,” I cry catching his enthusiasm.
“We will write a book glorifying our new philosophy,” he gushes.
“We’ll be famous.”
“Rich.”
I clutch his hands in delight, a tear of sheer ecstasy dropping from my cheek as I ponder the great ideal which we have created.
He wiggles his ears.
“What?” I ask.
“We need a stake.”
“Sell cars for Happy Harry,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. He wiggles his ears. “How many cars?”
“Enough for a case,” I say, “I’ll start writing our book.”
Qum leaves, all three feet of him jiggling, except his ears. They wiggle.
I begin writing, The ethical accumulation of wealth by any means...
I am on page 87 when a smiling Qum returns, vodka in each hand. He fixes drinks, then looks at my first page.
“Strike ethical,” he says.
