Forty Years

“I told you, John!” said Max Forester, pointing at the floor. “You can’t do that!”

“I can’t do what?” said John Banister.

Banister had been on welfare every day of his life. Since conception. He had never been able to support himself. He got all the way to college, they say, and then “it” happened. He was suddenly disowned and discarded, never to be heard from again.

Max Forester was a licensed, clinical social worker working with Carers Without Borders or CWB. They took in the ones that no one else wanted. It was their way, or prison.

“You can’t go around here, pretending that you want to go into business,” said Forester. “It’s illegal, and I won’t have it!”

“Starting a business isn’t illegal!” said Banister. “I can do whatever I want!”

“Disability is for poor people. My tax dollars, everyone here’s tax dollars are going to support poor people, not ‘entrepreneurs’!”

“Well, when I get rich, I won’t be poor anymore. Problem solved!”

“You signed the document saying that you were disabled. So now that’s it! This is illegal! You are supposed to be poor and accept treatment. That is your ‘job’ from now on! Give up the business!”

“Why would I have to do that?”

“John, if you don’t give up this business and sell those assets, I’m going to have to report you as a welfare cheat. It’s a felony. It carries substantial jail time. Don’t test me.”

“I don’t care if you do report me as a welfare cheat! I’ll take you to court! I’ll go all the way to the Supreme Court if I have to!”

“John, you are poor; Your destiny is to be poor. It’s your job to accept benefits and let normal people live their lives. Do not waste normal people’s time by pretending that you’re some kind of entrepreneur. People don’t want to waste their time talking to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m not going to give up my business! I’m going to succeed!”

“John, you’re forty years old. You’ve never succeeded at anything in your life. Your family discarded you like a rusty piece of bread. You’ll never see them again. Instead of focusing on pretending to be successful, you need to be getting a girlfriend!”

“No way! No way in hell! If you think I’m stupid enough to let you put my future kids into this ‘program,’ you’re schizophrenic, not me!”

“John, you owe me. I’m the taxpayer here. I’m the law-abiding citizen. You owe me. Give up the business, find a woman, and have kids.”

“You’re demonic, do you know that?”

“You know, I may be demonic, but I’m in charge. I tell the judge one time that there’s a black man scamming the local populace with his fake ‘success’ and you go in the pokey.”

“I can do what I want! If I want to be successful, I can be successful! If I want to start a business, I’ll start a business!”

A week later, there was a huge commotion at the Abberdale Mental Health facility downstate.

Late at night, in the dead of winter. Screaming could be heard. A violent slamming. And then a voice. Multiple voices. Men arguing.

The view from within the padded cell was quiet. There was no one in the padded sell except for Mister Forester. He sat there, dressed in his great coat, looking like he had just won the jackpot at Atlantic City.

“Let me go!” said Banister, railing against his captors. “Let me go! I’ll have your badges for this, and you’re not even cops! Let me go!”

The orderlies did not take his orders, did not follow his commands. They forced him into the padded cell, threw him to the floor before Forester’s feet, and then left him there, locking the padded cell door behind him.

Banister sat there, on the floor, his strait jacket glistening dully in the artificial light. Someone was going to pay for this. Someone had to pay.

“What are you doing here, Forester?” said Banister.

“I told you.” said Forester. “I am a taxpayer. I work hard and I pay my taxes. I don’t like people wasting my time.”

“Wasting your time? You forced me into this! You and your sham company!”

“This all goes away when you drop the business and start acting disabled.”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

“Hit your head against the wall. Drool a little. You know. Act disabled!”

“You’re crazy!”

Two days later, at the local courthouse, there was a feeling of finality. This had been an event forty years in the making. Whole lives had changed. The pace of everything was accelerating at a rate that those involved would rather not admit.

The finality was stifling.

The plaintiff, Mental Health Corp., sent their most high-powered attorney. He had worked tirelessly for decades, shooting fish in a barrel. De-voicing the voiceless. No one had ever defeated him in court. How could they? Half his opponents didn’t even know where they were.

Banister was allowed to attend this hearing, but only if he had his strait jacket on. He sat there uncomfortably, trying his best to keep his balance. The judge brought the court to order.

“What exactly is the problem here?” said the judge.

“This mentally ill criminal is defrauding the public. He’s set up shell companies all over the country and is bankrolling criminals.”

“Is this true?” said the judge.

“Your honor, I don’t even have a company set up yet,” said Banister. “I was going to incorporate later this year.”

“Well, he owes back business taxes to the state government; your boss,” said the plaintiff’s attorney. “Estimated in the tens of thousands.”

“Now, is that true?”

“Your honor, I have never accepted a single payment. I have no customers, and I have received no financing.”

“My tax dollars don’t go to funding businesses,” said the judge. “You should focus on starting a family.”

“I am my family, judge.”