Waste, Fraud, and Abuse

A year after the end of the war, if there ever was an end, a child was born to the line of a billionaire mogul in the United States’ automotive industry. Before his son could walk, Thomas Hundt knew he was destined to be just like himself: just as cunning, just as resourceful, just as vindictive. Like the animal epitomizing his lineage, certain traits were inherent to the Hundt’s identity, and the predatory nature of his drive was magnified in the Machiavellian habits of his blond-haired, blue-eyed, Aryan offspring. Instinctively, Hundt’s ambition overtook his influence, and while he never did achieve absolute governance of global commerce, his worldly conquest left an imprint on the assembly-line industry that was unilaterally defined as extraordinary.

As Hitler rose to power, so did Thomas Hundt’s support of the antisemitic ideologies, which steadily took money from his pockets to line those of his capital adversaries. When the war ended, Hundt realized that perhaps he had been too quick to condemn an entire race of people, and by the time his son, Henry, was born, Thomas put all thoughts and any concepts unrelated to mass production from his mind, unconsciously vowing to channel all traits of ambition, charisma, strength, and obstreperousness into his infant son’s character. And so, before he was even toilet trained, Henry Hundt was destined to take on the unyielding legacy of a bloodhound, never to stop digging until his father’s hunt was through.

Henry was five when Thomas enlisted him in the Collegiate School for Boys in Lower West Side Manhattan. Even in kindergarten, he displayed an aptitude for competition that overshadowed most of his peers in their various academic passions. In fourth grade, he made friends with a boy named Alexander Abraham. They teamed up on the smaller boys in gym class and developed a rapport to interrupt their seminars, which Henry found arbitrary in comparison to the lessons he learned from his father on weekends abroad in Sevilla, Moscow, Berlin, and Florence or, otherwise, at the car factories his father owned internationally.

One night after school, Henry asked his mother, Marianne-Louise, if Alexander could come over for a playdate the next day.

“Only if your father says it’s okay,” Marianne-Louise Hundt said, looking perturbed as she tried on her new Prada chiffon.

“Dad,” Henry said to Thomas that night at dinner, “would it be all right if my friend came over after school tomorrow? I want to show him the new Mercedes.”

“Hmmm—” Thomas sliced off a thick chunk of pot roast and considered his son. “Yes, I suppose that would be all right, but if you want to drive, I’ll have to be there with you... and only around the block, no farther.”

“Yes, sir.”

The next day after sixth period, Henry and Alexander took the subway from the Collegiate School to the Hundt family mansion in Queens. His father had offered to leave work early to pick them up, but Henry strategically turned down Thomas’ proposal, wagering an early arrival would mean more time with the Mercedes without Thomas’ supervision. When they arrived at the manor, Marianne-Louise was passed out on the drawing room couch with an empty martini glass dangling in her hand. Henry signaled for Alexander to be quiet as they tiptoed past her to the door of the garage, where the brand-new Uhlenhaut Coupé resided along with several other prototypes from Thomas Hundt’s collection.

They pulled out of the garage and made a left towards Gardens Hills, Henry driving and Alexander cackling out the window. They circled around the block and made it back with no incident other than Henry scaring a couple of pigeons at the corner. When they got back to the manor, Henry parked the car in the garage, and the pair made their way back into the drawing room. They caught their breath next to the still unconscious Marianne-Louise.

“Let’s play cards, then,” Henry said, though he only knew Go Fish.

Thomas Hundt returned twenty minutes later, upset about work and some vagrant who had asked him for change on the drive back. Henry ran to greet him at the front door.

“Dad!” Henry exclaimed. “Alex and I have been waiting for you!”

Thomas took off his overcoat and surveyed the drawing room. “Ha! Waiting for what?

“For you to take us driving, of course!”

“Oh...”

Thomas noticed his unconscious wife on the sofa. He walked into the kitchen and began to fix himself a Manhattan.

“Yes, of course, go get the coupé started; I’ll meet you out there.”

Henry and Alexander raced back to the garage. Alexander hopped in the back, while Henry subjugated the passenger seat. After a few minutes, Thomas stumbled out of the drawing room door and joined them in the driver’s seat. He sat there for a moment, neither gathering his breath nor his thoughts, just looking blankly at an off-colored spot on the garage door.

“Where are we going, boys?” Thomas asked finally.

“Just around the block, Dad,” Henry said, “and don’t be afraid to lay on the heat.”

Thomas grunted as he shifted into gear. Outside, he put on the gas in the driveway, displaying the power of the new car for his son and his son’s friend. Alexander let out a whoop of amusement at the corner, prompting Thomas to turn around and smile.

“It’s got some power, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander said.

“You kids want to see something?”

Thomas squealed to a stop at the corner store, where a man was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the post of the gallery. Thomas parked next to the gas pumps and exited the vehicle. He gave Henry a stern look as he made his way to the front door.

“Keep an eye on her,” Thomas said to Henry.

“You there!" he said, turning to the man smoking a cigarette. “Fill her up!”

The man, who had been about to pitch his smoke, eyed Thomas in disbelief.

“I don’t work here.”

“Well—” Thomas walked over and tucked a twenty-dollar bill into the man’s pocket. “Now you do.”

Thomas walked into the store, and the man began to fill the car with gasoline. A few moments later, Thomas left the store with a few bags of potato chips and a ten-dollar bill in his loose hand. He handed the bill to Henry as he entered the car, throwing the chips to Alexander in the back.

“Give this to him,” Thomas said to Henry, nodding at the man pumping the gas.

Henry extended his arm out of the convertible, and the man took the bill.

“Thank you very much, sir,” the man said.

“Attaboy,” Thomas said as he started the engine. “Always offer a reward; it’s the incentive that reminds them who they work for.”

They pulled out of the parking lot and headed back in the direction of the mansion. In the backseat, Alexander picked up one of the bags of chips, and he giggled as he opened it, and the bag made a small popping noise. Henry gazed out of the window and smiled at an old man struggling to bring a bag of trash to the can.

“Dad,” Henry said, “maybe we should show Alexander what this car is made of.”

The old man stumbled and fell with his can of trash.

“Huh?”

Thomas swerved around a corner.

“No can do, boys; I have to check in on your mother...”

Thomas put on the gas as he turned onto Gardens Hills.

“Awww, shucks,” Henry said, his chin in his hands on the side of the coupé.

“Boys, you’re bound to learn this one day, so you might as well learn it now. It’s best to check in on the women in your life as much as possible. They require maintenance... and like that sorry fella back at the station, if you toss them a dime from time to time, they’ll take care of the things that matter most... like this car, for instance. Your mother watched over it all day, whether she realized it or not, and why? Because she knows she’ll likely get a new dress or a shiny necklace out of it... it’s all about the incentive. Just like that fella back at the station.”

The coupé rolled through Gardens Hills, and Thomas slowed down as they neared the manor.

Henry’s eyes glimmered, watching the houses pass, one by one. “So, what you’re saying, Dad, is that with enough money, people will do whatever you tell them to do?”

Thomas pulled into the garage and killed the engine. He looked down at his son with pity.

“You should never think that way,” Thomas said, “but yes.”

"It matters what you call a thing"

- Solmaz Sharif