Less Is More

Maron could feel the spittle as it pooled in the recesses of his otherwise barren palate.  The drool was intolerable.  Hunger was an inviolate preaching of the bloody frugality wars of the 2030’s, luxury was still anathema.  He could repeat the chant as if it were just yesterday.  Less is more.  Less is more.  A slogan.  A silly turn of phrase.  For the resistance, however, the words were nothing more than superficial.  A cloak in which to mask a much deeper yearning.

Passionate red, with blood oozing down the side.  Grilled to perfection with cross cutting striations burned into the tendinous char on top.

Steak was strictly forbidden.  It was branded with the the ugliest of words.  Men fought over such words,  Uneconomical.  Less is more.

The Great FIRE Movement

There was a time when luxury was celebrated and not spurned.  Wastefulness was not only tolerated but envied by the mobile phone wielding, gas guzzling, super-size drinking masses.

The rumblings started in the aughts and teens.  Earning, saving, and investing became the rallying cry.  Quickly the frugalites hijacked the movement.  Less is more. Less is more.

Maron’s father had been one of them.  He possessed a handful of memories huddling in the den wrapped in layer upon layer while warming himself by the fire.  The heat was always turned down to 50 degrees or shut off completely.  The pipes burst more than once during those early years.

His last glimpse of his father was distorted by his mother’s insistent shove, as he held his baby brother’s arm furtively .  They crammed into an overflowing solar car (the only kind that father would allow) and traveled a few miles before the car sputtered to a stop.  No energy.

His brother would eventually grow resentful.  Maron knew, in his gut, that it was his brother who turned their mother into the authorities.  She was an old woman clinging to her diamond ring.

Only the artificial gem stones were now allowed,  the rest had been ceased by the government decades ago.

The Resistance

Maron, sickened by his turncoat brother, joined the resistance shortly thereafter.  His decision buoyed by his resentment as much as his love of the finer things.  That is, except for steak.  He dreamed of steak.

In each bite of tasteless frugal rations he envisioned the juicy tenderness streaming down his jowls.

The ban on luxury cuts had gone too far.   Man cannot live on ground beef alone.  Or chicken for that matter.

Ironically, Maron was present for the last skirmish of the frugality wars.  It was back in early 2036.  The resistance had rented out an old broken down restaurant, Le Francais, in little-known Wheeling, Illinois.  Disguised as a menial wedding, the best cuts of beef, champagne, and desserts had been flown in under some silly guise or another.  The diamond encrusted silverware was placed carefully in front of the finest stemware.

The guest list numbered in the hundreds,  A few lost souls with an eye for lust and an indifference to expense.

Old Dick Wilson, the curmudgeonly mayor of Wheeling, somehow got wind of the event and shut down the electricity minutes before the festivities began.  The press bulletin mentioned an unusual run on energy that night.

Maron sat in the darkness chewing on his undercooked steak.  That was last time his teeth had bitten into such lovely softness, accompanied by the swill of unrefrigerated beer.

Heaven.

Less is more.

The Blind Pig

Maron almost hit his head as he slinked into the basement of the shaded storefront.  The concierge double checked his ticket before unlocking the door and leading him into a hidden dining room filled with shadowy figures munching silently. He sat down at the elegantly decorated table for one.

He dreamed of a nice red, a Merlot perhaps.  Instead he was offered grape juice.

No matter. His waiter was making the way forward with an oversized silver serving dish, barely concealing the only entrée that was offered on the menu.

In that moment, Maron couldn’t help but think that the frugalites had a valid point.  Scarcity wasn’t always negative.

It was with great irony that he enjoyed that first bite of such perfection, in part, because he didn’t have the luxury of eating such things everyday.

This blog is a departure from my previous format.  Although most financial sites stick to factual, informational posts, I think creative writing can sometimes add a layer of understanding and color.  If you liked this post, please let me know in the comments, and I will consider continuing this story as a weekly serial in addition to my usual blogging.  If not, also say so, and I will consider discontinuing these types of posts.