"Dad, are you going to work today?" Jughead asks. His eyes are hollow. Dark and tired. FP looks back at his son. His own face is little better. Sallow. Pale. Drawn. He makes a half-hearted attempt to rise from the couch and then abandons it.
"Come on, Jughead. You read the papers, yeah?" He smiles, sad. "We're on strike."
"Really? Is that it? Because if that's the truth, then fine. I'm happy to shut my mouth if this is in the service of some…noble cause. But somehow I doubt that."
FP sighs. He gropes around for the bottle he'd left lying somewhere at the foot of the couch. Finds it. Raises it to his level. It was empty. A single drop of beer falls from the bottle's lip. The puddle of Budweiser where the drink spilled grows ever wider, soaking into the cheap carpeting and the fabric of the couch. FP sighs. He lets the bottle fall from his fingers and clatter to the floor with a dull thud.
"Do you?"
"Why aren't you at the lot with everyone else, then? Holding up a sign or a flag? Fair day's wage for a fair day's work, right?"
Jughead shakes his head.
"Jug…what does it matter? Why I'm here? Nobility, laziness. I'm here, and not there." FP closes his eyes. Jughead scowls, face flushed with disgust. He decides there's no sense in pushing any further. His father is going nowhere. The all-important drink has captivated him. There's little in the world with the power to draw him away. Certainly not his son. Jughead turns on his heel.
"Well…I'm heading to the factory. Where the strikers are. The actual strikers. Good luck with your own battles, here."
He turns to leave, but stops short when he hears his father's raspy laugh.
"Do you think they'll get anything? Think Cliff Blossom will raise wages? They'll stand out in the cold for a few weeks for nothing. Blossom's got gold and food and warmth. We don't. He can wait us out. That's if he doesn't call in some scabs to work for pennies on the dollar or some thugs to bust skulls. Better I lie here and rest for a while then stand out there freezing my ass off for nothing."
"No, instead you just drink your ass off for nothing, right?"
"I drink my ass off because there's nothing, Jughead."
"Is that supposed to sound profound?"
"No, true."
"Really?"
"No jobs worth shit. No help. No charity. No future. At least we've got fucking drink, for crissakes. Leave me that."
"I never knew you were such a fatalist."
"Never took you for an optimist."
FP's hand finally finds a beer bottle not entirely emptied. With a grunt of victory, he lifts it to his lips and takes a swig. Soon, it's emptied too. Jughead storms out of the tiny house, the doorframe shaking with the fury of his exit. FP shakes the bottle, as if that might magically induce more drink to appear. It doesn't, of course. Hope and willpower are good for nothing. He can't will himself more beer anymore than he can will himself employment that can provide better than starvation wages. Anymore than he can will his wife to return. Anymore than he can will this fucked up country to mend itself and make good on the bullshit promises its politicians make. Anymore he can will the world to purge itself of all the evil and misery.
He shakes the beer bottle once more, and then lets it tumble to the floor. It rolls across the room slowly, bumping gently against the far wall. He watches it rock back and forth for a bit. Now he's alone.
"Did you talk to your dad?"
"You could say that." Jughead spits.
Betty frowns. As if this were her problem. As if problem even affected her. She grabs Jughead's hand. He lets her do it, but he doesn't really return the gesture. At least not with any appreciable amount of enthusiasm. He sinks onto the steps, defeated. Betty takes a seat beside him.
"What happened?"
"He's not going to work. Or even to the strike he claims to be supporting. I wonder how long til he gets fired. Not too long, I'm guessing. Then we'll really be in the thick of it."
"You don't know that's going to happen, Jughead."
He ignores her attempt at reassurance.
"See, with the money he brings in, now, we get to eat. Sure, not enough to keep away hunger pangs at night, but enough that I don't collapse in the street. Let's see how much food he brings in when Cliff Blossom sends him packing. Like Fred Andrews did."
What a row that had caused between Jughead and his best friend. To fire a man was one thing, but to fire him now? When half the damn country couldn't find work? That was tantamount to condemning someone to pauperism. How could your dad do this? He didn't have a choice, Jug. No? Well I'm really sorry your dad was forced to make us homeless. That must be really hard for him. Jughe-Fuck off, Archie.
FP Jones had found another job. Barely. As much as shipping for the Blossoms could be considered a 'job' and not glorified slavery. At least Fred Andrews had given a decent wage. Blossom's largesse was inversely proportional to his personal wealth. Half of it could have kept everyone in Riverdale, Greendale, and the next six towns fed and clothed for another year or two. But to expect generosity from the Blossom clan was like expecting a kiss from a rattlesnake. Nobody was really dumb enough for that.
Anyway, now that that job was gone, it hardly seemed likely the universe would grant a third chance.
"Jughead, we'll figure something out. This isn't the city. We won't let you end up sleeping in a gutter somewhere."
He shrugs. His lips twist into a crooked smile.
"You know, I hear in Russia everyone's got the right to work. 0% unemployment. Guaranteed housing. Maybe I should look into moving to Leningrad, huh?"
"Don't talk like that. The last thing you need is people calling you a red."
"Better a Bolshevik than begging for scraps from the Blossoms' or the Andrews' tables."
"Things aren't that bad, Jughead."
"Easy for you to say, huh?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Betty looks genuinely taken aback. Her big blue eyes go wide. Her lips pressed into a tight line.
"You live in a two-story house and I live in a shack on the southside. Your parents run the town newspaper. My dad can't keep a job ferrying syrup from point A to point B." His voice rises. "You've bought clothes more than once this year. Are you really going to tell me 'things aren't that bad? Really?" His voice reaches its peak, stopping just before a breaking point. She looks hurt now. Whatever. He isn't in a particularly compassionate state of mind at the moment. She stands. He doesn't.
"I'm sorry, Jughead, I didn't mean t-"
"Are you?"
She turns and storms into her house. Her two story house where the water and electricity are never cut. Where there's always food on the table. Later tonight, Jughead will probably feel bad for his callousness in speaking to her. Not right now. Right now he's far too angry for regret. He stands, too. He kicks at the steps to the Coopers' front door. He spits. He floats off down the street and away from this place that mocks him with the comforts that will never be his.
"All the world that's owned by idle drones is ours, and ours alone! We have laid its wide foundations, built it skywards stone by stone! It is ours not to slave in, but to master and to own! For the Union makes us strong!"
The song lifts into the chilly autumn air, a thousand voices strong. Jughead watches, sharing in the heady thrill of the strikers' defiance. He doesn't work for the Blossoms, though half the town does, in some capacity or another. Even Sheriff Keller is far from an impartial avatar of the law. Cliff's money makes sure of that. He's managed to get the proprietor of the new theater downtown to hire him for some simple duties around the place. The pay is a pittance, even compared to his father's meager wages, but it's better than nothing nonetheless. Though he does not work alongside them, he can't help but feel a sort of kinship with the laborers massed together on the cold pavement, standing strong in the shadow of the towering factory before them. They were poor, like him. They lived dollar to dollar, like him. They were well and truly fucked over by capital, like him. He stands a little off from the throng of defiant workers, watching intently.
Every minute they're not working is another couple dollars out of Cliff Blossom's seemingly bottomless pockets. The thought manages to bring the slightest amount of cheer to Jughead's largely ossified spirit. The factory sits on the edge of town, silent and empty. The woods surrounding Riverdale engulf it in a half-moon shape, threatening to devour this symbol of human industry. Its machinery sits idle for lack of hands to operate it. Blossom can call in scabs, but they're not in the big city. It'll take a while to bring in enough men to operate the factory and bring production levels back to normal. And all that while he'll be losing money. Keller's got a few deputies. They came by a few days ago to try and persuade the strikers to cut this nonsense short and return to work. The workers were having none of it. They arrested a few of the more prominent figures, but they could hardly arrest half of the town's population. So the strike continues.
Jughead reads the signs held aloft by the workingmen.
Wanted: A Fair Day's Pay.
Cliff Blossom Makes Money. We Make His Products.
Fair enough.
He figures he should go home and write. This is worth sticking in the 'novel' he's working on (not that he has any delusions about ever getting it published). People love heroic struggles. The underdog against authority. The slave against the master.
The Great Riverdale Strike of '35.
So far Blossom hasn't shown any sign he's willing to negotiate. That's to be expected, of course. He'd consider that a sign of weakness, no doubt. Give an inch and a mile is taken. It's a war of attrition. And his father had a point. Cliff Blossom can afford to wait. In fact, he can afford to wait forever. His wife and children's lives don't depend on his working twelve hours a day. He's got more money than he'll ever need. The workers in moth-eaten coats and shabby caps can't afford to wait. The Blossoms may lose some insignificant portion of their vast profit, but their workers have already lost out on some five days of wages. They can't afford that. They have families that need to eat. This has got to come to a conclusion. And soon.
He thinks of heading into the crowd and joining. Chanting slogans for a little while. Singing union songs. Might make him feel like he's doing something worth a shit, if only for a little while.
Maybe he should apologize to Betty. He was a little harsh. Maybe he should go talk to Archie. See how Andrews Construction is functioning in the midst of all of this chaos. Probably not well. Still better than him. Maybe he should go see his father again. No.
Jughead forgoes all of those options. He goes to Pop's, where the lights are dim and the customers are few, and thank God, he's alone with his thoughts. He sits down in a booth, slips his notebook out from his coat, and begins to write.
In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold, greater than the might of armies magnified a thousand-fold. We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old, for the union makes us strong!
Veronica Lodge tosses a quarter into a well. Who can afford to do that, these days? The raven-haired beauty sits down on the lip of the fountain. She looks into the murky water to confront the mirror image staring back at her. The girl in the water has a stony, pensive face. Hard to read. Veronica has trouble recognizing her.
Riverdale.
The name is like a foul word. From New York to this? What a cruel quirk of fate. Well, nobody's luck lasted forever, not even a Lodge. She looks back at her quarter, shimmering beneath the gently rolling waters of the fountain.
Make a wish. No? There are a lot of wishes to choose from. Yes, plenty of wishes indeed.
Hiram Lodge, you stand accused of conspiracy against the lawful government of the United States of America.
Really? Like something from a bad pulp. 'The Business Plot', the papers excitedly termed it. What a scandal. Germany. Italy. Now America? Would the march of dictatorship leave no land trod underfoot? The worst part was Veronica hardly had trouble believing it. A good daughter would have stood, indignant. Her face red with righteous fury, she would pronounce to all that would listen that her father was a good and honest man, and that all of this was nothing but vile rumor. But to be a good daughter Veronica would have to be a fool or a liar. She was the latter sometimes. Never the former
Business came before everything else. Success and victory were the only things worth a damn in this life. Anything that stood in your path ought to be obliterated without mercy. Rivals? Guns and money could solve that. The law? Just the same. Democracy? Maybe it was time for regime change. There was nothing wrong with helping a friendlier government to power, was there? It was just good business.
Yes, Veronica Lodge thinks. Supporting a bid to overthrow the government of the United States for the sake of profit was precisely the sort of thing Hiram Lodge would do, the old, incorrigible rascal. He'd always said people were too stupid to know what was good for them, anyway. They'd put this bungling fool Roosevelt into office already, after all. Hiram would not allow anything to cut into his bottom line. Not even the President of the USA.
Veronica makes a wish. She can't tell anyone what it is, of course. That would be breaking the rules. Then it wouldn't come true. The rules that governed fortune and fate were the kind that not even the wealth and influence of the Lodge clan could sway. Iron clad.
"Veronica?"
She turns to see her mother striding out into the Pembrooke courtyard.
"Hey, mom."
"Mija." Hermione puts a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "How are you holding up?"
"Just fine, mom. Just fine. Well…" Veronica looks back at the girl in the water. She looks a little happier now. Even if it sort of an empty, cruel happiness. Close enough. "Better than the rest of the country, anyway."
That was no lie. Veronica flicks a second quarter into the fountain. Quarters and dollars. Thousands of them pile up in her mind's eye. Up, up, up, into the sky. Like a mountain that dwarfs any natural mountain. There's someone seated at the top, on an undeserved throne. Ruling without sword or rod. Those are trifling instruments in comparison with the terrible power of wealth. They are far above any other being in this wretched world. Who it is, who knows, really? Mammon? Her father? Her mother? Herself?
Jughead Jones returns home late. He still hasn't apologized to Betty, which means he won't be getting much sleep tonight. Goddamn his conscience. What a burden it was.
He steps through the front door of his house, kicking off his filthy boots. His father sits up on the couch. He looks lucid, the alcohol gone from his mind and his veins. FP Jones meets his son's gaze. Jughead, for once, sees not an empty confusion there. He sees a focus that he thought had long since gone. Even the unshaven stubble peppering his father's face suddenly seems more dignified. FP stands, and strides over to the closet, without a word to his son. Jughead follows his father's movements without speaking. He expects a disappointment of some sort. FP pulls his old leather jacket from the rack. It won't do much against the cold, but Jughead supposed that isn't really the point, anyway. FP slips on the jacket. Outside, the last rays of the sun are extinguished. A fierce wind sweeps in from the stormy sea miles away. Somewhere out there, the strike continues in defiance of powers both natural and manmade.
"Alright dad, you got me." Jughead says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Where are you going at this hour? You know, even if you have any money left, the general store's closed. They're not gonna sell you any more beer."
FP looks back at Jughead. His eyes don't betray hurt exactly, but his son's words do strike him.
"Does it matter?"
"You've been saying that a lot lately. Getting into nihilism?"
"Don't tease me, Jug. You know your old man isn't very bright."
He starts for the door. His hand falls upon the knob. He pauses at his son's next words.
"So. Where are you going, then, Nietzsche?"
"To the strike."
Then he's gone, into the night. Jughead doesn't know if his father is telling the truth, and he finds that he really doesn't care all that much. He shakes his head. The house is still and silent and the already laughably small structure closes in on him.
Alone in the dark.
"What are you reading, Jason?"
Jason Blossom flips the next page of the hefty tome. Cheryl cocks her head in interest. Her brother looks up for a second, then returns to his book.
"Capital. Karl Marx."
Cheryl smiles and shakes her head.
"Don't let dad catch you, huh?"
