The Hope Monger (First Draft)

Fiction Piece #

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A Note from the Compiler:

“The Hope Monger,” I must admit, was always one of my favorite Javier Levine stories. I know that it is not considered appropriate for scholars to have “favorite” pieces by their subjects, but, then again, I am not really a scholar (certainly not anymore,) nor is Javier Levine really my “subject” so much as he is my hero, my obsession, my being.

What Javier was, is, to me, is probably something more like what a husband is to his wife, what a mother is to her child, what David was to Michaelangelo.

Javier meant so much more to me than I could ever hope to put into words; I suppose that is why I have committed my life to him.

Fifty long years I have spent in obscurity – fifty long, long years.

But, whenever I despaired, whenever I was despondent, whenever I was shaken, I turned to “The Hope Monger,” and I found myself renewed.

The story is set in Los Angeles, sometime before the Great Conflagration of 2025. Before the city burned, physically, that is, although everyone who knows Javier knows that the city had burned down, spiritually, years before that.

The origins of the story may be true, or they may not be. I used to worry over such things, but, in the many years I have studied this story, those worries have washed away.

Truth, as Javier would say, is a spiritual thing – it is not bound by facts or figures, nor is it proven by reason and logic.

Truth exists in the sinews of the soul, the way they reverberate and ache when they hear something which they know to be true.

Truth, said Javier, is spelled with a capital T.

The man they call “Eesh,” the hope monger himself, may have lived. He may have been a person of flesh and blood, a person with a passport and a social security number, or not. But it is my humble opinion that this matters not in the context of the story.

The man they call “Eesh” lives within each of us, within our souls, within our very bones.

And this is his story, as told to us by the one and only, Javier Levine.

~

The Hope Monger

Long before he knew what he was to become, Javier Levine was a simple man.

A child, really.

Though he was getting on in his 20s, he, like all of his contemporaries, was really no more than an adolescent.

To describe the 20-somethings of that era as “adults” would have been as offensive to them as it was to the word “adult.”

“Adults” have responsibilities; children do not.

Besides the vague and overwhelming “responsibility to save the world from climate change,” these young people, these old adolescents, really had no responsibilities.

And Javier was no different.

After his stint in Europe with Yako ben Adam, he had grown tremendously, but he had not grown up.

Not in the truest sense of the word, anyway.

Javier was still in that strange liminal space most of our youth find themselves in today – too old to be children, but too reluctant to be adults.

And it made Javier profoundly unhappy.

It was in these days that Javier would go to the market to buy things, as anyone would do.

But Javier was never sure what he was exactly “in the market for.”

Often, he found himself purchasing things simply because he thought he was meant to purchase them.

Simply because purchasing was something that people did, and Javier was a person, and, therefore, he had to purchase things.

And, in those days, everything was for sale.

When Javier went to the market, he saw all kinds of stalls and sellers.

He saw people selling dreams, strange dreams, dreams of a beautiful future that had no name.

He saw people selling anger, anger about a past that was not necessarily the one he remembered.

He saw people selling drugs, of all kinds, drugs of substance and drugs of the lack thereof, drugs that made one pass time into oblivion, drugs that softened the sound of time’s ever-present march, drugs that cost nothing upfront.

Drugs run by algorithms instead of cartels.

Javier was a curious man, so he made sure to visit every stall, to test all the merchants’ wares, as it were.

But he found himself wanting.

Wanting what? He did not know.

He only knew that it was not what he had found.

So Javier kept going to market, kept meeting new vendors, kept trying new things.

In that postmodern world in which he lived, every vendor had a beautiful shop.

A storefront designed by people who spent a lifetime learning what would draw someone into a particular store, what colors were most pleasing, what slogans were most enticing, even which fonts were most soothing.

“Marketing,” as this ancient practice was called, was, like philosophy, a study of human nature – only, unlike philosophy, the purpose was not to learn what it meant to live well.

And this was a multi-billion dollar industry.

An industry that so many of Javier’s peers at Princeton had gone into.

But there was one shop in the market that was not aesthetically pleasing to look at. One shop that was not perfectly designed to attract a man’s attention. One shop that, in truth, was repulsive to his postmodern eyes.

It was a bare storefront, made of unpainted and unvarnished wood.

It had exposed nails and gave off the impression that anyone who touched it was sure to find himself with splinters.

There was no neon sign post, no specially designed font, drawing customers in.

Instead, drawn in cheap white paint with a shaky hand, were the words “Hope Monger,” written on the topmost panel of the stall.

It reminded Javier of an old-fashioned saloon from the early westerns.

Only, there was no inside tavern. Just a wooden frame with an open window where one could see the merchant’s face.

Smiling, Javier remembered him most because he was smiling.

And, in those days, smiling, real smiling, was a rare commodity.

Unsure of himself, Javier walked past it a few times, scoping it out.

He wanted to know more, but he worried that, if he made his interest known, the merchant would glom onto him just as relentlessly as all the other merchants.

After five or six passes, and seeing no one else stopping by this place, he decided to make his pass.

He stood out a few feet, ensuring he had a route for retreat if need be, and delicately craned his head from side to side, trying to see what the smiling man had for sale.

“Don’t worry,” the merchant said, “I’m not selling anything you don’t want to buy. In fact, I’m not selling anything at all.”

Javier’s face could not help but show utter confusion.

“Strange,” said the merchant, “I know. To see a man in a marketplace, sitting in a storefront, sitting there with nothing to sell. But, don’t worry,” he continued, “I think I have what you’re looking for.”

The man turned his back to Javier and went rummaging around in the back of the store.

Javier approached cautiously and peered over the counter.

The man was opening drawers and rifling through papers. Finally, he found the page he was apparently looking for, and slipped it into a 9 x 12 manila envelope.

“Ah,” he sighed, “this, I think, is just what you’re looking for.”

The man returned to the counter and looked Javier in the eyes, smiling.

“Go on then,” he said, “don’t just stand there gaping at me – ask your question.”

“I, um, I,” Javier was struggling to find the words.

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for – I don’t think I’m actually looking for anything, just kind of browsing.”

“Well,” said the man, “that’s half true I suppose. You certainly don’t look like a man who knows what he’s looking for, but anyone who walks past my shop six times before approaching it is certainly looking for something.”

Javier was embarrassed. He thought he had been so sly! If this man weren’t smiling so naturally at him, he might have been angry, angry at having his self-assured plot discovered. But Javier always found it hard to be angry at someone who wore his smile so genuinely.

“So go on then,” the man prodded, ever so gently, “go ahead and ask me what’s on your mind.”

Taking a moment to test the reality of all this, Javier looked to his right, and then his left, and then his right again, just to assure himself that he was really in the market, and that this really wasn’t a dream.

“What,” he began tentatively, “what, what is it that you sell, exactly?”

“Sell?” said the merchant, “I already told you, I don’t sell anything.”

“So what is it you do in the market? What is it that you went rummaging for, in the back there?”

“Like I said, I don’t ‘sell’ anything. I’m a hope monger, a monger of hope, and I deal in stories.”

Javier’s heart scoffed. If this man thought he was too dumb to know what “monger” meant, (it means to sell), he had surely picked the wrong man.

In his head, Javier thought of Hamlet, ‘art though a monger of fish?’ he wanted to say to this poor man’s Polonius.

The merchant reached into a drawer below the counter and pulled out a laminated card, about the size of a 3 x 5 index card.

It said:

“No, I am not a monger of fish. But good try!”

“How did you,” Javier began to say, but he was interrupted.

“Because many men who come by my shop have read Hamlet, and, as soon as they hear the word “monger,” they all screw up their face like you just did and mouth the words, ‘art thou a monger of fish,’ to themselves, thinking I can’t see it.”

Again, the man smiled.

This time, Javier did too.

“So go on then, ask me what you want to ask me.”

Javier, in that moment, had a million things he wanted to ask, but all that came out was,

“What’s in the envelope?”

Damn, he thought to himself. This man is reading me like a book and all I could think to ask him was about the stupid envelope. Obviously, that was his plan all along. Obviously, I’m not his first customer. Obviously, I am falling straight into his trap.

Javier was wise enough to know that this was some game that this man had mastered, and he hated himself for falling straight into it, but this guy was playing it so well, and, truth be told, he just absolutely had to know what was in the envelope.

“The thing that is in this envelope is the thing that you came to the market for. Of that, I am certain. I am not certain, however, that you are ready to see what’s in the envelope. You still have yet to ask me what you really want to ask me. And, until you do, you won’t get to see what’s in the envelope.”

Before, Javier had been intrigued, a little frustrated, but mostly curious. Now, now he was impressed.

All of the marketing geniuses in the world could not have made Javier so interested in something as he was at that very moment, and he had to admit, this man was good.

“Alright,” he said, “I see your game. You’re very good at it, I must admit.”

“Game?” said the merchant, “you think I’m playing a game? Young man, you’ve been at my counter for almost 15 minutes, and I have not sold you a thing, nor has another customer even cast a sideways glance at me and my wares. If you think I am playing some kind of game, I am certainly not playing it very well.”

He paused for a minute to let Javier remember that there was a whole world around him, and that that world moved on with or without him.

“Now go ahead and ask me what the hell it is that I do. And don’t make me ask anymore of the questions for you, otherwise I’ll get terribly bored and wonder if you really are who I think you are.”

“And who is it that you think I am?” said Javier, a bit angrily.

“I think you’re the kind of man who walks past a weird-looking shop 5 or 6 times before approaching it because you’re trying to lose your trust in people, but you haven’t quite lost it yet, so you still approach it nonetheless.”

Javier was silent.

“And I think you’re the kind of person who walks into a market with no idea what he’s looking for, but someone who knows that he’s still looking for something, nonetheless.”

“And, lastly, I think you’re the kind of person who sees a sign that says ‘Hope Monger,’ and you’re the kind of person who wants to believe the sign means what it says, even if all of your experience until now tells you that this sort of thing is impossible. I think you’re that kind of person.”

Naked.

Javier felt naked before this strange man.

He quickly rubbed his hands on his jeans to make sure that he wasn’t.

“So I’ll tell you,” said the Hope Monger, “even if you don’t want to believe it. But, first, I think it is terribly rude that you have not asked for my name, so I’ll show you how it’s done, and I’ll ask for yours.”

“My, my name is Javier,” he said, “Javier Levine. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.

The merchant took his hand and shook it.

“Name’s Ayeesh Tahm, but everyone calls me Eesh. Like Sheesh, but not quite.”

“Eesh,” said Javier, “it is a pleasure to meet you. Although, I must admit, you are a very strange merchant.”

Eesh smiled big and wide.

“That is the first honest thing you’ve said all day!” And he threw his hands into the air and jumped onto his feet.

“Now that we are properly acquainted, can I offer you something to drink? Some water, a soda, made tea or some coffee? Don’t worry, this stuff is not for sale, just for friends.”

He went to the back of the store front again and began rummaging once more. The unmistakable sound of glassdes clinking and things being arranged was heard, and then Eesh emerged again with a tray holding some empty glasses, a few soda bottles, tea bags, and instant coffee.

“I just put the water on to boil, but, give it a minute it and it’ll be ready.”

“You’re very kind,” Javier said, “but I’m alright. But tell me, now that we’re friends – what is this place? What are you doing? Who – who are you?”

Eesh smiled.

“This place is my storefront, where I monger my wares. My wares are, in a word, hope. What I am doing is trying to purvey them as best I can. And I? I am Eesh, Eesh Tahm, as I said. Other than that, I’m just a guy like you.”

“You purvey hope?”

“Indeed, that is my trade.”

“And, how exactly, how exactly does one purvey hope?”

“Well, like any good purveyor, I buy low, and I sell high!”

Eesh laughed to himself and went back to get the kettle, now fully boiled. He filled up Javier’s glass with hot water, and then he picked up a stool and passed it through the window to Javier.

Javier took it and placed it down, and then he sat. Without realizing, he began to make himself a cup of tea.

“Except that I don’t actually sell anything, or buy anything, for that matter, I just purvey it. I’m a trader, perhaps. Perhaps that is a better word – a trader. But ‘The Hope Trader’ doesn’t have the same ring to it as ‘The Hope Monger,’ you know?”

Javier sipped his tea.

Eesh leaned over the counter towards Javier, and he whispered,

“Do you want to know what I really do?”

Javier nodded.

“What I do, is I find people like you, and I ask them to tell me stories. Sad stories, mostly. People like you mostly tell sad stories. I ask them to write them down. Then, what I do, is I take those stories, and, with all of the power that I have, I look for the hope in them. I look for those little bits of light that always hide on the edges of the shadow, and I ask people, I ask people if they see them too. And, when they do, when, mind you, not if, I ask them to write that hope down, at the bottom of the page.”

Eesh suddenly pulled away from Javier and stopped whispering.

“And then,” he said, “I put those stories into drawers, and I wait for someone like you to come by, and then I put them in a manila envelope and give them to those people.” He said, “people like you.”

It was at this time that Javier remembered the 9 x 12 envelope and his burning curiosity to read its contents returned to him.

This time, though, Eesh handed it over to him.

“Like I said, I don’t sell anything. This envelope, this hope, I monger it for free.”

“But how do you make a living?”

“Make a living?” Eesh said, raising his eyebrows, “only G-d makes the living. If you’re asking how do I make money, well, I have another job – I just do this in my free time.”

“You come to the market in your free time?”

“Yes,” Eesh said, “I monger hope in my free time.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Eesh said, easing his shoulders a bit, “because one time, I was like you, walking around the marketplace, looking for something I couldn’t name. And there was someone else there, in a shop not so different from this one, and he was a hope monger too. And he purveyed hope, just like I do now, and he gave me one of his stories, and now, I do the same. Whenever I can.”

“So what,” Javier said, half scoffingly, “you think I’m going to go around, mongering hope, just like you, because you gave me some tea and told me some strange story?”

“Not at all, my friend, G-d forbid. I gave you the tea because you are my friend, and I told you the story because you asked. Like I said, I don’t sell anything. I’m here on my own time, doing this because, frankly, it’s my favorite thing to do. You’ve heard the story, you’ve drunk your tea – and now you have that envelope you were so desperate for a few minutes ago. My work here is done.”

Javier looked once more at the envelope, not wanting to show how much his curiosity was eating him alive. Slowly, he grabbed it with one hand and undid the fitting. He got up to leave.

“One last thing,” Javier said, turning around. “How do you know which stories to give people?”

Eesh smiled.

“That’ the secret – it doesn’t matter which story you give them, as long as every story is true.”

Javier nodded his head.

“So long, Javier, I hope you believe me when I say that it was an honor to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Javier said, his back already turned and his feet already moving.

He slipped the page out of the folder and began to read.

~

Spread Love, Spread Light,

Am Yisrael Chai