2.

  Johnny’s second period was in the small room tucked at the back of Hall D, furthest from the principal’s office. It was one of the more insignificant rooms that had been skipped over the past two school’s renovations. Generally used as a planning area, a backup room for when one of the good classrooms was unavailable for a day, or in this case a less than popular sparsely populated elective. It had a dozen desks older modeled desks littered throughout the room with no care put into their placement and was lit with dim fluorescent lights that had skipped the last round of replacements the school had installed.

  Johnny joined four other students already in the room. Rob, the second-string quarterback for the football team, was sitting in the middle of class next to Tracy, the yearbook editor. Gretchen, current salutatorian with high hopes of becoming Valedictorian, was seated in the front row, notebook and number two pencils at the ready. Lewis, that one kid who your opinion of teeters between totally irrelevant and might shoot up the school one day hung in the back corner of the class, closest to the door with one leg outstretched and resting on the empty seat in front of him. Johnny took a desk next to Rob and Tracy across from Gretchen.

  Mr. Bergman walked in wearing a tattered blue button up shirt, untucked with khakis with a loose striped tie and an unbuttoned collar. He went to the front corner to put his coffee on his desk before he went up to the blank whiteboard in front of the class and leaned against it, arm’s crossed, “Welcome to Advanced Business Studies,” he sighed, “You are qualified to take this class because you have already taken pretty much every other business-related class in Reagan High’s curriculum and for some reason you felt like taking another one. This is what the education community calls a capstone,” Mr. Bergman looked over his class, “Big class this year, I only had three last year. Two are studying business management at UCLA. The other one died of liver failure after a graduation party. I read his entrance essay, and it was stellar. I found out from his parents he did get a posthumous acceptance.”

  Mr. Bergman’s demeanor was this odd blend of serious but also uncaring. “Now, if you kids think this is just going to be an easy class to round out your last six months in the pit of darkness that is an American high school, let me tell you something right now,” Johnny and the other students were taken aback a bit by Mr. Bergman’s casual language, “You’re absolutely right.”

  The kids were stunned, yet hopeful at what seemed like a joke from their teacher.

  “Let’s start our class with a story about business. It’s about a guy who got his MBA and took over his father’s novelty T-shirt company after he finished school. He had a minor in education started subbing on the side to help pay off his student loans, but he stayed focused on the business. This business grew under his and his father’s leadership to a million-dollar operation. Then his father died, and the son inherited the business. Then he did what all great entrepreneurs do when they build a business to a million dollars. This is the first question in my class. What do you do when you have your first million-dollar business? Anyone?” Mr. Bergman waved his hand across the room, “Come on, this isn’t like Mrs. Burris’ accounting class or Ms. Clay’s management class, this is a real question you need to ask yourself if you’re going to run a business. What do you do when your first business is worth a million dollars?”

  Johnny raised his hand.

  “Vincent,” Bergman said, pointing at Johnny.

  “You sell it?”

  “Correct, a gold star for Johnny Vincent,” Mr. Bergman smiled and looked at the rest of the class, “Throughout the semester I’ll be rewarding keen observations and good business sense with gold stars, you know, like they do in kindergarten. It’s just my way to reinforce how easy this class is going to be.”

  Rob raised his hand, “What do you get for a gold star? Like, what’s it worth?”

  “Excellent question Rob, Gold star,” Mr. Bergman smiled, “They’re worth nothing, you know why? Because they’re not dollars, only money is worth anything in this world. That’s lesson one.” Mr. Bergman turned, and with a green dry erase marker he reached up to the top of the whiteboard and wrote MONEY IS THE ONLY THING WORTH SOMETHING. “Now I want you to write that down on the first page of your notes for this class,” Mr. Bergman watched as the students all took out their notebooks, “Stop, stop, I’m kidding, there’s not going to be any note taking in this class, I do not have the Patience, or the will-power to make slides, or presentations, or power points, don’t worry about notes. Unlike the suggested curriculum of our education system, I’m going to try and teach you kids shit about how the real world works. Now let’s go back to our story about the humble million-dollar novelty T-shirt company, say our protagonist did find a buyer, and after some hemming and hawing to get the price up, as anyone should do in that situation, he makes the sale. All that hard work finally paid off. Now, what happens when our hero’s wife, his beautiful, angelic wife, starts fucking a guy because he’s tall, blond, and dangerous and makes her feel alive and then ends up pregnant. By the way, if you paid attention in biology class here’s a little cross-curriculum factoid, if both your parents have green eyes and your baby has brown eyes it means something is up, and you should start asking some fucking questions. And even though something might be up, his fucking name is on the birth certificate, and now he is on the hook for child support when she divorces his ass for half the entire god damn fortune he spent his late-twenties building,” Mr. Bergman shook his head, “And now he has to keep teaching in the hopes that his meager salary can one day help him afford a lawyer who can not only get him off the hook for child support, but also alimony. Because, why should a guy have to pay a woman to fuck someone else, that shouldn’t make sense to even the most hardcore of feminists. A lawyer who could do that for him is extremely expensive. So, he’s stuck teaching a high school elective, and tending bar during nights.”

  Gretchen raised her hand, “When are you going to pass out our textbooks?”

  “Fucking never!” Mr. Bergman said, “You are now at negative one gold star little miss Gretchen, hey, where’s Hansel by the way?”

  “Hansel’s sister was named Gretel,” Johnny raised his hand and interjected.

  Gretchen looked over at Johnny, and when she saw him looking back at her, she blushed and quickly turned her head back to their teacher.

  “And now your back at zero stars Mr. Vincent,” Mr. Bergman said, “That’s right, I can give them, and I can take them away. As I said, they are completely meaningless. Now don’t back talk me or I will bust you down to negative one star so fast it will make your head spin.”

  Mr. Bergman went over to his desk and pulled out five small leather bound books, “This is the only book you need to read, it’s by a man named Adam Smith,” Mr. Bergman started to pass them out, “It’s called An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations read this, and I guarantee you will make an A in my class. Of course, I also guarantee you will make an A if you keep your mouth shut to Principal Belding about what I’m going to be teaching you. Don’t worry about making notes in these books, go nuts, you can keep these, they were four dollars each on the Barnes and Nobel bargain shelf. I want you to go wild with them because I spent my own money to get them and I can write it off on my taxes. I want to show you that a four-dollar book can have more knowledge in it than the four hundred dollar books you’re going to have to buy when you go to college. I don’t give a shit, and I understand this is probably the third time I’ve said that. I’m going to keep repeating that throughout the semester so that you know how serious I am about my lack of caring. Now let’s get back to our story, so when our hero’s wife has divorced him, he is punished for how well he was doing before he sold the business. Because I’m not going to lie, He had a steady and reliable income, said income stopped when he sold the business because he got a big payday and he was going to retire and move to Scottsdale Arizona and buy a modest McMansion and live like a fucking king. But then, after the divorce, he lost half of that payday, and yet, is still on the hook for alimony and child support for a kid that is ninety-nine percent likely not his. Because of said alimony and child support, it has been tough for him to get a good lawyer to help him circle the legal system and get out of this. So, he has to teach to make ends meet, and he doesn’t give a shit if he’s doing a good job or not. Because he had the foresight to join the teacher’s union, which means he can never be fired so long as he’s not caught fucking a student.”

  “What do you mean caught?” Tracy quickly questioned.

  “Don’t sass me Tracy,” Mr. Bergman pointed at her, “Or I will take the gold star I secretly gave you for being hot,” Bergman looked at the rest of the class, “That’s right, I gave Tracy a gold star the second she walked into class, another lesson, some people are just blessed and get shit you don’t get. Write that down, not now, do it when you get home and start a journal and write that eighteen god damn times, so it sticks in your head that that is how life works.” Mr. Bergman walked over to his desk and sat down, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small flask. “Now I’m going to have a drink and check the financial section of the paper and read up about some stocks I have what’s called a vested interest in. They’re not stocks I own personally, they are owned by a shell corporation that was coincidently founded by my cousin around the time I started to read up on how punnet squares work. While I’m doing this, I want you all to, I guess, put your desks together and talk about small business ideas you have.”

  After assigning the class their project, Mr. Bergman poured some Irish into his coffee and leaned back in his chair and pulled out his paper, totally disconnecting from his class.

  The kids did as they were told, putting their desks in a circle.

  “Is this seriously okay?” Gretchen asked as she pushed her glasses up her nose.

  “I think I’m cool with it,” Johnny said, “I’m sure we would all like the easy A, if we’re not doing anything here any way we could at least get some homework for our other classes done, all we got to do is not say anything to an administrator, and we can basically get a free period with a bonus to our G.P.A., I think that sounds like a pretty good deal. So who’s in?”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “I got keep a B average to stay on the team, and I’m probably going to make a C in English this year, I need the A to balance that out,” Rob said, joining Jonny’s proposed alliance

  “The time to relax does sound nice,” Tracy said.

  “I am so freaking close to Valedictorian. I need every edge I can get, while this goes against my moral code, I will consent to this,” Gretchen said.

  “All right, glasses is in, what about you, Lewis?” Johnny said.

  “I don’t give a shit one way or another,” Lewis said.

  “Okay, we’re all agreed then. Pact of silence!” Johnny smiled.

  “So, what should we do for the rest of the class?” Rob asked.

  “I guess we should talk about business,” said Tracy.

  “You guys heard about the vote, Prop four-twenty?” Johnny said.

  “What does pot legalization have to do with business?” Rob asked.

  “Everything,” Johnny said, sitting up, “There are companies in Colorado, Canada, even medicinal outfits here in California that are chomping at the bit for legalization. When it happens, it’s going to create a whole new consumer category. People are going to make a ton of money off it.”

  “Word is you’re already making a good bit of money on it,” Lewis grinned.

  Johnny tensed up, “Quiet man, we’re in class, Jesus,” he quickly turned around to see if Mr. Bergman had heard Lewis’s little comment.

  Bergman just smiled at him, “High schoolers are smoking pot. Someone should alert J. Edgar Hoover about this new development,” Bergman said as he gave Johnny a nod before looking back at his paper.

  Gretchen looked up, “I’ve never actually smoked weed, are there that many high schoolers who do?”

  The other four looked at each other, and all shared a hardy laugh, “That’s cute,” Tracy said.

  “Yeah,” Johnny laughed again and shared a quick look with Gretchen before she blushed from embarrassment and looked away from him.

  “When it does become legal all those Mexican drug lords republicans keep talking about are going to lose a ton of money, they all work together to ship tons of in over the border, they’re like the Mafia on steroids,” Lewis said.

  “It’s called a Cartel,” Mr. Bergman perked his head up over his paper.

  “What’s that? Like the Mexican word for Mafia?” Rob asked.

  “Not quite,” Mr. Bergman stood up and walked in front of the class, taking another sip from his coffee, “By definition a cartel is a group of independent producers that seek to increase their profits by working together and instituting things like price fixing and limiting supply, they are able to do this by having full control over a certain product.”

  “Like a monopoly?” Tracy asked.

  “Another gold star for Tracy,” Mr. Bergman smiled, “Yes, it’s like a monopoly, but instead of one company, group, or person having complete control, the illusion of a free market is created by all players in an industry working together. Say we all work selling the same product, and that something like a pizza represents the total market share of the demand for our product.”

  “We have a monopoly on Pizzas?” Rob asked.

  Mr. Bergman rubbed his eyes, muttering “Oh my god,” under his breath, “No, how would you even have a monopoly on pizzas. The pizza represents all the customers, everyone who can get a piece of the pizza all agree with each other to divide the pizza evenly, instead of fighting one another for more. As stupid as what Rob just said was, in a way he brings up a good point, see it only works with a product that is in high demand and has what we call, an inelastic price. An inelastic price is a term used for things like milk, bread, stuff people will always buy no matter what the cost,” Mr. Bergman said, actually doing his job.

  “Or gasoline?” Johnny raised his hand.

  “Boom! Yes, gold star Mr. Vincent.”

  “Speaking of which, let’s talk about one of the most powerful Cartels on the planet, a little organization called OPEC, can anyone tell me who OPEC is?” Mr. Bergman.

  Lewis raised his hand, “That’s all the Muslim countries, right?”

  Mr. Bergman shook his head, “You know what, against reservations I will give you a gold star for that, I didn’t think my class would go to a racial place this early in the semester, but I knew what I was getting into when I decided to use a hastily slapped together lesson plan crafted overnight after a lonely, two week long, Christmas bender.” Mr. Bergman looked over his class, “To put Lewis’s summation into more of a politically correct explanation, OPEC stands for the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries. By the way, take notice of how the Arabs, I mean, foreign countries, use English for their acronym. English is the primary business language of the planet, which gives all of you a marked advantage in the global marketplace. I suggest you pay attention to what you should be learning Ms. Pate’s English class and use it wisely.” Mr. Bergman turned and started to pace across the front of the classroom, “Now back to what I was saying. OPEC is an organization of currently fifteen counties,” Mr. Bergman took a deep breath, “Algeria, Angola, Ecuador, Gabon, Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Libya, Nigeria, Qatar, Republic of Congo, Saudi Arabia, notice all the scary countries I’m naming, United Arab Emirates, Venezuela, and Equatorial Guinea. Sorry Lewis, but they’re not all Arab, we have some Latin countries in the mix, but you were two-thirds right, so I’ll give to you.” Mr. Bergman waved his hand, and everyone looked at Lewis.

  “Moving on,” Mr. Bergman said, “Now their stated mission, and they do call it a mission, is to coordinate and unify the petroleum policies of its members and ensure the stabilization of oil markets in order to secure an efficient and economical supply of oil to its consumers and, now this is the important part, ensure a regular supply of income to its producers.” The class was more enthralled with this lecture then any of them had been with any other teacher Reagan High had ever thrown at them, “Now for those of you who didn’t pay attention in Mr. Brewer’s class, Petroleum means oil, the lifeblood of the global economy. These are the countries that control most of the produced oil on the planet. What they do is they work together, they’re a cartel. They all sell oil and talk to each other about what price oil should be, and they determine that price to be somewhere between crashing the global economy and letting Saudi princes afford harems of American and European women who are too hot to have to resort to prostitution, but also know the market value their bodies can carry.”

  “That’s very inappropriate,” Gretchen said.

  “Yeah, it’s terrible the choices some women like Tracy make,” He turned his head towards Tracy “By the way Tracy, if a guy in a headscarf ever approaches you with an interesting business opportunity, you need to say no immediately.” Mr. Bergman said, pointing to the blonde, “Just do yourself a favor and stay away from clubs where Arab guys hang out.”

  “Eww,” Tracy said, then looked at the boys in her class, “I would never sleep with an Arab guy,” she waved her hands, “And it’s not a race thing, I swear,” she said before leaning back in her seat, “The just smell weird sometimes,” She said as she crossed her arms and looked away from the group.

  “Continuing,” Mr. Bergman said, “If a country has access to oil, and for a strategic reason wants to start selling it outright instead of holding all of it until the world reaches a Mad Max level of insanity over this essential commodity in hopes they can stay stable in a post-apocalyptic hellscape,” Mr. Bergman pointed at Lewis, “Which is what we do here in the states,” and Lewis nodded at him smiling. “When a country hits oil, they are invited into the Cartel. Then the cartel, namely their leader, Saudi Arabia, sets a price for petroleum, oil, something that everyone uses, everyone needs. They control all the people who have access to this resource, and all of the people who need this resource, namely everyone, are willing to pay that price. Price in-elasticity, it’s how monopolies are born.”

  As Mr. Bergman held his hands out with satisfaction from giving his students a real lesson about business, the bell for the third period rang. “I guess that’s the end of the lesson, and I have already done more teaching in one class then I had planned to for the entire week. I guess I’ll spend the next two periods just, phoning it in. See, first period is my planning period. Of course, one would think since I have to come in and do nothing for the first hour and a half of the day, I should be allowed to come in at nine-thirty at the earliest, but I can’t. I can’t because Principal Belding is an asshole who has had it out for me since I kissed his wife under the mistletoe at the faculty Christmas party two weeks ago. What I’m saying is I hope you don’t expect me to deliver this much effort throughout the year, I don’t want to go and burn myself out.”

  Johnny raised his hand, “You do realize this is the first day of the semester, right?”

  Mr. Bergman looked at Johnny, “I want everyone to know that that kind of sass will cost you a gold star, but sometimes in business, you luck out taking a risk, Johnny Vincent, gold star,” Mr. Bergman smiled, “See me after class,” he said.

  Lewis, Rob, Tracy, and Gretchen collected their notebooks and walked out of the classroom. Johnny stayed behind and walked up to Mr. Bergman as he took his seat back behind his desk.

  “Johnny Vincent,” Mr. Bergman said, smiling at him.

  “Yes, sir,” Johnny said.

  “Small Business administration, A, Marketing, A, Accounting, A,” he said, reading off Johnny’s high school elective resume.

  “I like business,” Johnny said.

  “Do you like business, or do you like easy A’s,” Mr. Bergman asked.

  “Little of column A, little of Column B,” Johnny smiled, “I like knowing this stuff, and I seem to be good at it, why not follow what you’re good in, after all, business is everything in America, right?” Johnny asked.

  “Well said, so you feel like you’re learning something in these classes?” Mr. Bergman asked.

  “I don’t know, I feel like I’m getting a good base at least, most of it seems like common sense, and I like that. I like getting reassured that I know what I’m doing,” Johnny said.

  “I bet you do,” Mr. Bergman smiled wider, “And you do seem to be very good at it, at least good enough for traditional American educational standards,” he said before leaning forward and clasping his hands together in front of his mouth, “I hear you have your own little business, and I hear it’s quite profitable,” he looked at Johnny.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Johnny said, feigning ignorance.

  “Relax, I don’t know if I made this clear enough, but I don’t give a shit about anything you kids get up to. I mean that from the bottom of my heart,” Mr. Bergman put his hand on his chest, “So I want to ask you, Johnny Vincent, and pretend I’m one of your peers instead of one of your teachers when I do. Are you holding?” he asked.

  “What?” Johnny asked a bit shocked by his teacher's use of terminology he usually only heard from peers.

  “Come on, don’t worry I’m not going to tattle, I need a guy, do you have some shit on you? I’m dead serious. I was hoping my opening lecture would show you how little of a shit I give.” Mr. Bergman said.

  “Umm, uh,” Johnny shrugged his shoulders.

  “Look, you know what I’ve been through, I need something to relax, I know what the kids here are doing, I’m hip, I’m cool, I’m down with the struggle. Just help me out,” Mr. Bergman smiled, “What can I say? Small businesses are the backbone of our economy, and I love supporting them,” he said leaning back in his chair, “Now what do you have in your little backpack that can help me whittle away some of the intense edge I am currently suffering from right now.”

  Johnny just stood in front of his teacher.

  “You’re getting a little bonus lesson for this class right now, Mr. Vincent. When a sale is in front of you, you make it, now are you going to sell or not?”

  “Sure, twenty bucks,” Johnny said, putting an insane amount of trust into his teacher's lack of scruples.

  “Excellent, that’s worth another gold star Mr. Vincent,” Mr. Bergman said as he pulled out his wallet, “I bet you could charge more if you wanted too,” Mr. Bergman said as he handed Johnny the money.

  “Really?” Johnny asked as he pulled a pen out of his bookbag to hand to Mr. Bergman.

  “I like you, Vincent,” Mr. Bergman said holding the pen in his hand, he brought it to his nose and smelled along the shaft “I would go as far to say that you’re probably going to be the best student I’ll ever teach,” Mr. Bergman smiled as he handed Johnny a crisp twenty dollar bill.