The Good Economist

November 3, 1936

“And the results are in. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt has won reelection!”

Sobs of terror rang out in the Courtland household. It was a sizeable manor in the countryside of upstate New York. Mr. Andrew Courtland, a wealthy business magnate, was lamenting that all his businesses would be stolen from him. His wife, Mrs. Margaret Bouchard Courtland, a rich socialite, was clamoring that she would be forced to be a prostitute on the streets. Their five year old son, Hugh Calvin Herbert Courtland, watched with concern as his parents cried. The Bolshevism of Russia had surely supplanted the American Constitution by now. Of course, they had been scared in 1932 when Roosevelt first won, but they thought that such a radical candidate would not last a second term. Furthermore, while the Republican candidate, Governor Alf Landon of Kansas, was a liberal in his own right, but they had put their faith in the lesser of two evils to restore normalcy. Alas, presidents like Coolidge and Hoover were gone, and now the radical socialist New Deal would utterly destroy the Courtland fortune.

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June 14, 1942

Hugh Courtland was eleven years old. He was sitting in the living room of the Courtland Manor, playing with toy soldiers. His father was reading the newspaper and smoking a pipe, and his mother was on the phone, gossiping with one of her socialite friends.

The Courtlands looked up as the doorbell rang out. Andrew barked for Carlotta, the family’s Italian born maid, to open the door. As she opened it, a burly man in a trench coat and fedora stood outside.

“Hello,” Carlotta greeted. “How can I help you?”

“Good morning,” the man replied. “I’m Agent Eustace Waterston with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to speak to Andrew Courtland.”

“Oh, Master Andrew is right this way.” Carlotta led Agent Waterston to the living room, as several police officers walked in behind them.

“Andrew Courtland!” Agent Waterston barked. Andrew stood up, ready to fight, and Margaret and Hugh looked confused.

“What is the meaning of this?” he roared.

“You’re under arrest for treason,” the agent replied. The officers surrounded Andrew, and he flailed with anger as they handcuffed him.

“You’re making a mistake!” Margaret cried out. “My husband is an American patriot!”

“That bastard’s giving money to the krauts. Take him away, boys!”

The officers nodded and dragged a thrashing Andrew out of the house. Margaret dropped to her knees and began weeping, begging at Agent Waterston’s feet and clutching his leg in desperation.

“Father, no!” Hugh cried, running out past Agent Waterston. He watched as they threw his father into the back of a police cruiser, waited for the agent to join them, and then drove off.

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October 23, 1942

After a long legal battle, Andrew Courtland was found guilty of treason. It became public knowledge that he had used his vast wealth to send money to the Nazi government in Germany, and thus, the Courtland fortune had been seized by the federal government as evidence. In order to escape poverty, Margaret Bouchard had her marriage annulled and married Wilfred Vierhook, another wealthy socialite and a family friend. While Hugh did not particularly like his new stepfather, he read several of his books on economics and political theory. It was on that day that Hugh Courtland decided he would stand against all populist ideologies, from the national socialism that had tempted his father, to the New Deal socialism that ruined his family. From that day forward, he was committed to the laissez-faire and the night watchman state.

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August 26, 1949

Hugh Courtland was now an eighteen year old high school graduate. He was accepted at the University of Chicago, where he decided he would pursue a bachelor’s degree in economics. His roommate was an irritating hepcat type, a Chicago native named Harland Stuart. Though he was white, this Harland was a hipster ruffian who enjoyed the savage jungle music known as jazz. After being annoyed by Harland’s antics, Hugh stormed out of his dormitory and checked his schedule. He saw that his introduction to economics class would be taught by a Professor Milton Friedman. He had heard many great things about Professor Friedman, and he hoped that he would be indoctrinated into the laissez-faire Chicago school of economics. Of course, this class would be influential in his path in life.

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January 15, 1958

Hugh Courtland had completed his college education. He was now twenty-seven years old, and was offered a position as an assistant professor of economics at the University of Chicago. He gladly accepted, and worked diligently to indoctrinate students into the Chicago school of economics.

One semester, he was approached by a young Latino student with questions about economics. At first, he assumed to receive ignorant questions about how to best funnel money into a drug trade, but he was surprised to find the student was actually interested in lecture material.

“Hello Professor,” the student greeted, trying his best to sound sophisticated through his barbaric accent. “I was wondering, could you please expand on why Keynesian economics is the worst system?”

“Why, yes, I can,” Hugh smiled. “Uh, what’s your name?”

“Arnaldo Orozco,” the student replied.

“Very well, Arnaldo. Well, first off, Keynes was a queer, so any intelligence he might have possessed was of course diluted by lustful thoughts of other men. But, more importantly, Keynesianism is frankly disgusting. Worse than Marxism, even. For one, it’s demand-side economics, so you can just throw low taxes and deregulation out the window. Second of all, it’s just a mish mash of public and private elements, rather than being committed to the fundamentals of public or private. Shall I continue?”

“Er, well, I have to go soon, but I would love to talk about it when I have free time.”

“I see. I like your attitude, Arnaldo. We shall schedule a meeting at some point.”

As Hugh would soon learn, Arnaldo was a young military officer from the Central American nation of Val Verde, a small agricultural state sandwiched between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. In 1954, Val Verde had elected President Santiago Andalon of the Social Democratic Party, and he had enacted radical reform by nationalizing the agricultural industry, expropriating large landed estates and distributing land to small holders in collective holdings. This disrupted many American companies who operated in Val Verde, like the Lancaster Fruit Company. Arnaldo was unhappy with this decision, as his family were prominent local investors in these American companies, so he hoped to receive an American education so he could become president one day and restore the laissez-faire order.

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November 11, 1960

Hugh Courtland departed from his usual schedule on the Chicago campus to meet with a family friend, Clifford Ellerton Tadworth, for dinner in Boston. Tadworth was a businessman and politician, often involved in Massachusetts politics, always advancing conservative and pro-business causes. Tadworth came from Mayflower stock, a descendant of the Puritan preacher Zebadiah Whitcomb Tadworth, and he was a very ruthless and industrious man.

“How are you, Hugh?” Clifford greeted, shaking Hugh’s hand as they sat down for a candlelit dinner.

“I’ve been alright personally,” Hugh replied. “But I’m worried for the country.”

“Oh, I am as well,” Clifford sighed, taking a sip of wine. “Can you believe that damn Kennedy actually won?”

“It’s extremely shameful,” Hugh began. “The socialist New Deal drivel was supposed to end when Roosevelt croaked, and Truman got the sack. Eisenhower sure was disappointing, but at least he pretended! Clifford, I believe democracy may truly be dead.”

“It’s a travesty,” Clifford seethed. “It makes me ashamed to be from Massachusetts. I don’t want my little Walt growing up knowing that a damn Irishman can be president! Jack’s Papa Joe is a damn crook, so now we’ve basically got Catholic mobsters running the White House. The mafia is doing what WE’RE supposed to do. What’s next, a colored man in the Oval Office? Might as well fly a Soviet flag over Washington with the rate this is going.”

“You’d think the Southern Democrats would keep rascals like Kennedy in line,” Hugh mused. “Never was a fan of the South, but if the North is going to betray us to the negroes and Catholics, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“I’m thinking of moving to Virginia,” Clifford said. “They voted Nixon, so they’re somewhat sensible. They’re a bit aristocratic, and aren’t as boorish as the rest of the Dixie states.”

“Well, Clifford, I support any decision you make,” Hugh assured, patting Clifford on the shoulder. “Not to change topic so abruptly, but your brother still works in the CIA, correct?”

“Yes,” Clifford replied. “My brother Thomas is an officer in the CIA. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Hugh smirked. “I’d like to get him in contact with a protégé of mine. Arnaldo Orozco. He’s a student of mine who’s an army officer from Val Verde. They’ve got a communist president who’s even worse than Roosevelt. Let’s just say his interests for his country align with ours.”

“This sounds lucrative,” Clifford smiled. “I shall call up Thomas about this, and put him into contact with your protégé at once. We can do some great things in Val Verde.”

Hugh and Clifford nodded and shook hands, making a deal that would have great consequence.

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March 10, 1961

It was a happy day for Hugh Courtland. It was his wedding day. He was getting married to Elizabeth Thomasine Tadworth, the niece of Clifford Ellerton Tadworth and a Boston Brahmin socialite. She was a beautiful Anglo-Teutonic woman, with flowing blonde hair and alabaster skin. She wore an elegant white dress, and Hugh wore a black suit that matched his thick-rimmed glasses. They were married in a Calvinist church in Massachusetts, where many prominent guests attended. There was Peter Raymond Walker, a successful Chicago landowner, and his wife Helene Smith, a couple whom Hugh had befriended in Chicago. There was John van der Boer, a New York stockbroker, who was a family friend of Hugh Courtland. There was John Milhouse Burton, an affluent Milwaukee landlord who had revolutionized the housing market. There was David Lancaster, the current CEO of the Lancaster Fruit Company; though he lived in Florida, he was of Tidewater Virginian extraction, separating him from the boorish Dixie crackers, the negro-born freedmen, the shifty Miami Jews, and the burgeoning greaseball Cuban population. Of course, Clifford was there, along with Elizabeth’s father, CIA Operations Officer Thomas Tadworth. Hugh’s mother, Margaret, and stepfather, Wilfred Vierhook, were also in attendance. Hugh wished that his protégé Arnaldo could be attendance, but he was currently in his home country, fighting in a bloody civil war.

Once the vows were said, and the celebrations were had, Hugh and Elizabeth were flown out to their honeymoon suite, a seaside Tadworth mansion on Martha’s Vineyard. When they arrived, they settled down in the bedroom.

“We’re going to have sexual intercourse,” Hugh declared.

“Alright,” Elizabeth cooed, excited for Hugh to make love to her. She was thoroughly disappointed when Hugh dropped his pants to reveal a miniscule penis, and even more so when he lasted for a grand total of two minutes. Hugh smiled, blissfully unaware of her dissatisfaction, knowing he had found the love of his life.

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July 14, 1961

After months of coordination, the Val Verdean Civil War had ended. The coup d’état, mainly organized by Thomas Tadworth and David Lancaster, was a success. Santiago Andalon was ousted and was forced to flee to Cuba, and Arnaldo Orozco was to be sworn in as military president. In the days of the interim, he was planning a substantial policy that would reappropriate all former US assets back to their owners, as well as a major disembowelment of the public sector. For his inauguration, Arnaldo invited his mentor, Hugh Courtland, to Val Verde in order to witness his ascension.

Hugh and Elizabeth sat in the crowd, along with Thomas and David. Hugh absolutely hated the heat, as his nice tweed suit was now drenched in sweat, but he was nevertheless happy to see his protégé in powers, knowing his ideas were successful.

“Libertad para Val Verde,” Arnaldo shouted to a cheering crowd. “We now have freedom! The tyrannical government has been overthrown, and now we will have economic prosperity! I am happy to be able to lead this great nation in the years to come.”

Hugh clapped profusely, knowing the laissez-faire liberalism he had advocated for would now truly be implemented, even if it was in a corner of the world as small as Val Verde.

“I wouldn’t be here without my mentor,” Arnaldo hollered, pointing to Hugh in the audience. “Professor Hugh Courtland, you taught me all I knew, you gave me opportunities I couldn’t have dreamt to achieve, and you showed me that I could be more than just a foot soldier to a country that doesn’t care what I think. So we changed that! We told Andalon to take his ass to Russia if he wanted to be so much like them. Ándale, Andalon!”

When the inauguration was over, Hugh and company were invited into the presidential palace where Arnaldo tightly embraced Hugh. Though normally, Hugh would be disgusted at the prospect of a dirty Central American savage even touching him, he made an exception for Arnaldo.

“Thank you so much,” Arnaldo cried, nearly in tears, as was expected of his Latin hysteria. “I’d be nowhere without your guidance.”

“No, thank you,” Hugh replied. “With what you’ll do with this country, I’ll make those Keynesian bastards look like fools.”

Hugh and Arnaldo shook hands, knowing the Miracle of Val Verde that was to come.

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November 21, 1963

Hugh Courtland desperately wished to be back home in Chicago, but there was a job that needed to be done. He was in Dallas with his in-laws, Clifford and Thomas Tadworth. His wife Elizabeth was back home, caring for their one year old son, Roger Tadworth Courtland. He thoroughly hated the Texas heat, though it was not as bad as Val Verde. The job they were partaking in would shape the future of America forever.

Hugh and Clifford sat alone in a dark room, illuminated by a single lightbulb. They perked their heads up when Thomas returned, with him a young man who looked athletic and thuggish.

“Well, gentlemen,” Thomas announced. “This is the man who’s gonna take care of our little Irish problem.”

“The name’s Lee, right?” Clifford asked. “You were a Marine?”

“Correct,” Lee said. “Look, you guys know I’m a Marxist, right? I lived in the USSR for a while, and my wife’s Russian. I’m surprised you haven’t had me arrested.”

“Look, Lee,” Hugh began. “You’re more useful to us here than in jail. While I personally find your beliefs odious, we can work towards a common goal. Now, as an economist, I have subjected myself to reading Marxist theory, and well, there’s different schools regarding reformism and accelerationism. Many believe liberal presidents like Roosevelt and Kennedy, with their New Deal reforms, have worked to impede on both free market capitalism as well as revolutionary socialism. Their liberal reforms only slightly mitigate the issues, thus neutering any change of a communist revolution. While we may be diametrically opposed in terms of ideology, you can agree with me, no?”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Lee replied. “That fat cat Roosevelt prevented class consciousness in America with that liberal bullshit.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hugh sneered. “But anyways, with our help, you can take direct action and appease both the left-wing and the right-wing. That will truly unite the masses, won’t it?”

“I guess it will,” Lee nodded. “So what do you want me to do?”

Hugh sat back as Clifford and Thomas explained the plan to Lee. They supplied him with a 6.5×52mm Italian Carcano M91/38 bolt-action rifle, gave him a time and place, and assured him that there would be a getaway car waiting for him. When Lee left, the three men laughed, knowing full well they weren’t going to help him escape. In fact, Thomas was friends with a local nightclub owner who would take care of Lee very nicely.

Of course, even I don’t need to tell you what happened on November 22, 1963. Let’s just say that’s one problem Papa Joe couldn’t fix.

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April 16, 1965

Hugh Courtland was alone in his office, preparing the final exam for his economics students. He sighed as he reviewed the questions. He felt unappreciated by his wife, who was not very economic minded. As he was lost in thought, he paused as he heard a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he called out. He looked to see a young woman with pale skin and auburn hair. This was Larisa Zinovieff, a female student in his economics class. The daughter of an exiled Russian businessman, Hugh had sympathy for her, despite his general dislike for Eastern Europeans.

“Good afternoon, professor,” Larisa greeted. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to ask about the final.”

“What did you want to ask?” Hugh asked.

“Well, I’m not confident at all that I can pass this test,” she sighed, taking a seat. I was wondering if there was any help you could offer, perhaps private tutoring or extra credit assignments.”

“Well, have you studied?

“Of course, I have. It’s just I’m very stressed out, and well, I don’t want to disappoint you, Professor Courtland. You’re very smart, and I have a lot of respect for you.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course. You’re rational and objective, you’re not swayed by moralistic pandering.”

“Larisa, that is very flattering,” Hugh smiled, his face turning red. “Would you do anything to pass this final?”

“I would, Professor,” she nodded. “I’m willing to put the work in.”

“I have a proposition for you,” he grinned. He whispered in her ear, and Larisa immediately nodded and jumped his bones. They had passionate sex in Hugh’s office, and would continue their relationship long after Larisa aced the final.

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July 5, 1968

The Courtland family were on vacation in Miami, Florida. The vacation was Elizabeth’s idea, as Hugh preferred to stay north of the Mason-Dixon line whenever possible. He also hated to be away from his mistress Larisa, who appreciated his intellect more than Elizabeth did. The Courtlands were staying with Carlos Espinosa, a Cuban expatriate who had been a successful businessman in Havana before Fidel Castro had driven him out. Though Hugh had slowly gained respect for Latinos who rejected communist populism and respected laissez-faire capitalism, he still distrusted Carlos. He had a charming Don Juan personality that made Hugh feel inferior, despite his clear ethnic superiority.

That morning, Elizabeth claimed to be experiencing a terrible migraine, so she stayed in Carlos’ house while Hugh took Roger to the beach. After a nice few hours, Hugh and Roger returned to Carlos’ house. While Roger stayed downstairs to play with his favorite toys, Hugh went upstairs, where he heard amorous moaning coming from the guest bedroom. He barged in to find Elizabeth in bed with Carlos.

“What the fuck, Elizabeth?” Hugh cried out. “How could you do this to me?”

“How could I do this to you?” Elizabeth scoffed. “You act like I don’t know about Larisa! Your little Russian mistress that rode your dick all the way to her bachelor’s degree. Well, guess what? I can have sex with a refugee too.”

“That’s different!” Hugh yelled, his eyes tearing up. “You don’t appreciate my mind, my intellect, my ideas!”

“You don’t appreciate me as a person!” Elizabeth shouted. “You just think I’m a piece of meat with legs, who makes you food and gives you kids. Besides, Carlos is way better at sex than you.”

“Sounds like you messed up, asere,” Carlos shrugged.

“I hate you!” Hugh sobbed, as waterfalls of tears fell from his eyes.

“I hate you too, Hugh,” Elizabeth sighed. “Now, Carlos, let’s continue.”

Carlos nodded and resumed, and Hugh watched for a few seconds in horror before running out. His life was ruined.

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February 7, 1970

After almost two years of brutal court proceedings, Hugh Courtland and Elizabeth Tadworth were finally divorced. With the Tadworth fortune on her side, Elizabeth had gained full custody of Roger and most of Hugh’s assets. She moved to Miami and promptly married Carlos, and Roger was adopted as Roger Espinosa. With the Tadworth family now his foes, Hugh had lost some of his greatest allies. He retained his job at the University of Chicago, but due to his new monetary troubles, he was forced to sell his luxurious Hyde Park house, and move into an apartment on the South Side, which was provided to him by Peter Raymond Walker. He moved in with Larisa, but there was a new emptiness in his life. Not even royalty checks from the Lancaster Fruit Company, or being awarded the Order of Val Verde by President Orozco, could make him feel alive. It was his Great Depression, and it was how he knew the world was truly laissez-faire, as even someone with the fortitude and intellect that he had was able to fail miserably. He had begun his life as a New York elite, and now he took the L Train to work. How preposterous! It was such a fall from grace, and Hugh knew it. His father had been destroyed by Roosevelt, but he had been destroyed by his own ilk, the rich elites who valued big business and conservatism above all else. As he sat on the train to the UChicago campus, he laughed in disbelief. There really was no hope in the world for a good economist like him.

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Hugh Courtland’s story does not end here. Should the free market demand it, Part 2 shall be produced.