Art of Counterfeiting Turns Counterfeit
The computer jocks didn’t know what to expect. They had seen the Old Man around the building quite a bit, elegant in his knock-off Armani suits and phony Rolexes, but this was the first time he had dropped by their cubicles for a chat, and they could see he was upset.
“There was a time we could hold our heads high,” he began, in cultured tones that could be described as mock-PBS.
“There was a time we could be proud of our craft. At parties, people would ask me what I did, and I’d say, ‘I’m a counterfeiter,’ and the questions would never stop: How did you get into it? Did you have to go to art school? Can you take a look at my kid’s drawings?’
“There was a time when we earned our money the old-fashioned way,” the Old Man said, pausing dramatically. “We made it.
“But now . . . “
The Old Man’s eyes filled with tears, but he gathered himself and continued.
“But now, I see in the paper that someone--God, how I hate to say this--someone was selling counterfeit discount ride tickets for the Ventura County Fair.”
He looked around the room, his gaze lighting for a moment on each of the earnest young faces.
“Is this what we’ve become?” he asked. “Are we all software--and no soul?”
Nobody said a word.
“I remember all those lonely nights sketching portraits of the great Americans,” the Old Man went on. “I remember memorizing every mole on Lincoln’s forehead. I knew Ben Franklin’s chins better than I knew my son. I could etch better than I could throw a ball. We were artists then--and now, now we’re peddling phony Tilt-a-Whirl tickets--to children!
“ ‘Hop on the Ferris wheel, boys and girls, and look down at a fine old profession in ruins!’ It almost makes me ashamed to be a criminal.”
A few tears rolled down the Old Man’s cheeks and onto a faux-mahogany computer hutch, although nobody could tell for sure that they were real.
After a lengthy silence, young Johnson cleared his throat.
“Sir, I hear what you’re saying, but frankly, cash is so labor-intensive that we’re phasing it out. Ever since the government came up with those weird new big-head bills, with special watermarks and security threads and color-shifting ink, well, we’ve been looking for new profit centers.”
“Profit!” the Old Man spat it out like a bad oyster. “What use is profit when compared to art? Are you professionals or are you a bunch of cheap cut-and-paste guys?”
As the Old Man left in disgust, the bright young people drifted back to their computers, manipulating screens full of phony business cards, lottery tickets, even wrapping paper. Images were scanned, pages paginated, and buttons pressed. Suddenly, a coupon flew out of the printer.
“This entitles bearer to one (1) free order of curly fries at the Ventura County Fair,” it said.
One of the up-and-coming counterfeiters put it in his pocket.
“Hey, a buck’s a buck,” he said. “I think.”
*
Steve Chawkins can be reached at 653-7561 or at steve.chawkins@latimes.com.
