BY JOSH COHEN

In print | Published December 7, 2006

I met Keith in the Science Center last weekend. When I got there, I approached a middle-aged looking man, hunched over some papers, sitting alone, and asked him if he was Keith; he wasn’t. Instead, a round, grinning kid sitting on the stools waved to me, laughing and beckoning. I walked over to him and shook his hand. I was naive for thinking the representative of Bellwether Books, an upstart company predicated on superseding the traditional book-buying services offered by our college bookstore, would be anything, or anyone, but an econ major fresh out of school.

I didn’t need the money, but I would have liked it. The flyer I had responded to had been posted around campus — was I the only one to respond? — and had screamed, naturally, of a tantalizing $1,000 per week. Sitting before Keith, who had probably posted those very screaming posters, I felt like I had fallen for something; and yet, of course, I would have told you, if you had asked me, that the $1,000 was commission-based. As relative as the laws of physics themselves — a concept appropriated in the immediately tangible world to the opposite end of physics, that is, to render irrelevant the responsibility to question. Think “civil war.”

“So there’s that great number on those posters, right?” said Keith, assuming my assent. “Tell me why you want it.”

I guessed it meant he wanted me to pitch myself, so I did. It was all unnervingly informal; I yearned for the day when my Fat Cats came with gilded canes and upturned noses. Listening to Keith explain the company to me, how it had started between him and his buddies at Cornell, where he had graduated from several years ago, how it had spread to 50-something schools since then, how they had all this cool technology and all this opportunity for profit — I was simultaneously revolted and turned on. He was articulate, and yet fantastically single-minded. Everything, instantly, was business. I thought: if I want to take a trip somewhere, I need to pay my way. Money is money. I knew that I would both get this job and, if I tried, be able to steal enough business from the bookstore to pull in, if not a $1,000 still, a respectable commission.

Telling Keith why I was right for the position, how I had “finessed the streets of New York” two summers ago canvassing for Environmental Action, how I was, I had to admit, a “social sort of guy,” I saw myself running away from myself, my mouth continuing to spew the bullshit and my idealistic sense of dignity quickly crumbling where I sat.

A company like Bellwether Books represents either the nadir or the zenith, depending on how you see these things, of capitalism: it is pointless, or traceless; adding nothing to the development of society, or unhindered by weighty social ties; it fails even to create an identity for its participants within society (for surely it will fold in less than 10 years), or perhaps it relieves them of the duty to fulfill an identity at all. And it creates a need — for me to come to your door with cash, so that you wouldn’t have to lug your books to the bookstore and be inconvenienced for an hour one weekend — where previously none had existed. Money is money. I won’t make a dent in the army of business-minded majors being spit out like so many toy soldiers by rationalized learning institutions, so why not get mine as long as I use my space, say, in the college newspaper to denounce it? Anyway, who am I? Shouldn’t Keith and his crew get credit for innovation in an increasingly specialized and competitive marketplace?

Ambition and idealism aren’t the same thing. The former is individualistic, and safely sanctified in today’s world. The latter is, in its true form, selfless, religious and communal. It’s embarrassing to be idealistic. For some reason, not putting blind faith in money is foolish. Idealism, I thought, listening to myself secure a trip to Europe this winter break, was the luxury of a privileged and theatrically disillusioned teenager; realism, that favorite, now-near-meaningless word of policymakers and pundits alike, is what it means to be an adult.

“I’m not gonna lie,” my potential boss told me. “You’ll see results.”

The implicit alternative to realism is fake-ism, or something like illusion. In a world where everything can be proven — where Keith casually places a spreadsheet of my potential earnings between us — it’s hard to justify acting on the unseen. But if I haven’t scored too high, still, I’ve learned something from Physics 5: the only truly absolute thing is uncertainty. To let the numbers seduce you is to be intellectually weak, or arrogant, or both.

When I turned down the job last night, I smiled, thinking Kevin didn’t know who he was dealing with. The prominent justification in my mind was the imagined reactions of the other students here, at Swarthmore, who I dreamed would cringe at my shameless salesmanship — even, I hoped, lose respect for me. My reason for Keith, of course, was a respectful explanation outlining my concern that I would not be able to be “the best Bellwether representative possible” in light of my commitment to school during finals week. In response, he thanked me, and encouraged me to re-apply in the Spring. I can’t imagine he really believed I still hoped to work for him. But then, in a world where relationships are based, first and foremost, on potential returns, could Keith really afford to hold a grudge?

Josh Cohen is a sophomore. You can reach him at jcohen2@swarthmore.edu.

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