423: Optimism

“Did you know,” the figure before me said, “that during World War Two, your military did a survey of something we might call ‘promotion satisfaction’ and got some amazing results?”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the soldiers in the foxholes, the so so-called ‘grunts,’ faced very slow advancement in rank, hardly moving up the promotion ladder at all, except to fill the ranks of the fallen.”

“Oh?”

“While,” the figure said, “those GIs in the newly forming Army Air Corp received the fastest rate of promotion. Zoom! Right up the ladder they went.”

“Oh?”

“Want to guess which group found satisfaction with promotions?”

“Not really.”

“I thought you would. Yep. The common foot soldier thought the promotion system was fair.”

“Oh?”

“And the ‘flyboys’ thought it was horribly unfair.”

“Ain’t that something?”

“I knew you would find it interesting.”

“Did they ever figure out why?”

“Something about equity. Seems that no matter how fast someone in the Air Corp was promoted, he knew some else who had been promoted faster.”

“Oh.” The figure proposing this bit of knowledge was a new shape C.W. had devised of late: Happy Hornibrook. He was a thin, bespectacled fellow with a receding hairline. Looked much like a henpecked husband. But he was ever the optimistic soul, sort of a Falloonian Pangloss.

“Did you know,” he said, “that the number of people in your world in extreme poverty fell by 137,000 since yesterday?

“No.”

“Every day for nearly 30 years.”

“But I still don’t have a Les Paul Standard guitar, and my rich nephew, who’s 30 years younger than I, does.”

“Did you know that the world is about 100 times wealthier than 200 years ago?”

“No.”

“That the share of people killed annually in wars is less than a quarter of that in the 1980s and half a percent of the toll in the second world war?”

“No.”

“That during the 20th century Americans became 96% less likely to die in a car crash, 92% less likely to perish in a fire and 95% less likely to expire on the job?”

“No.”

“That in every part of the world IQ scores have been rising, by a whopping 30 points in 100 years, meaning that the average person today scores better than 98% of people a century ago?”

“Even the home-schooled and the so-called ‘young-earthers’ out there?”

“There are anomalies.”

“Are you purposefully trying to drive me crazy?”

“Don’t you find it interesting that children are far likelier to go to school than they were in 1900, while ‘outside the schoolhouse,’ analytic thinking is encouraged by a culture that trades in visual symbols (subway maps, digital displays), analytic tools (spreadsheets, stock reports) and academic concepts that trickle down into common parlance?”

“Whoop de do.” I left out one extra word that would have hurt his feelings.

“I can’t believe that you would be unmoved to know that, two centuries ago, only one percent of people lived in democracies and, even there, women and working-class men were denied the vote. Now two-thirds of people live in democracies, and even authoritarian states such as China, are freer than they once were.”

“But we still have no cure for nausea.”

“You can understand their interest.”

That got me. “Who’s interest?”

“The Elders.”

“The Falloonian Elders?”

“Yes, I sent them some facts like this, with documentation, and they wrote back.”

“What did they say?”

“That it sounded like the world, and your country in particular, is making progress.”

“That’s good.”

Good news: The number of nuclear bombs
in world has fallen by 85 percent since its peak.
Bad news: It only takes one.

“No, that’s bad.”

“Why?”

“They sent another message.” He pulled a paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“What does it say.”

He read it and thought. I could hear his Galactic Universal Translator humming.

“Just tell me what your GUT is telling you.”

He took a breath, exhaled, and said, “This is a rough translation.” I nodded, and he read. “Then find out why in hell they are pissed off enough to elect a professional wrestling promoter to go and sexually intercourse things up.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

127. Remnants

This morning, I didn’t really feel like talking. Of course that is when C.W. is most likely to show. And of course he did.

Our country was suffering in shock from another mass murder by a gun-wielding lunatic. No use to go into the numbers and methodology. It is all too painfully familiar by now.

Anyway, as I say, C.W. never misses a chance. I looked up from my computer screen into a dark room to see him standing in the form of a six year old child, pale but emitting a slight white glow. He stood staring at me without speaking for several seconds. Then he spoke in a soft child’s voice that floated around the room like a smoky whisper.

“Do you know why they killed me?”

I studied the figure. C.W., despite his often comic and cynical approaches to our society, chooses very carefully when he will be serious.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Then you seem to be the only one of your species that doesn’t, from what I observed on the social networking websites this morning.”

“You’ve been on my computer?”

“Oh please,” he said. “So you don’t know?”

“I can’t begin to fathom.”

“Someone blamed it on a god.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Some think your species needs fewer guns.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“Others think you need more guns.”

I didn’t answer him. So he kept talking.

“The ones who seem the most positive are the ones who don’t have a clue.”

“That is usually the case,” I said.

“You know I went through considerable training before the Falloonian Elders sent me to your planet.”

“I would assume as much.”

“You want to know their short take on your species?”

“Why not?” I was glad to escape my own thoughts.

“That you had managed to overcome, to a remarkable degree, your prehistoric reliance on violence as a survival strategy.”

“That’s good, right?”

“But,” he continued. “It never left the DNA strand and it will surface from time to time, often most tragically.”

“Ask your classmates,” I said.

“Ask the families of the children of Baghdad the morning your country started raining bombs on them,” he said.

“You are not being very comforting,” I said.

“One of your country’s founders—I forget which one—said ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.’”

“It is attributed to Thomas Jefferson,” I said. “But I’m not sure it was he.”
 

“It makes no difference, don’t you see. What is important is the cosmic truth of it. Your species must remain vigilant over those primordial instincts that have existed, and still exist, since your ancestors crawled from the oceans.”

“So you mean …?”

“Sorry, but I have to go now,” he said, looking past me to a point far away. “One of the things I planned to do when I learned to write good was to keep a diary.” He paused. “But of course I never got to do it.”

It is hard, some mornings,
to continue believing in the
acquired goodness of people.
But you must keep trying. - C.W.

I must have looked confused.

“Oh,” he said. “I met a friend who kept a very good one before the violence took her and she has promised to read it to me.”

And he faded away, leaving me more confused than ever.

Victory Over Drugs

Sometimes C.W. tones down his appearance and this was one of those days. He asked me to meet him at a coffee shop in our local library complex.


Arriving, I recognized him straight away. He appeared as … how will I describe him? Well, “Grandpa Walton” would fit as well as anything.

He sat at one of the large tables with newspapers spread in front of him and a large coffee in his hand. He peeked over the top of a pair of reading glasses and motioned for me to sit.

“They don’t have real cups in here,” he said. “They serve coffee in these paper-sorta things.”

“You don’t find real cups much anymore,” I said. It’s best to agree with him just wait for the conversation to unravel. Patrons were stirring about in the shop, some studying the bookshelves lining the area. No one paid us any mind, a fact with probably says more about library patrons than it does about the species in general.

“Says here,” he began. “Let’s see, where is it?” He stirred the stack of newspapers, looking for a specific item. I waited.

“Ah, here it is,” he said, pulling the selection in front of him as he adjusted his spectacles. Then he took a sip of coffee.

“This is one of those “bits from yesteryear” columns—from a county newspaper out in West Virginia. “Says here from 40 years ago,” he looked at me and repeated, “Forty years ago.” The he resumed, “ ‘… the County Sheriff’s department destroyed a ten-acre field of marijuana plants this past Saturday and arrested the owner as it continues the war against drugs in America.’”

He looked at me over his spectacles as if I had been the owner of said crop. I knew how a suspect in a murder case must feel when he takes the witness stand. He sipped his coffee.

After several seconds he spoke. “Forty years, eh?”

“What?”

“Been waging this so-called ‘war on drugs’ for 40 years?”

“Probably longer than that.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Has your species been victorious?”

“Uh, no.”

“Nearly so?”

“Not quite.”

“How about a status report then? He said. “How are we doing … drugs pretty near defeated? Have they requested a truce to talk peace?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, exactly?”

“It gets more hopeless and costly each day.”

He fumbled among the papers again and slid out a handwritten note. “Here’s something,” he said. “This man of your species, Clausewitz, says that war is an act of violence intended to compel our opponent to fulfill our will.”

“I’m sure he said that.”

“So are you compelling ‘drugs’ to your will?”

“I’m afraid it’s the other way around.”

“Still burning crops and arresting people after all these years?”

“Constantly.”

He scattered papers around and produced another note. “Here’s one more,” he said. “Can’t find the exact author but it is widely quoted.”

“Let’s hear it,” I said.

“The definition of ‘insanity’ is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

“Far out, man,” I said.

The Return

People had been asking so I left a message that I needed to see the Alien. No, it wasn’t like a plea in some science fiction movie. It was more like an ad in the paper but he showed up as Michael Rennie anyway. Same old C.W., cute as usual.


“You called? he said after I opened the apartment door and registered my surprise.

I ushered him in and motioned for him to have a seat. “People have been asking about you.”

“I’m flattered,” he said. “What did you tell them?”

“That you had been recalled because of that incident with the high-school girl.”

“That was blown all out of proportion,” he said. “Besides, that’s what star football players are supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “So … no, that wasn’t it at all.”

“Then where have you been?”

“Making a detailed interim report.”

“To the Falloonian Elders?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“So what?”

So how are we doing?”

“Not too good.”

“Then … are the Fallootians getting ready to wipe us out like in your movie.”

“No. You’re doing a fine job of that yourselves.”

He had me there. I had never seen him more somber. But heck, he was Michael Rennie after all. “So how much time?”

“I don’t think your species would be so obsessed about time if your planet didn’t circle your home star with such precision.”

“Say what?”

“What makes you think things occur sequentially?”

“Uh, gee, don’t they?”

“Why couldn’t they all be occurring at once and your mental state is simply drawn to whatever is shiniest?”

“Is that what happens?”

“Let’s just say for the moment that your species’ consciousness paradigm is closer to that of a blackbird than to a logician. You won’t be able to proceed further with this inquiry as long as you linger on such things as rock stars and inconsequential politicians.”

“Like Michelle Bachman?”

“Precisely, now why don’t we go for a walk and you can convince me that your species would warrant existence?”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing a hat to protect me from the sun.

A while later we stood at my city’s statue of Harriet Tubman leading a child-slave to freedom.

“Better?” I said.

He studied the amazing sculpture, and then turned to me. “She was a great person, wasn’t she?”

“One of the greatest.”

“Indeed. I’ll maybe stick around awhile,” said he

"Don’t you mean you are here, have been here, will be here?” Now I was trying to be cute.

"Klaatu barada nikto," he said.

46. Teachers

We enjoy an early spring in our state as a recompense for brutal summers and mercurial winters. So I was enjoying one and visiting, in my mind, a place far away in a time equally distant. I was aware that someone had taken the seat next to mine on the park bench where I sat. But I paid no attention until I felt a poke in my side and someone said, “You always did daydream a lot.”

I looked, and was startled to see, looking me over as if I were a newly captured criminal, my fifth-grade teacher, Miss Edith Rupe. Well, of course it was C.W., but the resemblance was so uncanny that I allowed myself to be transported back to 1953. It felt strangely comfortable, but then I am a white male.

“Do you remember me?” she said.

“Oh yes, you were everyone’s favorite.”

“Do you remember where I lived?”

“Yes, in a boarding house on Sixth Street.”

“From where I walked the eight blocks or so to work.”

“You never had a car?”

“Do you think a teacher in those days could afford a car?”

“What a about the bus?”

“I saved bus fare so I could have a parakeet—my only luxury.”

“Yes, I seem to remember when it died. Petey, or something like that was its name.”

“Something like that. It was a lonely time.”

“Did you have a good life?”

“What do you think?” She—it—leaned back on the bench and looked wistfully toward the river. “How good a life do you think an ‘old-maid’ had on a teacher’s pay in the 1950s?”

“Well, you were good at it”

She just looked at me as if I had passed wind or something.

“I mean, several people I know, who you taught …”

“Whom I taught.”

“Whom you taught, have done quite well. I know one, a stockbroker now, who made nearly a million dollars a year before he retired.”

“Yes, that made it all worthwhile.”

I looked to see if I could detect irony. Nothing. Just sadness.

“We all did a good job considering,” she said. “Teachers still do, don’t they?”

“Oh yes, and under very tough circumstances.”

“Then tell me something.” It was C.W. talking now.

“What?”

“Why are your leaders trying to take teachers back to the conditions that existed in the old days? Don’t they respect them at all?”

“Well, some do.”

“What about the others?”

“Well, they seem to think things would be better with private schools, or even better with religious ones.”

“After what some of their leaders have been doing to those young boys?”

“Well, in some cases their thinking may be a little behind …” I stopped and flushed a crimson red.

Not Miss Rupe, but I did get your attention, right? - C.W,

Fortunately for me, Miss Rupe interrupted. “Before you buy into that “private school” thing, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” I was glad to change the subject.

“Did I ever teach you about a concept called ‘Cherry-picking’”?

I thought. “That is … when …”

“That is when you provide excellent service to those to whom it is profitable to provide excellent service—usually the rich—and let those to whom it is unprofitable to provide service—usually the poor—fend for themselves.”

37. Dancing

Received the strangest invitation this morning I’ve had in a long time. C.W. knocked on the door well before daylight while I was enjoying coffee alone. Of all things, he was dressed as a modern dancer and looked a lot like, as I remember, Rudolph Nureyev. Yes, it was a bit of a strong sight for 5:30 a.m.

“Come go with me,” he said. “I’m going to welcome the sunrise with a special dance in Riverfront Park. I call it ‘Sprites in the Garden.’”

I stood there.

“Well, come on,” he said. “Daylight defers to no mortal plans.”

I think I must have looked a little confused.

“May I come in?”

“Please do.” The last thing on earth I wanted was for a neighbor to see him standing in the hall.

“Oh thanks,” he said, lighting in a chair with a flourish and graceful hand gesture.

“Oh Christ,” I said, returning to the coffee pot and wishing I had some brandy to stiffen it with.

“Know what?” he said.

I just looked at him.

“The concept of dancing on your planet is simply marvelous.” He made another sweep of his hand as if my living room encompassed the entire store of humankind’s accomplishments over the 150,000 or so years of its existence.

“It is a little all-encompassing, though,” he said, lowering his chin to his head and peering up at me. “I mean it includes everything from the most sublime movements imaginable to what appears, to me, to be young boys lying on their backs and wiggling their legs.” He sighed. “But, overall—fascinating. Simply fascinating.”

“C.W.” I said. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Celebrating the joy of life through dance,” he said. “Hurry up and let us go then, you and I.”

I groaned.

“Come on,” he said. “The fecund stirrings of Mother Earth shall spread exaltation through the very soles of your feet. In short, you shall be unafraid and happy.”

“I have never socked an alien—or a ballet dancer—in my life, but I am very close.” I said.

“Oh, you who spurn the soothing catalyst of dance are the saddest of souls,” he said.

“You’re probably not going to leave until I agree to go with you, are you?”

“You got that right,” he said, settling back in this chair with a gesture of finality. “How did all this dancing stuff get started anyway?”

“I dunno. Maybe it was some effort at imitative magic, as Frazier phrased it: efforts to make the earth bloom again in the spring.”

“Well then,” he said. Seeming to think it over for a minute, he looked up. “It certainly seems to work. Hmm. Let’s see. ‘April is the happiest month, filling life into slumbering feet.’ Hey, maybe I’ll take up poetry next.”

“Oh Christ,” I said, heading, back to get dressed.

35. Lights

It was a cold and miserable night and C.W. had just called up and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. I tried begging off but he said this was important and that I should bundle up and come downstairs. When I still hesitated, he reminded me of my obligation as his North American host. What could I say?

I exited the back door and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was frigid, and there stood the perfect imitation of a 1930s college student complete with raccoon coat, a hat with the front pinned up, and the type shoes that we used to call “saddle oxfords.” He was holding a pennant that simply read “State U” and was obviously excited.

“Come look,” he said. He motioned toward the houses along the street adjacent to our building. “Look at all the lights. Gee willikers. Look at all them lights.”

He was referring to the Christmas decorations adorning the homes and yards along the street. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk.

“I can’t go walking with you looking like that,” I said.

“Why not?” he said, waiving the pennant. “This is neaty Pete.”

“C.W.” I said. “They are just Christmas lights. People put them up every year.” He had grabbed me by the hand and was pulling me along the sidewalk.

“”Why”? he said.

“I don’t know. It’s just for Christmas.”

We stopped in front of an old, old house of the type so prevalent in this part of town. The structure itself was decorated with all the architectural features that the Victorians could imagine. In addition to that, the owners had attached lights outlining each of the features and had included lawn ornaments lighted with flashing illumination.

“Is that not something?” he said.

“It’s something all right,” I said. “It’s a big waste of money and time.” I don’t know what made me say it. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the getup he was wearing, or maybe it was that stupid smile he had on his face. Did I mention that it was freezing? Well, as if to emphasis it, snow began to fall, drifting through the bare limbs of the massive oak trees that adorned downtown Little Rock.

“Oh my goodness,” C.W. said. He stood motionless as he watched the flakes fall between us and the lights.

“C.W., I said. “Did you have something you wanted to tell me?”

“Shush,” he said. “Be quiet,” He was enthralled at the quiet beauty of the scene.

I stomped my feet with impatience.

“Yes,” he said. “I have something important to tell you.”

“Well?” I said.

“You’re missing something.” He said. “Something that even an alien to your planet can notice.”


Best Holiday wishes to all. - C.W.


“And just what is that?” I said.

He reached into the pocket of his massive coat and retrieved a scrap of paper.

“This man named Ron Wild put it best,” he said. He moved toward me to use the light of a street lamp and read.

“Seek the wisdom of the ages, but look at the world through the eyes of a child.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Couldn’t you just try? Just once, at this time of the year?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”

24. Prophecy

Who in the world should knock on my door last night while my wife was gone but—get this—Bernie Madoff? In the flesh. Well, it was C.W. in the shape of Bernie Madoff’s flesh but I still thought it was pretty neat. And was he excited.

“Jimmie, guess what?” he said, with that famous hustler’s grin.

“You’ve been in prison?”

“No. What makes you think that?”

“Just a wild guess. What’s up?”

“I have discovered this ability that I have. You are going to love it. It must be something I transported from Falloonia that evolved in earth’s atmosphere.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have the 'thing willingly given' of prophecy.”

“Uh, the ‘gift’ of prophecy?”

“Quite so.”

“Have you tested it?”

“Yes, I told the girl who makes sandwiches at the Cox Center that someone was going to give her a 20 dollar tip the next day, and guess what?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Like magic, there is was: stuck in the tip jar, crisp and new before noon.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘beginner’s luck’?”

“No. What’s that?”

“Never mind. Have you tried it again?”

“Oh yes. I struck up a conversation with a lady at a nursing home last week when I went to see how you treat your old people.”

“And?”

“She was in tears because her son in California hadn’t called her in a month. She was on the verge of giving up.”

“And”

“I told her that her son would call her that afternoon. And guess what?”

“He did?”

“Like timepiece-work.”

“Are you sure this is legitimate?”

“Absolutely. Now, one reason I came is that I need to borrow some money.”

I allowed myself to dream. The stock market would open tomorrow at 8:30 p.m. our time, and we were right in the middle of college football season. Less than 50 miles from here was a simulcast horse betting casino. Holy Mackeral!

“C.W., if you are right, you can borrow all the money you want. But are you certain about all this?” I was feeling great.

“You are proof positive.”

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told my colleague in South America that you would receive a visitor at exactly 8:00 p.m. tonight.”

“Me? A visitor?”

“Yep. Now check the time.”

It was 8:10 p.m.

“But you are the only visitor I’ve had.”

“Well?”

“Holy crap!”

“I knew you would be astounded. Now about the money. The airline ticket to California was expensive, not to mention the 20 dollars.”

“You little Falloonian asshole.”

“What’s wrong?”

“C.W., if you make it happen, it’s not the fulfilling of prophecy.”

“According to the ministers on television, it is. Where do you think I got the idea?”

“I hope you rot in jail.”

23. Pins

He was one of the happiest looking men I ever saw. I noticed him wheeling himself along Bill Street (President Clinton Boulevard) whistling and speaking to everyone he met—a real delight to behold. As he neared me, I noticed both legs were missing from just above the knee. When he reached me, he suddenly pivoted directly in my path and stopped.

“Hello brother,” he said. “Ain’t it a wonderful day to be alive?”

Then he winked.

Yep, it was C.W., the little Falloonian himself.

“Come over here and sit,” he said. “I got some questions to ask you.”

We moved over to a bench, and he pointed to pin attached to my shirt.

“What’s that?”

“It’s my Red Cross Donor Pin,” I said.

“What’s it for?”

“It means I am an 11-gallon donor.”

“Of what?”

“Blood. I donate blood and platelets that are used when needed in operations or other medical procedures. I started doing it years ago, at my wife's suggestion.”

“Well bless you, brother, and your wife as well. I must have needed a bunch of such stuff once upon a time.” He nodded at his legs.

“C.W., you didn’t really go through that.”

“Never you mind. Now here’s the thing: I see a lot of folks wearing pins. Is that what they all mean?”

“No, different ones mean different things.”

“I see. Well some folks wear these little flag-looking pins. Does that mean they are veterans of the military, like you and me?”

I winced. “Not exactly.”

He looked puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“In my experience, it almost always means that they never served in the military.”

“Sort of making up for it, huh?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, answer me another one. I saw this woman wearing the symbol of a cross on her blouse. That’s all about your Jesus, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me why she was wearing a bunch of expensive clothes and jewelry while she was cursing a homeless person who asked her for money.”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Wouldn’t that sort of make your Jesus wince? Or maybe even weep?”

“He’s not my Jesus, but, yes, as he is presented to us in literature, it would.”

“I don’t understand.”

He stopped to greet a group of tourists walking by.

“Bless you folks,” he said as he smiled and waved.

“What do you not understand? I said.”

“I don’t understand all this disconnect in the logic of your species. We’ve been through this before.”

“And I’m sure we’ll go through it again. Many times.”

“Well I have decided …” He stopped.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“No. What?”

“You’re sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes.”

“It seems to me that not everyone who waves a flag is a patriot, and not everyone who waves a Bible is a Christian.”

Out of the mouths of strangers.

20. Politics and Brotherhood

A group of friends and I were seated comfortably, enjoying the 25th year of the King Biscuit Blues Festival on the banks of the Mississippi River in Helena-West Helena, Arkansas. The crowd was loving the music. In fact, beer and enthusiasm had already combined to convince a number of folks to start dancing. It was a beautiful October day, and all seemed well with the world.

A friend sitting beside me offered to make a beer run before the next act, one of his favorites. He left and I became distracted by an elderly white lady dancing with a whole group of folks and anyone else who happened to walk by. A hand tapped me on the shoulder. It was my friend, the beer-runner, or so I thought.

“Perry,” I said. “You back already?”

“Shhh. Be quiet. I want to talk to you for a minute.”

Jeez. It was C.W. in the shape of my friend Perry. I had left the alien a while back sitting on the seat of a Harley Davidson Motorcycle on Cherry Street belting out a blues rendition of “The Promised Land, and in the shape of a motorcycle gang member.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I been walking around looking,” he said. “There are at least a dozen different races of folks gathered up here from all parts of the Globe having fun together. Look there.” He pointed at an elderly African-American man who had stopped and was dancing with the lady I mentioned earlier.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what happens at blues festivals.”

“That’s amazing,” he said. “In many parts of your state, people leave their homes and move away to some dreadful place to avoid living near people of different races. Here they travel from all over to be together.”

“It’s something alright,” I said.

“Do the races get along this well all the time here?”

“Maybe not always.”

“Really. That’s too bad.”

“But,” I added. “I am told that people do work together as a single soul to put this show together.”

“Interesting,” he said.

We watched the act for a moment. A young guitarist was putting on a show and the crowd was urging him on.”

“I don’t much like the politics of your species,” he said from out of nowhere.

“I don’t think anyone does,” I said.

“Why don’t they change the process?” he asked.

“Too much cost sunk into maintaining it, I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if Congress met only at blues festivals?”

I looked at him to see if he was serious. He was.

“Let me get back to you on that. Here comes Perry.” I pointed to our right.

When I glanced around, he was gone.

Perry eased back and handed me a beer. He started to say something but a wave of excitement moved through the crowd. There were shouts of: “Look,” and “I told you he was alive,” and “Oh my god, he’s real!”

It seemed that Elvis was walking along in front of our part of the park. He hurried along but stopped every once in awhile to wave.

“That goddam little twerp,” I thought to myself.

17. Optimism

Some strange characters wonder around downtown Little Rock and I thought I had found one. I left the library with a couple of books in my hand when I heard someone behind me carrying on a heated conversation. With himself.

I couldn’t hear all the dialogue but I could tell he was asking questions and answering them all in one breath.

I did catch, “Who in the dark-red shadow of hell do they think they are? Ruffians, that’s who. Oughta kill ‘em. No, killing’s too good. Send them to a work camp.”

He went on like this until he reached me and bumped into my shoulder so hard I dropped the books. He immediately spun around and snarled, “Out of my damned way.”

Before I could answer, he said. “Oh, it’s you, I want to talk to you.”

“C. W.?”

“What of it?” he said. “Come with me.” And he headed to a sitting area in the library complex. I picked up the books and followed. We sat, and I looked at him. He wore a rumpled summer suit and a green visor, looking every bit the prototype 1940s movie version of a newspaper editor.

“Know where I been?” he said.

“No idea.”

“Washington By God, D. C.”

“Man, that’s great,” I said. “Have fun?”

“Shut up,” he answered. “What do you think of Franklin Delano Roosevelt?”

I thought for a moment. “My father thought he was one of the greatest Americans who ever lived.”

“And you?”

“I can’t disagree,” and I started to peel off the benefits that Americans enjoy because of his work.

“Be quiet, and listen,” he said. “Have you ever seen his memorial in Washington?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Quite moving since they decided to present him seated in his wheelchair.”

“Know what the bastard little kids have done to it?”

I shuddered. “No, what?”

“They disfigured it.”

“No! How?”

“The figure of this great man has a finger extended.”

“Yes, and?”

“The little punks have polished the end of his finger until it is bright.”

I thought for a moment and smiled. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“It’s an old American tradition. Old men used to trick young boys into pulling on one of their fingers.”

“Whose finger?”

“The old man’s”

“Why?”

“As soon as they did, the old man would … you know, ‘break wind,’ exhibit flatulence.”

He looked puzzled. Then the clouds lifted. “Do you mean …?” he stopped. “You’re telling me those kids are trying to make the statue fart?”

“Yep.”

Had I not seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. The old editor—that is to say C.W.—broke into a smile. Then into a laugh. Then into a fit of laughter until he fell back against the bench and roared into the sky as if he wanted the very heavens to share his joy. He laughed so hard that he farted, to the delight of those watching.

“Godammit, that’s funny,” he said.

I agreed.

“You know, Jimmie,” he giggled when he finally composed himself. “There may be hope for your little species yet.”

I think FDR would have been pleased at the thought of making a newspaper editor laugh.