241. Merit

“You got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

Oh no. C.W. has become fascinated of late by reruns of “I Love Lucy,” on TV. Unbeknownst to us, he ordered a complete set of the episodes and has been watching them on TV. He even took on the form of “Ricky Ricardo” this morning to ask me some questions about our language.

“Whaz this mean?” he said, plopping into a chair and reading from a notebook. “He was bornded on third base but goes through life tinking he hit a triple.”

“It’s and idiom using baseball terminology.”

“Say what?”

“In baseball, the second best hit a batter can get is called a triple. It allows the batter to make it all the way to third base.”

“Thaz good?”

“Very good.”

“Means the batter has accomplished something good?”

“Yes. The batter has done very well.”

He made notes. “So if someone is ‘bornded on third base’ they just happen to be there?”

“Correct.”

“And they ain’t done nothin’ to make it there?”

“Correct.”

“But they may claim they did?”

“They may indeed.”

Hey started scribbling notes and muttering to himself. I made out, “George W. Bush, Romneys, Kennedys, Waltons,” and a few other names. Then he said something strange, “White males,” and “northern Europe.” It caught my attention.

“Wait” I said. “You may be getting this all wrong.”

“Splain,” he said.

“You’re not accusing white males of the ‘born on third base’ analogy, are you?”

“No,” he said.

“Good,” I said, nodding and sighing in relief.

“Just the ones,” he said, “whose ancestors came here from northern Europe.”

“Now just a dad gummed minute,” I said.

“Qué pasa?”

“You’re not lumping me in with the privileged set are you?”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t born rich,”

“You were born of the color of milk or fresh snow weren’t you?”

“I was born white, yes.”

“And a male?”

“Yes,”

“Second base already,” He said. “Now, Latin, Mediterránean, African, Asian, Eurasion, …

I interrupted him. “You know darn good and well that I am of northern European descent.

Where you start can sure go a long ways
in determining where you will finish, eh? - C.W.

“Yes, Mrs. Big Dope had your DNA analyzed, didn’t she?

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Third base,” he said. “All the way to third base.”

“You are crazy,” I said. “Muy loco.”

He ignored me. “Let’s move on to another idiom,”he said.

“Let’s,” I said. “That one is silly.”

He flipped a page in his notebook, smiled, and looked up. “If the shoe fits, wear it,” he said. “Whaz at mean?”

 

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Oh, and buy his book. It's not bad.

- C.W.

227. Privilege

            “I’ve been thinking,” C.W. said.

            Oh hell. “About what?” We were taking advantage of a break in the cold weather to walk along the riverside park in Little Rock. The air was crisp, the leaves on the maple trees a flaming red, and the paths clear of his enemies, the bicyclists. He often takes on a shape much like that of Johnny Depp in times like this, a joke that causes many stares and an occasional stalking. He, of course, was smoking, blowing the smoke my way to irritate me.

            “I’ve been thinking I might stay here,” he said. “I mean after my assignment is finished.”

            Oh hell. “And what makes you think you might do that?”  I said.

            “I’ve grown accustomed to your face,” he said. I turned quickly to see if he was kidding. He was.

            “And aside from that?”

            “Your species needs help,” he said. “Maybe I could be a pundit, or columnist, or run for office.”

            Oh hell. “Why do you think we need help?”

            “Oh please,” he said. “You have people elected to your national congress who think the universe is 6,000 years old.” He took a puff and blew the smoke toward the distant skyscrapers. “And they are allowed to breed children, drive cars, and operate TV remotes. Scary.”

            “You’ve got a point,” I said.

            “And you’ve got some really ignorant ones at the state level,” he said.

            He was making me despondent. “So,” I said, “will they let you stay, the Falloonian Elders?”

            “I have to make application,” he said. “And I have to choose a permanent shape and personality. And, I have to have sponsors who will vouch for me. You and Mrs. Big Dope will, won’t you?”

            Oh hell. “Have you thought about your permanent shape?” I said.

            “Some,” he said. “I, of course would be male, earning power and all that.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Caucasian. That opens a lot of doors,” he said, “and removes any limitations.”

            “And?”

            “A degree from Harvard would help.”

            “You’ll have to ask them about that,” I said.

            “I have,” he said. “I just have to send the check.”

            “Good for you,” I said. “Is that all you need? Any physical specifications?”

            “Tall.”

            “Tall?”

            “Yes, I think it would help if I were tall.”

            “Hmm,” I said, “probably. Anything else?”

            “A big pe …”

            “Look,” I said. “A speedboat was pulling a water skier in a wetsuit down the river. “That’s something you don’t see often, this time of year. But what were you saying?”

            He thought. “A trust fund,” he said, “I will need a trust fund.”

            “Don’t look to me for that,” I said.

            “Oh the Elders would arrange that. They seemed anxious to grant me permanency here.”

            “I can imagine,” I said. “So that about does it then?”

            “If I plan to run for office, I need a stint in the military.”

            Oh hell. “And?”

            “That presents a bit of a problem,” he said.

            “How so?”

            “We don’t have violence in Falloonia. I’m not sure how I would respond.”

            “Well you won’t know until you try.” I was thinking of four years of freedom.

            “Maybe I could just become an avid hunter instead,” he said. “That seems to work as a proxy.”

Everyone is crazy about

a self-made man. - C.W.

            “That involves violence,” I said.

            “Yes, but it is unilateral violence. That is the best kind.”

            “Say,” I said. “You’ve thought this thing out pretty carefully.”

            “I’m prepared to pull myself up by my own bootstraps, as George W. Bush used to say. Only two decisions to go,” he said.

            “Only two?”

            “Yes, finding a wife and choosing a church home,” he said, “appearances, you know.”

            “That shouldn’t be hard,” I said.

            “I don’t know, he said. “Those Baptist women are awfully pretty, but you know how much I like to dance.”

            Oh hell.

 

 

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