346.Liberals

You won’t believe it, dear friends. I almost didn’t myself, but after all these years nothing surprises me. What was it? Nothing less than C.W. as a spitting image of Archie Bunker, complete with cigar. When he showed, I got him out of the house as soon as possible and took him to the park  where we walked in an isolated area, the most isolated area I could find, and talked. It turned out to be more interesting than I thought.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he was saying. “We could use a man like J. Edgar Hoover again.”

I stopped him. “Don’t you mean Herbert Hoover?”

“No, Big Dope. Weren’t you listening? J. Edgar.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Elementary,” he said. “You never seen J. Edgar Hoover take part in a political campaign like this current clown, did you?”

I thought for a long time. “Not precisely,” I said.

“Bet your ass, not precisely,” he said. “That old boy didn’t care who was president. He was a man’s man.”

I let that one pass, and thought. While I was thinking, he continued. “He had files on them all. Didn’t matter to him who held office. He had a file, J. Edgar did.”

“By jove,” I said. “I think you have a point there.”

He changed directions like the lead car in a getaway attempt. “Now you take them coloreds.”

“Wait C.W.,” I said. “We don’t talk like that anymore.”

“Precisely my point,” he said. “If you can’t call them ‘coloreds,’ what can you call them?”

“Uh,” I said. “Americans?”

“That’s what they want,” he said. “For nobody to know the difference. Just like your dames.”

I looked around nervously. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She ain’t around.”

“Who?”

“Miss ‘fancy pants’ herself. Your wife.”

“What about my wife?”

“She don’t like the word ‘dames’ either, Mrs. Big Dope don’t. And don’t ask her if she ever got a job just because she was ‘cute and perky.’ Trust me on that one.”

“You didn’t?”

“Only once,” he said. “But trust me anyway. That dame has a temper.”

Just then a voice from behind us started yelling “Left, left, left you assholes.”

C.W., Archie … whoever, removed the cigar butt from his mouth and flipped it into the air just before the cyclist reached us. A man wearing an outfit resembling that of a space-rocket captain in a 1950s science fiction flick sailed by us. “Move your stupid asses o…,” he was saying when the cigar landed in his mouth. The bicycle wavered and sailed down an embankment into a clump of trees with a loud crash.

“Now,” my companion continued, heedless of the commotion, “you take them liberals.”

 

If your species had paid more
attention to this man in the 1970s.
You would understand your
voters better in 2016. - C.W.

“Like me and the Galilean?”

“Like you and that robe-wearing, love-spouting, wine-guzzling, do-gooder.”

“But,” I said, “he’s you, on one of your better days.”

“I may have been him before,” he said. “But never again. I seen the light.”

“What light?”

“The light that says good, hard-working white men like me ain’t got a chance no more.”

“Want to explain that?”

“They are giving all our jobs to the coloreds, the dames, the latinics, and the hispanos.”

“What?”

“Even puttin’t them in charge of white men. We ain’t got no chance. They’ll be wantin’ to use our bathrooms next thing you know. We’ll all disappear before long. Until then, we’ll just take orders from them.”

I was speechless. “Where did you hear all this?” I managed.

“On this news show I been watchin’. They report and I decide.” He lit another cigar. “I mean,” he continued, “how would you like for Mrs. Big Dope to control your every move, boss you around, control your life, make every decision? Just let you be a pawn in the game of life?”

“C.W.” I said, and I said it soft and slow, so he wouldn’t miss the point. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a complete idiot?’

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve heard that. Lots of times.”

“From whom?”

“Mrs. Big Dope,” he said. Then he started making gestures as if his hands were disabled by palsy. “Now,” he said, “you take them cripples.” But he was talking to himself. I had slipped away and was going down the hill to check on the bicyclist.

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Daily Thoughts

What C.W. and I discussed this morning.

A life worth studying: Lewis Mumford. The meme echoes my feelings on this fourth day before the elections. Only problem is … almost everything Mumford warned of came pass and his advice remains pertinent but unheeded by many. Recall:  “A day spent without the sight or sound of beauty, the contemplation of mystery, or the search of truth is a poverty-stricken day; and a succession of such days is fatal to human life.” 

My favorite of his quotes: "Adding highway lanes to deal with traffic congestion is like loosening your belt to cure obesity."

If only someone could remind the Arkansas Highway Construction Department of this.

C.W. says "Happy Guy Fawkes Day."

345. Fright

“Oh, you frightened me!”

“That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“What kind of mask is that? And no, I’m not taking you ‘trick-or-treating.”

“It’s called ‘The Orange Man.’ It’s a new one this year. Frightening huh? And why ain't you taking me to scare people?”

“Because you’re an alien. That’s scary enough already.”

C.W. had taken the form he uses on many festive occasions, that of Little Ricky, the troublesome ten-year-old. I had to admit that he looked cute. I looked him over. “What’s that on your shirt?”

“I customized it myself,” he said. “It says ‘Grab or Treat’ Neat huh?”

I frowned. “The answer is still no.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why?”

“Remember what happened last year?”

“Why … I mean what?”

“Ask our neighbor. Her daughter still runs and hides under the bed when someone knocks on the door.”

“What?” he said. “I didn’t even wear a costume last year. I went as myself.”

“I think that was the problem,” I said.

“Jeesh. Your species sorely lacks a sense of humor.”

“I think we are all beginning to realize that,” I said. “And the answer is still no. But you are free to ask my wife to take you.”

“I already did.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t know. I ducked and ran in here before I heard her say anything, but I expect you don’t want to know, what she said that is.”

“It’s a silly tradition anyway,” I said. “And, unlike yours, the costumes are not scary anymore. What evil spirit would think that a young princess, or a ballet dancer, or Spider-Man, was one of them?”

“Oh,” he said, “I think big business has gotten into the act, he said. It’s not ‘All-hallows-eve’ anymore. It’s more like ‘All-profits-ease.’ Did you know,” he said, “that your people spend six billion dollars annually on Halloween?”

“Is this conversation going somewhere? I’m really busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Give me a moment and I’ll think of something.”

“Just take me to Perry’s house. He’ll give me a treat.”

“He’ll invite you in to listen to his music.”

“That old big-band stuff?”

“It surely won’t be ‘Stinky Colin and the Gut Tracks.’ Is that still your favorite band?”

“I like The Gut Tracks,” he said. “They’re, like, awesome. Have you heard their new one, ‘I want to grab you like a steam shovel grabs a tunnel of coal.’ Neat.” He paused to savor the thought. “Now will you take me or not?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I thought. “Because the church doesn’t like it.”

“What church?”

“Oh, some church I read about said it was a pagan festival and any kid that dressed up like ghost, or monster, or alien and destroyed property would go to Hell.”

“Since when did you care what a church thought? And,” he said. “we don’t destroy property.”

That snapped my head around. “Oh? Would you like to ride over and take a look at Mr. McGee’s barn?”

 

Scary is as scary does, I say. - C.W.

“It just has the word ‘Brick’ painted on it.”

“Yes, that’s what is says now. That’s not what it said originally.”

“Toady Carmichael did that.”

“That’s not what he says. And should we continue to Mrs. Patterson’s chicken house?”

He fidgeted. “There’s no chicken house on Mrs. Patterson’s place.”

“No,” I said. “Not now.”

“We were just carrying on a tradition established by your species. Harmless fun.”

“My wife has a photograph of an undergarment strapped around an oak tree,” I said. “Want to ask her to defined ‘harmless?’”

He began to look around, rather nervously I thought. The blond wig-hair fell across his orange face. He squirmed. “Just locker-room stuff," he said. He glanced toward the kitchen and squirmed again.

“You didn’t,” I said. “Tell me you didn’t.”

At this moment, a pot flew through the living room door and crashed against a wall. A voice shrieked, “Where is he?”

“Come on,” he said. “That woman is in a nasty mood. Let’s get out of here and let her cool off. Then we’ll come back and make this place great again.”

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344. Confusion

C.W. is caught in a loop. He’s settled on one shape for a while. He’s sticking with “The Galilean.” Seems it suits his fancy and irritates the Fallloonian Elders at the same time.

I did get him to modify the robe. He shortened it into a loose fitting white 1960s era pullover with linen trousers and sandals. He gets a few stares but so far we haven’t been arrested. So, I took him for a walk one day last week so we could talk. He looked fairly normal until he pulled a Chicago Cubs hat from a drawer and screwed it down over this long hair.

“What?” he said when I looked at him and shook my head. “Look pal,” he said. “I, for one, can sure tell you that miracles can do happen. Don’t start in with me. Remember what I did those stupid pigs?”

I shrugged and we took off from our condo on the east side and walked toward the tall buildings. Two blocks later, we met a young woman walking a small, but well-groomed young poodle. C.W. stopped, tipped his Cubs hat and said, “Afternoon ma’am. Taking Tiger out for his afternoon walk?”

She pulled the lease tight, and crossed the street at a right angle to us. Halfway across, she stopped, looked back, then hurried on.

“I like to greet my people,” he said. “They do love me so.”

I said nothing and we walked on. Our conversation had drifted to drone warfare. “I told them,” he said, “that the peace makers were blessed as far as I was concerned. What the hell part of that do they not understand?” He stopped, turned to me and asked for a quarter. I handed him one. He walked to the curb and inserted it into and expired meter. “Like the candidate says,” he said as he returned. “Do it to them like you’d want them to do it to you.”

“Uh ...,” I said, but he interrupted.

“I’m thirsty, let’s stop in for a cold one.”

We were in front of a local pub and diner with a loyal clientele and a nice view of the busy streets outside. We went in a took a seat. A nice young person of indeterminate gender immediately came to take our order. “Do you have Gitztusmilinga beer?” C.W. asked.

“Never heard it,” the server said.

“Oh my child,” C.W. said, “You are so deprived. It’s a favorite where I come from.”

“I can’t help that,” the server said. “We have Bud, Bud Light, Mil …”

“Just bring me a glass of water,” he said. “I’ll make my own drink.” Seeing no response, he added, “That’s supposed to be a joke.”

“Miller Light, Dos Equis, Mich …”

“Just bring us a couple of Stellas,” I said. The sever looked relieved and scurried off.

When the beers arrived, he took a long drink, lowered the mug to the table, and said, “I’m pissed off about this divorce thing,” he said.

“I’m not sure,” I said, “that you’re supposed to be using that sort of language.” I stopped. “What divorce thing?”

Hell, next thing you know, they'll be talking about
how much I love rich people. - C.W.

“Didn’t I tell them it was a sin?”

“Very plainly,” I said. “I agree, but …”

“Stick your ‘but’ where the sun doesn’t shine,” he said. “I told them it was a sin and now they say it’s being taken out of the discourse that surround a word or passage and can throw light on its meaning.”

“You mean taken out of context.”

“That’s what I said. Don’t change the subject.” He took a long drink and signaled to the server to be preparing another. “I told them divorces really got on my nerves and these … these … these … what was it I called them last time we discussed it? Holy-rotators?”

“Evangelicals,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said. “The ones who claim to talk directly to me. The server sat another beer in front of him, took the empty away, and hurried back to the bar. “Now ain’t that a joke?”

I was having a good time playing along. “So you don’t talk to them?”

“Hell no,” he said, slamming his mug on table so hard that a bit of beer spilled out. He wiped it with a finger and licked the finger. “I wouldn’t talk to them if they knew where Scarlett Johansson lived.” He took a drink. “There’s someone else who talks to them. I’ll tell you about him someday.” He paused took a breath and lowered his voice. “Anyway,” he said, “I understand that these … these … these … what did you call them?”

“Evangelicals.”

“Yeah, evangilistas. I understand they intend to vote for a man who has had two divorces. That’s crap if you ask me.”

I shrugged.

“Ain’t that a bit,” he said, “like a Cubs fan rooting for some team in, oh, I don't know ... Ohio?”

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343. Literature

I couldn’t believe my ears, but there it was, unmistakable. C.W. was singing again. Not only singing, he had one of my guitars and was pounding away in near-rhythm. What the…?

I stepped through the door and stared. It was C.W. in what is his current favorite form, the Galilean. He didn’t see me at first so I watched as he wailed,

“I was lost, my life was murky,

You come along, lookin’ cute and perky,

I snatched a grab and you just melted,

Like Joan of Arc, so I knew you felt it,

Love, love, like a sweet rain fallin’”

I must have gasped, for he stopped and looked up. “Hey Big Dope, what’s up?” Then he appeared to have an inspiration and started singing again.

“You walked in and I was singing,

Words of praise, your ears was ringing,

So I sang loud and the world stopped turning,

Paris fell, and Rome was burning,

Love, love like a kitten purrin,’”

He stopped. “What do you think?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I think maybe I nodded but I’m not sure.

“Don’t talk to me about great literature,” he said. He gathered his white robe beneath him and reached for a pitcher of, I learned later, frozen margaritas. He filled a glass and sipped. Then he seemed to notice me again. He nodded toward the pitcher. “Want one?”

I still couldn’t find my voice, so I just shook my head. “My second batch,” he said. “I heard that songwriters must get stoned.” He stopped, “Hey,” he said, grabbing pen and scribbling like a maniac. “Songwriters must get stoned … no, lonely people must get stoned … no, crazy people must get stone … no, poets and prophets must … oh Me... who the hell must get stoned? Oh well. I’ll think of it later.” He put the pen aside and sipped his drink. “Must be one too many mornings,” he said, then stopped and grabbed the pen again. “… and a thousand steps, no, drinks, no, smiles, no, something something something … a thousand somethings behind.” He resumed his drinking.

I found my voice at last. “Would you mind telling me what you are doing?”

“Just hanging out on Desolation Street,” he said. “Street, road, trail, Desolation Something.” He forgot me again and started writing.

“Doing what?”

“Gonna be a poet,” he said. “A singing poet. Maybe be one of them laurellets some day.”

“So you mean laureates?”

“Ain’t that what I just said? Geez. You walk into the room, with your uh, hmmm … briefcase, yeah, briefcase … in your hand.” He froze and grabbed the pen. “Wait one,” he said as he began to scribble.

“Have you gone mad?”

“They say all us poets are mad,” he said. “And you know you have to have a news man to know which way the vote goes.” He stopped and looked up. He nodded and smiled. “Listen to this.” He started to sing.

“I met you in the cornfield, right around Christmas time,

I liked the way you jiggled, so I thought I might drop a dime,

You ran off and left me, for a holy-roller preacher man,

Then I knew that I would find you, sittin’ in a witness stand.”

He looked a me and smiled. “What do you think?”

It can't be hard. It looks so easy
when this man does it. - C.W.

“I think maybe you mixed your metaphors.”

“My whatafors?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Are you going to be a while?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t you going to stay and listen?”

“I’d rather shoot myself,” I said.

For a moment he looked hurt. Then he smiled, cocked his head to one side, looked down and started writing.

“Yonder stands old Big Dope with his gun … no … yonder stands your landlord with … no … yonder stands your best friend … no … mentor … no … brother … cousin … hus …”

I quietly slipped away. Later I walked by the door and heard him still at it. “Stuck inside of Pittsburgh …no … stuck inside of Dallas … no … stuck inside of Cleveland … Tucson … no … oh crap!”

This time I didn’t stop. They were announcing the Nobel Prize winners and I wanted to see if there were any surprises. Probably not, but who could tell?

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