To Life

He could not hear or see. He could not even feel the weight of his own body. Then all of the painful sensations returned and the nightmare began. His car broke down on an isolated road miles from home. Making matters worse was the fact that he was struggling to hold back a bowel movement. He got out of the car. He decided to take a shortcut through the woods to a neighbor’s house. The urge to empty his bowels increased with each step he took. The woods were thick and dark, and he knew it would take a long time to work his way through them. As much as he regretted not having any toilet paper, he did what came naturally. He dropped his trousers and squatted. That is when it happened. A mountain lion decided to punish this other predator for marking what the cougar considered to be its territory. It attacked and mauled Dale viciously. The pain of the injuries was excruciating, but the attack quickly ended and so did all physical feeling. He was back to being weightless. He could not hear or see in the manner we all take for granted, but he could sense objects and sounds. It was as though he was experiencing everything on a whole different level. He thought he was having an out of the body experience.

“You died.”

“What?”

“Passed away is the euphemism I think you use.”

“You mean I’m lying there in a pile of my own shit with my pants down around my knees?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What an undignified way to go!”

“Shit happens.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s an expression I’ve always found amusing.”

“Well it’s not. Why did you let the cougar attack me?”

“We don’t control such things. We just observe how you react to them.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“You’re welcome.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“I know.”

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“What you’re going to do to me sure does.”

“You get to start over.”

“What do you mean I get to start over?”

“You haven’t learned all you need to know to move on.”

“You mean I flunked life?”

“I wouldn’t put it in those terms, but, in a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Is it like having to repeat the third grade or something?”

“Not exactly. When you repeat a grade in school you remember what you learned the first time around.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying I’m going to be a baby who can’t control his bladder or bowels; that I have to relearn all those very basic things and how to communicate?”

“It doesn’t take that long, and you won’t remember it.”

“Not remembering is what I object too. We are our experiences and what we have learned from them. I won’t even be me.”

“That’s correct.”

“But I want to be me!”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. I’m not going to do it.”

“Suit yourself, but you’re not a part of this world in your present form.”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“Yes and no. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Then leave me alone and let me discover it on my own.”

“As you wish. No need to try to call me. I’ll know when you change your mind.”

He was tempted to call that disembodied voice an arrogant bastard but thought better of it. It is not wise to piss something off when you don’t know how much power it might have. The one thing Dale knew was that he was here. He tried to re-inhabit his body. He passed through it like a vapor. He could not even get back into it let alone control it. Still he was here on this earth. He now indulged in a bit of rationalization. If I’m here, I’m not really dead. What I need is medical attention. I need someone to repair and revitalize my body so I can use it again. Then he had a glimmer of hope. If this is a nightmare, I’ll wake up. But he was sure it was not a nightmare. If I’m in a comma time is of the essence. Someone has to repair my body while I’m still alive. He could not just sit there and hope someone would find him in time.

He started drifting. That was the only way he could describe what he was doing. He was not walking or flying he was thinking his way along. He was literally passing through the trees; they offered no resistance. There was the house of his neighbor. He oozed through the wall of the kitchen. There was Esther cooking dinner. She turned and walked through him on her way to the refrigerator. She opened the refrigerator, removed several items and walked through Dale again. She then set the items on the counter near the stove.

“Van did you open a window or door?”

“No dear.”

“I wonder if women my age ever experience the opposite of hot flashes.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, if it happens again I’ll ask the doctor.”

Dale was afraid he would scare Esther so he decided to try to talk to Van. He drifted into the living room where Van was watching television.

“Van! It’s Dale.”

The words were crisp and clear, but Van did not hear them. Dale tried shouting, but Van could not hear him. Thinking seemed to be the thing. It was all Dale had. Maybe he needed to try someone who had connected to his thoughts better. His ex-wife came to mind. They had been close once, but that was a long time ago. The emotional connection had been broken. They no longer shared their feelings or deep thoughts. It had to be someone who would think his call for help was an intuition.

He was drifting again, into town and then the tavern. He had been spending a lot of time in the tavern lately. He thought he was having fun, but he now realized he had been using alcohol to numb the pain. Most of the regulars were there. They were friends. They shared their feelings and their joy, but what they shared the most was the inebriation that made jokes seem funnier and sadness more overwhelming. He tried to talk to some of them, but they could not hear him. The connection between him and them was not that great because it did not extend beyond the tavern.

“Drifting,” the word struck him like a blow. He had spent the last two years of his life drifting in an alcoholic haze, trying to anesthetize himself from his feelings of failure. But was he a failure? He was not what you would call a howling success, but he was still doing reasonably well at his work. He drifted into the home of old friends. Carl and his wife Jane were eating dinner. Dale had been neglecting the relationship he had with those wonderful people. He was suddenly overwhelmed by how much he cared for them.

“Carl, I have this terrible feeling. I know it’s going to sound silly, but I think Dale’s in trouble.”

“Maybe he got drunk and ran off the road.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No it isn’t.”

Carl got up and dialed Dale’s cell phone number. When he didn’t get an answer he dialed the home number.

“He’s not answering.”

“Try the tavern.”

“No one at the tavern had seen Dale that night.”

Dale suddenly felt the weight of his body. His muscles flexed but he was constrained. He opened his eyes to discover he was in a room.

“Don’t try to talk,” a female voice said. “You’re in the hospital.”

“You’re lucky that motorist had to take a leak or he wouldn’t have wondered into the woods,” a male voice said.

So Dale had been bleeding out in a pile of shit, and he was saved because someone had stopped to take a leak. Dale would have laughed, but he blacked out again.

He was at the beach with his son and his daughter. They were looking at the creatures in the tide pools. He had his son lightly touch a sea anemone. Robby pulled his finger away as the anemone closed up.

“It’s sticky,” Robby observed.

“What you’re feeling are stingers that are too short to penetrate your skin. Let me show you how it protects itself from creatures like us.”

Dale poked the anemone, and it squirted water. The children laughed, and their delight made Dale smile.

He had been neglecting his children. It was all too easy to do after the divorce. Now he missed them terribly. Teaching them and sharing discoveries with them was one of life’s greatest pleasures.

He opened his eyes. A doctor was looking down at him.

“It’s nothing short of a miracle that you’re still alive. Your face is going to look terrible after we take the bandages off, but the plastic surgeon can come close to making you look like you did.”

Dale could not talk because there was a tube down his throat. Close would be good enough. He would still be who he was. He would still have his memories and his love for all the beautiful things on this earth. He could still share who he was with his children, his siblings and his friends. He now remembered walking down the pier with his ex-wife, Carl and Jane. A religious fanatic who was determined to convert the converted accosted them. She told them to stop worshiping God’s creation and see the light, because true happiness was only found in the kingdom of heaven.

“If you reject the gift of the father how can you accept the gift of the son?” Carl asked.

“What?”

Life itself was the greatest gift. Dale told her to think about it.

Her retort was a threat to pray for them. It was a threat because it was her way of calling them fools.

Dale now realized there were many ways to reject life. Failing to appreciate it by withdrawing from the people he loved is how he had been rejecting it. He realized he would never be a celebrated humanitarian, but the positive impact he could have on the lives of the people he knew was still a good way of measuring success. He had been given a second chance. He still had the time to share, to help and to enjoy.

First published in macsbackporch.fictonforall.com on Oct 14, 2010

The Prophet Jons

Bones of the past were scattered across the table in the form of fragile pieces of paper. Those skeletal remains were no longer imbued with the illusive quality we call life yet they still exhibited many of the emotions that are so much a part of life. The emotions did not merely add interest to the remains, they were also the glue that determined which facts clung to accounts and explanations too often warped by beliefs, misunderstandings, and motives that might be less than pure. As always, the inaccuracies would increase the difficulty of fleshing out the larger story once the underlying structure was assembled.

The heavy marine air must have seemed strange to the apostles. The lights in the firmament were hidden above thick clouds casting the salt marshes into darkness.

“I seen it from a distance. Twas a mere will o’ the wisp floating above the water and peaking its fiery head out through wafts of fog.”

“Now Amel,” Daniel said, “you know there’s no such thing as a MEAR will o’ the wisp. Tis a false light luring you into the fogs and the bogs till you can’t tell left from right nor up from down. Iffen yer lucky you’ll only sink arse deep and will be able to wait for the true light of the sun to escape.”

It was no will o’ the wisp according Arthur. “Ball lightning, that’s what it was. I read about it once but never imagined I’d see such a rare sight. A ball of light rolled and bounced erratically over the wet surface until it struck something solid and exploded. The brighter flash of the explosion was reflected and distorted by the mist, and then it was gone taking with it whatever it struck, I’m guessing.”

What it apparently struck was the modern prophet, Jons. One of his followers, disciple Ron as he preferred to be called, took umbrage. He said this phenomenon could not be anything as malevolent as a will o’ the wisp or the devil’s fireball.

“The prophet Jons was a holy man, so holy that God spared him the death that ends our miserable earthly existence. I was there. I saw it as clearly as you see me now. A chariot of fire floated above the surface of the water to the prophet. And it took prophet Jons unto heaven as surely as God’s chariot took the prophet Elijah.”

Say what you will about prophet Jons (one disgruntled former follower called him the great profit) but prophet Jons certainly knew how die. Although there were few witnesses to his spectacular demise, that might have worked to the advantage of his disciples. More witnesses might have come up with different accounts of what actually happened. The descriptions of the few who witnessed the event must have presented disciple Ron with a dilemma as it was. It was not like he could go back to the flock and report that God or the devil blew the prophet’s ass off. Ah, but the death was caused by a rare phenomenon nobody could explain with scientific certainty.

Oh, sweet mystery! Life itself is mysterious enough to make most people believe in God. Why not a chariot of fire? Why couldn’t God whisk the prophet up to heaven in a chariot of fire? If you believe in God the explanation is as logical as a will o’ the wisp or some phenomenon so rare that no one can come up with a scientific explanation for it.

Unfortunately, the only description of the remains said there was a pair of burned boots and a pile of burned bones and flesh. It did not say whether the pile of bones and flesh resembled prophet Jons or even a human. The only conclusion that is certain is that the prophet, if those were the remains of the prophet, was not transported to heaven in his earthly form. But that is getting ahead of the story. The fragments of which were still scattered across the table.

“The least among you shall rise against the arrogance of your inventions, your corruption, and the rapaciousness that causes you to believe you can change the world in defiance of God’s will. And they shall cleave to each other as the true children of God. And they shall follow the prophet Jons into the wilderness, forsaking the wickedness of the cities and the land speculators to form a society of honest, God fearing, shepherds until the coming of our Lord.”

The forgoing was an excerpt from a tract written by prophet Jons.  So he was a Luddite. No big surprise there. The envelope that held this tract was mailed from Massachusetts and that part of the country had a long history of revivalist preachers who condemned the industrial revolution and its evils. A paper in that state announced revival meetings to be held on Saturday and Sunday by the “Prophet Jons and the Modern Apostles of the Lord’s Light.” The next edition of that paper contained a review of the first of those meetings.

“The many people who were able to ignore the conceit of a modern man calling himself a prophet really enjoyed the meeting. Prophet Jons is not just a hell, fire, and brimstone preacher he is also quite a showman. He really connects with his audience. They laughed with him, and they cried with him. They shouted amen and hallelujah, and they sang at the top of their voices. At one point he talked about what we hail as our great knowledge and all of the wonderful things we produce. ‘And what will happen to all those things our great knowledge allows us to produce?’ he asked. He then used a torch to set off what must have been black powder in an open trough. There was a bright flash and a billow of smoke. ‘All gone, gone in a flash!’ he shouted. ‘What I just ignited was an invention of destruction, but they’re all inventions of destruction. I don’t need to tell you that. You feel it in your sore muscles, your stiff joints, and the sweat of your brow as you struggle through the long hours to produce the temporary things that are supposed to make life on earth better. True happiness is only found in the hereafter and only by they who have committed themselves to a Christian life!’

His idea of a Christian life is a pastoral life. That is impractical for most people in this day and age, but what he said was well received by the workers in his audience. There is little doubt that he made some converts last night.”

What happened next is described in a diary kept by prophet Jons’ first wife, Margaret.

“We moved our flock to God’s own country. My husband is the showman and the speaker. He is the one who draws the followers who invested in our new Christian society, but it is the logician, disciple Ron, who is the practical one. He pointed out that there was no free range to speak of. We cannot wonder the wilderness with flocks of sheep. We bought two large tracts of land. One tract was purchased in my husband’s name. The other deed lists disciple Ron as the owner. The deeds are a mere formality. Both ranches belong to the Modern Apostles of the Lord’s Light.”

Another entry: “We have just constructed a large, beautiful house. Most of the cabins inhabited by our flock are also complete. We have some chickens, milk cows, and a large flock of sheep. We have also bought spinning wheels to make cloth.”

There was a long lapse of diary entries and then the following: “I fear that many members of our society have succumbed to jealousy and earthly greed. They accuse my husband of philandering and complain about not receiving a fair share of our bounty. Will Smith turned traitor. He left our ranch and shot his mouth off to a reporter. He called my dear husband the great profit, and accused him of keeping all the money. He also repeated the accusations about the philandering. Will Smith is a liar!”

Several weeks later: “Most of our flock have left. They have set out on their own to rejoin the wicked world. No matter. We can hire help. Disciple Ron proposed something far bolder. He said we can hire overseers to manage the ranches. He pointed out that the great prophets did not live pastoral lives; they preached. This idea greatly appeals to my restless husband. Preaching is his God given talent. He really misses the audiences who so adore him.”

Railroad tickets and the bank books kept by disciple Ron show that prophet Jons took his show on the road shortly after Margaret’s diary entry. Railroads must not have been one of the inventions he objected too because he made liberal use of them. It was the practical thing to do. He hired a young organist, eighteen year old Peggy Peters, and they took with them a pump organ. They also took with them the large meeting tent and several smaller tents to sleep in as well as the props, such as the black powder and ignition trough. Prophet Jons hired several young men to travel with him and do much of the physical work.

An entry in Margaret’s diary said: “I had a very difficult decision to make. As much as I wanted to be with my dear husband, I thought the journey would be too arduous for our infants. After much prayer and thought I decided to stay here where I could keep an eye on the overseers.”

The best description of Prophet Jon's tour can be found in Peggy's letters to her sister Ann.

"This is not merely a job," Peggy wrote, "I am doing the Lord’s work. Prophet Jons is magnificent. The people who come to our revival meetings hang on his every word. His reputation grows by the day. He is now drawing large audiences wherever we go. At one meeting Mr. George How was so moved by the spirit that he offered the most rousing testimony I have ever heard. Disciple Ron said the young man had a gift. Mr. How has now joined us, and he repeats his testimony at all of our meetings.


Affectionately yours

Peggy”

In her next letter to Ann Peggy said the entourage had grown considerably. Most of the new recruits were under twenty-five years old. Young ladies in white flowing robes now walked the aisles to accept the contributions from the audience. And the contributions were finally providing enough money for the apostles to stay at inexpensive hotels and boarding houses. Prophet Jons and disciple Ron secured private rooms for themselves. The rest of the crew packed into as few rooms as possible.

“Prophet Jons is very personable. Everyone loves him, but he has an almost unreasonable need for privacy. It is as though he talks to the Lord hourly. He does not indulge in alcohol except for an occasional glass of wine with supper. Until recently I did not know much about disciple Ron because he traveled ahead of us to make the arrangements. He has now trained Robert Gomes to do much of what disciple Ron calls the advance work. My increased exposure to disciple Ron has revealed much. He is a brilliant man but far less temperate and far more demanding than prophet Jons. I would not say that disciple Ron is a drunk but he is known to imbibe a bit too much at times.”

“Dear Ann:

You should see us now! Remember how I wanted to join some of the traveling circuses and such when I was child. In some ways I have. We typically arrive at towns one or two days before the meetings. The unloading of the wagons and horses from the train is well orchestrated. The first wagons taken off the train cars are the ones carrying the tent and the seats and such. The men setting up the meeting place go there as quickly and efficiently as possible. The rest of us take part in a parade through the town. The girls who take the donations at the meetings are in the lead wearing their white flowing robes. I follow in a wagon designed to hold the organ, and I play hymns along the way. Prophet Jons likes the peppy ones. I even play a few Negro spirituals. The girls literally dance down the street passing out the flyers announcing the date and time of the meetings. Prophet Jons follows in an open carriage, the sides of which have been painted with a scene from the bible. He is followed by two men riding camels, and they are followed by a wagon in which Apostles dressed in biblical costumes are standing or sitting. The other two wagons that follow carry our wardrobes & etc. Those wagons would not be remarkable enough to include in the parade if it weren’t for the beautifully painted biblical scenes on them. Our parade always draws a crowd.

I am enjoying myself immensely. I suppose you could say I have joined the inner circle. Prophet Jons frequently takes his evening meal in his hotel room. I take his supper to him and join him for the meal. We have long talks. I will write again soon.
Affectionately Yours

Peggy.”

Margaret’s diary addressed a growing scandal. “Again there are accusations about philandering. It is said that my dear husband has impregnated the young organist, Peggy. I fear that the accusations might not be unfounded this time. My husband tries to be righteous but he is a man. Our separation must be difficult for him. He will be home soon. The tour ends with the onset of winter. I will not confront him about the scandal as long as he behaves himself here.  He and disciple Ron intend to build a church here. They have taken in several neophytes and intend to train and ordain them. The church here will be the first of what they hope to be many.”

Other diary entries indicate that many of the young people traveling with prophet Jons took up residence in the cabins that had been built when the failed society was started. Peggy discretely occupied a cabin on disciple Ron’s property. In some ways a polygamist relationship was established. Peggy kept a discrete distance at the ranch. Although they avoided the condemnation the Mormons were experiencing by not officially recognizing the union between Peggy and prophet Jons, Peggy was the traveling wife and Margaret was the home wife. The meeting house at the ranch was used as a seminary for the neophytes, and two more churches were eventually established.

Disciple Ron and several of the neophytes collaborated in ghost writing a book for prophet Jons. It described prophet Jons’ religious movement and contained autobiographical material. The acknowledgement in the book thanked disciple Ron and the neophytes for their help in writing the book, which was sold at the new churches and the revival meetings. Prophet Jons was now getting national attention in the press. He was particularly popular in the mid-west because of the contrasts he drew between the good clean life of the Christian farmers and the squalor and exploitation of the workers in the industrialized cities. He was also popular with the workers in the cities because of the way he lambasted their employers. Some of the industrialists actually threatened to fire any workers who attended his meetings. He drew large crowds in the cities in spite of the threat. Some reporters seemed particularly amused by that and by the accusations that he was a subversive rogue who fomented the discontent of the great unwashed.

In response to a veiled threat published by one newspaper prophet Jons said: “My kingdom is not of this world. If workers choose to return to the farms because of what I preach, their employers will simply bring in more immigrants to exploit and corrupt.” In some cities he drew large enough crowds to hold his meetings in theaters rather than the tents.

According to Margaret’s diary the last tour was to end on the Pacific Coast. For some reason disciple Ron, who did not keep a diary, actually chronicled prophet Jons’ last days and the events leading up to his demise.

“I traveled to the Pacific coast. I did so well in advance of the tour.  My goal was not to do the advance work by making the necessary arrangements for our tour but to assess the potential profitability of a tour there. The prospects were appealing. I must confess that I was particularly enamored with southern California. The climate is superb. Los Angeles has a reputation for being lawless. Many of its citizens still carry firearms. It is, however, no more rowdy than is San Francisco. During my visit to Los Angeles I met with some of the more prominent businessmen. It is not an industrialized area and I did not sense any of the hostility that greets us in industrialized areas. We talked about the availability of land, the ranches and farms and other business enterprises. They told me of an area down the coast. The landowners there were ranchers and farmers with huge spreads. I was warned that they would not be eager to part with good land, but some of the land they owned was useless to them. I took a long carriage trip to an area characterized by salt marshes. I was told it was tideland. Neither the brine nor the asphalteum deposits in some of the pools are good for livestock. I was able to talk one of the ranchers into selling me fifteen dry acres near those marshes at a very cheap price. I registered the ownership of that land jointly in my name and in the name of prophet Jons.

This location seemed like the perfect place for a resort, and my purpose in buying that land was to build a resort there. When I returned to my ranch I pitched the idea to prophet Jons. He, predictably, wanted to build a religious retreat rather than a resort. I pointed out to him that a resort would be far more profitable, and we could still build a chapel where we could hold services. He agreed in principle but wanted to see the land before making his final decision. We planned to start our tour in spring, and to go to Los Angeles first. We would then work our way up the coast and then to the mid-west. We arrived in Los Angeles between storms. It turns out that the winter there is mild and spring is the stormy season. The weather held and our meetings there went well. I had the foresight to plan three days of down time so we could explore the land before moving on. I had also arranged for prophet Jons and I to stay the night at the house of the rancher who sold us the property. I did this because of the long carriage ride to and from Los Angeles.

Since we had a place to stay nearby I was not concerned about arriving at our property in the afternoon. Nor was I concerned about hiking the trail in the marshes. The marine air was heavy and damp and it was still, deathly still. When I had been there before the abundance of game birds was astounding. They were all hiding now. The darkness descended upon us suddenly, making it very difficult to stay on the trail. I paused for a breather. Prophet Jons scouted the trail for a short distance ahead of me. We called back and forth to each other so I could find him again. I was a short distance from him when it happened. I will not go into his last moments here. I have already said all I have to say about that. We carried out the rest of the tour with young George doing the preaching. He did a pretty good job, but he is no prophet Jons. I’m afraid our touring days are over. All that remains of the movement are our churches.”

In a later reminiscence disciple Ron said prophet Jons’ simple vision was too difficult to sustain. “In the hands of a charismatic leader it traveled well but it sat poorly.”

What happened to prophet Jons is as mysterious as will o’ the wisps and ball lightning. The folks who believe he was taken to heaven do so as a matter of faith. It can be argued, particularly the part about the chariot of fire, but no one can prove it or disprove it.  Therein lies the futility of engaging in debates about religion.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms on Sep. 30, 2010

No Saber-Tooth Tigers

What makes more sense: passing a law that prohibits anyone from keeping a saber-tooth tiger as a pet or passing a law that prohibits the replacement of our current laws with sharia law?

Strictly form a legal standpoint keeping a saber-tooth tiger as a pet is viable whereas replacing our current laws with sharia law is not. Keeping a saber-tooth tiger as a pet does not violate the first amendment or any of the other amendments to our constitution. Replacing our laws with sharia law, on the other hand, violates the first amendment and several other amendments to our constitution. In other words, sharia law could not survive the scrutiny of any appellate court. It poses no more of a threat than saber-tooth tigers do.

Yet here we have Newt Gingrich advocating the passage of a law to prohibit replacing our current laws with sharia law. If Mr. Gingrich succeeded in passing such a law, he could wait several years and claim that it worked because no one replaced our laws with sharia law. If I succeeded in passing a law prohibiting anyone from keeping a saber-tooth tiger as a pet, I could also wait several years and say the prohibition worked because no one resurrected one of those creatures to keep as a pet.

I know this is not a political blog, but I cannot ignore Mr. Gingrich’s inadvertent satire. This man was once the Speaker of the House of Representatives. He was considered the leader of the Republican Party and its leading intellectual. Is he really that ignorant about our constitution and judicial review? I hope so. If that is not the reason he is advocating such an absurd law, I will have to conclude that he is arrogant enough to think he can sell the American people legislative snake oil. This means he is insulting our educational system and/or the retention level of anyone who successfully completed a seventh grade civics course. Is he so bereft of any thoughts about how we might deal with our real problems that he has to drum up such an obviously phony issue? Is he cynical enough to think we are so ignorant and gullible that we will thank him for saving us from such an imaginary threat?

Maybe he is trying to appeal to low information voters, but what he is advocating is so ludicrous that it falls well below the lowest common denominator. It is almost as if he is mocking irrational fears. Could that be what he is doing? Is he trying to compete with Stephen Colbert or John Stewart? Is he doing a parody of a right wing demagogue? Frankly, I do not think he is that bright or that funny. Better leave the comedy to the professionals, Newt. Believe me, you are no Pat Paulsen!

First published in macsbackorch.foxtail-farms on Sep. 22, 2010

Recruiting Chip

The year was nineteen sixty-nine. The apartment building was old but reasonably well maintained. The rents were low, which was the key. The renters were primarily young adults. Most of them described themselves as college students, although some of them were recent dropouts. The more conservative ones had just joined the work force and were living there until they established themselves in their professions. The sound of rock and roll was replacing folk music, and the aroma of marijuana was becoming as common as the smell of tobacco smoke.

Anita and Mary were discussing a neighbor, Chip Herd, who occupied one of the small studio apartments. He was a junior at the university. He had a Beatle haircut and wore the popular bellbottom trousers. That was as far as he was willing to go to fit in. He did not wear anything displaying marijuana leaves or the peace symbol. He was in many ways the gentle soul hippies liked to talk about. He was always polite and often helpful. He had used his jumper cables to help Anita start her car that morning.

“He’s really a nice guy,” Anita said.

“Yes, he is, but … Well, I don’t want to say he’s square. It’s just that he’s so average he fades into the background. I mean this guy is so innocuous I doubt that he could get arrested at a peace demonstration.”

Anita laughed. “I know what you mean. He never has any women visiting him.”

“Do you think he’s gay?”

“No. I think he’s that shy and unassertive.”

“He really needs to get laid.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“No, it can’t be a pity fuck.”

“I’m afraid you’re right about that. Maybe we could talk him into working on the campaign of a charismatic anti-war candidate. There’s nothing like a good cause to stir the old libido.”

“The problem is that he would just be another worker bee lost in the swarm.”

“The same would hold true at a demonstration. Unless…”

“Unless he went there with an attractive woman.”

“Mini!” They said the name simultaneously.

Mini was a wild child. She was full of talk about peace and love, but she was also as militant as all hell. There was nothing she liked better than converting someone to the cause. Chips gentleness would appeal to her. She would not hesitate to lay him in order to save him from the horrible war. Saving him, of course, would mean tearing up his draft card. She would also expect him to earn his badge of courage by getting arrested with her at a demonstration.

Mary was laughing. “The poor guy will never know what hit him!”

“The relationship won’t last, but it might give him the confidence he lacks.”

So they agreed to introduce him to Mini. They had already laid the ground work by telling her about the young man who was far too gentle to become a soldier. Anita bought him a tee shirt that had a large peace symbol on the front.

“You need to harden your image,” she told him. “Wear it when you come for dinner at our place tomorrow. There’s someone you have to meet.”

“Really!”

“She’s a petite blond with a terrific figure.”

“Do you think she’ll like me?”

“There’s no pressure. We’re not really setting you up; we’re just introducing you. And don’t sweat it. Just be your sweet self. Everyone likes you.”

Chip felt a bit self-conscious in the tee shirt, but it would have been an insult if he had not worn it. When Anita opened to door in response to his knock he was greeted by the smell of lasagna and cannabis. Mini was sitting on the sofa. She could not have been older than nineteen. She was wearing bell-bottomed jeans with a frilly, white blouse and love beads. Her long, straight hair was very light and streaked with gold from exposure to the sun. She was about as tan as someone with her fair complexion can get, and she had several small freckles just below her blue eyes. Her dimpled smile had a childlike quality that emphasized the youthfulness indicated by her slim figure. Anita introduced them.

“Pleased to meet you, Chip.”

“Pleased to met you, Mini. I’ll agree not to make any moocher or mermaid jokes if you’ll agree not to make any chip monk or wood jokes.’

“Now that’s a deal. I’m glad to see that you’re as gentle as Anita said you are.”

Chip smiled. “Saying I’m gentle rather than boring was very kind of her.”

Mini laughed. “I can already tell you’re too funny to be boring.”

Marry called from the kitchen. “Is anyone hungry yet?”

“Starved!” Mini answered.

“Well, it’s ready.”

Chip was glad to see that the lasagna was not vegetarian. It contained just enough sausage to give it a good flavor.

“I feel guilty about eating flesh,” Mini said, “but I actually crave it at times.”

“That’s not so bad. We’re wired to do it,” Chip replied. “More primitive cultures give thanks to the spirit of the animals that sustain them. In our culture the connection’s too remote because most of us don’t have to see the sacrifice.”

“I suppose that’s true, but there’s nothing remote about the damn war!”

“I know I don’t want to fight in it.”

“I gathered that from your shirt. What are you doing to stop it?”

“I vote for anti-war candidates.”

“Not good enough. It’s going to take a real in your face effort to end it.”

“I don’t think it’s in Chip’s nature to be confrontational,” Anita said.

“Then it’s even more important to end it before they try to make him fight!”

Something told Mini it would be better to suspend her recruitment efforts at that point, and she paused. This allowed Mary to change of subject.

“We’ve known you for months now, but you’ve never told us what you’re studying.”

“Economics.”

The looks this elicited told him they did not approve.

“You can’t get more establishment than that,” Anita said.

“The people who stand the best chance of changing the system are the ones who know how it works. And judging by the number of people who are still impoverished I’d say there’s a real need for change.”

Mini let out a little squeak of delight. “How wonderfully subversive!”

Chip smiled at her reaction. “People with a vested interest in the status quo consider all reformers subversive.”

Mary looked up from her plate. “So you want to be the Erasmus of the military industrial complex, and Mini wants to be its Luther.”

Mini did not know much about Erasmus, but she obviously caught the gist of the reference. “Never give in. We have to stop worshiping greed and destruction.”

“Amen!” Chip’s exclamation provided the comic relief, and everyone laughed.

After dinner they passed around several joints and drank sangria. A Beatles album played in the background as they spun a top that shot out small sparks. The conversation involved a lot of silly word play that kept them giggling. Chip was not used to smoking so much pot. It and the wine eventually had him nodding off. Mini woke him.

“Come on, lover. We need to get you to your apartment.”

He woke up the next morning in his own bed with her snuggled up to him. They were both naked, and they made love. He was thinking about he lucky he was as they showered together. She made both of them breakfast without bothering to dress. She shared a joint with him when they finished eating. He wanted to make love to her again, but she told him they had to get dressed.

“We don’t want to be late,” she said.

The inclusive we made him ask where they were going.

“To a protest at the draft board.”

“Don’t people get arrested at those things?”

“Sometimes, but they never hold us longer than twenty-four hours. And someone usually bails us out long before that.”

Chip was against the war, but jail was not his idea of a good time. She could tell he was struggling to make up his mind.

“If you think the sex this morning was good just wait. Demonstrations make me horny as hell.”

That did it. How could he say no? “Well, I guess I should do something to end the war.”

“Yes, you should.”

She picked up her purse, removed her driver’s license and stuffed it into a back pocket of her tight fitting jeans. She then removed a ring that had two keys on it. One key was to her car and the other was to her apartment.

“I’ll drive. Leave your keys here. They tend to dig into you when the fat pigs sit on you. I’m damn sure leaving my purse and grass here. The fuckers never return your grass.”

The fact that she seemed to think the police should return an illegal substance to its owner amused Chip. “How narrow minded of them.”

“Right on.”

Her car was a pink Volkswagon beetle. It sported peace signs on each of its doors and a happy face between its headlights.

“Quite a love bucket,” he said feeling grateful that he was not the one people would see driving it.

When they reached the draft board Mini removed the key from the ignition and handed it to Chip.

“I don’t have anywhere to put it,” she explained.

There was already a large crowd in front of the draft board and the steps leading up to the doors were packed with people.

“Damn, all the good places are taken. But don’t worry, I’ll get us on the steps.”

She almost drug Chip through the shrubbery to the side of the steps.

“See the big guy on the second step from the top?”

“You mean that human mountain?”

“That’s Moose. He was a kick ass defensive tackle at UCLA before he blew out his knee. The knee makes him draft proof, but he’s still here fighting to end the war.”

“He must be a hell of guy.”

“He is. Lift me up to the rail.”

Chip lifted her up to the rail of the steps. She climbed over the rail and started jostling the other people to create some space. Moose was bent over as he whispered into the ear the girl sitting in front of him. Chip had just swung his leg over the rail. He was straddling it when Mini bumped a cigarette held by a boy who was standing directly behind Moose. Her bump caused the cherry of that cigarette to fall right down Moose’s exposed butt crack. Moose roared like a lion, leaped to his feet, and swung out one of his meaty arms. His hand struck Chip full on the jaw. Chip tumbled off the rail and into the shrubbery below.

When Chip regained consciousness there was not a soul in sight. His first question was, “Where is everyone?” The was quickly followed by, “What the hell happened?” He could not remember. What he did remember was that they had taken Mini’s car. He was relieved to see that the car was still there and that he had the key. His feeling of relief was short lived because a cop pulled him over less than a block away from the draft board.

“Out of the car, hippie! Hands on the roof and spread ‘em!” The cop patted him down and cuffed him.

“Wooee! Someone’s been smoking some prime stuff in here,” the cop’s partner said as he ransacked the car. “Damn!”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing.”

“This must be your lucky day, asshole.”

“Does that mean I can go?”

“No sir. You’re still under arrest.”

“What for?”

“Parking tickets.”

“But it’s not my car!”

“You were driving it.”

“This is the first time, and I’m not the one who got those tickets!”

The first cop roughly shoved him towards the back of the police car while his partner opened the back door.

“Tell it to the judge.”

“This is fucking bogus!”

The cop jabbed him with the baton. “Get in the Goddamn car!”

Chip did as he was told.

If asked, Chip would tell you it is all too easy to describe the demeaning cavity search, the fingerprinting and mug shots. What is difficult to convey is the amount of time all of this seems to take. It seems like an eternity to the person going through it. Then there is the long walk to the holding cell and the finality of the door clanking shut behind you. Chip could hear the demonstrators singing protest songs in the other cells, and he really wanted to be with them.

“I’m a demonstrator too!”

A very large cellmate grabbed him by the collar. “Shut the fuck up!"  He shouted it right in Chip’s face.

Realizing he was in no condition to fight anyone, let alone someone of this man’s girth, Chip shut up. A few minutes later the jailer appeared.

“When do I get to make my phone call?”

“What?”

“I have a right to make a phone call.”

“All right, hippie. Come on.”

Chip dialed Mary’s number. Much to his surprise a child’s voice chirped “Yellow” at him. Chip’s first thought was that he must have misdialed, but he decided to ask anyhow.

“Is Mary there.”

Chip had no way of knowing that Mary’s family always referred to her as Missy.

“Who?”

“Mary.”

“Nope.”

“Is Anita there?”

“Neeta?”

“All right, Neeta.”

“Uh huh.”

“Tell her Chip’s in jail!”

At last there was a ray of hope because he heard Mary ask who was on the phone.

“Chip an’ Dale,” the little monster replied, and he hung up the phone.”

This was good enough for the jailer. As far as he was concerned Chip had made his phone call. So Chip was taken back to the holding cell with no resolution as to when he would be set free. His greatest fear was that he would be transferred to the county facilities. The jailer must have taken pity on him because he remained in the holding cell until the next morning when Anita finally bailed him out.

“Where’s Mini,” Chip asked.

“She’s paying the fines and trying to get her car out of impound. Have you had anything to eat?”

“No.”

“I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

Chip went to his own apartment to shower and change clothes while Anita cooked. He had just finished eating his breakfast Mini and Mary arrived.

“Did you tell Richie you were in jail? Mary asked.

“Yes.”

“Well that explains the mysterious call from Chip and Dale.”

“Is Richie one of your relatives?” Chip asked the question with the utmost sympathy for anyone who might be unfortunate enough to be related to the little, hearing impaired bastard.

“He’s my nephew.” The fondness in Mary’s voice made him stifle the urge to tell her what he thought of the brat.

“It’s a good thing I asked if anyone had heard from you,” Mini said.

“How did you figure it out?”

“We didn’t, but I couldn’t imagine that you’d run away.” Her tone of voice made the statement sound like an accusation. He chose to ignore that.

“So jail seemed like the most logical place to look.”

“Exactly.”

“When did you get out?”

“The action committee always bails us out the same night, but why did you leave the demonstration?”

His explanation of what happened was greeted with laughter from everyone there.

“It’s not that funny.”

“Yes it is,” Mini said.

Anita smiled at Mary. “I guess you were right when you said he could not get arrested even at a demonstration.”

“But I did get arrested!”

“True, but it wasn’t at the demonstration,” Mary said.

Mini tried to be consoling. “Well, you tried. I don’t suppose I could get you to drop out and work for the cause full time?”

“Sorry, but my high grades are the only thing keeping me out of the army.”

She knew better than to tell him he could refuse to go. “You could still take part in some of the demonstrations and help us elect peace candidates.”

“I’ll be happy to give those candidates any time I can spare.”

“Good, maybe we can see each other occasionally.”

“I’d like that.”

“So would I. You’re only fault is that you’re too gentle.”

He was what he was. People who did not know him well would always see him as the generic man. Looks and mannerisms, however, can be deceiving. There was nothing generic about his abilities. He became the chief economist for a large corporation that paid him a very high salary. He married his secretary and bought a large house in an upscale neighborhood where he and his family lived a quiet but comfortable life.

Mini moved to a commune for a short time. Her militancy ended with the war, but she never lost her concern for people getting screwed by the system. She eventually married an attorney who specialized in representing consumers, and she served as his bookkeeper.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Sept 15, 2010

Kid Logic

I have to admit that I have occasionally used the term kid logic. This is a misnomer. The thing is that a large part of growing up is learning logic and rational thought. We learn some of it the easy way by listening to what adults are trying to teach us, and we learn some of it the hard way by not giving enough thought to the consequences of what we want to do before we do it.

The lamps on the pier where I was walking cast a yellow glow. A bare foot child raced up to an object sitting on the pier and proceeded to stomp on that object. He then let out a howl and started crying. Perhaps I should have said he stomped in that object. Stomped in it is probably a more accurate description. I know this because of the information he imparted when his mother asked him what was wrong.

“It’s dog shit!” he wailed.

“Why did you step in it?” his father asked.

“I thought it was mustard.”

“Why did you want to stomp in mustard?”

This seemed like a perfectly logical question to an adult who would not consider mustard oozing up between his toes to be such a good thing. To the child, however, the question must have seemed like a condemnation of him for actions that had already been punished by the object he stomped in, and he cried louder and harder because of the criticism.

I suppose he thought it would be fun to see the mustard splatter. This, of course, is conjecture on my part. I do not have enough information for it to be anything but conjecture. Nor do I have enough information to determine all of the things the child learned from this experience. The connection between his bare foot and the dog shit and his reaction to that connection tell me he learned that stepping or stomping in dog shit was not a good thing. Whether he learned that it is not a good idea to step or stomp in mustard is not as easy to answer. Although I do have to give the child some credit; I am inclined to think that he was old enough to learn a broader lesson. By that I mean he probably also learned that it is not a good idea to step or stomp in something if you do not know what that something is.

The concept of knowing what something is before you step or stomp in it is simple enough. Putting that concept in practice as a rule is not nearly as easy. Few things in this world are certain, and we frequently act on incomplete information. We also get so distracted by what we want to do that we do not always see what we are really getting into. When the consequences of our missteps are undesirable we frequently refer to what we have done as stepping in shit. Older people become more cautious. I do not know if this is because the more years you live the more shit you have stepped in, or if it is because older people feel they have less time and energy to clean up the mess. It may be both. Draw you own conclusions. I am going to have to give the matter more thought before I do that. The one thing I can tell you is that age only reduces your fallibility to a slight extent. Older people have learned to tread carefully, but they also know that standing still is not a good option. There are still times when they have to act on incomplete information.

If you will pardon me now, I am going clean my shoes. For all our rationality and good intentions, we humans are still pretty clumsy creatures. What we step in also impacts others. I hope the people I have inadvertently insulted over the years will forgive me for soiling their emotional carpets.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Aug 17, 2010