We left Steve holding the New
York Times with Putin’s put-down of Obama. Since then John McCain has sent his
little missile over to Russia via the Internet, to remind the Russian people
that their leader is a doody-head who doesn’t give a damn about them, and that
they shouldn’t listen to him.
It’s a week since the
Russians hit America with the Times. Steve is up in his room listening to Mom
and Dad fight downstairs. This is a comforting sound for Steve. He grew up on
it. During the recent phase of his parents’ agreement about who should do what
to Syria’s Assad, he felt rootless, as if he had no solid ground to stand on.
Now things are back to
normal.
What he hears from below is:
Mom: “Your precious
Republicans are shutting down the government just to go against Obama.”
And the welcome refrain,
always slightly different: “They’re not my Republicans. I hate them as much as
you do. They’re political pussies with a Boner and no balls.”
Mom: “Racist bigots.”
Dad: “Oh, for God’s sake. They
aren’t racists. It’s not Obama’s brown they don’t like. It’s his red. The man’s
a Communist. They don’t like Communists. Obamacare is their trick to take over
the country. Nobody wants Obamacare. It’s hurting everyone. People are getting
fired, put on part-time, losing their health-care, while the corporations, and
the unions and even Congress are asking for exemptions from the damn thing, and
getting them, because it would make them poor. Everybody but the individual
gets exempted. Commies hate the individual. They want the individual to be on
the dole and in their pocket – dependent on them.”
“Republicans hate everybody
but the rich bastards who don’t give a shit about anybody else.”
“That’s a lie the Liberals
have been handing out forever. The people who don’t like big government want a
system where anybody can get rich. America’s got a million millionaires, who
were poor kids of poor parents. And they come in all colors and religions, and
all four genders. Individual -freedom lovers don’t have to go around separating
out every group to either elevate or demote them. The individual is what
counts, whatever group he belongs to, and they want every individual to have a
fair shot at making it big. Conservatives are color- blind. It’s the Liberals
who are racists.”
Whoa! Never say that to a
Liberal. Mom’s voice goes up an octave. “That is a LIE. And you can get out of
here, you obnoxious, arrogant, self-righteous know-it-all! You’re too annoying
to put up with. You’re the Tea Party, Hitler and the Unabomber all in one. Spare
me. Please. Go visit Doreen. Let Doreen put up with you.”
Ah, now Steve is fully
relaxed, stretched out on his bed, listening to the storm rage under him. Now
that Doreen has been invoked, he’s as calm as a kid in a rocking cradle.
But the invocation has
enraged Wayne, as his wife knew it would. “Oh. Right. Send me to Doreen. I’m
the only man whose wife and mistress are in love with another man - the same
man - and it isn’t me.”
(Steve knows all about it. Kids
know everything.)
“Oh, yes,” Wayne says, “The
pee-ons still believe in Mr. O and everything he says. I do not get how they
look at that mean, hatchet-face with such love and lust in their eyes, like
he’s the most beautiful man who ever lived. It’s almost like they hear, Fuck me
Fuck me Fuck me, when he’s really saying Fuck You!”
And with that, Wayne slams
the door, and almost simultaneously, Melissa’s voice, now sweet and melodic,
wafts up the stairs to a euphoric Steve. “Time for breakfast, Stevie.” He bounds
off the bed - he’s already dressed - and goes downstairs, determined not to be
like either of his parents; to be what he is: in between, lullingly strung in a
hammock.
His parents don’t talk
politics to him. It wouldn’t be fair, so peace descends upon the bacon and
eggs, a retro-breakfast if there ever was one.
But there is no peace where
Wayne is going. Doreen is home alone. Billy the Kid’s gone out to raise the
consciousness of America about marijuana. He’s taken a bong to the roadside,
where he has set up shop for occasional neighbors passing by. There’s nothing
in the bong. He’s just displaying. It’s clean. He got high up in his room, and
he’s hoping to distribute his little home-made pamphlet on one of the oldest
medicines known to mankind without actually getting arrested. His mother
wouldn’t like that, and he likes his mother.
Doreen is home crying about
the latest murder of innocents, this time at an unarmed navy base. Wayne walks
right into the puddle of tears. The dining room table is again covered with the
Times, and she’s making posters again. This is where Billy gets his
journalistic inclinations.
Here’s how the fight goes in this
house: In red paint, the posters say, NO MORE GUNS. Doreen isn’t fancy. She
gets right to the point.
Wayne laughs. “Shouldn’t that
say, ‘More Guns’? They’re the Armed Forces of America. Is there anything dumber
than an armed forces without arms? Wouldn’t even you expect soldiers to
have guns? Schools and army bases; No-Gun zones. Schools and army bases: where
unarmed people get shot up. Use your head, Doreen. Use logic.”
“Logic! That’s the trouble
with you. All you have is logic. You have no heart. You can’t respond to people
in pain. Think of the families. Every time someone gets shot, think of all the
other people whose lives are ruined - their wives, their husbands, their little
children, their parents! You and your god dam logic!”
Wayne shakes his head. “You
have no idea what’s going on, do you? No idea how our country is being taken
over and turned into a dictatorship. You don’t even know what’s happening. Do
you know they’re trying to pass off this killer as Buddhist? The man’s a
Muslim! Yet again. But you don’t know that. You don’t know nothin’.”
Oh, but she won’t take that! “I’ll
have you know I read the Times every day, listen to NPR and BBC about two hours
a day, and read the Economist for about six hours every week, so I consider
myself well-informed. All you’ve got is your own brain, while I have the
smartest people in the world giving me the news.”
He could give in now. She’s
standing up from the table, her glorious globes swathed in a scoop-neck
sweater. He’s been watching her cleavage as she painted and they argued. He
could have some of the good stuff. He passed Billy at his station in the nearby
development, and he knows he won’t be back for awhile.
But he doesn’t take the good stuff.
He’s too mad. He says, “Don’t you know those are now all branches of the
federal government? Obama met with Times editors and reporters to decide on the
strategy for Syria. Yes, your brain is nice and clean. It’s called brain-washing,
my dear. And you are what used to be called a dupe of the Communist
party.”
Later, Melissa tried to get
the red paint off his nice new shirt, but it wouldn’t come out.
