Home For The Holidays

What a relief to get out of New York City, and be back with the sane at the winery, for a good old-fashioned Christmas dinner, with plenty of cheer. We’re at the home of cheer, and the cheer is flowing freely. Too bad Wayne’s not with us, but maybe it will be more relaxing, and more of a merry Christmas without his lugubrious pronouncements and without his suddenly catching fire and burning us all with his vitriol. Right? Right.

Let’s see who’s here, sharing the big, bright room. It’s all lit up with different versions of chandeliers hanging from the rafters, some with fake candles – we’re afraid of the real ones – some with colored lights, each a magnificent work of art in its own right. Picture them in your mind’s eye, while we say grace for bringing us back to this happy place.

Several small tables have been set up so people can mix and mingle before sitting down to the big meal at the long banquet board. This is the casual, drinking part of the party –  the part everyone always wishes would last forever. Nobody’s inebriated yet, but everybody’s had their first exhilarating taste of sociability and relaxation. Their clothes are fresh, their hair’s in place, they’re full of the glory of anticipation.

Here’s a little group that looks interesting. It’s the good Dr. Wise, with his arm on and off around his date – quite an armful, the sensuous, sensitive, Doreen. How did that happen. Well, it didn’t. She came to her appointment, told him in his guise of “shrink” that she was dreading going unescorted to the Christmas party where she and her best friend forever, Melissa always shared a date, and I’ll be darned if the good man didn’t volunteer to see her through it.

They are not alone. Making up the foursome are Melissa, and… who’s that? Nobody we know, but someone we’d like to. A lean, muscular guy, of medium height, with grey/white hair that frames his face, curls over his ears and runs down the back of his neck. Of indeterminate age. He’s discussing the psychological effect of music on psychotics, with the good doctor, while the latter, below the table, rubs the small of Doreen’s back, no doubt to lend support in this trying conversation.

What’s this guy doing with Melissa? The last time we saw her, wasn’t she looking up into the eyes of Monroe, and wasn’t he looking back? Yes, but that was at Thanksgiving dinner in the student lounge. Steve is taking a course with him, but she isn’t. She’s taking a music course. And this is her teacher, Rick Zapata. Glossy, Mediterranean, polished by the music industry. It’s rumored that he was in one of the early rock bands, but nobody knows which one it was. Some of his female students pour over album covers on the Internet, trying to find his face, which was chiseled along the lines of a Greek statue, then smoothed out. His great grand-uncle was Emilio Zapata, the Mexican hero.

So what’s he doing with Melissa? He’s attracted to her brain. It helps that she comes in a pretty package, but he’s sick of flirting with newborns, which is what kids these days seem like to him. He came from an era where kids were people – THE people – everybody learned from them: how to march on Washington, how to get along with two pair of jeans and no haircut, how to smoke pot, how to talk back.

He misses that; then along comes this student who’s agile and quick, intelligent and understanding, is not devoid of musical talent… and invites him to a free meal. No, that’s not fair. Rick Zapata’s not for sale, and never has been. He goes where his nose leads him. His politics? They’re all over the place like his musical tastes. He picks the flowers he likes from every bouquet of life, and has ended up with a gorgeous hodge-podge of primo experiences. Melissa invited him because Wayne played two roles, and it takes two people to replace him. Zapata is her contribution to the party.

So let’s listen in as this illicit little foursome find out about each other.

Dr. Wise breaks the ice by establishing common ground. It’s always unifying to bash Bush at these gatherings. He’ll get them started.

“Have you heard that Dubya’s becoming popular with the young folks? The Millenials love him. They think he’s cool. He’s becoming a hipster-icon. He wrote a compassionate letter to a kicker who missed a field gold and lost the game… it’s all over Twitter. He paints pictures of cats. He’s a philanthropist. They don’t even remember how dumb he’s supposed to be. He’s a hero to them.”

The lovely lady in his arm picks up the cue. “That fear-monger? We spent a decade in duck-and-cover mode. Dubya and Cheney were pros at getting the American people to be very afraid. But now we’re just not that afraid anymore. We’re not afraid of gays marrying each other, or mooslims.” (Excuse Doreen’s indelicacy; she’s had two glasses of Winter White.) “We’re not even afraid of the evils of government regulation.”

Rick holds up his drummer’s hand. It’s big. He puts it right in the middle of the little table and says, “Whoa! What do you mean by ‘we’? And what about those last two? Maybe you should be afraid of the Muslims… not all of them, only the ones who’ve been telling you for a thousand years they want to kill you, and now are actually doing it, and doing a damn good job of it. And government regulation is making business and progress impossible. You gotta be nuts not to be afraid of it. The country is grinding to a halt because of government regulation. And going broke paying the salaries of a few hundred thousand regulators.”

What’s this? A renegade in our midst, thinks Wise. This is not the comfortable party he thought it would be. But it’s no bother to him. He’ll sit back and enjoy it.

Now Melissa has come alive. This is what she’s been missing. An antagonist. “People want to hear about the future. They don’t want to hear about the past. Republican policies always promise more freedom and more prosperity for everyone. But look around. It’s been over 30 years since St. Ronnie took control and 99% of the people have neither.”

“Ah,” Rick says, “The 99%. That’s just about everybody. That’s you. You don’t look particularly deprived. Nobody here does. We’re all the 99%. That one percent is so small, you can fit it on the head of a pin and blow it away, and it won’t make any difference.”

Yeah, these two are getting each other’s fires going. “Look at the mathematics,” the music teacher says. “Workers who are working twice as hard and making half as much as their parents did, the ones who have to rely on the government to pay their heating bills or give them enough food to eat, would love to see those regulations go away. It would mean jobs for them. They’d love to see the big corporations get tax cuts so they’d come back and start building things again. We’re a rich country, and everybody is afraid to spend their money, because the tax man is coming and they have to have enough cash on hand to pay for the right to live.

“We used to do what we wanted to in this country. Now we have to bow to The Man.” Rick’s got a good sense of timing. He’s a dramatic artist. He picks up his glass, and Melissa’s, and heads for the bar.

Dr. Wise shakes his head “Poor man, he can’t see we’re getting on the highway to universal prosperity, all he sees are the bumps on the on-ramp.” he says. “He just doesn’t understand Keynes.”

Some of you are looking around for the host and hostess. There they are, putting the finishing touches on the long table which is covered tonight, with an immense table-cloth printed with poinsettias, and set with square glass plates to suggest dining in a garden. There’s a fountain of Bubbly Rosé playing nearby, where Natalie and Billy the Kid are hanging out. Billy developed a taste for the bubbles in California. The Buddhists he befriended at the Thanksgiving dinner were lax with their cellar, and seemed always to be turning their backs on him.

The Harris’s Thanksgiving vacation upstate did them worlds of good. Ann is once more happy and at ease, gleaming in a gold lamé caftan. She’s content, and full of what feels like pride. She is one of the handful of people who have managed to sign up for health care. She does not yet know that though her particular form of incipient depression is covered by her new policy, she’s going to have to see a new psychiatrist, which as any of you who’ve been analyzed know, is akin to being suddenly assigned a new spouse, perhaps even one of a different gender.

But that’s in the future. Right now, Ann is one of the winners. She made it through the website. Of course, she’s a little miffed that now that she spent all that time and agony and made herself sick, Obama is saying she doesn’t have to have health insurance after all. And it’s very expensive. More expensive than paying the doctor bills herself, but you never know. Worse things could happen to you than being off your rocker, and it’s smart to acknowledge that possibility, and take care of it in advance. She feels like she won the lottery.

Donny is not so complacent. He sees trouble ahead. He doesn’t understand how Obama can change the rules just like that, any time he wants to. Taking away the mandates, one by one, excusing more and more people, from more and more parts. Maybe it’s a good idea, but is it up to him? Doesn’t Congress make the laws and the President see to it that they’re carried out? Donny’s got a very placid temperament. He’s wary of excessive movement, of extravagant actions. There’s no telling what bizarre change is coming next. It’s tensing him up. But his wife is happy and that’s good.

Behind the big bar, under the darkened big screen, are two people who’ve been seeing a lot of each other: Steve, and his guest, Brittany. Across from them, sitting on a barstool, is their guest, Professor Monroe. They’re all in a Government course together, and politics makes strange bed-fellows. Monroe was threatening to spend Christmas all alone; they took pity on him and invited him to the party. He’s drinking Holiday Wine, a heady blend of sweet berries, while watching Natalie at the fountain, and he’s wondering what on earth Rick Zapata is doing here. He’s heard about him, and considers him a disreputable version of what he himself is… that is, a sexy charmer.

Natalie and Billy the Kid cut out for a little breather. Monroe sees them go, and almost gets up out of his seat to follow, but Billy’s age makes him think better of it. Much to his chagrin, two seconds later, Rick Zapata shows no such restraint and brushes by him, with Melissa in tow. Their eyes meet once again. There’s a definite chemistry there. Feeling the brush-by in retrospect, Rick turns to get a look at the victim, and grins. “Dr. Doctrinaire,” he greets him.

Rick still does what he wants to. Natalie and Rick know each other. He even knows the cousin in Connecticut, who’s a bass player. Natalie knows most of the musicians in the county. And Billy the Kid… he tags along on every ride.

Settle back in your seats, readers, we are not following them. It’s twenty degrees, and the wind is blowing. Three days ago, it was spring. The robins had come back, the snow had all melted, and the thermometer went through the roof. No more jackets, no more hats, summer was right around the corner. Now winter’s back, with no snow cover, which makes it even colder.

Mellow party, huh? Real family job… calm, cool, nobody talking about anything they’re not supposed to talk about… just drinking fine wine, partaking of hors d’oeuvres from five different restaurants: dim sum, wraps, raviolis including mushroom, free-range wings, baked clams, big shrimp. Not much need for talk. Guests are getting a buzz on, feeling compatible with their neighbors, all’s right with the…

A gong rings out. Everybody freezes. It’s the bell for the winery proper. The bell that outsiders ring. Nobody’s expected. Nobody’s wanted. Who can it be?

Okay, readers… I told you not to go out there. Now you’ve come back in and you’re hallucinating from the cold and the too-good pot from Connecticut, and you imagine that the door has opened, and there is…

Yes, Melissa, it’s your husband. Are you in good enough shape to introduce him to your date? How about you, Doreen? Want to saunter up with that wise appendage you’ve got wrapped around you, and give your boyfriend a kiss? How about you, Steve, are you looking forward to your professor meeting your father?

Yes, Wayne, we are all so happy to see you! Shake off the cold, and come all the way in. Oh! You’re not alone. Who’s that with you?

“… my friend, Caesar King.” Caesar King? What the hell kind of a name is that? Well, it’s kind of a pseudonym, the name this guy goes as in his public life, which has eclipsed all of his private life. It’s the Black dude, from the library steps, with the twinkling eyes, and the devilish goatee.

“Pleased to meet you all,” he booms into the room. His deep voice fills it, and has the effect of bringing everyone closer.

Wayne puts an arm around Caesar’s shoulder. “Caesar, here, is my benefactor. Saved me from a fate worse than… Yessiree. You know what the New York cops did to that beautiful Indian diplomat the federal agents arrested in front of her kid’s school because she didn’t pay her maid minimum wage? Strip searched her, cavity-searched her, and threw her in a cell with a bunch of drug addicts. That’s what they were about to do to me, till my man here stepped in.” He squeezes Caesar’s shoulder.

Wayne’s going to tell the library story from the beginning. We were there and don’t have to listen. Let me tell you how it ended. They were about to cart Wayne away. He’d caused a disturbance, he had nothing ameliorating to say for himself, and he looked half-crazed. Caesar they let go as soon as they realized who he was. He’s been arrested and let go so many times they don’t bother anymore. He’s always in the clear; he’s never really done anything; they know who he is: the Black weirdo who’s a member of the Tea Party and is always where the action is, though they can never pin any of the action directly on him. The cops like him. He’s helped them out with crowd control. He tells them he’ll take Wayne home with him and sober him up; they seem to think he’s drunk – everybody else is.

So Wayne went home to Harlem – 127^th street, to what looked like a brownstone tenement outside, and was a sleek, modern, home-office inside – two bedrooms with bathrooms, each holding a bed, a desk, a TV, a computer, a printer, a coffee machine, a micro-wave, a mini-fridge, and a sink. No stove. The world of take-out is right around the corner.

Wayne’s been living in one of these rooms for almost two weeks. He’s been all over the Internet, checking and verifying everything Caesar has told him about the Tea Party.

Much as Wayne had hated the Republicans for not doing what he thought they should, he hadn’t really hated them until he read about what they were doing to the Tea Party. As he watched it on-line for those two weeks, he saw the Republicans cave on everything they claimed to stand for. There was only one explanation. There are no good guys. He’d been thinking of the Democrats as sharks, and the Republicans as life boats. But they were no such thing. They were just a different species of shark.

And from what Caesar was telling him, most of the Tea Party candidates who got elected couldn’t hold out. A rare exception, here and there, but so fragile an occurrence, it didn’t even pay to speak its name.

One thing Wayne’s learned in these two weeks is that Caesar King would not give in. He’s brought him home to try to turn his people around. He’s going to keep his mouth shut and let his candidate do the talking.

They’re clustered around him now. They’ve heard Wayne’s version of the library steps; Wayne’s forgotten most of what he said there, so didn’t report it. Caesar’s Black-ness makes up for Wayne’s craziness. Wayne has brought them a Christmas present. A genuine member of a genuine minority. They are thrilled to have him.

It’s Christmas. Peace on Earth, good will toward men. As they all take their places along the long table, awaiting the pork loin, the mashed potatoes, the salads, the refilled glasses, there is a silent pact. No more political talk today. Elijah is here. The one they’ve been waiting for. They will try to live up to his expectations.

And that, folks, is what Wayne is counting on.