Missed you guys last night. Not one of you showed up at the
Winery, in spite of all their advertising. Well, your loss; there were plenty
of other people there. And there should have been. Posters all over the county,
radio spots the day before and on St. Paddy’s day itself. Green wine. Nice play
on words. Got the Irish, and Environmentalists, which means most of the people
we know.
Natalie and Billy the Kid, a regular item now, worked up the green wine after a little experimentation for themselves, and a few select customers. They soaked some leaf brought down from the Connecticut hot house in clear alcohol, and added a splash to each glass of Winter White, which happens to be on sale because its name-value is coming to an end. Though the ground is still covered with snow, bare spots have been appearing, and they’ve now come together to expose whole hillsides of brown, spotted here and there with green. Spring is coming. The word “winter” will disappear from the vocabulary.
The customers out on the floor get tincture of mint, instead
of tincture of Mary Jane, which adds a fresh taste, and goes well with the
bonus chocolates. The drinks are called Greenleaves, covering both versions. A
few drops of the mint added to the MJ disguised its aroma, so the “special”
guests could fearlessly mingle. Yes, it’s a blessing when family interests
coincide and the generations work side by side.
Nat and Bill are tending bar, which makes everything
convenient. Their new names suit them. Nat has cut her hair to a Twenties bob
with bangs and swing. Very Gatsby. She’s wearing a shimmering green shift and
iridescent green tights and looks more feminine than she ever did in long hair
and jeans. Emerald beads drape in lengthening loops on her flattened chest, the effect achieved by tightly wrapping it in a few yards of cheesecloth. On her feet are
high-heeled silver slippers. A pity she’s stuck behind the bar and no one sees
them.
No one except Bill, who is letting his hair grow long, and
whose upper lip is developing a soft and sketchy but attractively diabolical
mustache. These two are going places together. They have worked
together on their appearances, part of a bigger plan. They are also working
together on Caesar’s marijuana plank on the party platform. And they’ve come up
with a suggestion: “Legalize!” which is also their suggestion for the name of
the party, because Legalize refers not only to marijuana, but to illegal
immigrants. “Two birds with one stone” is their party slogan. No more drug-running
from Mexico, plenty of work for immigrants, especially if they can take their
heads out of the sand, no more drug-wars, no more gun-runs, work permits for
anyone who wants one. New respect for gardeners, who can teach these Gringos a
thing or two about growing.
And Nat? She’d be moving out of “distribution” and into “management”
somewhere, somehow. Her new look isn’t just for tonight. She wants to be the
first CEO of Cannabis. Bill is hooked. He wants to be wherever Nat is. He’s a
good right-hand man and is already at work enlarging on his previous pamphlets,
of which, by the way, the local police have copies.
The joint is jumping (the Winery that is; no need for
joints). The band is at the bottom of the hall beyond the big table which is across from the bar, and as
populated as the bar itself, all seats taken by a large Irish contingent from
forty miles farther north, who saw an announcement in the local paper, got up a
party of twenty, and called ahead for reservations. The table was set for them,
with a big green RESERVED sign, plastic plates with shamrocks sandwiched
between their two layers, and a hefty supply of refreshments, also laid out on
the bar. These consist of: Irish Soda Bread from “Baked by Bryan” (a bakery
even further up north), miniature corned beef sandwiches (also being served
tonight at the all-green expensivery in his town), and corned-beef cabbage
wraps. (These will also be appearing, along with Bryan the Baker singing up the
Irish, at a pub farther up the block.) Also on the table and bar are halved,
boiled potatoes, like scoops of ice cream. The topping selection is an
assortment of spices and herbs instead of syrups and nuts.
Are we having fun yet? Yes, we are. The band has just struck
up an Irish classic, and the table-of-twenty are stamping their feet, clapping
their hands, and looking fondly into the smiling Irish eyes of their relatives,
among whom all feuds have been suspended for the day. The bandleader is slim,
silver-haired Rick Zapata, leading from behind his drums, a trio he has put
together for the occasion. He canvassed his classes for kids who were brought
up in the tradition, and has been rehearsing with a guitarist, bass and
keyboard for a week. They know all the rollicking Irish tunes about murdered
babies, boys poisoned with rotten fish, and legless, armless, and blind young
men returning from the wars. The entire room is laughing its collective head
off at the lyrics, clapping, stomping, and singing away.
Melissa, lawful wedded wife of Wayne, is hanging out on the
edge of the band like a groupie, a glass of Greenleaves in one hand, the other
hand dancing to the music. It’s been a long winter, and Nat isn’t the only one
who’s feeling the need to get on with life. Melissa cut her hair before Nat,
the young emulating the old, but now it’s time for reversies. Melissa is
impressed with Nat’s shortening and de-feminizing her name. She never liked her
own name. So prissy. She fought off being called “Missy”, but never realized
there was someplace else to go besides those sissified esses. She has begun
signing and introducing herself as “Mel.” What is most amazing to her is that
with the name-change came a change in who she feels she is. She’s Mel now...
quick, genderless... she feels like Peter Pan. And she’s got a perfect right to
hang out with the band. They’re her classmates. And the white wolf, as she
likes to think of the silver fox, is her teacher. Her professor. She is,
likewise, entitled to him.
Where’s Wayne? He’s here, all right, forming a triangle with
his son Steve, and their girlfriend Brittany Brown. This triangle is composed
of two puzzled lines and a third. Father and son each blame the other for their
own seeming inability to get anywhere with the third line, even though they are
both connected.
She’s been out to dinner with each of them, given each a
chaste kiss at the door – yes, Wayne knows where she lives now, but a lot of
good it does him; he can’t get in the door. They’ve had some good talks. They
agree on just about everything. She gets passionate, excited, when they talk
politics, but when he gets her home, she splits, like Cinderella at the stroke
of midnight.
Steve can’t figure it out. He thought when she turned down
his offer of a Valentine date because her girlfriend was coming over, that she
had, at the same time, insinuated that she would be his Valentine. But whenever
he comes to claim her, he finds himself with fewer of her favors than he had
before he asked. (Often the case.)
Donny is having a fine time. He’s drunk. He’s also been dosed.
He never takes a toke of the rival substance; he sticks to wine on principle. His
daughter thinks this is narrowing, and would like to improve her father, expand
his point of view, expand, in fact, his very consciousness. She has given him
the “special” Greenleaves, the two-in-one. Mint and marijuana. He has noted the
intriguing splintered light coming from green candles on the bar. He has never
heard such penetrating, meaningful music in his life. Right now, he is watching
the tiny dots of green, which appear to be crawling in rhythmic patterns over
the white potatoes he has taken from the bar.
His wife, Ann, is at a little table at the other end of the
long room, not far from the main entrance, but as far away from the music as
possible. She is sitting at a table with her new shrink, her old friend, Dr.
Wise. They have had their first appointment, and he now knows more about her
than does Donny. Also at this table, is Doreen. This is the new sister team. They
go everywhere together – shopping, wine tasting (it’s important to know what
the competition has uncorked), over to the college for a lecture or concert. They
are drawn to the same two men, which is why they have barged in on a meeting of
the minds of Dr. Wise and Caesar King.
Two more dapper gentlemen you could not hope to find. Dr.
Wise, with his sharp Nivenesque features and debonair twist of the wrist,
Caesar King, beautifully brown with sparkling eyes, and graceful carriage. They nodded
to the ladies, and made room for their minty glasses at the table, but they did
not stop their conversation.
Dr. Wise, a bit red in his normally pale face, is earnestly
saying, “You don’t understand. I don’t want to get involved. Dealing with individuals
who come to me with their problems is a nice diversion from my own life. I’m
trained in helping other people deal with their problems and sometimes I make a
real difference. But dealing with the issues of the whole country and all the
complications that come from trying to address the needs of 300 million people
is stressful and confusing. And there’s no upside. You spend all this time
sorting through different ideas, proposals, rhetoric. You stake out your
position and then all the sudden everyone’s got their knives out. That kind of
strife is not good for the business, not good for friendships, not good for me.
But I will listen. That’s what I do.”
“We need you man, we need you because you believe in the individual. That’s who we want to take
care of. The individual. Not groups.”
“No, no,” says the good doctor. “I never do group therapy. What’s
good for the group is not always what’s good for the person.”
“Exactly. That’s what we have to get back to. Thinking about
what’s good for the person. For people.”
“But people is all I know about,” says the good doctor. “For
instance, I don’t want to do something like climate science myself, anymore
than I want to do my own colonoscopy or build my own toothbrush. We have people
who have dedicated themselves to that field, have trained their whole lives,
and focus all their energies on the subject. In other words, experts. I don’t
want to dismiss the collected intelligence of our society.”
“Neither do I, man, neither do I,” says Caesar, leaning in a
little closer. “But the experts have been bought. We can’t trust them anymore. The
scientists have not been left in peace to do their science, they have been told
what their findings have to be, in order for them to continue getting grants. Grants
are their life-blood. They have succumbed, essentially, to the threat of
professional death. You did hear about the fraudulent data, didn’t you?”
Dr. Wise is ready to respond, when Caesar waves his hand,
and says, “Look. Let’s stop talking about what we don’t agree on, and talk
about what we do agree on. We have a good start. The individual. If I want to
know about the individual, I should turn to the expert on the individual. That’s
you. I need you. Will you sign up to be the expert on the individual, if I tell
you that in this new party, we will have nothing that we, its founding fathers,
can not agree upon. That means that you, an individual, will have a veto over
anything and everything you do not support.”
Caesar has made him an offer he cannot refuse. He’d like to,
but he feels it would be unprofessional. And besides, if he doesn’t do it,
Caesar will get someone else, and he doesn’t want to contemplate who that might
be. He’s not wild about all his colleagues.
Caesar says, “I’m not even going to ask you what you think
about all the mayors, de Blasio included, who wouldn’t go to their parades
today because gays weren’t allowed to promote their lifestyle.”
“Once again,” says the good doctor, “rights belong to
individuals, not groups.”
Caesar reaches his hand across the table. Dr. Wise takes it
with a wry smile. They shake. Then simultaneously, they turn to the ladies, and
give themselves up to be done with as those ladies please.
The keyboardist has left the band and is giving lessons in
Irish dance. Doreen takes Dr. Wise, and Ann takes Caesar, and up the four
individuals go, to join in the group endeavor. Half the Irish table is on the
floor demonstrating how it’s done, Brittany, finally soused enough to join them,
has entered the fray and has brought her father and son team with her.
Behind the bar, Nat and Bill are stashing away some of their
infusion for later.
May the luck of the Irish be with them all.
