Revival
this is a series: previously
Whitist Apologia
by Janae Acharya-Ramirez She-Her Cohen*
New York Times, July 6, 2042
Every high school freshman knows the history of the minstrel show in and its role in maintaining white supremacy. Thus the inherent problemicity in its recent resurrection, in parody of the original, as the "white show", replacing black stereotypes of the slave and Jim Crow eras with white stereotypes from our recent past in white supremacist America.
These shows have become so popular they're the main feature of virtually every "tent show" in the North American Consumer Region. The revival of that broader form, from which the new white minstrelsy was born, presents its own inherent problemicity matrix, coming as it does from the era of white supremacy.
Any representation of that dark period's norms, attitudes and mores runs the risk of normalizing them.
This was demonstrated on these pages brilliantly last week by Harvard Professor Tanyika Balder-Dash Bhe-Bher** in bher essay "The Only Good Whitism...". The shows are history, and any history of oppression without context amounts to the re-introduction of narrative pathogens. Her recommendations for placing Office of Civility and Acceptance regulators with every show is a good start.
Interestingly enough, the revival of the tent show derives in large part from the same necessity that created the original: summertime heat made indoor entertainment unbearable in the hottest months of summer before the development of air conditioning.
Now it's the power grid crisis and electricity rationing driving people out of sweltering micro-apartments and public spaces--and into a cultural and legal limbo.
Licensed under arcane laws regulating "tent shows, circuses and carnivals" as old as the original shows, the productions operate entirely outside of Department of Inclusion regulatory purview. It might come as a shock to the average person, but the tent shows can virtually say or present whatever they want, without fear of penalty.
You might ask--and virtually all of us have attended or seen one of the shows--what problem one could have with shows portraying supremacist era whites in mocking caricature.
I contacted Michael Gruden-Silver He-Him, producer of "seven or eight" shows to ask if the shows are guilty of normalization.
"I see our role as instructional and fun at the same time. I categorically reject the shows normalize whiteness or whitism. I fail to see how ridicule is somehow normalization. We've never sought to present whites or whitism in a positive light."
He's also quick to point out a fundamental difference between the new shows, in which white performers portray whites, and the old shows, in which white performers in blackface portrayed blacks.
"We realized it would be degrading for a non-white to wear whiteface in any context." He also rejected the charge that whiteface in this context is a "violent enhancement of ghostly whiteness" in the words of the Reverend Foremost Chastity Coates Bhe-Bher.
"Our performers wear whiteface only to complete the parody." He says.
Despite their portrayal as dishonest, boorish or ignorant, the stock repertoire of comic foils--such as the "yuppie", the "bro", the "redneck"--become cultural figures of familiarity; and familiarity breeds not contempt but a measure of fondness. We can't help it. The characters make us laugh. We chuckle and shake our head as if at the antics of an eccentric relative, and before we know it we've humanized whitism.
A recent study out of Yale examined the content of the four most popular shows over the last two years and found the same pattern affecting all, one of gradual softening of the shows' portrayal of whites. All began with material duly and unambiguously contemptuous in its portrayal of historical whites; all ended the period with material, while still presenting them as the comic foil, portrayed them in a somewhat more sympathetic light.
It gets worse than that. Shows looking to get an edge on their competitors have taken to introducing innocuous caricatures, such as "the cowboy", or "the sailor". Worse still, the shows offering these characters seem to be finding success. Overtly positive characters can't be far away. Rumor has it one show is working on a character called "the astronaut".
Certainly the content of the shows will eventually be brought under control; even the producers seem resigned to that. But is control of content enough? Is content really the problem? Some forms are inherently exclusionary.
The white minstrelsy, like the black minstrelsy, is at its core caricature.In engaging in caricature we validate the practice of caricature. Even the appropriately negative portrayals of whites have this unfortunate effect: without contextual guidance, people will assume there's some validity to other caricatures, such as those of blacks in the old minstrelsy. The dynamic is at work in the new minstrelsy as in the old: the audience believes it is laughing at something familiar.
It isn't merely a question of content. Content is the least of it. The forms of the pre-liberation past, being products of it, are the problem, as evidenced by the white show's progress. Hewing to all norms of justice inclusion, they nonetheless have the effect of bowdlerizing the past, of minimizing non-white suffering and even inducing nostalgia. Reversing the content of minstrelsy makes it no less minstrelsy. Existing entirely as a reference to that original transgression, it revives it.
Our experience with the new minstrelsy has revived Professor Balder-Dash's call for "an end to satire as we know it". I haven't given up the hope satire, and comedy generally, can be saved, despite their inherent power dynamic. But we don't need to curtail it until we figure out what's going on. The white show has demonstrated that.
The good news is the shows are no longer escaping notice. Pastor Coates assures me bhe's planning a national action soon to protest their continuing operation outside of regulatory scrutiny.
to be continued
*Regarding the proper placement of the colloquially named "pronounerific", denoting gender identity, introduced in the early twenties and standard by the time of our story, appearing here as "She-Her": it follows the surname, unless the surname is preceded by a hyphenated pair of surnames, in which case the--properly named--proidentitatem follows the hyphenation and precedes the surname [Ed. from the future]
**"Bhe-Bher": specifically a black "She-Her" [Ed. from the future]
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Friday, June 28, 2019
Sunday, March 17, 2019
Tent Show Revival
"Anyone seen my collar?"
Danny frowned at the silent room.
"Bastards."
John's chin nestled neatly into his wattles as he squinted at the wig he was turning about in his lap.
"I haven't." He managed, somehow, through the tiered mass of compressed flesh.
Eddie, sewing a pair of lederhosen, grunted negative through teeth holding a thread tight.
Danny glimpsed himself in the old burlesque mirror. The white greasepaint left behind in the crevices around his eyes gave him a ghostly aspect. The paunch in his jumper--he only now realized he'd fallen asleep still partly in costume--was alarming. On the dresser in this image's foreground there cluttered make-up and brushes, scraps of wardrobe, notes, a half-eaten Soybar, a massive black dildo, a pair of masks, old show programs, unidentifiable things, yellow prescription bottles, something half consumed by fire; all piled there like temple offerings to his living portrait. He sighed.
"I'm taking a walk." He pulled a moth-eaten raccoon coat out from under a pile.
His cigarette was lit before the door closed behind him.
"Danny Boy!" A cowboy in chaps practicing with a lasso hailed him from across the muddy lane separating the rows of trailers.
"Morning, Tex." He waved. "Taking a walk."
The cowboy smiled and nodded. Danny started out as if he had a destination. He passed a surfer in a bathrobe loading beach scene props onto a cart. Most of the performers hadn't stirred from their trailers. A stray cat skittered past ahead of him. A light fog lingered beneath an overcast sky. He liked when the camp was still asleep, when he could imagine they were anybody, anywhere.
The big tent occupied a slight hollow where the fog lingered, lapping at its edges. The pennants on its peaks hung damply limp. Its slanting support ropes vanished into the mist on the ground where he could see one or two figures moving about. It looked smaller than when he first saw it years ago.
"There's a system." The man who would become Danny's predecessor had said. "We open with a short stand-up routine. Standard white-joke genre, lots of self-deprecation--do you know what that means?"
Danny nodded, lying.
"A little sexual inferiority here, a little intellectual inferiority there. It sets the tone." He spoke without enthusiasm. Danny's stomach growled. He had been promised a meal.
"Then there's a skit. We have five basic skits; one is the historical skit, involving a figure from US history. He's a bumbling conniver, saved from some ill-fated and corrupt scheme by his dependent slaves or servants. It usually features his cuckolding by one or more of them. Sometimes he is hauled off by the Indians."
Danny was barely paying attention now. He wanted to sit; his sore feet felt as if they were melting into flattening blobs like putty on a hot sidewalk.
"We finish with a song and dance. Don't worry, you don't have to know how to dance. If you're called on to dance it's to dance badly, because that's the idea. You don't know how to dance, right?"
"Right." Said Danny.
"Good." He looked Danny up and down. "You'll have to learn some basic pratfalls, nothing serious. Have you done any stunts?"
"No." Danny said apologetically.
"Yeah, well, that's okay. Normally I wouldn't take on someone without experience but," he nodded at Danny's red hair "a genuine ginger is a real rarity nowadays. Do you know your guys are like two percent of the under-30 population? A dying breed." He nodded; his tone was complimentary. "So what do you say?"
Danny's stomach contracted painfully. Over the man's shoulder he could just make out the lines of smoke rising from the homeless camp in a stand of sickly cedars nearby. He remembered a pact he'd made some hungry miles before, on a hungover first day of 2040; with a twinge he determined to forget it.
"Yes."
Danny frowned at the silent room.
"Bastards."
John's chin nestled neatly into his wattles as he squinted at the wig he was turning about in his lap.
"I haven't." He managed, somehow, through the tiered mass of compressed flesh.
Eddie, sewing a pair of lederhosen, grunted negative through teeth holding a thread tight.
Danny glimpsed himself in the old burlesque mirror. The white greasepaint left behind in the crevices around his eyes gave him a ghostly aspect. The paunch in his jumper--he only now realized he'd fallen asleep still partly in costume--was alarming. On the dresser in this image's foreground there cluttered make-up and brushes, scraps of wardrobe, notes, a half-eaten Soybar, a massive black dildo, a pair of masks, old show programs, unidentifiable things, yellow prescription bottles, something half consumed by fire; all piled there like temple offerings to his living portrait. He sighed.
"I'm taking a walk." He pulled a moth-eaten raccoon coat out from under a pile.
His cigarette was lit before the door closed behind him.
"Danny Boy!" A cowboy in chaps practicing with a lasso hailed him from across the muddy lane separating the rows of trailers.
"Morning, Tex." He waved. "Taking a walk."
The cowboy smiled and nodded. Danny started out as if he had a destination. He passed a surfer in a bathrobe loading beach scene props onto a cart. Most of the performers hadn't stirred from their trailers. A stray cat skittered past ahead of him. A light fog lingered beneath an overcast sky. He liked when the camp was still asleep, when he could imagine they were anybody, anywhere.
The big tent occupied a slight hollow where the fog lingered, lapping at its edges. The pennants on its peaks hung damply limp. Its slanting support ropes vanished into the mist on the ground where he could see one or two figures moving about. It looked smaller than when he first saw it years ago.
"There's a system." The man who would become Danny's predecessor had said. "We open with a short stand-up routine. Standard white-joke genre, lots of self-deprecation--do you know what that means?"
Danny nodded, lying.
"A little sexual inferiority here, a little intellectual inferiority there. It sets the tone." He spoke without enthusiasm. Danny's stomach growled. He had been promised a meal.
"Then there's a skit. We have five basic skits; one is the historical skit, involving a figure from US history. He's a bumbling conniver, saved from some ill-fated and corrupt scheme by his dependent slaves or servants. It usually features his cuckolding by one or more of them. Sometimes he is hauled off by the Indians."
Danny was barely paying attention now. He wanted to sit; his sore feet felt as if they were melting into flattening blobs like putty on a hot sidewalk.
"We finish with a song and dance. Don't worry, you don't have to know how to dance. If you're called on to dance it's to dance badly, because that's the idea. You don't know how to dance, right?"
"Right." Said Danny.
"Good." He looked Danny up and down. "You'll have to learn some basic pratfalls, nothing serious. Have you done any stunts?"
"No." Danny said apologetically.
"Yeah, well, that's okay. Normally I wouldn't take on someone without experience but," he nodded at Danny's red hair "a genuine ginger is a real rarity nowadays. Do you know your guys are like two percent of the under-30 population? A dying breed." He nodded; his tone was complimentary. "So what do you say?"
Danny's stomach contracted painfully. Over the man's shoulder he could just make out the lines of smoke rising from the homeless camp in a stand of sickly cedars nearby. He remembered a pact he'd made some hungry miles before, on a hungover first day of 2040; with a twinge he determined to forget it.
"Yes."
Tuesday, March 05, 2019
The Golden Years
"You could get a coach."
"I don't know. I heard most of those guys actually work for the Inclusivity Commission."
"My sister got one for her father-in-law." Mark waited as a woman passed. "She isn't sure it helped, but he did great in the interview and he's still at home."
James shrugged slightly.
"I don't know. Grandpa's really old; he goes all the way back to the Twentieth Century. They expect to find something. If he just gives them all the right answers they'll be suspicious."
Mark nodded.
"That's what the coach told us. What they want to see with someone in their eighties or older is that he's made what they call 'the Journey'; he needs to tell them how he overcame his supremacist upbringing. He knows to say he's been involved in activism of some sort or another, right?"
"Yeah. Still. I hear they're actually investigating that stuff out now." James replied glumly. "They're checking everything since that law passed last year giving the Commission unlimited funding. You can't just say you marched with so-and-so." James sighed. "I just wish he was more concerned about it himself. He doesn't seem to care. You should hear him at home. He makes no attempt to regulate what he says. He actually enjoys speaking against love-truth."
Mark chortled a little at the phrase. James continued.
"He thinks it's all a joke. I try to impress upon him..."
"Does he realize what can happen? He's not, you know, losing it...?"
"No. If only." They both laughed. "Maybe he'd be more pliable. No, he's mentally as sharp as ever. But emotionally, he's like a child. He's..." James searched for the word, "...he's defiant."
"So why the interview? What did he do--what did he say?"
"I don't know. They won't tell you. Just..." James looked both ways "...that awful language. What did the notice say? '...comments denigrating a protected class...' they won't say who. But the part at the end, something about how he might be a bad influence on 'any minor children with whom he has unsupervised contact', you know, that being the kids, his grandchildren."
"How is he getting along with them?"
"They love him. And Jack, you know, is just like him, he even looks a lot like him, but I think he thinks more like him than anything..."
"Watch that."
"I know. He's smart, you know, and he's getting old enough he knows how to keep his mouth shut at school. Hell, he knows better than me how to play the game. He's been helpful with Dad. But when he and the old guy get together, especially when they go over this stuff, they always end up sharing jokes about how absurd they think it is. It's funny, you know..."
"What?"
"That I'm so proud of him, and proud of the old man, for their smarts and defiance, and it's going to get Dad shunted off to a Home and a regimen of mind-numbing drugs and, if we're not careful, is going to get Jack black-listed on google-employment, drawing a basic income check, and still having to regulate his behavior all the more to keep it."
"No joke. I know a guy who lost his UBI because he asked a girl out on a date."
"It sucks. I was watching them together the other night. I should have been proud, watching my dad and my son, Jack is so handsome now, just a little man, you know, and there's dad, doing what people have always done, or used to do until modern times I guess, he's passing along knowledge, and he'll be gone soon and Jack will eventually be old and passing along what he's learned--probably not, though, seeing as most kids now won't have their own kids. I was moved by the sight of them together. But the idea of them taking the old guy away...I swear I had to leave the room so Sarah wouldn't see me getting emotional."
"The last thing you want to do is get emotional. You're not just trying to keep your dad at home now. You're saving Jack too. God forbid he should just give up and accept the UBI dole. He is a smart kid, and he's got character. No, don't let him get a taste for the truth now, it'll all be over for him before he gets started."
"I know. He knows, he understands. But sometimes I think he doesn't care. It's scary. Sometimes I fear he'll be one of these guys who just checks out because he can't or won't play the game. I have a hard time imagining the old man doing it, doing what we've been doing, what we are doing."
"What are we doing?"
James stopped in his tracks.
"Yeah. What the hell are we doing, Mark?"
"I don't know. I heard most of those guys actually work for the Inclusivity Commission."
"My sister got one for her father-in-law." Mark waited as a woman passed. "She isn't sure it helped, but he did great in the interview and he's still at home."
James shrugged slightly.
"I don't know. Grandpa's really old; he goes all the way back to the Twentieth Century. They expect to find something. If he just gives them all the right answers they'll be suspicious."
Mark nodded.
"That's what the coach told us. What they want to see with someone in their eighties or older is that he's made what they call 'the Journey'; he needs to tell them how he overcame his supremacist upbringing. He knows to say he's been involved in activism of some sort or another, right?"
"Yeah. Still. I hear they're actually investigating that stuff out now." James replied glumly. "They're checking everything since that law passed last year giving the Commission unlimited funding. You can't just say you marched with so-and-so." James sighed. "I just wish he was more concerned about it himself. He doesn't seem to care. You should hear him at home. He makes no attempt to regulate what he says. He actually enjoys speaking against love-truth."
Mark chortled a little at the phrase. James continued.
"He thinks it's all a joke. I try to impress upon him..."
"Does he realize what can happen? He's not, you know, losing it...?"
"No. If only." They both laughed. "Maybe he'd be more pliable. No, he's mentally as sharp as ever. But emotionally, he's like a child. He's..." James searched for the word, "...he's defiant."
"So why the interview? What did he do--what did he say?"
"I don't know. They won't tell you. Just..." James looked both ways "...that awful language. What did the notice say? '...comments denigrating a protected class...' they won't say who. But the part at the end, something about how he might be a bad influence on 'any minor children with whom he has unsupervised contact', you know, that being the kids, his grandchildren."
"How is he getting along with them?"
"They love him. And Jack, you know, is just like him, he even looks a lot like him, but I think he thinks more like him than anything..."
"Watch that."
"I know. He's smart, you know, and he's getting old enough he knows how to keep his mouth shut at school. Hell, he knows better than me how to play the game. He's been helpful with Dad. But when he and the old guy get together, especially when they go over this stuff, they always end up sharing jokes about how absurd they think it is. It's funny, you know..."
"What?"
"That I'm so proud of him, and proud of the old man, for their smarts and defiance, and it's going to get Dad shunted off to a Home and a regimen of mind-numbing drugs and, if we're not careful, is going to get Jack black-listed on google-employment, drawing a basic income check, and still having to regulate his behavior all the more to keep it."
"No joke. I know a guy who lost his UBI because he asked a girl out on a date."
"It sucks. I was watching them together the other night. I should have been proud, watching my dad and my son, Jack is so handsome now, just a little man, you know, and there's dad, doing what people have always done, or used to do until modern times I guess, he's passing along knowledge, and he'll be gone soon and Jack will eventually be old and passing along what he's learned--probably not, though, seeing as most kids now won't have their own kids. I was moved by the sight of them together. But the idea of them taking the old guy away...I swear I had to leave the room so Sarah wouldn't see me getting emotional."
"The last thing you want to do is get emotional. You're not just trying to keep your dad at home now. You're saving Jack too. God forbid he should just give up and accept the UBI dole. He is a smart kid, and he's got character. No, don't let him get a taste for the truth now, it'll all be over for him before he gets started."
"I know. He knows, he understands. But sometimes I think he doesn't care. It's scary. Sometimes I fear he'll be one of these guys who just checks out because he can't or won't play the game. I have a hard time imagining the old man doing it, doing what we've been doing, what we are doing."
"What are we doing?"
James stopped in his tracks.
"Yeah. What the hell are we doing, Mark?"
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
The Siege
An indifferent freeway dissects Forlaine down the middle from east to west, embracing it at each end in its curving, tendril-like on and off ramps. Main Street intersects the freeway at forty-five degrees, spreading out on either side a gaudy leg tattooed with fast food franchises and chain stores standing out against the rustic remnants, some authentic, of the town's logging past.
That past was truncated by the creation of the national park to the east, a ban on clear-cutting in the state and the ensuing contraction of the regional logging industry.
Sprawl saved Forlaine in the nineties. An hour and a half round-trip commute to the city became less onerous as real estate grew prohibitively expensive there. New housing developments went up along with the price of real estate and tax revenue. Two classes of newcomer arose, one working class primarily from the defense contractor in the city, the other, smaller group, yuppies. They stood out from each other as well as from the original Forlainers. These divisions were rarely mentioned out loud but always there, in the background.
Two new schools were built. One of the state's main mountain passes, featuring a ski resort, was just as near to the east as the city was to the west. In the early twenty-first century things were looking up in Forlaine; five new developments were in some stage of planning/execution. Then the housing market fell apart in 2008.
That past was truncated by the creation of the national park to the east, a ban on clear-cutting in the state and the ensuing contraction of the regional logging industry.
Sprawl saved Forlaine in the nineties. An hour and a half round-trip commute to the city became less onerous as real estate grew prohibitively expensive there. New housing developments went up along with the price of real estate and tax revenue. Two classes of newcomer arose, one working class primarily from the defense contractor in the city, the other, smaller group, yuppies. They stood out from each other as well as from the original Forlainers. These divisions were rarely mentioned out loud but always there, in the background.
Two new schools were built. One of the state's main mountain passes, featuring a ski resort, was just as near to the east as the city was to the west. In the early twenty-first century things were looking up in Forlaine; five new developments were in some stage of planning/execution. Then the housing market fell apart in 2008.
Still, the city could have done worse. Most development made no longer feasible was left in the planning stage. One large development had gotten way out ahead of itself, leaving behind a ghost neighborhood of over a hundred houses, most of which had not yet sold. Among the rows of unsold (or abandoned) homes were scattered homes occupied by the unfortunate few who bought just before the bubble burst. Here's where the federal government stepped in to help, leasing entire blocks for the purpose of housing migrant refugees.
Misty Handringer considered her role in this with some pride as she rode her bicycle up Main Street. She resisted the creeping, familiar sense of dissatisfaction she always felt upon a project's fruition. She fought but couldn't help returning, like to a sore tooth, to the equally familiar sense of resentment that was forming.
Just for starters she had raised nearly half the funds (most of that her own money) for the welcome center, but she hadn't been invited to speak at the opening, yet. She had envisioned giving an address to the newcomers. She determined that if she had to suggest it herself she would.
Dare she attempt a phrase or two in Somali? She conjured what they would look like, the women in their colorful garb (as she imagined; she had no idea what they wore; she determined to look it up online), their faces weathered, wizened with what that ineffable African understanding of which westerners are not capable; she could see them looking up at her with awe. Was this racist of her? Was she only engaging in what her ex-husband had called vain condescension? Why had this, of his many complaints, stuck? Oh well, he had nothing to say now how she spent her money; he would have to complain to his new wife about how she put the small fortune of her divorce settlement to good use, she thought, with a slight rise at the corner of her mouth.
Just for starters she had raised nearly half the funds (most of that her own money) for the welcome center, but she hadn't been invited to speak at the opening, yet. She had envisioned giving an address to the newcomers. She determined that if she had to suggest it herself she would.
Dare she attempt a phrase or two in Somali? She conjured what they would look like, the women in their colorful garb (as she imagined; she had no idea what they wore; she determined to look it up online), their faces weathered, wizened with what that ineffable African understanding of which westerners are not capable; she could see them looking up at her with awe. Was this racist of her? Was she only engaging in what her ex-husband had called vain condescension? Why had this, of his many complaints, stuck? Oh well, he had nothing to say now how she spent her money; he would have to complain to his new wife about how she put the small fortune of her divorce settlement to good use, she thought, with a slight rise at the corner of her mouth.
As she addressed the incline ahead her front wheel yawed violently back and forth reacting to each deliberate, labored pedal-stroke; each of these looked to be the last she could manage before gravity overtook her, but no, another followed just as she seemed about to topple, just as laborious but no weaker. And they followed one after the other dependably up the long slope.
A passing pickup gave her a wide berth. She scowled—as if she needed all that room!—but did not look up. She returned again to a less satisfying project, an off-ramp for Main Street. Businesses on the main drag could use the traffic--her bookstore could use the traffic, though she honestly didn't care.
Losses had been halved with the addition of a barista; it hardly cost her anything to keep the store open now. Still, it would be nice to turn a profit, she decided, if only because of the unendurable condescension of other local business owners, and her ex.
Losses had been halved with the addition of a barista; it hardly cost her anything to keep the store open now. Still, it would be nice to turn a profit, she decided, if only because of the unendurable condescension of other local business owners, and her ex.
And thus she made her way, her front tire swinging steadily back and forth like an errant needle on a dial: north, south, north...
(to be continued)
(to be continued)
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
"In the year three thousaaaaaand....!"
"Well private collections are a problem, certainly. We have no idea how many are out there. What constitutes a collection, also, is a legitimate question."
Herbert perked up at this.
"Yes. That's my concern. Say a guy has, in the classic example, an old newspaper announcing the moon landing..."
Genero looked at him with sly sympathy.
"Well, if this friend of yours had only that, and just that, while he'd be in clear violation, it's not like they're going to come busting down his door. As long as it doesn't circulate, he's not going to get into trouble."
"But he could be arrested."
"Yes. Of course. Look what they got that last fellow for, what was he, chairman of the national bank or something? It was a stack of old pornographic magazines. It wasn't even political stuff, they were more in the line of curiosities."
"Aren't they all really?"
Herbert asked hopefully.
"No. No. There's still some very dangerous stuff out there. Even the sort of stuff in the chairman's collection, there were to be found political articles expounding the most dangerous ideas. Something of a political nature would be a stew of toxic expression."
"Really?"
Herbert regretted the intrigue in his voice.
Genero continued.
"But I point him out only to note they had some reason to come after him and the collection was a pretext."
"They say everybody possessing any text is in violation."
"Any text older than sixty years, even the most banal. That's in there. But it it's not quite everything."
"And images?"
"Well there's no reason to worry about photographs, paintings or the like yet, of course, but you know President Feltyear He-Him said just the other night, the international direction is clearly toward the gradual cleaning up and elimination..."
"So, with the inclusion of imagery, it might become true that virtually everyone is in violation of the International Convention on Intolerance and Hate Communication?"
"That's an exaggeration. But it isn't such a bad thing. Everyone has something on them. Everyone has a stake in making things work--because everyone is on notice not to screw up or, worse, go over to the wreckers."
"What did he do, anyway?"
"Who?"
"The bank chairman."
"Who cares?"
Herbert perked up at this.
"Yes. That's my concern. Say a guy has, in the classic example, an old newspaper announcing the moon landing..."
Genero looked at him with sly sympathy.
"Well, if this friend of yours had only that, and just that, while he'd be in clear violation, it's not like they're going to come busting down his door. As long as it doesn't circulate, he's not going to get into trouble."
"But he could be arrested."
"Yes. Of course. Look what they got that last fellow for, what was he, chairman of the national bank or something? It was a stack of old pornographic magazines. It wasn't even political stuff, they were more in the line of curiosities."
"Aren't they all really?"
Herbert asked hopefully.
"No. No. There's still some very dangerous stuff out there. Even the sort of stuff in the chairman's collection, there were to be found political articles expounding the most dangerous ideas. Something of a political nature would be a stew of toxic expression."
"Really?"
Herbert regretted the intrigue in his voice.
Genero continued.
"But I point him out only to note they had some reason to come after him and the collection was a pretext."
"They say everybody possessing any text is in violation."
"Any text older than sixty years, even the most banal. That's in there. But it it's not quite everything."
"And images?"
"Well there's no reason to worry about photographs, paintings or the like yet, of course, but you know President Feltyear He-Him said just the other night, the international direction is clearly toward the gradual cleaning up and elimination..."
"So, with the inclusion of imagery, it might become true that virtually everyone is in violation of the International Convention on Intolerance and Hate Communication?"
"That's an exaggeration. But it isn't such a bad thing. Everyone has something on them. Everyone has a stake in making things work--because everyone is on notice not to screw up or, worse, go over to the wreckers."
"What did he do, anyway?"
"Who?"
"The bank chairman."
"Who cares?"
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Asylum
A narcotic debauch of two or more months came to a close one month ago. Too small and unexceptional to warrant detail, a mere echo really of the self-inflicted catastrophe that is my past. Aftershocks years after the collision of youth's flight with reality's hard ground, growing progressively fainter as they pass through in expanding concentric circles, still plague this impossibly weak mind, each thus far a broken promise of finality. One almost yearns for the more severe and definite concussion from which these pathetic emanations originate. It's as if it the past still exists out there in some physical reality we do not possess the requisite sense to detect. And of course it does; I can feel its weight even now, its unbearable, exquisite, damning weight. I cherish it even as it crushes me. I worship it as everything I know. This is love.
But thankfully the narcosis was arrested, and by a defiant act of will. Maybe this will be the last, finally. As much as I return to the shame of my past over and over again as to the phantom itch of a severed limb, I do wish to shuck it off finally. To finally turn about and walk forward through life instead of in reverse. If not to resolve then to see resolution for the unfortunate myth it is.
So the recuperation begins, and the physical energy regained feels unnatural, alarming even. I lay in bed and my chest surges, as if some current is passing through it. There is an excess of energy and an attendant inability to concentrate or contain this profusion for any purpose. So this too must be waited out.
And then it strikes, a fever that waylays me. I become a somnambulist, sleeping shameful hours through the day and plodding through my abbreviated waking hours like an astronaut encumbered by his heavy suit and tethered to the safety of his spacecraft--the sleeping world. But the dreams return! The dreams you didn't even realize you'd sacrificed to your self-abnegation; dreams trivial and absurd, dreams of youth and alternate lives that tease you through the sliver of moonlight that is the dreamworld. Dreams of lives more real than this one spied upon through the transom over the barred door between reality and imagination. Alternate realities that splinter into innumerable mirror fragments when I turn my clumsy shattering gaze upon them.
Feeling better finally, up from the depths, nearly recovered, swept up again in the wake of world, back in time but still off the beat, no matter; devouring this reality, greedily, hailing a world that roars past, over and under and beneath and through me like an electric current, indifferent and glorious; I am overwhelmed by the breadth of creation, absorbed in the mass of God's love in divine anonymity and exquisite irrelevance. Welcome back.
And back I am, having lost a little more patience, that is to say time, it having been swept into the vortex of self-absorption, dissipated in the implosion of self. Suddenly aware of the hour, of my decaying flesh and mind, of the nearing gallows, waving frantically at humanity near and far, raving like a lunatic (do you see me there, the madman on the streetcorner expending his manic energy into the ether by way of words?). This is my atheist's prayer. There is no means to express this yearning, I have no faith by which to transmit this love of life and ashamed gratitude for existence, no means of repaying the irredeemable debt incurred upon conception, no currency to transact and no language to communicate, as the infinite weight bears down, inexorably, slowly but soon, any moment now, pressing my insignificant self, this tiny fractional autonomy of coalesced matter that is my entire existence, past present and future, back into the whole of nonexistence--so I must accost you, insult you, hail you like a starving beggar and desperate madman. Don't be alarmed. Don't look away. Humor me. See this half-squandered life. Take note of it. Listen to my futile and meaningless plea. The end is near! Relent!
Boards of Canada, Macquarie Ridge
But thankfully the narcosis was arrested, and by a defiant act of will. Maybe this will be the last, finally. As much as I return to the shame of my past over and over again as to the phantom itch of a severed limb, I do wish to shuck it off finally. To finally turn about and walk forward through life instead of in reverse. If not to resolve then to see resolution for the unfortunate myth it is.
So the recuperation begins, and the physical energy regained feels unnatural, alarming even. I lay in bed and my chest surges, as if some current is passing through it. There is an excess of energy and an attendant inability to concentrate or contain this profusion for any purpose. So this too must be waited out.
And then it strikes, a fever that waylays me. I become a somnambulist, sleeping shameful hours through the day and plodding through my abbreviated waking hours like an astronaut encumbered by his heavy suit and tethered to the safety of his spacecraft--the sleeping world. But the dreams return! The dreams you didn't even realize you'd sacrificed to your self-abnegation; dreams trivial and absurd, dreams of youth and alternate lives that tease you through the sliver of moonlight that is the dreamworld. Dreams of lives more real than this one spied upon through the transom over the barred door between reality and imagination. Alternate realities that splinter into innumerable mirror fragments when I turn my clumsy shattering gaze upon them.
Feeling better finally, up from the depths, nearly recovered, swept up again in the wake of world, back in time but still off the beat, no matter; devouring this reality, greedily, hailing a world that roars past, over and under and beneath and through me like an electric current, indifferent and glorious; I am overwhelmed by the breadth of creation, absorbed in the mass of God's love in divine anonymity and exquisite irrelevance. Welcome back.
And back I am, having lost a little more patience, that is to say time, it having been swept into the vortex of self-absorption, dissipated in the implosion of self. Suddenly aware of the hour, of my decaying flesh and mind, of the nearing gallows, waving frantically at humanity near and far, raving like a lunatic (do you see me there, the madman on the streetcorner expending his manic energy into the ether by way of words?). This is my atheist's prayer. There is no means to express this yearning, I have no faith by which to transmit this love of life and ashamed gratitude for existence, no means of repaying the irredeemable debt incurred upon conception, no currency to transact and no language to communicate, as the infinite weight bears down, inexorably, slowly but soon, any moment now, pressing my insignificant self, this tiny fractional autonomy of coalesced matter that is my entire existence, past present and future, back into the whole of nonexistence--so I must accost you, insult you, hail you like a starving beggar and desperate madman. Don't be alarmed. Don't look away. Humor me. See this half-squandered life. Take note of it. Listen to my futile and meaningless plea. The end is near! Relent!
Boards of Canada, Macquarie Ridge
Sunday, October 22, 2006
In the Bunker with Barney, Laura, and Me
I will not withdraw even if Laura and Barney are the only ones supporting me.
George W. Bush
The following diary fragments were found by rebel forces of the breakaway American states near the ruins of President George W. Bush’s secret bunker at the close of the Second Civil War in May of 2008. The author is unknown, signing only his initials, “D.D.”
Various explanations abound for D.D.’s identity; all speculative, some wildly fanciful, such as the legend that he was an obscure “blogger” (a phrase for professional and dilletante writers, political activists, exhibitionists, and others who used the Internet for self-publishing before the UNITUS Act of 2020 solidified the Second Republic's absolute control over the media, ushering in the Long Repression of the mid-21st Century).
By this account, after abandoning his early opposition to the Administration D.D. became a fervent supporter in its last days and somehow, with the zeal and determination of a convert, managed to insinuate himself into the upper echelons of the Administration just as it descended into confusion and madness.
All indications are that his role was that of a domestic servant. The diary makes obvious the other residents considered him an insignificant dullard. This likely explains why they were unguarded in his presence, allowing this invaluable document of the bizarre death throes of the Bush Regime.
April 5
I think the stress is starting to take its toll on the president. Earlier today I went to clean his quarters; I was surprised to find him standing before a full length mirror, practicing his oratorical hand gestures and muttering under his breath.
I gaped in shock. Hearing the sound of a muffled cough, I looked to see the first lady sitting across the room watching, sullenly taking long drags from a cigarette. She smashed it out violently in an over-full ashtray and, turning to withdraw another, caught sight of me. I pretended I’d just walked in, saying:
"Mr. President? I found that copy of Rebel in Chief we've been looking for."
He didn't seem to hear, but when he caught sight of me in the mirror he said:
"How long you been in the service, son?"
Before I could reply he returned to his muttering, delivering a one-liner and mustering a sickly version of his familiar chuckle. It was frightening, seeing him like that. I hurried out, feeling the first lady's eyes on the back of my neck. I’m beginning to suspect that things aren’t going as well as the President says.
April 9
Today Rove caught me, again, as I tried sneaking past his quarters.
“D____. Would you come here for a moment please?” He said in that unctuous voice he uses when he wants something. I braced myself and went in; I was appalled to find that awful green silk bath robe—all he’s worn for days now—was left open, revealing what had to be a thong. He was covered in oil and reddened from lying in his tanning bed.
“I wonder if you might help me; I need to apply this lotion and I can’t quite reach…”
“I have to feed Barney.” I stammered. "Mrs. Bush—I mean the first lady—will kill me if I don’t—"
“Women.” He said, shaking his head, advancing on me. “Why do we bother? Well, the dog can wait. Barney I mean, not Laura." He gave that creepy little laugh he uses when he thinks he's said something clever. "You won’t tell that I said that, will you? Our little secret?” He said the last part in a low, conspiratorial tone. As he came near I backed away, bumping into the wall; I slid sideways until I fell out the open door.
“Gotta feed the dog.” I said nervously over my shoulder as I hustled away. “Gotta feed Barney.”
“Okay then, maybe later.” He said casually, pretending not to notice my discomfort. Damn that guy’s persistent.
April 12
As I was passing the conference room this morning the president called me in.
“D____. C’mere. Check this out.” He said cheerfully. I allowed myself the hope that he was going to say we'd be leaving the bunker soon. “Have I shown you this?”
He had been leaning over a scale model of a city. He stepped back and smiled proudly, spreading his arms in presentation.
“What is it sir?” I said, disguising my disappointment. The room was a shambles; everything had been hastily cast to the walls to make room for the model's well-lit preeminence in the center of the squalor.
“It’s Baghdad.”
“Oh, of course.” I said, still feigning.
“See, here’s the airport; here’s the road to the airport; see the cars? Everything’s safe and secure. See the people? They’re voting.”
“What’s that sir?” I was sorry the moment I asked, but the futuristic structure on the outskirts of the city was out of place, cobbled together with what appeared to be the modified parts of a child’s toy.
“That’s the Bush Freedom and Liberty Mosque.” He said, his enthusiasm quickening. “It's going to be open to Muslims and Shiites alike. Let me show you—“
“George!” The First Lady called sharply from behind me. The look of a chastened boy came over the President’s face. I instinctively came to attention. I shifted to the side and, careful not to make eye contact, excused myself with a mumble.
I hurried down the hallway before stopping in my tracks. Rove’s door was open; a muted, down-tempo R&B beat and the scent of marijuana emanated from his room. I turned about on my heel. Too late.
“D____!” It was the Vice President. “Get in here.” He motioned at me from the other end of the hallway.
I had to pass Rove’s open door to reach the V.P.'s quarters. I looked deliberately ahead; out of the corner of my eye Rove's leer taunted me through the dim resolution of the black-light. Worse; I thought I saw Bolton’s white moustache glowing in the darkened recess behind him, over a constellation of glinting studs that would have to be one of his leather get-ups. They would be at it for a while. Great. Another shitty night's sleep hiding in the pantry.
“C’mon. Double-time!” The V.P. barked impatiently, going back inside.
When I came in I saw General Pace and General Casey standing at attention before a folding table covered in maps.
“See this idiot?” The Vice President said, pulling me into the room with what felt like a claw. The two stared straight ahead. “Look at him!” He thundered. The two sheepishly complied. There was an awkward, embarrassing moment as we stared dumbly at one another. The room was colder than ever. The steam from our breath pawed at the air between us like ghostly forelimbs.
“This moron can do a better job than you two!” He gave me a rough shake. “In fact, he’s about to replace you incompetent bozos! What do you think of that?” Pace began to speak, then thought better.
“Go ahead, Miss, let’s hear what you have to say.” The V.P. growled.
“I—we’ll try harder sir; we just need another six months to turn this thing around.” Pace’s voice quavered on the verge of one of his legendary crying jags.
“Get the hell out of here.” The Vice President said without looking at me, shoving me back out the door.
I'm starting to wonder what I've gotten myself into.
April 15
When I went to clean the conference room today I found Ledeen bent over the Baghdad model; using one of Goldberg's Star Trek toys he was pretending to strafe and bomb the city, spraying the streets with spittle as he mimicked the sound of bombs and gunfire, punctuating here and there with the anguished cries of the wounded. I managed to slip back out before he saw me.
April 19
I sneaked out into the garden today, against the V.P.’s orders, just to escape the relentless drone of the ventilation system. It was shrouded in silence and a cool mist; an incredibly peaceful contrast to what was going on inside. It was so still for a moment I swore the war wasn’t real.
The impulse to flight welled up, terrifyingly. Then I heard something: barely perceptible, but clearly the sound of a hushed, urgent voice. I followed it, my accelerated heartbeat sending a hot pulse through my temples. I thought the enemy had found us; I half-expected to find a commando whispering into a headset, setting up a raid.
Then I heard a phrase I recognized. Following the voice I came upon the president, bundled against the chill and reclining in a lounge chair. He was facing away, revealing his profile. He was speaking just above his breath, reciting the programmed phrases that had been the boilerplate of his speeches to the nation, in a maniacal, urgent tone. He spat the words out as if to purge himself of them. Occasionally he would punctuate a sentence with an exaggeration of one of his stock facial expressions; now gross caricatures. It was only then I realized how lost we are. Too overcome to turn away, I looked down in shame.
“Not exactly what you signed on for, is it?” He said.
It was a voice that I didn’t recognize; it was relaxed, unguarded, natural. He was looking at me over his shoulder; the mask that was the man I thought I knew was revealed in its absence. This man was more familiar somehow; he could have been anyone. He had the look of a wearied penitent resigned to fate with gratitude. I came closer so I wouldn’t have to speak up.
“No, I don’t think any of us signed on for this, sir.”
I worried he'd take my my fellow-feeling for a complaint; his look conveyed an instant, grateful understanding.
“Well, sorry anyway.” He turned away. Just as I was about to leave he said, “You know, I was almost baseball commissioner once.”
“I know.” I hesitated a moment. “You would’ve made a good commissioner, Mr. President.”
He faced me, grinning a wan thanks, before looking down into his lap, lost in thought. He caught himself and looked up, in the same old jesting bravado:
“No, I would’ve made one hell of a commissioner, D____.”
I straightened up and nodded, forcing a grin
"Yes sir. I would have liked to be there."
Turning around I nearly walked into the First Lady; I came to attention. She stilled me with a light hand on my shoulder and brought her face before my lowered gaze. Her look had softened. She had been listening to our exchange.
“Thank you, D____. For everything.”
It was the first time she addressed me by name.
“Yes ma’am.” I said, embarrassed. “I better get back inside.”
“Be careful. Dick is chewing out the guys from The Weekly Standard. You might want to steer clear of the conference room." She paused, indulged: "Of course, I think you've earned the right to see Kristol throwing himself at the VP's feet.”
"I'll pass. I saw that last time he was here."
Our eyes met for the first and last time; we smiled conspiratorially and parted.
My hand was heavy on the stairwell hatch. Gathering my strength, I looked back at Laura, pulling George’s blanket closer about his neck, stroking his hair at the temple lightly with the back of her fingers, as if to a child. From here they might as well have been at home, on an identical afternoon, he content and she beloved, some other time, some other place. Any two people. I came back down the hole.
April 20
Everyone is gathered in the conference room. It’s the V.P.’s birthday. I can hear them singing a forced and shrill Happy Birthday right now. I know exactly what he looks like: his thin, mirthless grin drawing the fearful air like a gill; I can see his beady eyes as they furtively scan back and forth with reptilian satisfaction, obscured behind the reflection in his glasses of the terrified, contorted faces of the false revelers.
Well, this is it. Now's my chance; I’m leaving the bunker.
Barney has come in; he looks miserable, wagging his tail plaintively. He seems to understand. No, I'm sure he does.
"I gotta go, pal. Take care of yourself." I tell him, surprised to hear my voice cracking with emotion as I pat him on the head. "Don't worry."
The grim, insincere singing; the dog's helpless, imploring eyes. I have no choice.
Oh alright.
Come on boy, let's go home.
D.D.
George W. Bush
The following diary fragments were found by rebel forces of the breakaway American states near the ruins of President George W. Bush’s secret bunker at the close of the Second Civil War in May of 2008. The author is unknown, signing only his initials, “D.D.”
Various explanations abound for D.D.’s identity; all speculative, some wildly fanciful, such as the legend that he was an obscure “blogger” (a phrase for professional and dilletante writers, political activists, exhibitionists, and others who used the Internet for self-publishing before the UNITUS Act of 2020 solidified the Second Republic's absolute control over the media, ushering in the Long Repression of the mid-21st Century).
By this account, after abandoning his early opposition to the Administration D.D. became a fervent supporter in its last days and somehow, with the zeal and determination of a convert, managed to insinuate himself into the upper echelons of the Administration just as it descended into confusion and madness.
All indications are that his role was that of a domestic servant. The diary makes obvious the other residents considered him an insignificant dullard. This likely explains why they were unguarded in his presence, allowing this invaluable document of the bizarre death throes of the Bush Regime.
April 5
I think the stress is starting to take its toll on the president. Earlier today I went to clean his quarters; I was surprised to find him standing before a full length mirror, practicing his oratorical hand gestures and muttering under his breath.
I gaped in shock. Hearing the sound of a muffled cough, I looked to see the first lady sitting across the room watching, sullenly taking long drags from a cigarette. She smashed it out violently in an over-full ashtray and, turning to withdraw another, caught sight of me. I pretended I’d just walked in, saying:
"Mr. President? I found that copy of Rebel in Chief we've been looking for."
He didn't seem to hear, but when he caught sight of me in the mirror he said:
"How long you been in the service, son?"
Before I could reply he returned to his muttering, delivering a one-liner and mustering a sickly version of his familiar chuckle. It was frightening, seeing him like that. I hurried out, feeling the first lady's eyes on the back of my neck. I’m beginning to suspect that things aren’t going as well as the President says.
April 9
Today Rove caught me, again, as I tried sneaking past his quarters.
“D____. Would you come here for a moment please?” He said in that unctuous voice he uses when he wants something. I braced myself and went in; I was appalled to find that awful green silk bath robe—all he’s worn for days now—was left open, revealing what had to be a thong. He was covered in oil and reddened from lying in his tanning bed.
“I wonder if you might help me; I need to apply this lotion and I can’t quite reach…”
“I have to feed Barney.” I stammered. "Mrs. Bush—I mean the first lady—will kill me if I don’t—"
“Women.” He said, shaking his head, advancing on me. “Why do we bother? Well, the dog can wait. Barney I mean, not Laura." He gave that creepy little laugh he uses when he thinks he's said something clever. "You won’t tell that I said that, will you? Our little secret?” He said the last part in a low, conspiratorial tone. As he came near I backed away, bumping into the wall; I slid sideways until I fell out the open door.
“Gotta feed the dog.” I said nervously over my shoulder as I hustled away. “Gotta feed Barney.”
“Okay then, maybe later.” He said casually, pretending not to notice my discomfort. Damn that guy’s persistent.
April 12
As I was passing the conference room this morning the president called me in.
“D____. C’mere. Check this out.” He said cheerfully. I allowed myself the hope that he was going to say we'd be leaving the bunker soon. “Have I shown you this?”
He had been leaning over a scale model of a city. He stepped back and smiled proudly, spreading his arms in presentation.
“What is it sir?” I said, disguising my disappointment. The room was a shambles; everything had been hastily cast to the walls to make room for the model's well-lit preeminence in the center of the squalor.
“It’s Baghdad.”
“Oh, of course.” I said, still feigning.
“See, here’s the airport; here’s the road to the airport; see the cars? Everything’s safe and secure. See the people? They’re voting.”
“What’s that sir?” I was sorry the moment I asked, but the futuristic structure on the outskirts of the city was out of place, cobbled together with what appeared to be the modified parts of a child’s toy.
“That’s the Bush Freedom and Liberty Mosque.” He said, his enthusiasm quickening. “It's going to be open to Muslims and Shiites alike. Let me show you—“
“George!” The First Lady called sharply from behind me. The look of a chastened boy came over the President’s face. I instinctively came to attention. I shifted to the side and, careful not to make eye contact, excused myself with a mumble.
I hurried down the hallway before stopping in my tracks. Rove’s door was open; a muted, down-tempo R&B beat and the scent of marijuana emanated from his room. I turned about on my heel. Too late.
“D____!” It was the Vice President. “Get in here.” He motioned at me from the other end of the hallway.
I had to pass Rove’s open door to reach the V.P.'s quarters. I looked deliberately ahead; out of the corner of my eye Rove's leer taunted me through the dim resolution of the black-light. Worse; I thought I saw Bolton’s white moustache glowing in the darkened recess behind him, over a constellation of glinting studs that would have to be one of his leather get-ups. They would be at it for a while. Great. Another shitty night's sleep hiding in the pantry.
“C’mon. Double-time!” The V.P. barked impatiently, going back inside.
When I came in I saw General Pace and General Casey standing at attention before a folding table covered in maps.
“See this idiot?” The Vice President said, pulling me into the room with what felt like a claw. The two stared straight ahead. “Look at him!” He thundered. The two sheepishly complied. There was an awkward, embarrassing moment as we stared dumbly at one another. The room was colder than ever. The steam from our breath pawed at the air between us like ghostly forelimbs.
“This moron can do a better job than you two!” He gave me a rough shake. “In fact, he’s about to replace you incompetent bozos! What do you think of that?” Pace began to speak, then thought better.
“Go ahead, Miss, let’s hear what you have to say.” The V.P. growled.
“I—we’ll try harder sir; we just need another six months to turn this thing around.” Pace’s voice quavered on the verge of one of his legendary crying jags.
“Get the hell out of here.” The Vice President said without looking at me, shoving me back out the door.
I'm starting to wonder what I've gotten myself into.
April 15
When I went to clean the conference room today I found Ledeen bent over the Baghdad model; using one of Goldberg's Star Trek toys he was pretending to strafe and bomb the city, spraying the streets with spittle as he mimicked the sound of bombs and gunfire, punctuating here and there with the anguished cries of the wounded. I managed to slip back out before he saw me.
April 19
I sneaked out into the garden today, against the V.P.’s orders, just to escape the relentless drone of the ventilation system. It was shrouded in silence and a cool mist; an incredibly peaceful contrast to what was going on inside. It was so still for a moment I swore the war wasn’t real.
The impulse to flight welled up, terrifyingly. Then I heard something: barely perceptible, but clearly the sound of a hushed, urgent voice. I followed it, my accelerated heartbeat sending a hot pulse through my temples. I thought the enemy had found us; I half-expected to find a commando whispering into a headset, setting up a raid.
Then I heard a phrase I recognized. Following the voice I came upon the president, bundled against the chill and reclining in a lounge chair. He was facing away, revealing his profile. He was speaking just above his breath, reciting the programmed phrases that had been the boilerplate of his speeches to the nation, in a maniacal, urgent tone. He spat the words out as if to purge himself of them. Occasionally he would punctuate a sentence with an exaggeration of one of his stock facial expressions; now gross caricatures. It was only then I realized how lost we are. Too overcome to turn away, I looked down in shame.
“Not exactly what you signed on for, is it?” He said.
It was a voice that I didn’t recognize; it was relaxed, unguarded, natural. He was looking at me over his shoulder; the mask that was the man I thought I knew was revealed in its absence. This man was more familiar somehow; he could have been anyone. He had the look of a wearied penitent resigned to fate with gratitude. I came closer so I wouldn’t have to speak up.
“No, I don’t think any of us signed on for this, sir.”
I worried he'd take my my fellow-feeling for a complaint; his look conveyed an instant, grateful understanding.
“Well, sorry anyway.” He turned away. Just as I was about to leave he said, “You know, I was almost baseball commissioner once.”
“I know.” I hesitated a moment. “You would’ve made a good commissioner, Mr. President.”
He faced me, grinning a wan thanks, before looking down into his lap, lost in thought. He caught himself and looked up, in the same old jesting bravado:
“No, I would’ve made one hell of a commissioner, D____.”
I straightened up and nodded, forcing a grin
"Yes sir. I would have liked to be there."
Turning around I nearly walked into the First Lady; I came to attention. She stilled me with a light hand on my shoulder and brought her face before my lowered gaze. Her look had softened. She had been listening to our exchange.
“Thank you, D____. For everything.”
It was the first time she addressed me by name.
“Yes ma’am.” I said, embarrassed. “I better get back inside.”
“Be careful. Dick is chewing out the guys from The Weekly Standard. You might want to steer clear of the conference room." She paused, indulged: "Of course, I think you've earned the right to see Kristol throwing himself at the VP's feet.”
"I'll pass. I saw that last time he was here."
Our eyes met for the first and last time; we smiled conspiratorially and parted.
My hand was heavy on the stairwell hatch. Gathering my strength, I looked back at Laura, pulling George’s blanket closer about his neck, stroking his hair at the temple lightly with the back of her fingers, as if to a child. From here they might as well have been at home, on an identical afternoon, he content and she beloved, some other time, some other place. Any two people. I came back down the hole.
April 20
Everyone is gathered in the conference room. It’s the V.P.’s birthday. I can hear them singing a forced and shrill Happy Birthday right now. I know exactly what he looks like: his thin, mirthless grin drawing the fearful air like a gill; I can see his beady eyes as they furtively scan back and forth with reptilian satisfaction, obscured behind the reflection in his glasses of the terrified, contorted faces of the false revelers.
Well, this is it. Now's my chance; I’m leaving the bunker.
Barney has come in; he looks miserable, wagging his tail plaintively. He seems to understand. No, I'm sure he does.
"I gotta go, pal. Take care of yourself." I tell him, surprised to hear my voice cracking with emotion as I pat him on the head. "Don't worry."
The grim, insincere singing; the dog's helpless, imploring eyes. I have no choice.
Oh alright.
Come on boy, let's go home.
D.D.
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