Sometimes I’m deaf, like now. Are you pro-choice or pro-life? I ask him. “Pro-life.”
Gay marriage? “I’m a Christian!”
Pro-Israel or pro-Palestine? “I think they should take those people and put them back in Germany. They have been fighting there since day one, so they should go back.”
“Those people” are the Jews? “Yes.”
Tell me: Shouldn’t we do the same thing with the Americans? Many of them came here from Germany and took the land from the people who had lived here before them. Why not send both the Jews and the Americans back to Germany?
This pisses Mike off and he spits three more times than usual. “There’s no room for them all in Germany,” he says after spitting yet again.
His cows are about three miles from here, in a sixty-five-thousand-acre piece of land leased from the federal government by him and by a number of other people, and he rides his horses there on a daily basis, to check on the cows and put out salt blocks for the animals.
But he barely makes a living from his cows. It takes five hundred to seven hundred cows to make a living for a family, he tells me, and he has only 150 cows. How does he survive on his ranch? He is leasing part of his land, he’s working for other ranchers, he trains horses for others, and he also works as a plumber and a welder. And part of the ranch is rented out as a guesthouse for tourists by other members of his family.
Nonetheless, whatever his financial difficulties, this man wears his hat with pride. He is a cowboy!
He invites me to dinner at the guesthouse, and he introduces me to the other diners.
Interesting folks. Here’s a Jewish couple from California – two Jews who, for a fee, feel cowboy. These two non-spitting cowboys have money, and they sponsor Palestinian movies. That’s what they tell me. And then they correct themselves; they support, they now say, any movie that is critical of Israel.
Another couple, from Italy, support nobody.
Neither does Mike. Spitting Mike, a hard-working man, illustrates to me the difficulties of being a cowboy. It’s easy to put on a cowboy hat and get busy listening to some great country music, but being one is a totally different story.
Maybe it’s a good idea, after all, to send the Americans to Germany. The Indians will have more acres, and more of them will be able to sing Elvis Presley’s songs in perfect Indian.
That’ll be the day.
• • •
I leave the cowboy and enter reality: Malibu. And this Malibu drives to Missoula, on its way to Seattle. I take a little rest in Missoula.
I go to a bar and ask for a brandy. They don’t ask what kind of brandy I want and give me Christian Brothers, the one I had in Chicago. It’s one country, and we are all Christian brothers.
No Jews here, thank God; they are busy in California looking for some Palestinian movies to sponsor.
Right next to me sits an interesting man named Pat Williams, who introduces himself as a “former congressman from Montana. I represented the whole state, and I served in the Congress for eighteen years.” These days he teaches at the University of Montana.
Can you explain to me why there are so many American flags almost everywhere I drive?
“Americans love to show their patriotism. I think that the Americans who fly their flag are nationalistic. One could take that as bad or good, but I think they are being nationalistic.”
Why is America so patriotic?
“Probably because of America’s military experience. Two wars, a number of minor wars. Some lost, some won, but a lot of Americans fought, some got wounded, and some died, and it made them patriotic.”
Are you talking about the Vietnam and Korean wars?
“Vietnam, Korea, Panama, for heaven’s sake, and safeguarding Europe through NATO. Very expensive, very.”
Pat is pro-choice, pro-gay marriage and pro-Palestine. While serving in Congress he was pro-Israel, he tells me, but since he has become a professor he’s changed his mind. Let him.
Are you also pro-polygamy?
“No.”
Why not? I’m pro-gay marriage and I’m pro-polygamy. Mature people should be able to decide how they want to marry and whom. This is a human rights issue. A basic human right.
“A family with one man, a wife married to one man has been a cornerstone in the American – ”
Now you are talking like those Americans who are against gay marriage; they say the same thing.
“No.”
Yes! You are talking like –
“I’m fine with one woman and one man, one woman with one woman, one man with one man.”
Why not have –
“Because I’m not used to it!”
So what? If I have two women who want to marry me, or if there’s a woman who has two men who want to marry her, we should have a right, just like gays!
Congressman Pat is getting a bit lost here. But he’s a Democrat, and any statement that seems to invalidate gay rights is worse than rape. And so, he quickly changes his mind.
“Right,” he says.
Are you now pro-polygamy?
“Yeah, I can do that.”
Can I make this statement: “Congressman Pat is pro-polygamy”?
“Yes.”
Fear will take the Brave to places they never knew existed.
Professor Pat teaches “history of the national parks and wilderness” at the University of Montana. One day, I hope, I’ll do the same. I’ll be a professor of Yellowstone Park polygamy ceremonies.
Life’s good!
Tomorrow I’m leaving Montana.
I like the people of Montana. They are welcoming, friendly and they have gorgeous mountains. Surprisingly, to me, these Rocky Mountain people know about foreign affairs issues no less than New Yorkers. Their knowledge doesn’t amount to much, I admit, but New Yorkers don’t know one iota more than them.
West of Montana is Idaho, a state I’m not sure that I pronounce right.
I’ll stop there tomorrow.
Gate Eleven
A drunk mayor chases ugly girls and lives to tell the tale
I HAVE BEEN TO THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. WHERE IS IT? WALLACE, Idaho.
To be a bit more exact, it’s right at the intersection of Bank and Sixth. There it is written, right in the middle of the intersection: Center of the Universe. Who decided that this is indeed the universe’s center?
Rich, who knows everything there is to know about the area, says that six guys at a nearby bar originated the idea. Their philosophical theory went like this: “If something can’t not be proven to exist, it could just as well exist.”
After this bar decision, Rich tells me, the mayor of Wallace made a proclamation, which was approved by the city council. And now, for all legal purposes, this is the center of the universe.
By listening to the locals, I learn how to pronounce Idaho. When I pronounce it, I think it’s a funny name.
Idaho, a passing wind whispers in my ears, has many funny people.
Like Mac Pooler, the mayor of the city of Kellogg. His Honor tells me about himself: “I was born in Kellogg, where I went to school. I went two years to college, and I didn’t graduate. I excelled in beer drinking, playing football, and chasing ugly girls. When I left school, my blood alcohol was higher than my grade-point average. But I didn’t have to pay for school because I had a scholarship. So I got drafted into the army, I come out and I came back to Kellogg. I had the opportunity to be the mayor of Kellogg, the city I grew up in, where the people knew me as I grew up.”
He’s funny, I think. Let me find out what this man is made of. The big issues in America, over and over, are abortions and gay rights. Are you pro-choice or –
“I don’t take political stands. Those are mine to keep.”
Is your response part of America’s free speech, free expression, freedom and liberty?
“That’s a good question. There are two things you don’t argue in the United States, religion and politics, because you’ll either get slap
ped or shot. That’s my philosophy. I don’t want to go there. It’s my choice, as a citizen, not to argue politics.”
This funny man, like so many Americans, is driven by fear. I can’t blame him for being who he is.
We talk more, more and more, and he says to me that the USA “has gone from a moderate country to a liberal country. The liberal people are tickled to death; they are glad it went finally to the left. You have three sides in our country: the moderates, usually the Republicans, the independents, and on the left side you have the loonies, the Democrats.”
Yep, that’s life. When you’re patient and stick around with people, most often they will open up to you eventually.
Where are the young people going, right or left? I ask him. “Left.”
Why? “Because 94 percent of the professors in colleges are left; they are liberals. Over 80 percent of [public] education is taught by liberals. So they [students] get the liberal side more. TV stations, except for Fox News, are left.”
It is at this point that Mac is finally ready to share his opinions about abortions and gay rights. Abortions: “I don’t think the government should get involved in telling a woman what to do.” Gay rights: “They can do whatever the hell they want as long as they leave me alone.”
America is getting involved in many international conflicts, either by putting troops on the ground or firing missiles from the sky. Why?
“You want to know my opinion on that? We have no goddamn business being over there.”
Why is it that American governments keep doing this?
“Because we got a bunch of idiots out there. We stick our noses in places we shouldn’t be, and once we are there we don’t know how to get out.”
That said, he has one exception: Israel. He’s pro-Israel. Ella, his nine-year-old granddaughter, comes by to say hello to her grandpa.
Tell me, Ella, what’s the best thing in Idaho? I ask her.
“Freedom,” she says.
And I think: This is how an American is formed, almost from birth. Papa, Mama, Grandpa, freedom: these are the first words he or she learns.
As I am about to leave this funny, warm mayor, he tells me: “You go west to Washington, that’s where we put all our loonies.”
• • •
On the way to the “loonies” in Washington state, I am told that the Jewish Federation of Chicago has just backtracked on its former stand, and that its board came to a decision to oppose the Iran deal. What made them change their mind? Perhaps another salmon.
On the other hand, the Hollywood Reporter writes that “98 Prominent Hollywood Jews Back Iran Nuclear Deal in Open Letter.” To those who don’t understand the importance of this news item: moviemakers are the biggest mavens in nuclear physics and international law. Retired Abe Foxman must be reading this and exploding in laughter.
Iran deal or not, wildfires rage ahead of me as I drive in the direction of the “loonies.” I stop to meet Jason Kirchner of the US Forest Service in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, and he tells me that “this is the worst fire season in north Idaho since 1926, quite possibly the worst since 1910.”
Is it because of “global warming”?
“No way to say.”
Based on the weather forecast, he predicts that the wildfires will go on for a few more weeks.
Wow!
I walk back to the car, and as I keep driving I smell the fires. I turn my radio on, to whatever station it sets itself. I listen in. Today’s topic on this station: Jesus, the Rapture and the Second Coming. The State of Israel, the voice says, is a solid proof that Jesus is on his way.
This is what they say, not me; I just listen.
I enter Washington State, and the landscape is pretty boring. As I pass Ellensburg, though, the landscape gets more and more beautiful by the mile. I like it.
I turn off the radio and just drive.
I have to find out what America is made of besides Mike, Mac, Pat, Lame Deer, and the ninety-eight of Hollywood. I’m in the State of the Loonies; let’s get to know them personally!
Gate Twelve
There’s one excellent American restaurant every thousand miles
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.
I choose a downtown hotel, a Sheraton, so that I can let Malibu rest and use my feet the way they were intended. Once Malibu is taken care of, I approach the lady at the front desk and ask her the most urgent question there is: Why is this city called Seattle?
“The city is named after Chief Seattle.”
Who is he?
“An Indian.”
Ah. When was he among the living? “I don’t know.”
This American habit of naming streets and cities for the people their ancestors murdered is something I don’t really get. Imagine Germany getting into this habit. Would be fun. Berlin would be called Abraham and Hamburg would be named Sarah.
Anything to see in this city? I ask the lady.
“Go down, about fifteen minutes from here, and you’ll see food carts where young Indian men get their lunch. You have to go now, because lunchtime is almost over.”
What are they doing there?
“Seattle is the headquarters of Amazon; they own many buildings here, and they employ many Indians.”
Oh, good. She is not talking about Native Americans; she is talking about real Indians, people who have come here from India to work. I walk over to see the starving Indians.
Downtown Seattle is gorgeous. The skyscrapers are different from those in New York; here somebody considered design before going to construction.
Walking the streets of Seattle, I am reminded of Europe. There is some resemblance to Hamburg here, I think, especially the shops, the overall street architecture, and of course the waters – Elliott Bay, in this case. Even the train trundling down the tracks above my head at this moment is stylish, worlds apart from the “American” dusty steel tracks of Chicago. I also love the streetcars here; they are gorgeous.
I keep walking. As I get closer and closer to where the food trucks are supposed to be and don’t see them, I suspect that I might be late. But I keep walking anyway. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get to meet a descendant of Chief Seattle, which will be well worth my time.
Unfortunately, instead of starving Indian crowds I encounter two well-fed Americans. Is Amazon anywhere near? I ask them.
“Almost every building here is Amazon,” the lady replies.
Are you working for Amazon?
“Luckily not!”
Why luckily?
“Didn’t you read the article in the New York Times?”
A few days ago the Times ran a long article about Amazon, which I actually read. In the article the paper reported on mistreated Amazon employees bursting into tears at their desks, plus other juicy tidbits.
I bid the two Americans well and keep walking until I see an Indian guy. Where are the Indians and their food? I ask him.
I think, though I can’t promise, that this guy would have shot me if he had had a gun on him. He is very upset.
“What Indians? There are no Indians here!”
Where are you from?
“India.”
I move on.
Yes, that’s a loonie.
Three Americans, each wearing an Amazon ID, pass by. Excuse me, I ask them, could you direct me to the eating Indians? They think I’m a mental case. What eating Indians?
I have to express myself better, I see. And I do. I explain to them exactly what I’m looking for.
“Oh, they! Too late. The food trucks are gone by this time,” one of them says to me.
How many Indians work for Amazon?
They look at each other, each determining who might be willing to answer first. What are you doing, guys? I ask. Are you afraid to talk because of one stupid article?
One of them, the tallest and fattest, replies: “We are more sensitive these days, that’s true, but not because we believe that we have been exposed. Honestly, I can tell you: I’ve been working for Amazon three years now and I h
ave not seen one person crying at his desk. That article had many flaws.”
How many Indians are working for Amazon?
“I don’t know.”
Guess. Give me a wild guess.
He wouldn’t. And neither of the other two would. They are the average Americans, and they have fears. Is this the Land of the Fearful?
Twenty feet down the road I meet an Indian couple, both working for Amazon. How many Indians are working for Amazon? I ask them.
“Four percent,” the lady says.
I heard that at least 40 percent of Amazon’s employees are Indian! I say to them. I didn’t really hear this, but I just try a number.
“Surely not. Maybe 20 percent,” says the man.
How about 30?
“Twenty to 25,” the lady now says.
She is a classic loonie, no doubt.
In general, if you give people enough time to talk, I have noticed, they will contradict themselves. Is there much value to public opinion surveys? I guess it depends on the issue.
Bottom line: the number of Indians working for Amazon is a top military secret.
• • •
I keep on walking. It’s good to walk.
Downtown Seattle showcases a more diverse crowd than I’ve managed to see in the past few weeks. For example, blacks. Not many blacks, at least not today, and those I do see are mostly homeless, drugged or both.
And then I get to meet Greg, a nice-looking gay guy who is in love with a lawyer. Are you married? I ask him, as gay marriage is winning more and more American hearts.
“No, my partner is not ready.”
His partner, the lawyer, has an aversion to legal documents and obligations. Let the straights do that.
Greg tells me that Seattle residents spend their lives pretending that they are happy and relaxed, but that underneath this façade they are extremely tense people. Living in Seattle, he says to me, is very expensive, and people work very hard just to survive.
• • •
The next day, as I comb the metropolis here in a state that has made “recreational” marijuana consumption legal, I see many homeless people, more than I have seen since leaving New York. Some of the homeless seem drugged. They must have alcohol and weed, LSD and heroin, and whatever else, all mixed up in their bodies. Most are white.
The Lies They Tell Page 17