I almost fell out of my chair. “Isn’t that a tad bit drastic?”
I could not believe Big Al was actually suggesting a prison sentence for driving somewhere without prior approval. Big Al was definitely off his meds.
“Why,” Big Al said with a serious face, “state law already forces our citizens to buckle their seat belts and to wear motorcycle helmets. It is mandatory to have auto insurance, although I understand more people today are uninsured. Still stiffer laws will solve that problem. You see, the law is there to facilitate better humans.”
My eyes shifted away from Big Al’s power-hungry gaze. Why listen to a buffoon who could talk for hours about useless stuff? I knew he could never get his new pet project off the ground. Nobody would listen to him, at least nobody who was sane. In fact, it was my unofficial job to diffuse his crazy ideas by distracting him. Anything would do it. Last week a copy of an old Playboy magazine kept him occupied for days. Of course, he said he only read the articles. On other occasions, the whole office chipped in money to buy him boxes of creamy donuts. That could keep him locked up in his office for hours, zoned out in a sugar trance.
“You know,” I said calmly. “The council will probably give us a bigger staff to increase our numbers. But not for policing power to enforce our rules.”
“Oh, I can get that done. I’m the king of political potentiality,” Big Al boasted. “I heard someone whisper that message to one of the councilmembers the other day.”
“But why?” I asked.
Big Al stretched out his fat sagging arms and almost sang an operatic aria in a dozen verses. “You see, Spencer, human beings are totally flawed. They act like the bumbling albatross in the South Pacific. We have a duty to fix that problem. We have to revise our ordinances to re-shape and reform human behavior to our way of thinking. That’s because we know best. Otherwise, we would live in sheer chaos.”
Just when it seemed that Big Al would never stop, Lenny walked by and joined the conversation.
“We need more than little itchy-bitchy control,” Lenny interjected. “Very bourgeois. We must strive for greater perfection. Make people less selfish. You know, make ‘em share everything. Give much to others. Real purpose of ruling plebs.”
“Well,” Big Al took his time to think. “We’re not trying to achieve perfection, just efficiency.”
“We could do both. Don’t you see?” Lenny insisted as he pulled out a candy bar and gulped up half of it in one bite.
“Nobody’s perfect and that will never change.” Big Al gnawed on his sagging cigar. “At least not yet.”
“We must try plenty,” Lenny pitched his voice higher and pointed his candy bar at Big Al’s face. “If we don’t do anything, we get nothing nowhere.”
“So,” I sliced in between the two before the debate could prolong my boredom. “What do you want me to do?”
Big Al turned to me. “Take a poll of the citizenry and see if they will support a mandatory program. You know, make it sound good. Say it’s for the children or something like that. People eat those things up.”
“For the children? I don’t think they can drive yet.” I pointed this fact out as gently as possible.
“Talk to some of our advertising consultants. They will find a way. They always do.”
“What if most drivers polled are opposed to it?” I persisted. “They can be very stubborn.”
“Then we must be asking the wrong questions.” Big Al frowned at the thought that his precious program might be unpopular with the public. “Just tweak the survey. Do a push poll. You know, slant the questions so that any answer appears supportive. We cannot allow our project to be torpedoed by a bunch of losers.”
“Good policy,” Lenny said. “Did that in Soviet Russia much times.”
“Have it completed in a few days.” Big Al turned, opened the door, and almost pushed me out of my own office. Lenny followed while trying to continue his silly conversation.
I always thought it was bad karma to deceive the public. Sooner or later, the truth would be discovered and an enraged public would demand our heads on a platter. They would chase us down like dirty dogs, wielding pitchforks and flaming torches. We would be exposed and brought to justice or the guillotine. I started to rub my neck.
I had no desire to rely on the tools of deception to alter public opinion. It was so wrong, but it seemed that public officials and pollsters were willing to keep doing it. They thought they could fix everything with cooked polls. It reminded me of an old saying that my mother loved to tell: “If you are a hammer, everything begins to look like a nail.” I never really understood that aphorism until I started to work for the city. I soon found such mindsets flawed beyond measure. All I could do was hope that nobody would mistake me for a nail.
Chapter 7
I arrived home later than usual. I walked into the house and found Sarah reigning supreme in the kitchen, without the customary crowd of relatives and weirdoes. It was eerie, just the two of us staring at each other. I wanted to say something about what we did a week ago to assure that we had indeed performed some form of contact sport resembling body-grinding acrobatics. Of course, bringing up the topic would have embarrassed her to no end. I decided to take another step towards extending a peace offering and suggested another fun event. “How about a movie tonight?”
“A movie? Is that all you are interested in doing?”
“No, but it takes less energy than what we did last week.”
“It’s more expensive.”
“I know, but it’s worth it if you want to do it.”
“Any suggestions? You know I don’t like violent films.”
“There must be something out there. How about the one where an operatic diva kills a time-traveling vampire with kryptonite?”
“You’re making that up.”
I was, but after looking at the entertainment section in the newspaper, I found something remarkably similar. I have discovered that Hollywood movies can be broken into two distinct classifications—somewhat plagiarized movies and completely plagiarized movies.
“How about a romantic one?”
She smiled with a seductive grin. “Only if it’s X-rated.”
I felt a jolt. Was my soon-to-be-former wife turning into a genuine sexpot? I searched through the movie pages with a greater sense of urgency. “Well, if we cannot find one with enough fleshy moments, I suppose we can make up the difference.”
Sarah grinned. “If you bring the Crisco.”
“Sure!” I immediately agreed. Of course, I was not quite sure if she was joking or not. I was only half-serious, but her sudden attitude shift regarding erotic feelings was mind-boggling puzzle. She had always been prudish, finding nudity offensive, even behind locked doors on a moonless night. Now she had transformed into a Lady Godiva, appearing eager to ride through town wearing just a smile.
As we drove to the theater, it struck me that I had not called DED in advance for directions. And who would? The whole idea was batty. If the project was somehow approved, the rules would add another chore to my already overburdened schedule. If it became too odious to go anywhere, people would simply stay home and sulk. The local economy would take a dive. That would ding the business community in the pocketbook, and lower tax revenues in general. Surely, most people would raise a ruckus and put a quick end to the madness. At that point, City Hall officials would be put under great press to slash expenses. That grisly scenario might drive a silver stake through the heart of DED. That meant that my possibility to negotiate a higher salary would likely die with DED. I hated worrying. Pessimism was not for the fainthearted.
“How have things been going lately?” Sarah asked as we neared the theater.
I stared at her with a dumbfounded glare, almost causing me to swerve into a telephone pole. She never asked me about my life, and I never asked about hers. In fact, I was not sure where she worked. Maybe she was still employed at Target or Marshalls’ as a store clerk. Then again, she might have gone back
to styling hair at a salon. Just not sure. We rarely discussed what we did at work in any substantial way.
“Same old stupid stuff. Nothing too exciting.” That was not true. Sarah deserved more than empty words. “Actually, it is starting to get a bit strange working for City Hall.”
“Oh, you still work there?”
It was a dry joke. Sarah knew that I had always worked for the city in some capacity. However, it was a noteworthy stab at humor.
“Are you having problems with your boss?” Sarah asked.
I nodded. “You could say that.”
“My boss is a big bully,” Sarah confessed. “She refuses to listen to most of my suggestions to improve customer service. I just wish she would shrivel up and blow away.”
“If that happened to my boss, well, it would cause a dust storm large enough to blot out the sun for weeks.”
Then something happened that I could not remember ever witnessing. She giggled. It was a short, sweet hiccup of a laugh that she quickly suppressed. Life was getting wild. Then the laughter grew more pronounced. She exploded into a belly laugh that any stand-up comedian would have surrendered his best rubber chicken to experience. I was gratified to hear her enjoy herself so entirely, even for a split moment.
“You should have your own comedy show!” Sarah said.
“I would hate to put Jay Leno out of a job.”
Sarah nodded. “I see we do have something in common: a bloated, egotistical boss.”
She was very observant about the miracle of mutual hate; it brings people together in so many ways.
“My boss is toying with the idea of forcing all drivers to check with City Hall before they can go anywhere.”
“You’re joking.” Sarah’s face resumed its usual gravity-drooping frown.
“Unfortunately, not.”
“You mean I’ll have to call the city in order to drive somewhere? If they think that, they must be smoking something awful strong at City Hall.”
“Well, to be honest, my boss has a point. Most drivers are failing to call us to get instructions. And if they do, they seem to be ignoring our advice. We are just trying to help.”
Sarah’s voice stiffened. “I won’t call. I have better things to do. People have a right to go where they want.”
“I know, but I am second in command. It’s my duty to obey my superiors. Right?”
She thought about this for a while before answering, and slipped into a deep state of concentration and focused attention. “Fine,” she finally spoke up, “but what if your superiors are wrong?”
“Wrong?” I almost doubled up with laughter. “My boss is usually wrong about everything.”
“That’s my point. You’re the one who explained to me the significance of the Nuremberg trails. The Nazis kept blaming their actions on orders that came from their superiors.”
“Right. They pleaded that they were just following orders.”
“Well, it appears that you’re trapped in the same quagmire. You know you’re under no obligation to follow an unlawful command. You can question or disobey any order you consider unethical or criminal.”
My head was spinning. I vaguely remembered discussing the Nuremberg Trails with her after watching the old black-and-white Judgment at Nuremberg movie. Still, I was shocked that such a complex issue was flowing from Sarah’s own vibrant lips. I began to wonder if she had turned into a woman of letters. Rather impressive.
* * * * *
As we entered the parking lot, I realized that Sarah had taken a political stance. She never found politics worthy of discussion and hardly ever gave an opinion. It was taboo, something not nice to discuss in public or private. Once Tommy had confronted Sarah over her lack of interest in politics. He explained to her that just because she had no interest in politics did not mean that politics had no interest in her. Apparently, politics had finally invaded her private sphere of life.
In pleading my case, I felt I had to defend the indefensible. “Fine, but the City just wants rogue drivers to learn a better way to get from point A to point B.”
“But why force us?” Sarah turned and stared at me. “We’re not vegetables.”
I had to laugh. Sarah often compared people to inanimate objects, rocks, animals, and food. She must have gotten that trait from her hayseed parents.
“It’s just a little phone call.”
“But what’s next?”
She was right. I often worried about things going too far, the so-called “slippery slope” argument. Yet, in my humble opinion, Big Al’s project had gone as far as it could ever go. What else was left to recommend? Was Big Al going to urge an invasion of nearby cities because they were not following our example? Of course not. However, on second thought, knowing Big Al’s appetite for public assistance, I might be proven wrong.
Our conversation stopped as we drove into the 12-plex theater parking lot. The place was brightly lit, huge, and brand new. I had forgotten all about this controversial development. Nevertheless, it was still a sore spot with my co-workers and me. Initially, the Planning Department had denied a remodeling permit, arguing that it had a 25-space parking lot shortfall. In my mind, the project had been declared dead, never to be resurrected. There was no extra space for parking or funds to build a public parking structure. Our updated General Plan was quite specific about too few parking spaces, increased traffic, and bright lights. Of course, that never stopped a Big Project with Deep Pocketbooks. The City Council simply ignored the General Plan, the Planning Department, and common sense. They voted unanimously for the development anyway. It made me wonder why we had spent so much money and time developing a General Plan if nobody was going to follow it. Go figure.
As we got out of our car seats and walked to the theater, we were not surprised to find a few friends loitering in front of the ticket booth. Some of them were completely out of place. I saw Tommy and Rant in close proximity. Amazingly, they were almost touching each other.
Still, I was somewhat wary of hobnobbing with people who had bolts in their noses and silver marbles stuck to their tongues. I eased into the young crowd and waved to Tommy. At least he was not into self-mutilation. He moved closer to me.
“Which flick?” Tommy asked.
“Oh, the one where a reporter writes about a woman who always breaks off her engagements right at the altar. Another Julia Roberts and Richard Gere love film.”
“Dude, I saw that one! It rocks!”
Next to Tommy stood one of his close friends, Rudy Dillon, a young half-black Jamaican who lived out of his van. Rudy’s good sense contrasted with Tommy’s imaginary world, except for his curious interest in psychic readings, astrology, and channeling. Nobody is perfect. Still, Rudy’s affability was infectious. He was bright, and I particularly enjoyed listening to someone endowed with a slight British accent. He was studying to become an electrical engineer, with some Java programming flung in just in case. I would see him out in the van reading technology books half the night and practicing New Age spiritualism during the day. He was going places that I could not imagine.
To show my support for his scholastic aspirations, I let him keep his van on my driveway overnight and showered him with food, an electrical cord, cold beer, and an open invitation to the bathroom.
Rudy loved to sweet talk and crack jokes, always asking me how I was doing. His jokes were silly, but innocent. Every time I asked him how he was doing in his circuit board designing class, he would exuberantly roar “Electrifying!” That was his trademark line.
This chance meeting was different. After Rudy extended his hand and gripped mine with the strength of a professional wrestler, he stepped aside to show off his cute, brunette companion, Candy Clarke. His girlfriend, also Jamaican, was energetic, barely able to hold her unbound energy in check. Her ink-blue eyes glistened across her tan skin as she rearranged her rainbow Reggae cap. She too desired to work in the computer industry.
After a few more moments of chitchatting, Sarah and I meandered ove
r to the ticket booth. It was a particularly lovely night, with a warm breeze that wafted the sweet smell of night-blooming jasmine in our direction. The teenagers took advantage of the warm weather, vying to show how little clothes they could wear without fearing jail time for exhibitionism. Tommy was no exception. He wore a sleeveless mesh top, tight pants, and not much else. He did not bring his knapsack that usually held more tools and electrical equipment than the average garage. Of course, he was banned from bringing it into the theater; just too many hiding places for a refrigerator and a pantry.
The girls were just as immodest, prancing around in see-through blouses that displayed their belly buttons. At that moment, I discovered Tommy holding an unopened can of cherry Coke.
“You’re not taking that inside?” I said incredulously.
“Duh!” Tommy exhibited his usual child-like response.
“But how are you going to hide it?” This was a challenge that all young moviegoers faced. In my opinion, it was impossible for men to conceal a can of cold soda on a warm summer night. The girls at least had purses to evade the snack police.
“Hey, I just put it down the front of my pants.”
“What will you say if they see it?” Sarah asked.
Tommy’s tremendous grin said it all. “I’ll just say I’m hung like a horse.”
That was Tommy. Original to the last drop of flavored soda, at least until I heard the same joke from an old movie or a Saturday Night Live rerun.
“That’s not right,” Sarah was first to protest.
“She’s correct!” Rant stood nearby and began to criticize Tommy’s behavior, arguing that he should obey the rules. She had an entire ethical system worked out concerning self-responsibility and insisted people ought to pay attention to other people’s rights. Although she could be abrasive at times, she did practice what she preached. I tried to give her some pirated software once and she refused, saying it was intellectual property theft. Rant acted pretentious and dogmatic, but she had well-defined boundaries for conduct. And that was always comforting.
We Are Them Page 7