The Thumper Amendment

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  As I reached for Peter’s glass, our fingers touched. A warm sensation crawled over my skin like velvet fingertips. I looked into his eyes, and sensed a profound loneliness, that he would never be free from without my forgiveness. I wanted to caress his face.

  Why was I so strongly drawn to him? I was confused. Making friends with my arch enemy was a bad idea. I knew that, but it was too late. In that fleeting moment, we had shared an emotional connection that was tender and warm.

  What was I getting myself into?

  Chapter 7

  Greed Gulch

  The highway was as straight as a lightning rod, and stretched all the way to the wispy clouds that hugged the horizon. For the last two-hundred miles, Alan and I saw nothing but sagebrush and prairie dog towns. These flatlands were certainly living up to their name, without so much as a speed bump or a rock pile. The ground sank here and there to form ditches and ravines, but no part of the land rose upward, in the slightest. The only thing I saw above ground were some scattered hay mounds and an occasional grazing Bison.

  That was why I was so excited to see a hill lying straight in our path; a little round-top knoll, barely taller than a hay stack, with a tunnel down the middle. I never imagined that I could get so thrilled over a little chunk of earth. Weird, though. It would have been so much easier to build the highway around the hill instead of through it.

  Turn on headlights read the sign, as we closed in on the dark entrance.

  “Hold your breath till we come out the other side,” I said.

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” said Alan. “No cheating, now.”

  We each took a deep breath.

  Florescent lights lit up the inside of the tunnel, illuminating the ceramic tile ceiling that arched over the road.

  After a minute or so, with cheeks bulging, we both exhaled. The little hill must have been bigger than I thought.

  “Honk your horn,” I said. “I don’t think anyone will mind.” As had been prearranged, we were the only vehicle on the road.

  The blast of the horn echoed through the cavernous space, which I was sure that we would exit at any moment.

  Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered out. At the same instant, our dim headlights revealed that the tile ceiling was now exposed rock, and the highway asphalt had turned to mud. “It must be under construction, or something,” I said.

  Alan slowed down.

  A good ten minutes had passed since we entered the mysterious tunnel, and still no sign of a way out.

  “Hey, Marge!” said Alan, awakening our digital tour guide. “What’s the idea of sending us through this rabbit hole?”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” replied Marge.

  Finally, a dot of light appeared in the distance, that grew larger the closer we got to it. The end of the tunnel was in sight! I figured that we’d be back in the sunlight in no time at all, until I noticed that something was blocking our exit. Another vehicle was in front of us, traveling in our direction. The tracks it left behind in the mud were the unmistakable imprints made by wagon wheels.

  As we came out of the tunnel, we overtook the object, and were surprised to see that it was a stagecoach, being pulled by six horses. Two rugged-looking men in cowboy attire drove the Wild West wagon; one holding the reins, the other with a rifle in his lap.

  “I thought everyone else was supposed to be off the road,” said Alan.

  “There must be a county fair or a rodeo nearby,” I said, “that never got the memo.”

  “You could be right,” said Alan. “Silly me. I thought for a moment that we had gone back in time.”

  I waved to the men as we passed, but curiously, they didn’t once look over at the bus.

  Alan’s time-travel theory was pretty far fetched, or so I thought, until the muddy road led us right into an old, Western town!

  Alan slowed the bus to a crawl.

  It was like we had driven onto the set of the Gunsmoke TV series, but without the studio lights or TV cameras.

  We pulled over to the side of the road, behind a buckboard wagon, to get a better look at our surroundings, and try to figure out what was going on.

  The townsfolk were all dressed in traditional, Western garb. Timid schoolmarms in bonnets, walked on wood-plank sidewalks, while muddied cattlemen galloped along on horseback through the streets.

  Clang!

  The sound of a blacksmith, hammering horseshoes at the livery stable gave the place an air of authenticity. Of course, the image wouldn’t be complete without a group of inebriated roughnecks, staggering out of a saloon, while an out-of-tune piano played “Buffalo Gals.”

  “That must have been a time tunnel we passed through,” I said.

  “There’s no such thing,” said Alan, “but if we were really back in the days of the Old West, everyone would be gawking at the bus, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Maybe they can’t see us,” I said, “like we’re ghosts or something.”

  “Well, that guy can see us pretty well.” In the middle of the muddy road stood a tough-looking cowboy, with a gun belt hugging his hips, and a star-shaped badge on his vest.

  We stepped off the bus, and unfortunately, into the mud. The sunny sky I was hoping to find outside the tunnel was as gray as an ol’ mare’s tail.

  “Howdy!” I called out to the cowboy. (It seemed like the appropriate greeting.)

  The cowboy said nothing, just crossed his arms and stared at us menacingly. People on the sidewalk stopped to watch.

  “Can you tell us where we are?” asked Alan.

  The man tugged at the brim of his cowboy hat and said, in a low, threatening voice, “You’re where you shouldn’t oughta be.”

  The townsfolk then ran for cover; ducking into stores, hiding behind barrels, leaping over fences.

  Alan leaned down to me, “I get it, now,” he said. “We’re in a Wild West theme park. This is one of those spontaneous street shows. Just watch. A lone gunman will run out at the last minute and save us.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “I say we get back on the bus in case he doesn’t show.”

  The creepy cowboy spit on the ground. “I’m a-givin’ you jus’ one minute to move.”

  I tugged on Alan’s sleeve. “Maybe we should go.”

  “No-no!” said Alan, excitedly. “This is great!”

  The cowboy wiped his black mustache with his arm, then lowered his gloved hands to the sides of his gun holsters. “Time’s up!” he said.

  Suddenly, a phone rang. The cowboy’s shoulders relaxed. He reached down into his gun holster and pulled out a cell phone!

  “What’s that?” he said into the mobile device. “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Then he spun the phone around his finger, like an old-time gunslinger, and returned it to his holster.

  A grin slowly crept over the cowboy’s face, as he opened his arms to us. “Sorry, folks,” he said. Then he walked up to Alan and slapped him on the shoulder. “Y’all are parked in a no-parkin’ zone, but the new sheriff likes to give first-offenders a break.”

  “I thought you were the sheriff,” said Alan.

  “Deputy Dan’s the name,” said the now friendly cowboy. “Welcome to Greed Gulch.

  “You guys have done an amazing job with this theme park.

  “Theme park?” said the deputy, puzzled.

  “It’s the best re-creation of the 1850s I’ve ever seen.”

  “1850s?”

  “It really feels like we’re in the past.”

  The deputy casually pulled a tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket, and started to roll himself a cigarette. “First of all,” he said, “this ain’t no theme park. Second of all, we ain’t re-creatin’ nothin’.” Then he sauntered over to look at our bus’s license plate. “And third, you’re the ones from the past.”

  “What do you mean?” said Alan.

  “How old is that license plate?”

  “I just renewed the registration last month.”

  Deputy Dan laughed. “That plate’s a hundred years ol
d. Pardoner, welcome to the future!”

  At least that explained the cell phone in the deputy’s gun holster, but didn’t begin to address the bigger question: What had happened to Progress? Apparently, the advances civilized man had made over the centuries had all been erased, and he had regressed back into the world of Jessie James and Wyatt Earp!

  Deputy Dan examined our bus more closely. “That’s a real old-timer,” he said.

  “It was an old-timer back in our time, too,” I said. “How come I don’t see any motorized vehicles around here? Aren’t there cars in the future?”

  “Sure, we got ‘em. It’s jus’ that at $75 for a gallon of gas, ain’t no one in town can afford to drive ‘em.” He pointed to a graffiti-covered gas station with a closed sign in the window. “Nowadays, folks can only afford the one-horsepower kind, the ones that run on hay.”

  My stomach growled. It had been a while since we resupplied the kitchen cupboards in Alan’s bus, and I was getting hungry. “How are the eats in the future?” I asked Dan.

  “I know the best place in town for chowin’ down,” he replied. “I’ll walk you over to it. Let me jus’ feed the meter first.”

  Dan’s horse was drinking from a water trough by the curb, but instead of being tied to a wooden rail, the horse was leashed to a parking meter! In fact, meters ran the whole length of the street.

  “Even deputies ain’t exempt from gettin’ parking tickets,” said Dan.

  “What’s it cost you?” I asked.

  “Was a dollar for a quarter-hour, ‘til the new sheriff raised it to five.”

  The future was full of these kinds of contradictions—a mix of frontier ruggedness and leftovers from an age of prosperity. SUVs were pulled by horses. Refrigerators were forged by the local blacksmith. 7-11 stores sold Colt 45 revolvers.

  “This way, folks,” said Dan.

  We headed down the town’s main drag, then rounded the corner to a street named Bountiful Blvd. Off to our left was a huge, abandoned factory, with most of its windows shattered. Above a padlocked gate was what remained of a proud emblem of an automobile manufacturing company.

  “Is that where your cars come from?” I asked Dan.

  “Used to make ‘em here,” he said, “but not no more. Not since they moved all the jobs to Dodge City.”

  “In Kansas?”

  “Dodge City, China.”

  A crusty, old man stood in front of the once thriving assembly plant, holding a sign that read Will work for grub!

  Dan whispered to us, “That guy used to run this place. Now, look at him. Homeless.”

  “Doesn’t the country offer public assistance for people like him?” asked Alan.

  “Not since Congress cut the funding,” said Dan. “That money now goes to subsidize the banks.” We turned down Luxury Lane. “And here’s what the banks done for us.”

  Dozens of lovely, single-family homes sat empty. Tall weeds obscured the foreclosed signs on the front lawns.

  Suddenly, gunshots rang out.

  “It’s the Hole-in-the-Head gang!” yelled Dan. “Get down!”

  We jumped behind a post office mailbox, as a gang of young men on horses fired into one of the homes, then rode out of sight. It was like watching a band of outlaws sticking up a bank, except that these bandits had assault rifles.

  “Dagnabbit!” yelled Dan. “Another ride-by shooting!”

  “Not exactly your Butch Cassidy-type gang, are they?”

  “It’s the kids,” said Dan. “No one can afford ‘em an education, so they don’t learn, and can’t get work. And the new sheriff just double college tuitions.”

  “This is terrible,” I said. “It’s like we’re in some old cowboy movie. Next thing you know we’ll be attacked by Indians.”

  We turned down Winners Way.

  “Not unless you cheat at Blackjack,” said Dan, “like that guy.” Under the glittering sign of an Indian casino, a man was being bounced out the front entrance, into the gutter. “Folks spend a lot more time in there these days, hoping to double-up on what little they have.”

  “Okay,” said Alan. “You’ve got high unemployment, homelessness, and your economy sucks, but not everybody can be poor.”

  “Everyone on this side of that line is.” At the end of Plentiful Place, where the ramshackle homes and empty storefronts ended, a painted barrier formed a red line in the street. “That’s the poverty line.”

  Beyond the line was a modern cityscape, just like you’d imagine the real future would look like. Palm trees lined the wide streets. Lavish office buildings soared skyward. Green hillsides were covered with luxury homes. It was a land of wealth and leisure. But the weirdest part was that while we stood under gloomy, gray skies, the sun shined brightly on the other side of the line!

  “The rich gets richer,” said Dan.

  We finally reached the deputy’s favorite eatery. It had been designed to look like a red barn, with ample parking for horses and mules. Arrows pointed the way for covered wagon parking in the rear. A rooftop sign was made from two enormous, yellow horseshoes, that formed a giant letter-M. Yes, it was that world-famous, fast-food restaurant, now serving people in the trillions!

  Hungry customers on horseback ordered from a “ride-through” window. A distorted voice crackled over a speaker below the menu. It was so garbled you could barely understand what was being said. (I guess some things never change.)

  “I know a little something about nutrition,” said Alan, “and if this is the best food in town, you’ve got a big problem.”

  “It’s all we got,” said Dan.

  “I don’t get this,” said Alan. “Man’s evolution has always been about improving his station in life. How did this happen?”

  Deputy Dan drew a long breath. “Well, in a nutshell:

  “Wages go down, taxes go up,

  Take-home pay, ain’t nearly enough.

  “We’re left with a pretty thin paycheck, once the taxman gets his cut.

  “With me so far?”

  We nodded.

  “Crude oil low, prices soar,

  Crops don’t grow, food costs more.

  “Our cost-of-livin’ is out of control, seein’ as there ain’t no more government regulation.

  “Get the picture?”

  We nodded.

  “Fat cats give, D.C. takes,

  Congress fights, system breaks.

  “Common folk like us got no representation in Washington, anymore.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Alan thought for a moment. “You still have free elections, don’t you?” he said.

  “I should say we do!” said Dan, indignantly. “Wouldn’t be a democracy otherwise.”

  “Then why don’t you vote those jerks out of office?”

  “Voter turnout last election was 3%.”

  Future America had gone soft; no protests, no pushback of any kind.

  “Have you tried civil disobedience?” I asked Dan.

  “What’s that?”

  “Follow me!”

  I opened the door to the restaurant, proudly holding it for the two men to enter, and strolled up to the counter.

  A young girl stood behind a cash register. “May I take your order?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A fish sandwich, fries, and a slushy cola.”

  Thanks to improved, food preparation robotics, my order arrived in seconds.

  “That’ll be $17.50,” said the girl.

  The sales tax rate was an unbelievable 50%! Minus the tax, the cost of my meal came to $8.75. I plunked a ten-dollar bill down onto the counter, then said, in a voice that filled the room: “This should cover the cost of my meal, plus a small tip for you, which I feel you deserve. But I refuse to pay this outrageous sales tax!”

  The restaurant went dead silent. Its patrons looked up from their meals, some of them with burgers perched on their lips.

  “Uh, oh!” said the deputy. “I forgot to tell ya: The First Amendment of the Constitution was rep
ealed.”

  My face turned white as a bleached, paper napkin. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “No Free Speech!”

  “Afraid I’m gonna have to arrest ya,” said Dan.

  Alan stepped forward. “Then you’ll have to arrest me, too,” he demanded.

  Deputy Dan handcuffed the two of us. “Well, as the jingle says, ‘Have it your way.’”

  I gazed out of our jail cell window. Outside, the hammering continued on the gallows being constructed in the town square.

  “They’re not really going to lynch us for a free-speech violation, are they?” I asked Alan, who was relaxing on a cot.

  “Of course they aren’t,” he said confidently. “Breadcrust is just doing it for dramatic effect.”

  The carpenters outside tested the strength of the rope by tying it around a sand bag, then dropping it through the gallows trap door.

  Clunk!

  I gulped. “I don’t know,” I said. “This seems awfully clichéd for a hip TV audience.”

  Alan had earlier inquired about our legal rights, but courtroom trials were now a thing of the past. All decisions regarding crime and punishment were left up to the local sheriffs. Our only recourse was to ask for a pardon.

  The jailhouse door flew open, as Deputy Dan bounded inside. “Good news, folks!” he said. “Price of milk just went down to $28-a-gallon!“

  “What about us,” I said. “Did you talk to the sheriff?”

  “Bad news. He won’t consider any pardons ‘til after he gets back from some convention.” The sound of a diesel engine roared passed our window. “There he goes, now!”

  I looked out into the street, just in time to see Chester’s campaign bus turn a corner and drive out of town!

  I sat down quietly on the squeaky cot, “We are so screwed,” I said, holding my neck where the rope would soon be cinched.

  Just then, the ground began to tremble; a small tremor at first, then it got stronger. Hanging kerosene lanterns swayed.

  “Earthquake!” screamed the deputy, running out of the building. People in the street scrambled for cover. Horses whinnied and reared up on their hind legs.