by Art Buchwald
The next morning, Saturday, I decided I had no choice but to join the Marine Corps. The recruiting office was in the post office and it closed at noon. When I walked in, the sergeant looked at me and asked, “How old are you?”
I said, “Seventeen.”
He said, “You have to have your parents’ consent.”
“No problem. My dad is in town now buying feed.”
He said, “And the permission papers have to be notarized.”
“I gotcha.”
I left the post office, which was next to skid row. While I was trying to figure things out, a grizzled old man came up to me and said, “Mister, can I have a dime for a drink?”
I said, “I will give you a half pint of Southern Comfort if you do something for me.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I want you to be my father for an hour so I can enlist in the Marine Corps.”
The old man said, “Why, that’s patriotic.”
We found a notary and I told him I was trying to get into the Marines but my father had been drunk for a month and couldn’t sign the papers. I asked him if I could hold “Dad’s” hand while he signed.
The notary said, “I’ll do anything to help our boys join the service.”
Once the form was signed, I gave the Southern Comfort to my “father.” Then I rushed back to the post office and the sergeant swore me in. He gave me meal tickets and a bus ticket to Yamasee, South Carolina, the departure point for Parris Island. I called Flossie and said, “Flossie, I am now a Marine.”
She snarled, “You behaved beastly last night and I never want to see you again.”
“But Flossie, I will be going overseas and I might never come back.”
Flossie didn’t come down to the bus station at the last moment to see me off as I dreamed she would.
There is one more blow I still carry from that time. On the bus from Greensboro to Parris Island, I was sitting in the front seat. Just after we left Raleigh, an elderly black lady (in those days we didn’t use the words African American) got on the bus. I stood up to give her my seat. The driver stopped the bus and looked at me and asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving the lady my seat.”
The driver just stared at me. The lady moved to the back of the bus. The passengers glared at me as if I had done something terribly wrong.
The reason I remember that bus ride so well is that it was my first experience with overt racial hate. And I have truly hated that bus driver all of my life.
In boot camp, whenever I thrust my bayonet into a target I pretended it was the driver. You can hate someone forever, even if you don’t know his name.
Over the years, the hurt for Flossie mixed with fantasy. I dreamed I would come back in my dress Marine uniform (which I won in a crap game) and Flossie would come down the stairs and say, “Arthur, you are back and you are alive!” We would embrace while a string orchestra played “I’ll Be Seeing You.”
The truth of the matter is I never heard from her until forty years later when I was signing my memoir Leaving Home in Greensboro. There she was, just like it said in “I’ll Be Seeing You.” She was pleased I had written about her, and said, “Would you like to go to Florida with me?” I asked her, “Where were you when I needed you?”
I was home from the war to celebrate VJ Day and I went down to Broadway. Times Square was filled with thousands of people. Anyone in uniform was hugged and kissed. I didn’t know how to deal with all the attention. Then I saw a liquor store and bought a pint of bad whiskey called “America the Brave.” I drank it not slowly, but all at once. Then I sat down on the curb and got sick.
I don’t remember anything after that until the next morning when I woke up on a couch in a Spanish lady’s apartment.
As she made coffee, she explained that she had felt sorry for me, so she had taken me home to her apartment.
At that moment I became very mad at myself. I knew I would never see another VJ night, and I had wasted it in a drunken stupor.
17
In the News
You might be wondering how I get my news in the hospice. Just like everybody else. Some days are good days, and some are bad. There was one week full of good news.
Tom DeLay announced he wasn’t going to run for Congress. In one story he said he was doing God’s will. Another said he could be in trouble for raising money by doing favors.
I was not joyful when I heard the news. DeLay is one of the few targets in Congress who is known by everyone. When I mention his name I don’t even have to say “The Hammer.” I don’t know whether people enjoy reading about him because he was once an exterminator, or because as the leader of the House he took favors from Jack Abramoff.
What will the media do without Tom DeLay? They will find somebody almost as good, although they’ll have to wait for the next election.
The next story that the country enjoyed had to do with the president telling Dick Cheney a secret, which he passed on to I. Lewis Libby. The attorney general said the president had a right to leak secret stuff to the public if it’s in our interest. I agreed because Bush is my president and I trust someone who is not afraid to leak classified information.
The fall guy is Libby, the vice president’s aide, who passed on the information to newspaper people that former ambassador Joe Wilson’s wife worked for the CIA. No one knows how the president broke the story to Cheney. I think he said, “Dick, I’m going to tell you a CIA secret. Don’t tell anybody except Bob Novak, Judy Miller, or anybody else who likes to print CIA secrets.”
Since Libby has not yet been tried, the story has legs and will be around for a while.
The third good story of the week came from, of all places, the New York Post. The newspaper has a Page Six feature that prints all the gossip that’s fit and not fit to print. One of the Page Six reporters was caught trying to extort money from a billionaire. In exchange for “managing” the coverage on him, he promised not to write anything bad about the victim, Ron Burkle, for a fee of $100,000 plus $10,000 a month. Burkle, an investor in supermarkets and all sorts of businesses, blew the whistle on the gossip columnist to the FBI. They conducted a sting operation, which produced photographs, tapes, and other evidence against the reporter.
What made it such a good story is that The New York Times and the Daily News both printed it on their front pages. This was payback against Rupert Murdoch, who owns the New York Post, and people say Page Six is his favorite feature. What makes it an even stranger story is that the New York Post didn’t print anything about the sting at all.
In any case, I liked the story because it had nothing to do with leaks from the White House.
My favorite story, though, was about the discovery of an ancient scroll, the Gospel of Judas. In the ancient text it turns out that Judas was a good guy and when he blew the whistle on Jesus, it was Jesus’ idea.
The discovery changed a lot of people’s thinking about Judas’s role at the Last Supper. It now also affects people’s Passover plans.
Global Warming
Tom Brokaw asked me what I’m going to miss the most when I’m gone. I told him global warming.
That got me thinking about a good way for George Bush to defend his environmental policies.
Bush’s handlers point out to the president that he has not said enough about global warming lately and it is becoming a sore point with the public.
One adviser says, “Let’s set up a news conference and advertise the fact that the president will talk about global warming.”
The president agrees it is a good idea and asks, “Where should we hold the conference?”
Another adviser answers, “What do you think about holding a fundraiser on the Arctic Ocean?”
Someone else says, “What about on the Titanic?”
“And we’ll have a big banner saying MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.”
The president says, “I like it. But what do I say exactly about my stand on global warming?”
“You can say that the press only writes about bad things, like the earth getting warmer and polar ice caps melting. And then you will announce that your environmental adviser, who formerly worked for the Petroleum Institute, says that scientists don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Bush says, “I have never trusted scientists. They just stick with the numbers, and all they want to do is hurt us politically.”
“Then, Mr. President, you will assure the country that the Titanic will never hit an iceberg as long as you’re president. And even if we do, you will stay the course.”
The president nods his head. “Should I talk about greenhouse gases that are melting the ice at both poles?”
“We think it’s a good idea to say that although emissions may be responsible for the melting, American corporations are dependent on carbon dioxide to keep their factories going. You should also say warm weather will cut down on the use of heating oil.”
The president says, “This would be a good place to attack the environmentalists.”
An adviser says, “If any of the scientists try to make us look silly on global warming we’ll censor their reports.”
The president asks, “Can I promise we will bring the boys home by Christmas?”
“Good idea.”
An adviser says, “The temperature changes can’t but help your popularity. You’ll go down in history as the American president that warmed the world.”
Another adviser says, “The country will remember that you were the captain of the Titanic, and if it weren’t for you, the ship would have struck an iceberg.”
“Mr. President, this will be a great photo op.”
The president asks, “Who will we put on the deck of the Titanic to cheer me on?”
“Conservatives, antienvironmentalists, polar bears, seals, and penguins.”
A Tank Full of Money
People don’t know it, but there’s money to be made in the oil and gasoline business. The question is, who’s making the money? No one knows for sure, but the heads of the oil companies are driving away with satchels of cash in the trunks of their SUVs.
When I read in the paper that former Exxon CEO Lee Raymond received $400 million a year, I began dreaming about being the CEO of an oil company. This is how it goes for me:
Four hundred million is not a lot of money because you still have to pay for groceries, bus fare, and taxes on the windfall profits that come your way.
I ask my vice president, “How many barrels of oil did we buy today? How much did we sell? And how much is in it for us?”
He replies, “Sir, things are going okay. It could be better, because we’re selling our product for only $3.90 a gallon.”
“What are the other companies charging?” I ask.
“That’s the funny thing. They’re charging the same price—$3.90.”
“So that means they’re not going to undersell us.”
My vice president says, “They wouldn’t dare do that, because gas companies have to stick together. There are only five of us now. And although it’s not a bundle, we still have to share the wealth.”
The marketing manager comes out of the men’s room and says, “Sir, would you have any objection if we upped the price to four dollars a gallon?”
I say, “Well, I wouldn’t if the other companies do the same thing.”
“Sir, we’re starting to get some flak from Congress because they say we’re gouging our customers.”
I reply, “It’s not true. We won’t be gouging them until we are at seven dollars a gallon. They’ll thank us when they realize they can still drive to work without pain. By the way, I want the PR people in here, because I’m sick and tired of the newspapers and TV stations using the word ‘pain’ when they talk about our profits. Let’s take out some ads that say, ‘Pain is in the eye of the beholder.’”
“Well said, sir. I haven’t seen any pain on the twentieth floor since I’ve been here. What happens if Congress gets so nervous that they start putting pressure on us to lower the price?”
“We will say it’s not the U.S., it’s China. If we want to solve our problems in this country, we’ve got to tell China they have to use a lot less oil when they make their toys and sneakers.”
The vice president says, “We will inform them that Americans have no intention of spoiling their summer vacations.”
“We could also have our lobbyist declare we’ll never have enough supply unless we drill for oil in polar bear country.”
“What about drilling in the Gulf of Mexico?” the marketing manager asks. “Why don’t we push for ten illegal Mexicans coming into the country with every barrel of oil?”
I say, “No one understands power until they run an oil company. And the beauty of it is, just because I make four hundred million a year doesn’t mean I have forgotten the little guy.”
My secretary comes in and says, “Your Gulfstream has just arrived at the airport and the pilot wants to know if you plan to fly to Saudi Arabia today.”
18
Spoiled Rotten
As I was telling you: Soon after the celebration of my eightieth birthday, my right leg went out on me. There was no circulation. Dr. Christopher Attinger at Georgetown University Hospital Limb Center had no choice but to cut it off.
It is one of the saddest things I have lived with—even if Medicare was willing to pay for it. One day I had two good legs; the next day I had only one.
Nobody I know wants to lose a limb. It is a violation of the integrity of the body.
You don’t give it much thought until it happens to you. Then you discover how important every part of your body is, even an ingrown toenail.
When the hospice podiatrist came to care for my remaining foot, I told him I thought I should get half price. He said, “No, it’s double.”
In my case the loss of a leg interfered with walking and getting in and out of cars, and I required the assistance of other people to do the simplest things, such as getting out of bed and sitting in a chair.
The fact that my kidneys are still working made it possible for Dr. Newman to recommend that I get a prosthesis, which is an artificial leg.
Once you attach a new leg you are assigned a physical therapist. They are experts in pain and their main idea is that if there is no pain, there is no progress. I accused my therapist of being a former prison guard at Guantánamo Bay.
Here is the joke. My main problem is my kidneys, but the only thing people can see wrong with me is that I have a missing leg.
Once I made up my mind to get the leg, I decided to sell advertising space on it. I also asked people to donate money to a fund to pay for my new leg. My friend Joe Califano responded to my request in a letter:
Dear Artie:
After consulting with my attorney, I decided not to give you $1,000 towards your new leg. In fact, my attorney suggests that you probably owe me money because of a fraudulent attempt to extort $1,000 on the basis that you were dying.
If you make the contribution, I will, of course, not press charges.
Sincerely,
Joseph A. Califano, Jr.
And now for the good news.
Even though I lost my leg, there are some positive aspects about it. Everybody treats me like an invalid. I don’t have to lift a finger if I want something. People keep hovering over me nervously. All I have to do is ask and people rush to accommodate me.
Example:
“What do you want for dinner?”
“I don’t care.”
“Would you like lobster?”
“It’s expensive.”
“You’re worth it.”
Or:
“What books do you want to read that we can buy for you? And are you happy with the videos we rented?”
I have my choice of seats at sporting events, and the most important thing of all, a handicapped parking permit.
My handicapped sign is my badge of honor. I didn’t ask to have my leg removed, but since it was, I deserve de
cent parking.
Yes, I am spoiled rotten. People are afraid of me. They are solicitous. I love to be treated this way. I think I’m getting terribly spoiled. Friends say I’m going to have to go to remedial charm school.
I behave like Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront. “I could have been a contender.”
The only time I’m on my best behavior is when I’m signing books.
Goodbye, leg. I didn’t need you as much as I thought.
19
Five People
One of my favorite recent books is The Five People You Meet in Heaven, by Mitch Albom. It gets one to thinking about the five people. It’s a game we play at the hospice all the time, and I give it a lot of thought.
So far my list is: Ava Gardner, Grace Kelly, Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth, and Judas.
I don’t get much response concerning the women I would like to meet. But there is always hesitation when Judas’s name comes up.
“Why Judas? And what would you say to him?”
I would ask him about his personal relationship with Jesus. Were they really good buddies, as written in the Judas Scroll? Or was he a turncoat?
The evidence for Judas being a good guy is very slim. We just have the scroll and Leonardo da Vinci’s “Last Supper.”
For centuries, when people have studied the painting, they have noticed that Judas doesn’t seem to be enjoying his wine. Leonardo has twelve disciples painted at Passover, but when you look at them it’s hard to decide who is the one that betrayed Jesus.
We can say what we want, but only when we meet Judas in heaven will we solve the mystery. The case for the Judas Scroll is very interesting. It reveals that Jesus asked Judas to betray him. In that way, Jesus could fulfill the prophecy and go to heaven to rise again.
For two thousand years Judas has been accused of being anti-Semitic. When I get to heaven I hope I can change all this. Come to think of it, I could talk Leonardo into doing a new painting. This one would be called “The da Vinci Code.”