by Paul Dueweke
PART THREE
Guinda
—the present—
“What luck for rulers that men do not think.”
— Adolph Hitler
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Renewal
“Checked out Townsend with COPE.” Sherwood chiseled the words into the miles separating himself and Guinda Burns. “He was director of the HPHC for over ten years, just retired. Had over a thousand people working for him, but he was very low profile. His assistant director actually did all the administration and interfaces with the Government and the University. They say he kept his nose buried in the science. But I think it is a classic example of an agent working undercover. He was politically active until 2010 and then just dropped out of that arena. That is the big clue. Now he is emerging to lead some political movement.”
Guinda was glad this was not a virtual meeting so she didn’t have to hide her astonishment.
“If he is an anarchist, we will get him. He may be dangerous. Keep me posted.”
“Okay,” she answered.
After hanging up the phone, Guinda stared at the hapless instrument as if some latent defect within it had somehow begotten Sherwood. She wondered as much about Sherwood as she did about Townsend. Sherwood reminder her of Uncle Orin from Boise who checked under the hood of his car each morning to insure that a terrorist hadn’t slipped into the country and planted a bomb. He thought it was foolish and irresponsible that everyone didn’t do the same. But with Sherwood, it was more than just paranoia. She had talked to him only twice, but he was the spookiest person she’d ever met. His stony arrogance had smothered all humanity out of their meetings, and she was accustomed to arrogance in the Party.
What did he mean, “If he is an anarchist, we will get him?” She’d heard others in the Party mention anarchists, but she never questioned it. Now the issue was thrust in front of her and entangled her mind. Who are the anarchists and how does who get them? Townsend didn’t seem like an anarchist to her, or did he? She didn’t understand him. He seemed sincere, but how could you tell anymore? Could it be that Townsend is actually altruistic? But how can you trust altruism? It’s too unstable. Too uncompromising. Too pure.
The phone interrupted, truncating a thought, choking conjecture. She glanced disapprovingly at it for simply doing its job flawlessly.
“Yes, Townsend. I’ve thought about our conversation yesterday. I was very preoccupied with my meeting with the state director when we talked, and maybe I didn’t show my gratitude for your offer. Unfortunately, I can’t find any way that a person of your capabilities could contribute to the cause.”
“I can certainly understand how you could feel that may, Ms. Burns. I’m afraid I must have given a very poor impression of how I might be able to help. If we could meet once more, I’d try to put my feelings into words much better than I did. However, to tell the truth, I’m not totally sure myself how I can help.”
Guinda sat at her desk unsure of what to make of this man, this anarchist, this ambassador of a forgotten century. Sherwood’s warning also tolled in her mind. “Okay, Dr. Townsend. I have a little time around noon. Suppose we get together for lunch someplace.”
“Sure, that would be great,” replied Elliott.
He was waiting in the lobby of the popular Mexican restaurant when Guinda arrived.
“Good morning, Dr. Townsend,” Guinda said as she approached him, extending her hand.
“Good morning, Ms. Burns,” he said, meeting her hand halfway. The smile that embraced both his voice and his face rebuffed the formality of their greeting.
“Look, maybe we could be less formal. My name is Guinda. Could I call you Elliott?”
“No, I’d prefer you didn’t. But Ted would be just fine,” he said with a grin.
They went inside, sat down, and after a few minutes of polite conversation, each ordered the same brand of beer and studied the menu. During lunch, their conversation was polite, cordial, and superficial.
Guinda talked of her BA and MA in political science and her father’s advise to choose a career with stability, but the thought of a stable career nauseated her. She taught high-school history, political science, and electoral technology for a couple of years and found that refreshing. But she was too young to be refreshed; she wanted excitement and glamour.
Her striking figure and face, quick wit, and athletic prowess made her a shoe-in for class officer in high school. She dreamed then of a political career, which fueled her choice to major in political science.
When the CBS Party offered her a job two years ago as a field site manager, she knew that was her ticket to excitement. CBS had apparently been impressed with her part in two NCAA swimming championships and her three Olympic medals. When they interviewed her and discovered her outgoing personality, collegiate face, precisely tanned body, and a blond ponytail synchronized with her two perfect breasts, they knew she was the right image for the party. She had the added advantage of an instinct for when to play bimbo and when to be brain.
She was very matter-of-fact about her breasts and how they advanced her career. Elliott couldn’t help but glance at them approvingly as she discussed their role. It was like acknowledging an attractive belt or hat.
After lunch, she said, “Actually, Ted, your offer to volunteer took me by surprise. I have only two volunteers, both students at the University. They mostly help with event promotion using the campus network. It involves just a couple of hours a week. But I was thinking of something a little more … aggressive for you.”
She waited for some reaction, and getting none, she continued. “It seems that our lowest voter participation is among the retired people. We have our primary coming up soon and our expected participation among seniors is only 68%. That’s the lowest of any age group. I think you could help us get that number up in the local area.”
Elliott squirmed a little in his seat. “Excuse me, Guin. I guess I should explain something to you. When we met yesterday, I didn’t have time to explain what my ambitions really are, and maybe I didn’t even fully understand them myself. But I, too, have been thinking about how I can help. You see, I can’t work for your candidates because I don’t believe in them.”
“I don’t understand,” Guinda replied. “You said you wanted to help.”
“I know. I’m not making this very easy, am I? I want to help, but I want to help the people. I want to help Americans make better choices.”
“Well, of course,” Guinda said. “We’re all working toward that. That’s why we’ve chosen candidates that can go head to head, even against Lizzie Special. I personally think that Dr. Heat can—”
“Wait a minute, Guin. I think I need to go back a little further. I know this happened before you were born, but elections used to be a lot different than they are today.”
“I know. I studied all that in school. How people used to go to a voting machine, but things are a lot easier today with the TV elections and all.”
“Let me see if there’s a better way to explain this. We’re feeding people celebrities. We aren’t giving them choices. Each celebrity is the same. Each one is just a person to whom some media network has given a slick image.”
“Right. And that image is what the people are voting for. I understand that. It doesn’t sound any different than the way it used to be. What I’ve read is that the politicians used to get on TV or the news and just lie to the people about everything, and their campaign would then package them with a slick image and the people would buy it. It’s the same today, except we don’t have the lies. COPE really cracks down on anyone who lies. I can’t see how the old way is better than that.”
“But the candidates today are not even politicians,” Elliott said. “They’re movie stars and rock musicians and basketball players. They don’t debate the issues. They don’t even know what the issues are. Most of today’s candidates are really low-life, hack actors who don’t have any idea what the problems are or how to solve them.”
“You know, Elliott, I don’t have all your years of experience, but I took a lot of poli-sci courses in college, and what I remember is that the politicians of your era were pretty low-life, too. And they were professional liars, and everybody knew it, but everyone kept on voting for them anyway. I read about some guy who was a senator somewhere on the east coast, and he was playing around with his secretary, and he drowned her one night when they were out screwing around and then lied his way out of it. But everybody knew he was lying, and he was one of the most arrogant jerks that ever lived, and barely had two IQ points to rub together. And he stayed in the Senate for another forty years. And he wasn’t unusual. All the politicians lied all the time, and all they ever cared about was their little empires and passing laws favorable to the money interests that supported their campaigns. And they all kept getting reelected, and they were all killing the country. And nobody cared! What we have today is a lot better than that.”
“You don’t understand. What we have today is just … it’s just … well … bullshit! It’s hype and bullshit!”
“Well, Dr. Townsend, it’s a lot better bullshit than you had.”
The conversation ebbed. Guinda paid the bill with her fingerprint. She was the next to speak. “You said you wanted to help, but you can’t support our candidates. And you haven’t voted for forty years, and you probably have never played one of the political game shows. And arguing with me is certainly no help. So what’s the help?”
“Well, I thought I knew, but maybe …. It seemed clear to me a couple days ago. I thought I could do something to help … not the parties but the people. I want to help our country, but I guess I can’t be much help to you.” Elliott looked at his beautiful companion and then glanced away. When he looked back at her, she was studying him. There was no animosity in either look, only wonder.
“I have to be getting back to the office. We’re pretty busy now.” Guinda rose, followed by Elliott, and the two walked to the door.
As they walked past the bar toward the lobby, Elliott said, “You know, Guin, I’m on the outside looking in because I’ve been out of circulation for a long time.”
They faced off again. “That’s what I keep hearing about you. But you’re director of a big lab and have a Nobel Prize and a family. I don’t understand why you’ve been out of circulation.”
“I guess that’s one of those long stories, and I’m sure you don’t have time for it. I just—”
“There’s a table and two chairs,” she said. “I have time if you do.”
“I’m retired, you know, so I’m made of time. But you have a party to run.”
“This is party business. Besides, I’m not worried about getting fired. I have a perfect body.” They both laughed as they headed for a table in the corner. After ordering a pair of beers, she said, “Some creep at COPE looked you up and said you might be dangerous. Is that true?”
“I think I’m safe. I promised my wife, Martha, that I’d stay out of trouble.”
“But you’re meeting a beautiful young woman in a bar. Wouldn’t Martha call that trouble?”
“I don’t think that’s the kind of trouble she had in mind.” He checked his watch. “Besides, she’s probably meeting with her virtual family right now. The wonders of technology.”
“And you don’t approve of that?”
“I guess she had to find some other family because I was always at the Lab.”
“How about Luke and Susie?”
“They’ve been gone for a long time now. Luke’s in Japan and Susie’s in the Bay Area.”
“But you must have been a family once.”
“Yeah, and I thought we were a very happy family, but …”
“What were they like as kids?”
Elliott focused through his glass of beer, his gaze merging with the bubbles as they sought freedom. “They were great kids, and we had so many great times together.” He turned the glass, looking for wisdom, finding none.
* * *
“Let’s bike up to the cliffs and ride the Goat, Dad!” Susie shouted, her hair trailing behind her as she skipped toward her father.
“How does that sound to you, Snake?” Elliott asked as Luke scaled his back using his belt for a foothold. “Think you can ride that far?”
“Uh huh, snakes can go anyplace. But I like to play tag at the bank, too,” Luke grunted as he inched up the mountain.
“The bank’s on the way to the cliffs, so maybe we could do both,” Elliott said.
Luke reached the summit and grabbed Elliott’s forehead as he swung his leg over his shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t use my ear. Last time it almost came off in your hand. Want me to look like that lady at church with only one ear. What would I do with all my extra earrings?”
“Daddy! Boys don’t wear earrings, and Mommy says you shouldn’t make fun of her. She’s got a … what do you call that thing she’s got?”
“It’s what she doesn’t have that’s so funny. Her husband can buy her a pair of earrings, and it’s good for two birthdays. Lucky guy!”
“No, Daddy, that’s not what I mean,” Luke said as he settled on his shoulders in triumph. “It’s what Mommy says she’s got so she can park in that special place.”
“You mean a handicap. She parks in that spot so she doesn’t have to walk so far on one ear.”
“Handicap. That’s it. Mommy says you shouldn’t make fun of a lady with a handicap.”
“I’m not making fun of her. She walks like this because her head is too heavy on one side.”
“Daddy!” he laughed. “That’s just what Mommy said you shouldn’t do. That lady can’t help it that she’s only got one ear.”
“Just like you can’t help it that all you have is a head and a tail. That’s just the way God made snakes. But it’s still funny!” He flipped Luke over his head and buried him in the sofa.
“Look, Dad.” Susie interrupted their giggling. “Mom got this picnic stuff for us.”
“Where are you three off to this morning?” Martha asked from the doorway. “I just want to know what direction to send the police when you don’t come home by dark.”
“We won’t get lost, Mom,” Susie replied. “Dad knows the way. It’s not far.”
“I know, but you might decide to live up in those rocks and just come back for food.”
“Dad, are you going to take us skiing this winter? Last year you said Luke was too little. You said when he got to the second grade, we could all go. Now I’ve been cheated out of three years of skiing, so I think we should go.”
“Tell you what, Otter, suppose the four of us talk about it over pizza and beer tonight.”
“Okay. But don’t try to change the subject or make a joke out of it. Okay?”
“Fair enough!”
“Can I carry the picnic stuff in my basket?” Luke asked. “I’ll be real careful.”
“And while you’re out being foolish,” Martha said, “I’ll be here slaving over the stove.”
“We’ll stop at 7-Q and bring you back your favorite prize,” Elliott said.
Off they went, the trio on another adventure. They peddled to the empty parking lot of the bank where they terrorized each other in a game of bike tag, their favorite weekend activity besides riding the Goat.
Goat Rock sat on the cliffs above the surrounding plains. When the Townsends sat on the Goat, they were more together than at any other time. Yet each knew it was a time for reflection, to be alone but connected, a time to share dreams. Elliott even stopped joking then.
The city seemed so near in that crisp air that they could reach out and stop the cars rocketing along the freeways. Elliott showed the kids how he could place his hand across the river, and they’d watch the waters rise until they overflowed their banks and inundated the whole city. Susie would wait for just the right instant when the water was lapping up the very street where they lived. Then she would lift Elliott’s fingers one at a time, and the waters would recede.
Their goat rode ab
ove a cloud of cottonwoods billowing up from the canyon below like rolling hills of grass. They’d close their eyes and catch an updraft, looking down on themselves astride their goat. The magic of the Goat would live with them long after they returned to their other world.
* * *
“Sounds like you had a great relationship with your kids,” Guinda said. “I wish my dad had been around to do stuff like that with us.”
“Those were wonderful days, but it didn’t always stay like that.”
“What happened in 2010?” Guinda asked.
“You really do your homework, don’t you.”
“I owe it all to COPE.”
“I remember 2010, all right,” he said. “That was the year of the science fair.” He sipped his beer and made some repeated pattern in the condensation with his thumb.
“I could brush off all the political hype and platitudes of the day, but I took it a lot more personally when these social tides started to affect our kids. The education community was great at masquerading various politically correct issues as compassion for some group. Trilingual education, multi-culturalism, and cultural diversity were the main buzzwords then. One evening I noticed Susie working on her computer. And she wasn’t just surfing the Web the way most kids did to fool their parents and teachers into thinking they were engaged in some great educational experience. She was working hard on something.”
* * *
“It’s a letter to the president of Fantasy Cola.”
“What happened? You lose a quarter in the machine at school?”