by Mike B. Good
Mom had a thought. “Wouldn’t it be groovy if we could munch these tasty muffins at the upcoming summit meetings with the Russians and Chinese?”
Yes! Nixon and the other world leaders grinding Jackie’s stony treats? I couldn’t carry a tune like John Lennon, or even Mom, and I didn’t have the smooth stage presence of the suave Joe Cocker, but I saw my chance to change the world.
“That would be outtasight, Mom. Let’s make it happen. Promise me you’ll give some to Nixon?”
“That’s a nice thought.”
“Isn’t it? Tell him it’s a peace offering.”
“Why the sudden change of heart? I thought you despised Uncle Dick.”
My roomies stared open-mouthed. I shrugged. My shameful family secret was out.
“How come, Mom?”
“All that incessant ranting while you were in college. All those practical jokes you played on the poor man.”
Just a kid, in 1960, I had driven presidential candidate Nixon crazy with my lame ventriloquism, convincing him he was hearing voices coming from his dog Checkers, the household furnishings, and, well, everything else—all offering wildly conflicting advice. Throwing in some amusing post-hypnotic suggestions, I’d driven him into the deluded care of Dr. D’Mento. Which only made things worse. One of the prouder moments of my childhood.
“He often blames you for his loss to Kennedy, son. In fact, incessantly.”
Approving looks from the roomies.
After giving it some thought, she said, “I suppose Jackie’s muffins would be a nice peace offering.”
“Wouldn’t they?”
Like Martin Luther King, I had a dream. In mine, my parents and Tricky Dick are at an Oval Office strategy meeting with the insane team of hawks that ran the White House. They are lounging in beanbag chairs and eating Jackie’s special muffins. John Lennon is on the stereo, suggesting they imagine there were no countries, no religion, too. Nothing to live or die for, either. Telling them it’s easy if they tried. Inspired by the brilliant lyrics, a turned-on Nixon washes down his second muffin with some special herb tea, throws a map of Vietnam on the floor, and paraphrases a classic rock song: “The Vietnam War. What is it good for?”
Kissinger, Ehrlichman, and Haldeman slide right into some cool dance moves and sing out like soul brothers, “Absolutely not a thing.”
Though the unrthymic crew have no soul and blow the line, Nixon exhorts them to say it again, and they do, grunting in time, even yelling, “God is good, y’all.” An inspired Kissinger gets down and boogies, doing the splits as no uptight white man in a truss and a three-piece suit ever has before.
All right, these guys couldn’t dance or get the lyrics right, but by the time the song ended, the whole gang of herniated hawks saw the error of their ways. Peace could break out at any moment. What a beautiful dream. Speaking of dreams, after the musical interlude, Mom crashed out on the beanbag chair, a guard dog on either side snoring away. I don’t think I’d ever seen her sleep before.
_ _ _
“Jeez, Mikey,” praised the girls during the afternoon watering, “your Mom rocks.”
“What?”
“Nothing at all like the ball-busting fascist you described,” said Jackie. “She sings like Gracie Slick.”
“Doesn’t she?” I sighed, bewildered.
“Yeah,” said Rita. “What a shame she didn’t pass that on to you.”
“I know. Wait, you mean the musical ability or the total coolness?”
“Either one.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, sorry I’d asked, “she’s not usually zoned out on three marijuana muffins.”
“Maybe you’re making her all uptight,” suggested Jackie. “Not the other way around.”
“Huh?”
Girls said the craziest things. I had a talk with the plants out back, telling them not to worry, I’d be back in a week. They seemed calmed by the news, although with plants, it’s hard to tell. We went about our usual business as if my crazed family members weren’t there. Just before sunset, Mom woke up smiling.
“How you feeling, Mom?”
She looked around at the vibrantly-colored surroundings. “To tell you the truth? I feel groovy. . .I think.” Mom had no frame of reference to judge her grooviness by. “Or should I say, freaked out?”
“You probably feel a little of both.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“She’s still crashed out. Should I wake her?”
“Are you nuts? Let the little maniac sleep.” Always a good idea. “I love Hawaii’s mellow vibes,” said Mom with a yawn. Then, “Say, are there any bongos around here?”
Of course there were. Mom, of an older generation, had transmogrified into a beatnik. Next thing, she’d want to recite poetry and grow a goatee. Dad’s head would explode. I hoped she would. Clearly, I’d let her eat too many muffins. Perfect. The challenge? Keeping Mom on maximum dosage for the next week on Kauai. I wondered if she’d be suspicious of me offering her muffins several times a day from a huge Tupperware tub, but curiously, she never questioned its constant presence. Just asked for more. With my family well-medicated, we managed to get along for a week with no casualties. A first. Proving marijuana is the key to world peace.
Her last night in the Islands, sitting on the idyllic shore of Hanalei Bay, enjoying a phenomenal sunset, giddy on Mai Tais and muffins, Mom sighed with contentment. “Dig it, Mikey, this trip to Hawaii has cured my hypertension, ulcers, and glaucoma. Not to mention, insomnia. For some groovy reason, I’ve been sleeping like a baby. Which is totally outtasight.”
“No kidding? Anything else?”
“Well, it seems I’ve radically changed my vocabulary. And your berserk sister doesn’t need a fistful of powerful drugs to mellow out anymore. I can hardly believe the change since we’ve come here.”
“Me, neither.”
“I haven’t felt this groovy since I was a kid. If I ever did.”
“That’s great, Mom.”
“I really hate to leave.”
“I really hate to see you go,” I lied.
“Good, because I’ve been talking to your father about relocating here.”
I choked on a mouthful of beer. “What?” There went the peaceful vacation.
“I’m glad to hear you’re excited about it, too, honey. Silly me, I was afraid you wouldn’t like the idea.”
Kaboom.
“What was that noise?”
“My head exploding.”
“Yes, I see that now. Didn’t I teach you to cover your mouth when your head explodes?”
“Sorry.”
“Manners are important, son.”
“Thanks for the millionth reminder. It’s crazy, but I thought for a terrible second you said you wanted to move here.”
“That’s right, the whole family. And please don’t explode again. It’s rude.”
“Let’s make a deal. I will be polite and stop exploding if you quit saying you want to move here.”
“I don’t know what your problem is. Just think, we’ll be able to visit you all the time. Dad and I will be able to force unwanted advice down your unwilling throat. We’ll interfere with your life at every opportunity. You won’t be able to get us out of your hair, which of course, you’ll have to cut. Plus, the Monster will drive you nuts trying to find your stash. Won’t that be great?”
I screamed, “Nooooo. . .” For about an hour.
John and Yoko had nothing on me. Being with Yoko, you could understand why John needed to scream. With her tender threats of togetherness, Mom made me feel the same way.
“Michael, knock off that screaming.” She pointed at the outgoing tide. “You’re scaring the ocean.”
“Sorry, Mom, it was a Primal Scream.”
“A what?”
“A polite alternative to exploding all over you. Supposed to be good for me. Lets out stress.”
“What do you have to be stress
ed about?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I haven’t heard screaming like that since Uncle Dick lost the California governor’s race to Pat Brown.” Mom giggled with the memories. “He really hates that man. He blames you for that disaster, too.”
“I felt I owed it to California.”
I’d have taken more pride, if not for Nixon’s amazing rebound. I’d let my guard down and look what happened. Like a super-villain, the wily bastard proved resilient, harder to get rid of than a Nanakuli cockroach. I made a silent vow to bring Nixon down with muffins, then rubbed my hands together and cackled.
Hearing the familiar sound, Mom smiled and ruffed up my hair. “I miss your father.”
Some dolphins were playing just offshore, so close that Bonnie could wade right out to them. The friendly creatures swam closer, smiling as if they’d found a new friend.
Seeing one of the adorable dolphins shooting out a spout of water, Bonster rammed a piece of driftwood into its blowhole. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to spit?”
The dolphin continued to smile, but now, with its breath cut off, the smile looked menacing, the teeth less friendly.
“Be right back.”
After racing to rescue Flipper from my sister’s lesson in etiquette, and then, reluctantly rescuing Bonster from Flipper’s wrath, I assured Mom that beautiful Hawaii wouldn’t be her cup of tea.
“Why not? It’s so relaxing here.”
“That’s the problem. We’re too far from the action. What if your spy team needs you to stop communism at a moment’s notice and you and Dad are over here at some luau, guzzling mai tai’s, playing your bongos, and hula dancing? Who’s gonna save our country?”
“I suppose you’re right. It was just a pipe dream.”
“Thattagirl, Mom, crush that dream.”
“Speaking of crushed dreams, how about you coming back with us?”
I scooted my ears well out of arm’s reach before answering. “No way. I’m a philanthropist. I don’t want to crush my dream. Just yours.”
“You need to finish your schooling.”
“I already did.”
“Except for law school. Which, I’m supposed to remind you, your father insists upon.”
“Let him insist. What’s he gonna do about it?”
“Trust me, Mikey, you don’t want to find out the hard way.”
I waved Mom’s warning off. “Come on, Mom, get real. Why would I give up all the fun I’m having?”
“Dad says you’ve had more than enough fun for one life already. You need to do something with your life.”
“But I spent most of my childhood underground.”
“That was the best part.”
“Not for me.”
“It’s not always about you. If you come back now, you can still enroll in the fall semester. Dad’s had a spot held open for you.”
Tiring of the relentless badgering, I said, “Tell Dr. Strangelove I’m just getting started with the fun. In fact, I’m on a mission to have fun my whole life. Also, to change the world in my spare time. Isn’t that doing something with my life?”
A bold statement, considering the power of Dad’s wrath. Just ask Vietnam. It was the exact type of statement I’d always avoided. You know, for self-preservation issues. But I meant it and I’d stick to my guns. . .as long as nothing horrible happened at the farm. Because then. . . Hmm, maybe I’d spoken too soon. On the other hand, huge mistake or not, it was time to show my folks they couldn’t control me anymore.
Chapter 23
Is It The Transmogrifier?
Mom shook her head. “Honey, you have so much potential. You don’t use a tenth of your brains. You live in paradise surfing and growing lettuce.”
“Don’t forget the fine herbs.”
“What kind of life is that?”
“An enjoyable one.”
After thinking about it, she shrugged. “You make a good point, but heck, your friend Happy could do that.”
“He does do that.”
In her kind way, she meant Happy had reached his potential already, but was giving me the benefit of the doubt that I still had room to improve. I’d show her.
“Well,” sighed Mom, sensing defeat, “I promised your father I’d give a try.” She looked up into the sky and shrugged.
I got a creepy feeling. As if the Forces of Darkness had suddenly engaged. I looked up, expecting to see dark clouds and thunderbolts, but there was just an amazing sunset going on.
“What are you looking at?”
Ignoring my question, she mused, “You were such an adorable child, so cheerful, always playful—then you learned to talk.” She let out a deep breath. “I’ll miss you anyway.”
Miss me? “Aw, come on, Mom, with my good karma? How can anything bad happen?”
“Son, you are so naïve.” Then lightening up, she added, “At least I’ll still have Major Johnny and the Monster.”
I was watching a master in action. Mom could really work the psychological angle.
“What are you saying, Mom?”
“You know your father, honey, he’s a little unhinged.”
“A little?”
“Funny. It’s just that he won’t take no for an answer. And as you know, he has all those secret weapons at his disposal.”
Damnit, he sure did. I had no choice but to take the warning seriously. Maybe I could plan a defense.
“What’s he gonna do, Mom? Come at me with a shrink ray again?”
“I doubt it. He’s tired of that toy.”
Good. As a thirteen-year old novice caddie, I spent a weekend in a terrarium stalked by a tarantula. Believe me, I never talked while Dad was teeing off again.
“Is it the Transmogrifier?”
I hoped not. After a little incident involving Dad, a time machine, and a hungry T. Rex, Dr. Strangelove turned me into a hamster. Also, banned me from the Secret Weapons Lab.
“You looked so cute running on your little wheel.” recalled Mom.
“Come on, Mom, give me a hint.”
“Oh, honey, it could be anything. You name a diabolical weapon, your father has it.”
“No clues?”
“Well, lately he’s been occupied with a personal favor for your Uncle Dick.”
What could it be? Knowing I didn’t approve, Dad kept me in the dark about his secret projects. Also, so I’d never guess what was coming. But the year before, right after the Kent State massacre, I’d overheard Dad and a disgraced Tricky Dick come up with an idea for an experimental new weapon for riot control that didn’t involve the National Guard. I was only there because Dad had asked me to sit in on their poker game.
“You’re devious, son. Help me figure out how that jowly bastard is cheating.”
That night, while pulling an ace from under his sleeve, Uncle Dick said, “I need a new way to target those stinking hippies and peace freaks. If I’m not careful, they’ll give the country a conscience.”
“We can’t have that,” insisted Dad. “We’ve got a repressive way of life to protect.”
“Any ideas?”
“I’ve got one,” someone practical said. “You guys should be locked up.”
“Quiet, Mikey,” said Dad, “I’m thinking.
“You guys can’t just go around killing hippies and peace marchers. . .”
“Good point, Mikey,” agreed Nixon. “Not with the press making a big deal about it. Like you said, we’ll have to be subtle.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Dad had a brainstorm. “How about we target the radicals by smell?”
“You mean, because the stinking hippies smell so wretched?” asked the President, giving me a piercing look.
“Hey. . .”
“I was thinking more of the marijuana they smoke,” replied Dad, also giving me a piercing look.
“I think you’re onto something.” Honoring me with a sneer, Nixon a
dded, “That way we can eliminate the worst elements in our society.”
“We’ll call it Project Stink Bomb!” declared Dad.
Lots of approving comments from the other players. Except for one who said, “Aw, shit. . .”
“Language, son.”
“You guys want to blow up American citizens and you’re worried about my language?”
“They’re only hippies,” barked Nixon, “not real Americans.”
Pissed off, I said, “He’s hiding cards up his sleeve, Dad.”
“No one likes a tattletale, Mikey,” said the President.
“No one likes a cheater, either, Dick,” said Dad, pulling out a ray gun. Dad was one mad scientist who took his poker seriously.
Nixon held up his arms in that familiar peace sign pose, shook his jowls, and squirmed like a toad. “Heh heh, how did those get up there?”
Back at Hanalei Bay, I asked, “Wait a minute, it’s not that crazy stink bomb idea, is it?”
“Sorry, but you know the rules. If I told you, Dad would feel obliged to kill you.”
“Of course he would,” I griped.
“And really, son, as mad scientists go, he’s considered quite innovative. No sense in fretting over which heinous death you’ll suffer.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Oh, come on, don’t take it so personally. You know he has to worry about national security.”
“Right. I’ll pretend my death is not happening to me.”
“That’s my brave boy. What’s wrong? You’re not smiling.”
“It’s just that my murder seems a little harsh. Dad keeps escalating the punishments.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“Yeah. They’re almost getting out of hand.”
“Well, you know your wacky father. He likes to send a strong message.”
“Unfortunately. I remember back in the days before the shrink ray and Transmogrifier when I thought getting grounding was tough.”
Mom smiled and shook her head. “Don’t be silly, it was easy.”
“I meant for me.”
“So, how about another muffin?”
I thought about our talk later. Had I been played yet again by a master control freak? No doubt about it. I was as devious as the next rebellious kid, but I was no match for the CIA’s top interrogator. No one was. Fortunately, the commies weren’t ready to crumble and the Good family didn’t move to the islands. I dodged a bullet there, but unless I’d misunderstood Mom’s hints, Dad wasn’t done with me yet. There might be other bullets, death rays, and well, whatever, to dodge in the future. I hoped it was a distant future, because it would be a drag to get killed before harvesting the crop. As it turned out, another bit of bullet-dodging came first.