Luggalor's Lenses

by W. S. Fuller

“Act what way?”

  “Just a minute, give me a chance to finish. As for the answer to your second question, I’m checking into it. I’ll sell my shares if it’s true,” Nelson stated with conviction.

  “Act what way? Am I being unprincipled by trying to protect my company, the people who work there, and those stockholders who own it? By trying to maintain the capital to produce products that can compete in an increasingly competitive marketplace? Everyone wants to know why we don’t seem to be as competitive anymore, but they usually forget that the competition doesn’t have a government that regulates and restricts them like old Uncle Sam does. They forget that the only restrictions their governments issue are those that prohibit us from being able to trade in their building. Asian governments don’t have an EPA to contend with. They attack parts of the environment like it was Pearl Harbor. We’re not playing on a level field, Nelson.”

  “That’s true, but it isn’t going to make things any better if we all destroy the planet together. Each of us has got to show individual responsibility. We’re all going to have to sacrifice for a while...it’s the only way we have a chance. There were some questions for a time as to the actual ramifications and long term consequences of many of the so-called violations of the environment, but there is a consensus now. We’re really screwing up, and if we don’t stop the bill may be unpayable.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I think about the consensus. In a lot of cases it’s bullshit. Most of the EPA’s holy crusades have less to do with protecting the environment than they do with getting self-righteous members of congress’ votes by providing them a bandwagon to jump on for an attack on the pollutant or process that’s the current media darling of the month. And, of course, saving jobs and promoting careers. What’s a good environmentalist to do without plenty of environmental abuses to criticize.”

  “It still comes back to greed, Robert. Couldn’t you survive if you allocated the funds necessary to meet the standards? Surely you realize that in the long run we’ll all be better off. There shouldn’t be a choice.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little greed, Nelson. You know that. It fuels a market economy and you’ve probably noticed our system receiving some rather rave reviews around the world these days at the expense of some others. If the private sector is allowed to be profitable, research, development and philanthropy will flourish and solve many of the problems you want a terribly inefficient government to attempt to handle. Besides, it seems rather strange for you to be criticizing greed when you make enough money each year clearing arteries and sewing parts of pigs into people’s chests to have saved the spotted owl on your own. A little less take-home and our health care system wouldn’t be endangered.”

  “We had it your way for most of the eighties and into the nineties,” Nelson said, “regulations in many areas were relaxed or done away with, great tax incentives, everything that should have been needed to create your fertile environment. And the economy flourished. You’re right on the mark about how all that works. The trouble is, while the economy was flourishing and a lot of people were collecting fortunes, the number of homeless was soaring, the environment was getting worse, we became more dependent on importing oil, ended up hopelessly in debt, and drugs and violence have turned parts of this country into a virtual free-fire zone. Philanthropy, Robert? I think not. Try greed.”

  “All right, you guys, the world’s problems will have to wait until you tell us whether you want an omelet or pancakes for breakfast. There’s plenty of fresh pineapple, kiwi and sausages to go with either.” Robert turned to look at the beautiful face of his wife Phyllis, smiling up from the cabin.

  The lee rail was in the water and Robert braced himself with all his weight on his right foot as the graceful sloop charged upwind in the sparkling, late afternoon sun. He loved being at the helm on this point of sail, conscious of the beautiful power of the yacht charging through the waves while he strained to keep her flying ahead on a dead solid straight line.

  “Can you flatten it out a little?” The cry came from down below. “We’re trying to get the hors d’oeuvres together.”

  Women. Robert thought back to the morning’s conversation. Nelson was his only close friend who was a certified liberal. Best friends since prep school, it seemed that time had hardened each of their political positions, but never appeared to have harmed their personal relationship. They continued to bait each other, and argue, and go after one another with vigor...yet even when the arguments became heated, they inevitably ended with laughter. It was that way because each respected the other’s intelligence and opinions. If the truth were told, and of course it never was unless they were too drunk and accommodating to remember it, each of them had slightly more sympathy for the other’s views than they would ever express.

  Robert knew he came by his conservative bent in a traditional fashion, as his grandfather and father were true guardians of the faith. Of course, the terminology had become somewhat confused over the years, but the beliefs about federal intervention, regulations, and money being spent on what the private sector and local government should handle were still the foundation of the breed. The best government was the least government. He grew up around angry epithets hurled at even the slightest mention or reference to a federally-funded social program, or regulations, or guidelines. States rights was an often heard phrase, and even he, at a young age, wondered when his father said he admired some of the principals of George Wallace. Later he understood. A number of the kids he went to school with through Andover and Yale were from similar backgrounds and held similar views, and then he ended up at the Wharton School for a graduate degree and was introduced to some serious right wing market purists. Robert was convinced he had as much of a social conscience as most. He just didn’t believe that the government should act as architect, administrator, and bank for every program that liberal, vote-seeking legislators deemed worthy of the taxpayer’s money. If the market was provided a fertile environment, and left to prosper by its own devices and creativity, it would provide jobs and opportunity at the lower end for many people now dependent on government handouts, and wealth at the upper end to fund charitable programs for those who for some good reason could not take advantage of the opportunities. Corporations would have profits for research into reasonable technologies that could address environmental problems that are real…not fabricated. There would be money to fund medical research and the arts, and assist the elderly and the infirm...all the things the government tries to handle and never handles efficiently. There was no doubt in his mind that the American sense of philanthropy, coupled with impetus from strategically placed tax incentives, would accomplish far more for the huddled masses and the planet than the government ever would…or could. But businesses have to be able to operate with few restrictions in order to flourish…and be able to provide all this. And as for those with no good reason, who won’t take advantage of an opportunity when it is offered to them...screw em!

  Robert glanced at Nelson and saw he was engrossed in his book. “Phyllis, could you hand me a beer, please?” He took a long pull on the ice-cold Heineken and spoke in the most serious tone he could muster. “Nelson, what do liberals think now about closing down our nuclear power plants, which forces us to rely more heavily on imported oil, which forces us to put thousands of sailors in the imminent danger of close proximity to the nuclear reactors on their ships while they’re steaming toward the even greater danger of a war to protect the oil we wouldn’t need so much of if we had not closed and stopped developing nuclear plants?”

  2000

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  John Champion was in the pose. Hands stuffed in the rear pockets of his jeans, palms in, feet apart, weight shifting slowly from side to side, chest expanded, head tilted slightly back so he could flex his neck...and make it look huge. His head turned slightly from side to side, eyes darting, looking his cool, tough-guy best while trying to keep anyone from noticing how often his eyes locked on Shawn
’s legs. Perfect, muscular thighs and calves tapering to thin ankles, tan from the summer, not ten feet in front of him, exposed to his view in her short cheerleader skirt. Not quite as good looking as Linda, he thought, but close, and definitely the best body in the whole school. The light from the bonfire cast a soft, flickering glow on the incredible legs. He imagined her beautiful bottom, white and firm above the brown legs, with the tiny, fine, silken wisps of hairs. He thought of Friday night...his fingers caressing... The familiar stirring was in his crotch, the cloud was forming in his brain. He had been staring too long, knew he must quickly think of something else. The game tomorrow night. He tried to visualize catching his first pass. Told himself to listen to what Coach was saying. Thought of algebra problems. Picked out faces in the crowd. It eased.

  John felt proud, standing there with the team. All the other kids envied him. He loved the pep rallies, especially the first one of the season. You stand in front of all these people like a gladiator, or a god, and you listen as the coaches and teachers and cheerleaders say great things about you...and then they cheer for you....again and again. The band broke into the fight song. His chest again swelled, he flexed, and the width of his neck approached the width of his head.

  Jesus, think about the end of the game… last play…winning… stretched out… ball on my fingertips in the end zone. His eyes were locked on the legs again and it was back, worse than before. Christ, why’d I wear the tight jeans? He looked wide to the left and right, desperately trying to make it go away. He spotted Horace standing off to the side, with Ricky, Ervin, Andy and a boy and girl he didn’t know. Horace is all right. Came out for the team last year, tough and pretty fast. But he’s small and didn’t know much about the game. He thought of last year’s banquet and Horace walking to the podium to get his letter. The sports jacket with the wide padded shoulders was too big, as was the shirt collar that wasn’t meant for the bright paisley tie. Coach Blackwell handed him the letter and shook his hand. His mother sat with her head cocked, very erect, and looked so proud. But she didn’t look comfortable. She’s young, but seemed older with the heavy makeup and slicked-back hair. That was the first time he had seen anyone from Horace’s family at a school event or game. He remembered wondering if she felt out of place with her tight skirt and low cut blouse. Coach should have given Horace more of a chance, worked with him more. He could have improved, played more and maybe he would have come out again this year. Ricky and Andy are the wrong group to hang with. They do drugs pretty heavy, deal some, carry blades, are terrible students. I hate to see Horace running with them.

  His ruminations had eased his problem, but then Shawn bent forward for the beginning of a cheer, legs apart and straight, hands held just above the ground and twisting back and forth. John watched the black panties stretch tight, exposing a glimpse of the bottom of her cheeks. Again he felt the heat, the fog, the pressure. He didn’t even try to look away.

  “And now a word from this year’s captain, John Champion.”

  Holy shit.

  Stepping forward, he tried to look cool....was sure he didn’t... knew there was a visible bulge in his jeans.

  His father spoke as the last mouthful of egg-soaked toast disappeared into John’s mouth. “The test scores for the school are way below the national average again, even dropped some from last year.”

  “Well, dear, it’s certainly not our children who are bringing them down.” There was a warm smile from their mother for John and his sister. “We all know what the problem is. The blacks and the Latins just don’t have the same skills, or maybe it’s motivation. I don’t know, but I do know that’s what brings the averages down. I’ve even heard it from the teachers, although I couldn’t possibly say who.”

  Are they prejudiced? John wondered. He had even wondered a few times if he was.. They never say nigger and never say anything about the black families in church. They didn’t say anything when I brought a few of the black guys from the team over that night to shoot pool, but they didn’t look too happy. They never say anything that sounds all that prejudiced, but there’s lots of little comments like those. I guess they aren’t really prejudiced. Prejudiced people really hate blacks and think they’re scum. They tell jokes about them, and I know enough of those people to know the difference.

  “I’ve got to go,” his father said, “Jimmy Hartley’s speaking at the Rotary breakfast this morning.”

  “Are you going to vote for him, Dad?” John asked.

  “I sure am, son. He’s the only candidate that’s got the sense not to want to raise taxes and the guts to vote against all the increases and government programs, no matter what they’re for.”

  Horace’s mother unlocked the door and crept into the small apartment as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake any of her four children. Carefully, slowly pushing open the door to the bedroom, relief washed over her. Horace was asleep. It was one in the morning, she stepped out of her high heels, tiptoed into the living room, then slumped, exhausted, into the plaid, stained easy chair. She thought about the weekend, getting some rest, then her days. Up at 6:30 a.m., she awakened the kids at seven to be sure they had milk and cereal and got off to school. After nine hours at the bakery she went to Oscar’s and served drinks, got felt up, and listened to bullshit until closing time.

  Her thoughts turned back to Horace. I’ll do anything short of kill him to keep him from the gangs and drugs. It’s gotten real bad real fast. There’s always been worry in families like mine and trouble for kids to get into, but when I was growing up it was mostly stealin and fightin and drinkin. Sure, there was drugs, but it was just weed and some smack that only the junkies, whores and pimps used. But now there’s crack and meth everywhere, people dealin, even the littlest ones are runners…nine, ten years old, and lots of guns. Kids dyin. Lots of kids dyin. I’ve got to keep my family clean.

  The fist crashed into his cheek and he felt pain, then numbness before the next blow caught him on the shoulder and sent him lurching backward, tripping over a shoe. The boot was about to explode against his ribs when he came awake, eyes wide and frantic. After the few seconds it took to be sure it was another dream, Horace felt the tension and fear slip from his body. Relaxed now, he was able to think clearly of the times his father had started with his mother, then turned on him since he was the oldest and biggest. But he was not the size of his father, or nearly as strong. When he tried to defend her, it had only been worse. Jumping out of bed, shaking his head to clear it, he kicked his brother awake on his way to the floor.

  “What’s a matter, baby, can’t you sleep?” His mother was collapsed into the chair, limp as a doll, a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging in front of her face, as Horace walked into the tiny living room, rubbing his eyes.

  Jennifer Stark-Baker heard the giggles and high pitched “what you meeeean” from the back of the room and didn’t have to look to know who it was. Striding purposefully to Horace’s desk, staring at him the whole time, she asked for the piece of folded notebook paper he was holding.

  Horace looked up with his best, smooth, cool-under-pressure smirk, “No Mam, I don’t think you wanna be seein this.”

  Jennifer slowly pulled the paper from his hand and unfolded it, never moving the focus of her eyes from his. The message was scrawled, there was a sign at the bottom, and she knew it was from Andy.

  What colr is the teachrs bush blond

  or black? Nise ass for a honky

  She stared at Horace, then at Andy across the room. “If you would learn to spell, Andy, I might take this as a compliment.”

  She walked back to the front of the room, dropped the note in the trash can and resumed writing on the board. Like a verse from the Old Testament compared to what I used to see in Chicago, and almost every day. But she knew there was something just as unsettling about this one, maybe more so. The bell rang, the room emptied, and she was alone.

  Jennifer sat at her desk in the stark quiet that rushes so suddenly into a classroom after the final per
iod ends. She gazed out through the window and her mind drifted. She was beginning her second year teaching at Central High. Jeffrey had been transferred to Charleston to become the comptroller of The Huntington Companies, a paint manufacturer and distributor. She was reluctant to accept the move at first...didn’t want to leave her job, but then she began to think of it as a new challenge. She had known from the day Jeffrey told her about it that it was too good a promotion for him to turn down. It was just a matter of the time it took to reprogram her thoughts to accept it, then look forward to it, and making it a challenge was the best way for her to do that.

  Jennifer thrived on challenges. When she received her masters degree from The University of Chicago she headed straight for the city system and asked to be placed in one of the real problem schools, where most of the kids lived in the projects. A week after she and Jeffrey were married she taught her first class at Jarrod. She knew she could make a difference, would understand and could motivate, was bright and perceptive and energetic. She knew she could change lives.

  And when she left she honestly felt that she had. But at the same time she knew the changes in those lives, and the number of lives changed, was not close to what she had expected, or hoped for. She had recognized her idealism, but not her innocence. It wasn’t that she had been shocked or couldn’t cope with the things she saw or had to deal with. She had read enough and asked enough questions to be aware. It was the sheer enormity of the problems and the conditions that caused them. There were so many broken families, so much abject poverty, crime, drugs, violence...utter hopelessness and resignation to failure, all born from the devastating self-image and insecurities associated with a childhood without love, caring, nurturing and dreams. Positive role models were almost nonexistent. The kids had no intellectual concept of promise. Their visions were as dark and narrow as if they were trapped in a cave. Lacking any sense of confidence they could compete in the mysteries of mainstream society, they competed in their own. And finding self assurance in this alternative, many of them competed successfully and rose quickly through the ranks.