CHAPTER TEN

"I can say it no better than the bumper stickers on thousands of
cars across this great country of ours.
‘America: Love it or leave it.'"
Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Ground Zero

"Free speech guarantees the right of each and every one of us
to say what he thinks and feels. Its flip-side carries an obligation
to listen when someone else is talking."
Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

After he'd hung up the phone, Hal fell back into his overstuffed leather chair. He examined the small tears in its arm, twirling the loose stitching around his index finger. How could those people cheer so hard for that poppycock? We've faced harder economic times before. Course, we didn't go into them having so much or being so spoiled. Trouble abroad? When wasn't there? The heady days of America's post-World War II power had to end sooner or later. Britain was eclipsed, but it survived. France has been eclipsed; well, it is France—they still think they’re a world superpower, but hey, they’ve survived. He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts on anything in particular. He wanted to just sit in the dark and take in the silence around him. Parsons was still talking but the drivel was winding up. Down to the “I need your support to make it happen” part. He turned off the television and sat back down.

But he'd have to go to Susan's. The need to make another excuse about work awaiting him at the office. He was startled by a sudden noise coming from his back yard. The trash can? He walked to the back wall and flipped the light switch. He pushed the slats of the blinds apart slightly and looked toward the alley. His garbage can was on its side, white plastic bags lying on the ground around it. It looked like a couple of the bags were torn open; blasted neighborhood dogs probably smelled some food. The city had ordinances to keep this from happening. Oh well, fodder for another editorial. He'd straighten out the mess in the morning.

He turned off the light, checked the lock on the back door, picked up his slippers and walked toward his bedroom. Ruthie was propped up on a couple of pillows reading Parsons' book. She opened her mouth to make a comment on the passage she had just read, but something in his expression stopped her. She had heard Parsons’ speech through the open door of the study. She heard Hal's groans and snorts. How could he live here so long and not be more in tune with things?

He saw what she was reading and stopped himself from rolling his eyes. She asked what he thought of the speech and he gave her his opinion: he rolled his eyes. He asked how the book was going; he could tell by her tone she was genuinely impressed with what she was reading though it dawned on him after she had answered that he had not heard a word she said. It could have been her face in the audience, cheering and jumping up and down. No, her knees wouldn't allow that. Oh well.

"Not any later than it is, guess I'll go over to the office, start the editorial for tomorrow's edition." Did she really believe these stories? She never asked why he couldn't work on the computer in his study. "Shouldn't be too late. Just want to get the words on paper while they’re still on my mind." Why couldn't she see through Parsons' promises? "Just a few words on how we're willing to throw democracy away. The rantings of a would-be dictator. Nothing major."
Ruthie managed a smile. Hal walked over to the bed, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. "Don't read that stuff all night. I won't be long."

He put on his shoes and grabbed his jacket. He clicked the remote and the garage door squeaked as the chain pulled it upward. The garage was behind the house; it was his habit not to turn on his headlights until he got to the street. It dawned on him that this gave him the opportunity to see people in front of his house before they could see him at the very same time he saw a strange car parked on the opposite side of the street. Was it the same car he had seen in front of his office the night of his brother's phone call? He turned on his headlights and hit the high beam. Was that someone in the front seat that quickly ducked? He stared but saw no one. He sat there for a few minutes, the car directly in front of him illuminated by his halogen headlamps. No movement inside. Maybe it was his imagination. The car looked to be a dark blue 2014 or 2015 Chevy. Guess the neighbor finally got his kid the car he was angling for. He clicked off the high beam and turned his car onto the street and toward Susan's.

He drove south, passing the turn to his office. He always drove more carefully when he would visit Susan; no reason to tempt the fates with a ticket he got at the wrong time and in the wrong place. But he drove even more slowly than usual tonight. There were only a few cars on the road; Carlsbad seemed smaller, older, unconnected to the place in which he had grown up. He remembered the unrecognized car on his street and glanced at his rearview mirror. No, no one following. Would a Parsons victory really be that bad? Would he really destroy democracy to save it? He remembered hearing someone talking about an acquaintance who told his wife he wanted a divorce to save his marriage. Are we collectively divorcing ourselves from democracy to save it? Can we be millions of crazies like that guy? No, surely not. After all, Congress and the courts would stand in Parsons’ way. Wouldn’t they?

He directed his car up the narrow gravel road and into Susan’s driveway. As usual, the porch light was off. The key to Susan’s front door was on his keychain. After fumbling a moment to find it, and before he could extend it forward completely into the lock, Susan opened the door. Her front room was well lit, completely unlike the blocks of homes and stores he had passed getting there. She closed and locked the door behind him. He studied her before they embraced. She looked tired, or maybe it was confused. A quick buss on her forehead. She looked up at him, pulled away, reached for his hand and led him into her living room. Uh-oh.

They sat together on the sofa with the southwest fabric; she sat on brown desert sand while he sat on a green prickly pear. Susan spoke first, asking him what he thought of Parsons’ speech.
“I hate to say it, but it sure seemed effective. He’s going to piss a lot of people off, but he definitely appeals to too many others out there. I’m not sure how he can be so anti- so many people and religions and all, but he has a commanding lead in the polls. It’s just strange.” He kept his eyes on her as he spoke. He knew he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

“He’ll tear the country apart, you know.” Her words seemed measured; she spoke slowly, looking at him but perhaps seeing something more distant. “You know he’ll have a huge majority in both houses. He’ll find a way to make himself dictator.” She sighed heavily.

“You’re overstating. All he’ll do is pass a couple of laws that allow him to check your email, see what you’re reading, take Howard Stern off the radio. They’ll use the IRS to hound a few people, but you’re worried over nothing. We have a 200 year history of democracy. Not even the militia zanies want to trash that.” Well, maybe not. “You’re too worried. Dictator? Won’t happen here.”

“No, Hal, it can happen here. I’m afraid it really will happen here.”

There was silence as she stared at her feet. She slowly wiggled her toes and sighed, turned to him, began to stand up, and then fell back onto the sofa, slouched in a most unladylike posture. “I’ve decided to go away for a year or two.”

CHAPTER NINE

“There have been good and bad leaders all through history. Men like Caesar,

Washington, Churchill, DeGaulle, Lenin, and Stalin—for better or for

worse, they all showed how strong leadership can transform a

society and lead it in a direction that oftentimes, only they

themselves had foreseen.”

Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Ground Zero

“Democracy in this country cannot be maintained when the top 20%

of its inhabitants control 85% of its wealth. So many of our great

scientists, inventors, educators, business leaders and politicians

have percolated up through the middle class that the disappearance

of that class will leave a vacuum from which no good can come.

Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

“Davy, Davy Crockett the man who don't know fear.
He went off to Congress and served a spell
Fixin' up the government and laws as well.
Took over Washington, I heard tell,
And patched up the crack in the Liberty Bell.

Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the wild frontier.”

He couldn’t get the song out of his head. Especially the “king of the wild frontier” part. He’d been a Crockett fan ever since his parents had bought him the song on a bright yellow Disney vinyl record. Davy, king of the wild frontier. When he was President, he’d see to it that he, too, had a suitable phrase after his name. Samuel, king of the American continent. Samuel Parsons, the man to whom all praise is due.

Oh well, there’d be time for that later. He poured another scotch and soda (three cubes of ice, three jiggers of scotch, and a small splash of soda) and threw his slippered feet onto the coffee table with a muffled thud. You’d think the Waldorf would have much fancier furniture. The heir to Crockett’s legacy deserves as much.

He fancied himself an authority on the frontier figure. He’d read two or three books on his hero; no need reading more, he reasoned: why confuse yourself? Anyway, he knew what he needed to know. Crockett was elected to congress in 1827. He was defeated in 1830. Parsons knew why. He tried to play up to the Washingtonian know-it-alls. Of course, it was pre-ordained that no matter how hard he tried, he would remain the backwoods hick in the coonskin cap. But he lost his base. Became too citified for his hick voters.

He wouldn’t make that mistake. He knew his base. The disenchanted, the dispossessed, the disillusioned. Hell, the dissed. The average Joe and Jim and Jane and Jen who had no voice in Washington, had no control of their futures. Maybe they don’t dress as well. Maybe they don’t read as well. Maybe they didn’t know how to properly hold a fork at a dinner party. Who the hell cares? They all do one thing that puts them on equal footing with any of the landed aristocracy.

They vote. And Samuel Parsons knew there were a helluva lot more of them than all the DuPonts, Rockefellers, Carnegies, Hiltons and Kennedys put together. And that gave a man of the people a helluva lot more sway than some big city liberal rich guy.

Yep, he’d drink to that. He threw back the last of his scotch and poured another. The Waldorf Astoria—whoda thunk it back in the day when he was mayor of Post? The Waldorf off Central Park in New York City. What did the New York Times call him? “An inveterate political buffoon.” At first, he thought the Times meant he had no backbone. Buffoon. How many f’s are there in buffoon; one, two? It didn’t matter. A few more months and he’d more than f-up the Times, the Chronicles, the Reporters, and all the daily rags that had made fun of him all these years. Hitler did it. Mussolini did it. He’d do it, too, but only for all the right reasons.

It’s good to be king. He smiled.

His speech, given a few days before, had gone over well. Of course, there were the inevitable complaints from the blacks, the browns, the yellows, the Jews, the Moslems, the losers. Didn’t matter. They were never going to vote for him anyway. The common man was behind him. Everyone from Sarah Palin to Rush to Glenn said so. Pat Robertson was ready to anoint him. David Duke promised him the south. Militia groups across the west were parading for him. And Joe and Jim and Jane and Jen were all blogging their little hearts out praying he would be the next President.

I’ve seen Hillary’s numbers, he thought. Your prayers will soon be answered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“To me, Dirty Harry is a good role model. There was a man who didn’t

care about rules when he enforced the law. He knew who the bad

guys were, and he went after them. It’s too bad, in this age of

political correctness, that our leaders in Washington can’t

do the same.”

-Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Ground Zero

“In the eyes of the law, all men should be treated equally, none should

should be exempt from its reach. If Lady Justice were to remove her

blindfold, it should only be to see that justice and law are

completely synonymous.”

Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

The most-listened to radio station in Carlsbad was KRAP. Called K-Rap by its fans, it was simply called krap by Hal. Its musical offerings were a far cry from the songs of the late sixties Hal used to tune into late at night when his transistor AM radio could pick up the weak signal of KOMA from far off Oklahoma City. He couldn’t understand the local white redneck kids—the offspring of ranchers and farmers, of doctors and lawyers, of teachers and shopkeepers—who embraced rap’s lines of discontent. Somehow, some way, all these kids took the rhymes of black anger and rage and skewed them, made them their own. The Eminem kids, their baseball caps worn askew on the heads, the waists of their pants hanging halfway down their butts, their concerns not where their next meals were coming from but who was going to pick up the carry-out; most of them closet racists acting like black wannabees.

When did “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” become “Face Down, Ass Up” and “Love In The Mouth”? How did “Born To Be Wild” evolve into “Fuck The Police?” Wasn’t the jump from rock ‘n’ roll to gansta rap greater than the jump from Sinatra to Elvis?

Damn straight it was, Hal thought. Wonder if the Vanilla Icers ever noticed Ice T went from gangsta to a recurring role as a cop in Law & Order?

Like everyone else in Carlsbad, Hal was barraged with advertisements promising KRAP would carry every word of the Samuel Parsons media event. Not that he was afraid of missing it. Area television stations were airing it. Dozens of internet sites were streaming it. More than a few teachers wanted it to be mandatory watching for the kids in school. (Bet they were the same teachers that refused to give up school time for Obama’s 2009 speech to school kids when he preached the value of a good education, Hal thought.)

When the day of the speech came around, Hal was ready. He’d watch the speech on his television and listen to the audio simulcast in stereo on the radio through his speakers. Bet the bastard only broadcasts on the right channel. Dead silence from the left. It’d figure.

The speech was delivered from the LaMonde For President headquarters in Washington, DC. There were enough microphones set on the podium to suggest the whole world was listening. A loud and enthusiastic crowd filled the room to standing room only. The radio newscaster described General Kurt LaMonde’s spproach to the podium with the fervor generally reserved for that Hail Mary pass that saves a football game in its last few seconds. Hal had just returned to his study with a cold Ziegenbock beer when the familiar face reached the podium. He turned the stereo down as the screams of the crowd grew louder. When LaMonde put his hands up to quiet the crowd, they seemed to obey as if the scene were rehearsed. Hal turned the volume of the stereo up.

Fine man, great American, respected senator, yeah, yeah, yeah. Believes this. Believes that. Will do this for you. Will do that for you. Uh-huh. And what has he accomplished as senator so far? C’mon, answer me that. Rags to middle class (riches would be so un-American), hard working, never forgot his roots, will do as President what he did as senator (then Susan has nothing to worry about) . . . “Ladies and gentlemen here at Parsons headquarters, families at home in the United States and around the world, I present to you the man soon to win the Republican Party nomination for President; the man who will be elected President of our great country in November—Senator Samuel Parsons!”

Pandemonium seized the room. Confetti flew. People pushed toward the front. The noise of the audience seemed like it could drown out a jet engine. Hal hadn’t seen this kind of enthusiasm since the Beatles first appeared at Shea Stadium. Parsons seemed to be a god to these people. Many waved his book, A Rogue At Ground Zero, above their heads. Maybe if he could touch them, he could cure their craziness. He should have that power. Parsons reached the podium and shook hands with LaMonde. Hal had never appreciated how much shorter he was than the general. I always thought God would be a lot taller. Parsons grasp of the general’s hand seemed to Hal to last a second too long, like the hold of a man not quite sure of his surroundings and afraid to let go of that last hold of the familiar. He looked at his audience, back at LaMonde as he walked off the stage, and back at the audience again. He seemed to clear his throat, though Hal couldn’t hear anything other than the yells and cheers of the crowd. Parsons seemed content to let them go on cheering. He smiled, tentatively at first, then a full grin. He took in the crowd. He visibly became more confident, he didn’t seem to hold the podium quite so tightly, he no longer stood as erect. The crowd was his. He could say, he could do, whatever he wanted.

“Thank you, my friends, for that warm welcome.” He was still smiling as he looked back and forth at the crowd, even though his eyes never seemed to stray from the television camera. The cameras, too, focused on faces in the crowd; every one seemed to be in awe, the rapture imminent. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” More a statement than a question, it caused the crowd to erupt into cheers all over again. Finally, he began his speech.

“My friends, all of you who have worked so hard to help me, all of you who share my wish for a stronger America, and all of you who hear my voice, whether in this country or abroad, I want to thank you for the opportunity to talk with you today.” A pause as he turned a paper on the podium. “I expect to soon be given the Republican Party nomination for President . . .” The crowd roared before the second syllable of “President” had left his tongue. “For President of the United Sates of America. In November, I hope the good people to this country will follow through on that nomination and elect me President. And in January of next year, I expect to move into that White House down the street . . .” However he finished that sentence, Hal and everyone else in the world would never know for the cheers from the audience made all the earlier noise sound like practice. Hal scrambled to turn down the volume on his amplifier dial.

“What you see in front of you is what you vote for in November. I am a simple man and my plans for America are simple.” Simpleton, more likely. “Today, I want to share some of my thoughts and ideas with all of you. When you sign on the dotted line by pulling that voting booth lever in November, I want you to know what you’ve signed up for.” Cheers.

Suddenly the smile was gone. Parsons had the look of a teacher about to deliver a stern warning to his class. “We have endured eight years of inept direction—I can’t call it leadership—from the current administration. We are drowning under an administration that couldn't tread water in a puddle.” Cheers. Applause. Enough “mm-hmms” to make a gospel tent preacher proud. Hal threw a slipper at the television screen.

“My friends, look around you. In your homes, it’s harder to buy food for your table. It’s harder to pay your utilities bills. Why? Because this administration has allowed gasoline prices to go over five-dollars a gallon. The cost of bringing food to your town from our nation’s farms has increased five-fold over what it was a decade ago. The natural gas used to heat your homes in a five-year period could send your kid to a community college for four.

“And what happens when you can’t afford food for your table and heat in the winter? You get sick. And what do you do when you get sick? You go to the doctor. And then you know what? You wait in line. And wait and wait. And maybe die.” Catcalls. Anger. Down with the Democrats. “You wait in line because this administration’s health care initiative has decreased the level of healthcare to that of some third world country.” Roars of approval. You’ve got to be kidding me. Third world? “Or maybe you’re waiting in line because someone—he could be from Mexico, or Guatemala, or Colombia—got there a second before you did. And he’s taking a lot of time because he doesn’t speak English, because he’s not even a citizen, because he has a Medicaid card that lets him cut to the front of the line and get his poor broken fingernail cared for before you get treated for your heart attack!” Loud cries of “no, no” and more down with Obama chants. The second slipper hit the television.

“And who let this all happen?” Perhaps that was a rhetorical question, but the cries of the crowd gave away the presumed answer. Obama. Pelosi. Reid. The dead Kennedys.

“And that’s just at home. Look at your communities. Have crime rates been cut by this administration? Look at your states. Do they have the money to help solve your cities’ problems? Look at the federal government. We couldn’t even keep one little prison open in Cuba. So instead, we brought hundreds of terrorists into this country and put them into prisons where they mingle with American prisoners, and where it is very likely they will teach their terrorist ways to home-grown thieves and murderers." Loud groans. Hal reached for something else to throw at the television, but he couldn't see wasting a perfectly good half-filled bottle of beer. Hell, it wasn't his TV's fault.

“We’re at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. We have troops in Egypt, South Korea, and dozens of other countries. But are we safe? Shoe bombers, Christmas bombers, mosques in all major American cities, a country of armed druggies on our southern border, Christian values challenged in our courts . . . No, ladies and gentlemen, we are not safe. Our values are not safe. Our lives are not safe.” The audience was quiet. Parsons dramatically turned a page on the podium even though there were teleprompters in front of him.

“Which is why, my friends, I am happy you are giving me the opportunity to share with you my thoughts regarding what needs to be done to save our way of life. I have been in discussions with leaders of our party regarding our platform for the upcoming election. My recommendations to them are the recommendations I make to you today.

“My fellow Americans, extraordinary challenges face each and every one of you. These challenges face us when we are awake and when we sleep. They shadow us when we work, when we play, when we spend time with our families. Too often those in Washington offer us a short-term answer—window dressing to cover up a problem but never telling us how to end that problem which will still be there tomorrow, next month, and next year. Too often the politicos in Washington spend their time on their re-elections and not on their constituents. In other words, too often Washington politicians serve themselves and do not serve you . . .” The crowd erupted with cheers. Parsons let the cheering go on, then raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “The ugly truth is, your tax dollars are given to fat cat CEO’s of large corporations through government subsidies and bailouts and immoral contracts; then they give kickbacks to your so-called representatives in Washington. Washington has become a government of the dollar, for the dollar, and by the dollar.” Cheers again. He’s smooth. “As all of you know, I have limited my donations to one-hundred dollars a time from any and all who wish to fight alongside me to combat this problem. I am not beholden to corporations that are too big to fail. I am beholden only to the American people!” The cheers seemed to come in waves. $100 a time, people, can’t you read between the lines? Christ.

“Because your leaders have sold you out, both at home and abroad, we face threats to our well being we have never faced before. We must respond in ways we have never considered before.” Parsons’ pause was filled with cheers. Good God, he’s hired Stallone as his speechwriter. You’re the disease, I’m the cure. Wake up, people!

“Friends, fellow Americans, those who are listening to me in foreign lands, I have a ten-point program with which we can take back our country from those who wish to deny us our birthright. We must stand firm; we must stand together.

“I grew up with you, farmers, factory workers, store owners, guys working short shifts at Wal-Mart so they’re not eligible for overtime. Good people come from our small towns, people who are honest, sincere, and down-to-earth. People who love their country just like you and I love this country.” Cheers. Hal marveled at the hold Parsons had over the crowd. Damn if the crackpots don’t make the best speakers. “I’m not a permanent member of the Washington establishment. I’ll come and go, all dependent on what you, the voters, see fit.” Oooh, a say-it-ain’t-so-Joe moment. Give me a break. “But in a world of threats and dangers, I feel I—we—must all step forward and serve. To serve is not to organize. To serve is to get out there and do something. We do not need studies to understand the problem. We know the problems. We do not need political correctness to give us new words for problems; we need action to solve those problems, and if we step on a few toes, well, let them complain to Dr. Scholl.” Cheers. Nah, not even Stallone could write this tripe.

“Here then, my friends, are my Ten Tenets. They’re just my ideas, my suggestions for how to lift our ship of state and allow her to freely navigate the waters again. I have floated these ideas with those in sympathy with our cause, and all agree that we must act and act now. These tenets may change slightly with time, we may add a few more as times dictate, but friends, the time has come for action!” The cheers went on for what seemed like forever to Hal. He studies Parsons’ body language. He seemed completely at ease in front of the audience, the cameras, the world. Right now, that world was his oyster.

“One. The United States of America is a Christian nation.” Cheers, banners and “God Wants Samuel” signs waved wildly in the air. Oy vey. “I shall have Congress declare Christmas and Easter national holidays.” Cheering, louder and louder. Chants of “Samuel, Samuel, Samuel . . .” “We will take steps to insure that our schools, our courthouses, our city, county, state and Federal buildings all proudly display and promote our shared religious connections during all of the Easter and Christmas seasons. Our Jewish friends need not fear us, and with time we hope they will see fit to join us.

“As for others, we will tolerate no disrespect of our religious values. We will prohibit the building of any new mosque in the United States and its territories. As the Moslem world seems to have declared war on us, we will require all Moslems in this country to register with local boards and . . .” Hal could not hear the rest of the sentence over the cheering and applause. My God, are these people nuts? “Responsible historians cannot fault us for the internment of Japanese Americans on the west coast in World War II. Responsible Americans cannot fault us now for identifying potential enemies so that we may immediately act should any threat to our security arise.

“Two. If we are to again lead the world, it must be by example. We will therefore endeavor to improve family values in this country. Strong families will produce strong, healthy intelligent individuals. The government must recognize its obligation to see that American families hear the truth, not lies; see the light, not propaganda; breathe the air of freedom and not filth. I will therefore empower and instruct the Federal Communications Commission to more broadly examine, revise, and censor if necessary, all movies, television shows, books, internet postings, magazines and newspapers so that Americans hear only the truth, understand what is good about this great country of ours, and no longer question their true place in this dangerous world.”

Hal watched as cameras panned faces in the crowd. Not a single face seemed concerned that they were giving up their freedom in the name of freedom. Are they even listening? All were cheering, waving placards in the air, applauding. This wasn’t the backwater redneck crowd, these were women in tiaras, teens with Gucci and Coach bags slung over their shoulders, men in expensive black leather jackets, a few in tuxedos. Is Susan watching this? Canada. Freedom of the press. The Bill of Rights. Good God.

“Three. We must strengthen our borders. We can no longer allow illegal immigrants into this country. American jobs for American workers!” Again, the crowd went ballistic. Parsons continued once the noise began to die down, “I will instruct our Border Patrol to shoot on sight any foreigner illegally entering this county after one warning to turn around and leave. I will see that amnesty is granted to any state militia member involved in any kind of incident that occurs while protecting the rightful borders of this country.” You’re giving the keys to the asylum to the patients.

“Four. We are in a deep recession. We do not have enough jobs for ourselves. Preventing illegal immigration is only one step in keeping American jobs for Americans. We will also severely limit legal immigration from Central and South America, Asia, and Eastern Europe. Until we have full employment at home, we will not give our jobs to Johnny-Come-Latelys who can’t find jobs in their own countries.” And the Ohio and Michigan electoral votes go to . . .

Parsons looked at his audience. He paused and seemed to be ignoring his prepared notes. “And here is another thought that I’m sure is on the minds of many of you. We are, ladies and gentlemen, I say it again, in a deep recession. We cannot afford to meet the requirements of American taxpayers in America. Why do we continue to give billions of dollars to people around the world who neither care nor respect us? A Parsons administration will severely slash foreign aid. We will give American dollars to the Americans who need it!” While the audience cheered loudly, Parsons found his place and returned to his scripted speech.

“Five. Until we have full employment in this country, we must protect our workers not only from foreigners who covet their jobs, but from the corporations that exploit them.” You say that and you’re a poplulist. I say that and I’m a Communist. Damn. “My administration will force oil producing companies to bring gasoline prices down below one-dollar a gallon.” Maelstrom. That’s the word for that audience. There will be no more multi-million dollar executive bonuses while the minimum hourly wage in this country buys no more than one gallon of gas and a hot dog. We will force Middle East oil producers to re-invest our money in our country and not with terrorist groups. We will bring prices down so that each and every one of you can have more.” It’s another reality show with no basis in reality. I’ve invited Huey Long, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde to dinner and what do I do now?

“Six. Friends, others have talked about it. We will do it. We will force tax reform onto Congress. There will be no more income tax in this country!” Hal scrambled to turn down the volume again as the applause from the crowd rattled a small vase set on a shelf near his right speaker.

“Seven. We will accomplish new methods of judicial review. No longer will judges who mollycoddle criminals be allowed to keep their benches. If prosecutors can’t give us the convictions we want, if judges can’t hand down the punishments that criminals deserve, they will be replaced!” Hal’s conversation with his brother played back in his mind.

“Eight. Now, I know this will offend liberals in my audience.” Like you haven’t already? “But we can create jobs in this country, so this brings me to my eighth point. We will eliminate welfare to all but those who cannot work because they are invalids.” Samuel! Samuel! Samuel! “Your neighbor doesn’t want to work? Okay, he doesn’t have to work. And you and I don’t have to work to support him. If we cut off his welfare check, we will have more money left for programs to serve the people paying the taxes. And you know what? The liberals say that this poor, non-working Joe will starve. But you and I know that he’s like the family pet—if you change the food, he may not eat it for a few days, but soon enough, when he’s hungry enough, he’ll come around. Soon enough, when he’s hungry enough, your neighbor will get a job.” What are these people thinking? Where are their minds?

“Nine. We will force our schools and universities to teach American youth American values. Teachers and professors who espouse anti-American ideas will be released. Core curricula will be evaluated by a strengthened Department of Education. Taxpayer dollars will not allow kids to float through college taking basket weaving classes, learning dead languages they can’t speak to anyone, or attending divisive courses like Black history, Latino history, or women’s history. We are all Americans; our children will all learn American history!” Predictable cheering again. Parsons had a smug look on his face. “University students in California made fun of Ronald Regan when he wanted reform some four decades ago. Today those students have grown up, they have their own children in college, and they have seen the errors of their ways.

“Ten. I will strengthen the American military.” Again the crowd went wild. Cries of “LaMonde, LaMonde, LaMonde” mingled with the repetition of the name “Parsons.” We will not be threatened by failed Communist societies like China and Russia. We will not be held at bay by Taliban or Moslem insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan. We will fight our enemies wherever they go; we will not be held accountable by some puppet government in Pakistan. We will tell Ahmadinejad just what he can do with his whining and his threats. We will no longer tolerate violence crossing the border from Mexico.

“We have the strongest military in the world. We have the most virtuous outlook of any country in the history of the world. We will no longer be held back in helping rid the world of its dictators and despots. We beat the pirates of Tripoli, we defeated the Central and the Axis powers, we kicked Saddam Hussein out of power, we hold the North Korean regime to the thirty-eighth parallel. We can and we will beat the Taliban. We will no longer hold back. General LaMonde had advocated the use of all the weapons we control to defeat these people. Why should we continue to fight with one hand tied behind our back?” Hal was sure that the loud applause that greeted Parsons’ words in his election headquarters were matched only by the collective sighs and gasps of the rest of the world.

His cell phone rang. “Can you talk?” It was Susan. Her voice seemed to quiver slightly. “Ruthie’s in the other room. It’s okay.”

“Are you watching the speech?” she asked.

“Yes.” He wanted to say more but honestly didn’t know what to add.

“He’s a fucking fanatic.” Yeah, I guess I could have said that. “Hillary’s crowds don’t have the enthusiasm his do. He’ll be elected, you know. If he has his way, freedom of the press—my God, freedom period. It’s gone. He’ll find a way to steamroll Congress. Mitchell Palmer will look like Miss Manners next to this guy.”

Hal sighed. He couldn’t tell Susan anything she wasn’t already thinking. He didn’t want to point out the latest tracking polls he’d reviewed; Parsons’ lead over Hillary was widening. “Yeah, I guess the Alien and Sedition Act will be nothing compared to what’s coming.”

“Fuck. President Joe McCarthy. What’s happened to this country?’

I wish I knew. Or more correctly, I wish I knew what I could do about it.

“Please come by.”

“I’ll check on Ruthie after Parsons is done and come over after she goes to bed.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I don’t claim to be a well educated man. I’m no lawyer or doctor. But I do

think I’ve got a fair amount of common sense. I don’t wrestle with big

equations and mounds of papers in making up my mind on issues. I get

my answers the same way my grand-daddy did, with a little bit of

thought and a lot of heart. And when those men in their three-piece

suits and their PhD’s do all their thinking, all their examinations

and computer simulations and then come up with the same idea I’ve

already got—well, I feel really proud.

Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Zero Hour

“Those of us in the American West understand fully that the days of shooting

from the hip are over. The attitude that gave us such things as the

Lincoln County War and gunfights at high noon has been

supplanted by the law of civilization. We have learned to

amicably air our differences in a peaceful and legal manner.”

Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

Hal was in his office even earlier than usual the morning following General LaMonde’s speech. He had made his obligatory good-byes and left the building as quickly as he could. When he said under his breath that the man was a lunatic, he was talking to himself more than to Ruthie, but she heard him and thought he was making an attempt at some kind of conversation. He’s no lunatic, he’s a committed American, she had said. An American who should be committed, he thought to himself. To an asylum. He had a few more words with Ruth on the way home. She went to bed and he retired to his recliner. He slept fitfully, his slumber punctuated by bad dreams.

LaMonde in storm trooper uniform followed by the faces he knew from Fox News, all goose stepping to a melody he couldn’t identify. Behind them marched hundreds of young children, all in school uniforms, all with closely cropped hair. All marching forward, forward. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere but they marched ever forward.

Hillary gesticulating wildly on his television screen, but there was no sound. He kept punching his remote. A red danger light went off every time he pressed the damned button. But no sound. She seemed to be calling, pleading, cajoling. What was she saying? He moved to the television and placed his right ear to the screen. Nothing. He looked at the screen again. Hillary’s eyes closed and there was suddenly static. But still no sound.

Susan telling him they must move. Where, he had asked, but he couldn’t hear her reply. There was an immediacy in her demand, like she knew something awful was about to happen. Sounds far away, he could just barely make them out. What were they? Footsteps? They seemed to grow louder. And louder. Thousands of footsteps. He looked out the window. Children marching. Banners unfurled and blowing in the wind. He couldn’t make out what they said. Three-legged dogs chasing the marchers.

Christ, I’m lucky I slept at all, he thought to himself.

He signed off on the article about LaMonde’s speech. He didn’t agree with his reporter at all, but what the hell, he’d say what he had to say in his editorial. Advertising was a little off, nothing to worry about. Another rabbi attacked in Princeton; one witness, a homeless man, said he saw a man in black running away, that someone dressed like that had hassled him earlier in the day. Twelve more people murdered in Juarez. A few dozen people arrested in riots in Beijing. Another cop shot in a Seattle coffee shop. A man sentenced to the electric chair for the rape and brutal murder of his best friend’s grandmother; the lawyer who represented him was pinned down outside the courtroom by a crowd that then covered him with feces. Apparently, a couple cops watched from down the block and made no effort to interfere.

Another typical day at the races.

By the time Frank and Allen sauntered into his office at 4:30, he’d already finished the better part of a six pack.

“And the flavor of the week is . . .?” Allen asked.

“Tsing Tsao.”

“Good Lord,” Frank said. “Now even the beer is made in China? What the hell?”

“Hey, a little respect for your future masters,” Allen barked. Hal smiled.

Hal pulled two green bottles out of the fridge and removed the tops. Frank and Allen took their bottles and the three of them clinked the bottles together. “To better days,” Hal toasted. “To General LaMonde,” replied Frank. “May you live long and kiss my ass every morning,” Allen retorted. They each took a swig from their bottle. “Not bad,” said Frank. Out of the corner of his eye, Hal saw a blonde figure approaching his door.

“Gentlemen,” she said as she tapped her knuckles on the open door. “Is this a private party or is the bar open?” Susan paused to gauge Hal’s reaction. “I had to put an ad in about a change in clinic hours, so I thought I’d pop in and say ‘hi’,” she explained.

“C’mon in, Doc,” said Frank. “Grab a beer from Hal and you can sit by me.” Frank pulled the only other chair in the room next to his. Susan took the beer from Hal, smiled demurely and sat next to Frank. “You know, Sue,” Frank said slowly once Susan had wiggled comfortably into her chair, “they say behind every great man is a great woman.”
“Yeah, and they say behind every great woman is a great behind. Frank, you’re not still coming on to me, are you?” Susan fluttered her eyelashes as she finished her admonition.

“Would it get me anywhere?”

“Absolutely nowhere. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Oh, she went to some kinda meeting the church was having to raise money for the Parsons campaign. Guess I’m on my own for dinner. Hey, did you see the General’s speech last night?”

Susan smiled. “Me go to that fascist lovefest? No, I had more important things to do. I spent the night watching Dick Van Dyke reruns.”

Allen smiled. He knew Frank thought Susan was a lesbian. “So’d you guys see Pat Robertson called Obama the antichrist yesterday?” he asked while handing Hal his empty bottle in exchange for a fresh one.

“Well, heck, he’s already damned the gays and everybody in New Orleans, Haiti, and the entire Moslem world,” Hal said. “Who else was left to damn?”

“How old is that guy now?” asked Frank. “He must be at least 90.”

“You know,” Susan said in a soft voice as if she was sharing a secret, “the only reason he’s even still alive is that God doesn’t want him in his neighborhood any more than we want him in ours.” Frank looked at her. She grinned. Hal and Allen snickered. Frank groaned. “I don’t know that it matters what Robertson says,” Allen said, suddenly serious. “We all know the election already belongs to Parsons.”

“The only question is who he’s going to pick for his running mate,” Susan said. She was examining her beer bottle, seemingly deep in thought.

“He’s got a big speech scheduled in two days,” Hal said. “Maybe he’ll give some indication which way he’s leaning, but it’s a little early for that. You know, guys, my money’s on LaMonde. With all the brouhaha about how dangerous the world is, what better way to make your point than to put a military man on the ticket? He doesn’t bring onboard any particular state, but there’s a lot of support for LaMonde’s stand on nuking the Taliban. He could be a swing factor across the board. As if the swing was even necessary.”

“It’s like Parsons is the illegitimate love child of Nixon and Rove,” Allen said. “He’s full of spit and fire and in-your-face with the what-the-hell you’re doing wrong. But he’s put forth no alternative suggestions.”

“I dunno. Nuking the diaper heads sounds good to me,” Frank said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Hal.

“Well, yeah, a little. But there are a helluva lot of people out there who like that idea and besides, Holder said a few years ago we’d never take bin Laden alive. LaMonde’s a real force in the boonies.”

“You know,” Hal was speaking again, “I’m no Hillary fan.” He turned to Susan. “And she doesn’t have a great behind, either. And I’m definitely no Parsons fan. But I’ve followed every election since Johnson in ’64, and I think each one is a little seedier than the one before. But even so, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the grass roots . . . I don’t know. It’s more than discontent and unhappiness. Disgust? Hate? You know, as recently as when Bush Junior was in office, people would say whether or not you voted for him, he’s your President and he deserves your respect. They don’t say that with Obama in the Oval Office. Suddenly he’s your President, not mine. He’s not deserving of praise or respect or even the time of day. He’s different. He’s . . .”

“Black?” Susan offered.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Liberal used to mean pinheaded or naïve or Communist. Now it’s used to mean something sinister, something evil. Ask Rush whether he’d want to be known as a mother humper or a liberal, and he’ll pick mother humper every time. I don’t know. It’s like a scarlet ‘L’ they want to burn on your forehead. There’s just no civility.”

“I think I’m more scared than most people around here,” Susan said after a few moments silence. “I’ve been thinking about selling some property, becoming a bit more fluid. I’m truly worried about what Sam Parsons will do to this country.”

Hal sat upright. Canada. Anywhere but here. That’s what she’d said in his dream last night when she pleaded with him to move. Could she really be thinking that? Had she said something to him about this before and he missed it? No, he was sure she hadn’t. When the hell were Allen and Frank leaving so he could ask her?

One beer and two Hillary jokes later, Allen stood up to leave. Frank grabbed his jacket and gave Susan his best you-don’t-know-what-you’re-missing look and followed Allen out the door. Susan said her good-byes and left Hal’s office with them, though not before she nodded to Hal without being noticed, a sign that she would be home later that evening if he wanted to come by. Hal had stood up as they were all leaving, then he fell back into his chair and stared blankly at the wall, not focusing on anything in particular. When was the last time they’d discussed anything besides politics? He sighed, thought he’d have another beer and then thought better of it, wondered whether Ruth would even really notice when he’d say he’d have to come back to the office after dinner, and sighed again. He got up, pulled his windbreaker off the back of his chair and hit the light switch as he walked through the door.

The phone rang. He pivoted, turned the light back on and returned to his desk.

“Hey, Fuckwad, how ya doin’?” asked the voice at the other end. Fuckwad always sounded like the name of a jihadist when pronounced by his brother.

“Uh-oh, it’s the Feds,” Hal said smiling.

David was two years younger than Hal and had become the attorney Hal and his father always wanted to be themselves. For awhile, he had gone back and forth between private law and various district attorney positions, but he had been tapped to be a federal prosecutor in 2009 when the Democrats returned to the White House. He lived in Aurora, a suburb of Denver, and seemed quite happy with his single life and the freedom it held. Denver was close enough to visit on major holidays, but far enough away that weekend trips were impractical. The two brothers were close, but most of their contact these days consisted of tasteless jokes they forwarded to each other on the Internet. Phone calls weren’t frequent, but when they did happen, Hal always felt a warmth that he missed with his current family situation.

“Yeah, the Fed. Fed up, more likely.” Hal reached around, opened the refrigerator door, and popped open another beer. He could tell David wanted to talk. He got the obligatory small stuff out of the way. David was dating a cute brunette, her three kids were royal pains in the ass, an opposing attorney had come on to him, he wasn’t making enough money for the headaches he had. Then, cut to the chase.

“Look, Big Brother, I know this sounds dopey, but I’ve got to tell you, off the record, that I’m seeing a crapload of stuff that scares the shit out of me.” There was a pause; like in those movies, Hal thought, where the character everyone wrongly thinks is crazy pauses before telling the psychiatrist some deep dark secret. “The Parsons people have been here in force. The sonofabitch isn’t even nominated yet, let alone elected, and he’s got his people on the ground in our office wanting records, telephone conversations, all sorts of stuff. And not on the bad guys. On us. It’s happening in all sorts of federal offices all over the country.

“They’re sounding us out—what would we do if this law or that one was overturned or ignored. Do we feel guilty prisoners are entitled to all their rights? It’s like if they’re charged, they’re guilty. No mistakes. No trials. Slam, bam, you’re in prison, man. They’re like fucking Nazis or something.

“We’ve sent them packing every time they’ve shown up. But I hear some federal marshals and prosecutors and cooperating fully. I’ve heard even county and city attorneys have been visited. Mind you, none of this is sanctioned by the powers that still be.

“I’ve never seen organizing on a scale like this. I know these guys are the presumptive movers and shakers after January, but they’re not even waiting until November to hog in.”

Hal was quiet. Canada. He wasn’t sure where this was going. Away. Far away.

“Bro, these guys are going to win in November and they’re going to turn our world upside down. I’m just giving you a thumbs up. You might tone down that liberal rhetoric of yours and start saying nice things about King Samuel. These guys are likely to have a long memory. You don’t need to get in their way. After all, I may have to come to you for a job. You need to be there.”

“Surely it’s not that bad. We go through this pendulum swing every election. We bounce back every time.”

“Hal, I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s different this time. Listen, did you see that some rabbi got smacked royally a few blocks from my place in Aurora? We had the son of a bitch who nailed him. The fucking prick is the son of a Republican state congressman. The Parsons people told us hands off, leave him alone, anyone who fucks with him gets fucked by Washington after the inauguration. I’m going to bust him anyway, but I feel like I’m taking my career and flushing it down the toilet. One of us needs to stay above the toilet water line. It should be you. Parsons’ people will make Ashcroft look like Alan Dershowitz.”

Hal wasn’t sure what to say. It was one thing for him to tell Frank and Allen how dangerous Samuel Parsons was, but it was another to hear it himself, from someone he considered “in the know.” He swung his chair around and stared out the window. Odd. No one was left in the office but him, and the other buildings on the street would have emptied out two hours ago. What was that guy doing in the car parked across from his office? He was just sitting there, in the driver’s seat, dome light off, smoking a cigarette, looking at the newspaper building. Hal lowered the light in his office and looked at the man who seemed to be looking at him. He was just sitting there. Waiting.

CHAPTER SIX

“My first love was Lady Liberty. In paintings and on coins, she stood in

that flowing white dress, arms outstretched, offering new hope to

people in places like western Europe when their hopes were gone.

No woman alive can match that angel of opportunity and hope.

That I have remained single and dedicated my life to her service

are testaments to my awe of her.”

Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Zero Hour

“Too often in this country, the public careers of great men have

been destroyed by their private sexual appetites.”

Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

It always felt a little strange. Though Hal had known Susan Davis for only six years, he felt he had known her forever. Susan was, in so many ways, the way Hal felt himself to be—a fish out of water. In an overwhelmingly conservative environment, she was unabashedly liberal. In an area forming the buckle to the Bible Belt, where pro-life, pro-capital punishment ministers gave their sermons twice a week, Susan was pro-abortion and anti-capital punishment. In a town where parents still dressed their children up in Sunday finery as a sign of their respect for God and His apostles, Susan regularly made jokes about “JC and the Boys” and “god” being the name of her dyslexic dog. In a place where women were expected to be barefoot, pregnant, and if not down on the farm, at least quiet and respectful, she was the town’s go-to physician in addition to being a successful artist, black belt in karate, and regular contributor to a number of women’s magazines. Living in a town where families planned their vacations around Sea World and Six Flags Over Texas, Susan took month-long sabbaticals to provide free medical care in places like Haiti, India, and Nepal. At forty-two years old, some twenty-two years younger than Hal, she could not quite understand why the men she went out with never called for a second date or why she never seemed to have much in common with her associates and neighbors.

This was all quite obvious, of course, to Hal, who always found it cute when Susan referred to him as “Chief” of the Carlsbad Constant Anguish. It took him months to realize that “Chief” was Jerry Siegel’s nickname for Perry White, editor of The Daily Planet.

He first met Susan in 2010 when the Current Argus was doing an extended article on the free health clinic she had just opened. When his reporter reported she couldn’t make the interview, Hal went to Susan’s office himself. Her office seemed sparse; dozens of medical books and journals, of course, but only a single framed diploma hanging on the wall. In a corner of the room, he noticed a pile of certificates and awards gathering dust, belying her achievements. He found himself taken with Susan’s openness and easy going personality; her outspokenness, so off-putting to others, was immediately attractive to him.

They soon found they had much in common. Their short chats when they would see each other around town gave way to long discussions which gave way to happy hour cocktails, which soon freed them to admit their mutual affection. When Susan so nonchalantly asked him if he wanted to “try a tryst,” Hal thought she was asking him to sample a new cracker. But try he did, and soon the two of them found they could schedule a few hours alone together every week.

It helped that Susan lived on a ranch a few miles southeast of Carlsbad. There would be no prying eyes. Both understood the implication their affair had on their professions and standing in the community if they were caught. Hal knew how crushed Ruthie would be if she knew, but their bedroom activities had dwindled to a few tepid sessions a year, and those seemed more like biological obligations than true lovemaking. As for his daughter, Larissa, he always felt she’d likely take a comme ci comme ça attitude to their affair. And it was she, he thought, who was the only person that even suspected his indiscretion; she seemed to divine from the sideways glance or the carefully modulated tone of voice that Susan and Hal shared that something concealed was going on.

The long-dreaded conversation with Larissa came a few months into his affair. He knew something was up when she showed up unannounced at his office, plopped down into a slouch on the chair usually occupied by Frank Greene and offered to share a beer with him. She came out and asked about his relationship with Susan; actually, he realized, she was not asking, she was telling. She had no dates, no times, no places—but she had the knowledge of his affair. At thirty-six years old (that sinking feeling every time he realized how close she was to Susan’s age), she had long ago abandoned her childhood construct of mommy, daddy, and the perfect home. Looking a dozen years younger than her true age, she had gone through a number of lovers; Hal felt she was judging (more analyzing) his affair as an equal rather than a daughter.

She understood the distance that had grown between her parents. She knew her father often fell asleep in the recliner in his study rather than go to his bed. She heard the superficial conversations, watched the evolution as “love you” said as a good-bye became “see you.” Larissa jokingly told her father she defined relations sexually in three stages. The first stage, loving sex, was the nightly roll in the hay in which both partners vied to make the other feel better. The second stage was bored sex, where the roll in the hay occurred once in awhile and the attitude was get in, get out, and get away. The third stage was hall sex, when you and your partner passed in the hall and would say “fuck you” to each other.

Hal grimaced every time he heard his daughter use the F-bomb, but Larissa had ignored his face and went on to say she saw her parents as stalled between the second and third stages—unable to do anything about the second and too proper to fall into the third. She did not judge; she neither condemned nor approved his relationship with Susan, she simply understood it was the way things were. She wouldn’t tell Ruthie, but she didn’t want to be around when her mother found out.

Neither do I, thought Hal with a sigh. Neither do I.

CHAPTER FIVE

“General LaMonde is, in my mind, the greatest military mind in our country
today. He is a worthy successor to the legends of so many earlier
great men, men like George Patton and Douglas MacArthur.”
Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Zero Hour

“I have seen the future, and it is filled with people making the
mistakes of the past.”
Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

Lyceum lectures were usually held at the middle school auditorium, a structure more than large enough to house the audiences that would attend the high falootin’ speakers the group would generally bring to town. The large demand for tickets to the LaMonde talk required it be moved to the Desert Fiesta, a large pre-fab structure built on the outskirts of town on the highway to El Paso. The building had been intended to do for Carlsbad what Palo Duro Canyon had done for Canyon, Texas—provide a venue for a song and dance production (in Canyon’s case, a play appropriately entitled Texas) that would keep tourists and their dollars in town for an extra night. It proved to be a popular idea with everyone but the tourists, and the venture closed its doors its first summer in production, leaving a building which had eventually housed city storage, an occasional “Up With People” production, and most recently, a bedrock Christian church. It was the largest meeting place in Carlsbad, and tonight it was standing room only.
Hal had seen no reason to arrive too early, knowing he held reserved seats in the front row. But he did not anticipate the draw that General LaMonde would have, and after circling the parking lot twice in a futile effort to find a parking place, drove his Camaro back down the road a half mile before pulling in between two white pick-ups. He locked the car doors and held Ruth’s hand as they began walking toward the lecture hall.
Hal’s thoughts wandered as they ambled toward the building’s front entrance. Were gun racks de rigueur for pick-up trucks with Texas license plates? Who owned the single Prius he saw on the road dominated by trucks and SUV’s? As he neared the front entrance, he wondered where the long black Hummer limousine had been driven in from. When Ruth misstepped and almost fell in the gravel near the entrance, he wondered who had invented high heeled shoes and why. And more importantly, how had they been so successfully marketed? They certainly didn’t look too comfortable. Then he thought about his tie and loosened it a bit more.
He shook a few hands and nodded acknowledgement a number of times as he and Ruth navigated the crowded aisle toward the front of the auditorium. All seats were filled. There was a sea of t-shirts and cowboy hats. There was a long haired character in sunglasses, his motorcycle mama standing closely next to him, each missing a front tooth, each holding a beer in a plastic cup, each with the stars and bars brightly emblazoned on the backs of their vests. He had written “LUV IT OR LEVE IT” in chalk under his flag; were the misspellings intentional? A little kid dressed up in an army camouflage suit, perched on his father’s shoulders, waving an American flag. Three “Fuck Obama” t-shirts, another with “What Should Obama And Lincoln Have In Common?” Hal was certain that Presidential libraries in Illinois were not the shirt’s intent.
Toward the front, the crowd seemed more subdued. The first ties, a number of suits. A magistrate judge, the chief of police, a half-dozen lawyers, three doctors and most of the Lyceum members. Hal saw Pete Price, a distant cousin of the country and western singer Ray Price, slouching in the second row, resplendent in his white shirt and red, white and blue bow tie. Hal called him “Goober,” his nickname for everyone that reminded him of Andy Griffith and Mayberry RFD.
Five minutes after the scheduled beginning of the speech, Gayle Jerrells, the Lyceum’s president since its inception, approached the podium. A tall, thin, somewhat stately woman with dark grey hair, Gayle rarely agreed with Hal’s politics but each shared a mutual respect for the other’s ideas and ideals. Hal had once wanted to ask her if she had ever owned a pair of pants; neither he nor anyone else in Carlsbad had ever seen Gayle in a pair of slacks. Actually, he remembered, he did ask her once. He wondered whether she just hadn’t heard the question or thought it too silly to bother answering. Either way, Hal mused, she did have great legs for a woman her age. Course, shouldn’t a woman her age wear skirts that extend over her knees rather than to them? As if on cue, his answer came when he heard whistles and cat calls from the back of the auditorium.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a very special program brought to you by the Carlsbad Lyceum.” Then the predictable acknowledgements and thank-yous, the recognition of the area dignitaries, the voices of the disinterested in the audience. It dawned on Hal only now that he had seen only a couple of Hispanic faces in the crowd. There were no blacks. Like a Jimmy Buffett concert, he thought, only way scarier.
“Our very special speaker tonight is known to all of you. General Kurt LaMonde is a true American hero who has seen fighting on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan and behind the desks in Washington, D.C.” Applause and snickers from the audience. “I need not give you a long resumé of his accomplishments for they’ve long been reported in national media and our own Current Argus. So without further ado, our man of the hour, Marine General Kurt LaMonde!” Loud applause. Cheers. Syncopated foot stomping. I’m getting a headache, Hal thought. He looked left at Ruth, who was smiling broadly and, he thought, clapping too vigorously. He felt his necktie tightening.
LaMonde walked onto the stage from behind the worn purple velour curtain to Gayle’s left. He strode toward the podium forcefully, back erect, in long steps, seemingly oblivious to the applause that greeted him. He did not smile until he took Gayle’s hand and shook it; she seemed to grimace slightly, Hal thought. Maybe the General was using a real Marine’s let’s-show-you-early-who’s-boss handshake. LaMonde weighed more than Hal thought he would. Maybe that D.C. infighting allows long lunch hours. Still the man looked—what would the word be? Dangerous.
It wasn’t until Gayle moved away from the podium that LaMonde turned to face the audience. He didn’t seem to focus on anyone, but he seemed to see everyone all at once. A bit unnerving. He made no attempt to quiet the crowd. Shit-eating grin. He had no notes. He simply stood at the podium, taking it all in. Reconnoitering.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for that welcome. And thank you, members and of the Carlsbad Lyceum, for this opportunity to speak to all of you today about the dangerous set of affairs now facing our country.
“Those of you who know of me know that I place the honor of my country above all other things. Of course, to serve that country and help preserve its honor, I must admit that I have bent the rules a time or two.” Chuckling from the back rows.
“I had a horrible family life growing up in southern Missouri. My father was abusive and would often take his shortcomings out on my mother and me. When I was fifteen, I knew I could take it no more. I could have moved out, gone to Hollywood and a few years later written some tell-all book in which I blamed my parents for all my problems. Or I could take my life and my future into my own hands. I did that. I obtained a fake driver’s license showing me to be three years older than I actually was and enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.” Hoots and hollers from across the hall.
“In the Corps, I discovered the importance of camaraderie of those with a common goal. Our goal was to protect America.” Loud applause. LaMonde looked like he was irritated by the interruption. “To protect America against all costs. Even if that cost was laying down our lives. We found no sacrifice to be too great to be offered up to this noble land of ours.
“Without belaboring my history in the Corps too much, I can tell you that I was an apt student of its procedures, values, and judgments, and over the years, as you all know, rose to the rank of general.” The syncopated foot stomping again. Loud applause and cheers.
“This country now faces threats as serious as any ever confronted before in our two-hundred and forty year history. We are at war in Iraq and in Afghanistan. But, my friends, make no mistake about it: we are involved in a World War.” Silence.
“We have the resolve, we have the resources to win this war. We can beat those who want to see this country brought to its knees just as we defeated the Axis powers in the last World War and the Central powers in the World War before that one.” Loud applause. Chants of “Kurt, Kurt, Kurt” from the back rows.
LaMonde held up his arms to silence the crowd. He slowly surveyed his audience, passing his gaze from left to right. Reconnoitering. “No one recognizes this ability better than Samuel Parsons, the great senator from your neighboring state of Texas. Senator Parsons, as you all know, is currently seeking the Republican nomination to run as that party’s candidate in November, and he has amply demonstrated in his many speeches, his support of various bills in Congress, and in his private conversations with me, his total commitment to the future of American interests, both at home and abroad.” Loud applause again. LaMonde sipped from a glass of water and cleared his throat.
“It has been well reported in the media that I advocated the limited use of nuclear weapons in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. We can win our war against the Taliban and Muslim extremists. We can bring to an end the number of brave young Americans giving their lives to achieve this victory. Harry Truman was not afraid to use the full power of our military strength against the Japanese.” A formulaic pause. “Neither will Samuel Parsons hesitate to use that power against our enemies around the globe.”
People jumped to their feet. Even the lawyer to Hal’s right, usually so dour and devoid of emotion, shot up and applauded vigorously. The cry, “Parsons, Parsons, Parsons” was almost deafening. Hal loosened his necktie again. Was he sweating? The second coming couldn’t elicit this type of enthusiasm. What the hell are they thinking?
The rest of LaMonde’s speech was predictable enough. Obama was timid, Parsons would be brave; Obama was weak, Parsons will be strong. Yada, yada, yada. Vote for a great American. Vote for Samuel Parsons in November.
Gayle returned to the podium, grinning broadly. Now she took LaMonde’s hand and shook it forcefully. The predictable questions: Will Samuel Parsons stand up to China? Will Parsons reinstate the draft and make out military great once again? Will Parsons tap Sarah Palin as his running mate? The predictable answers: Yes, Yes, and No.
A few words from the president of the Carlsbad Young Republicans, Reggie Campbell, decked out in a shiny black leather jacket. Good God, he looks like the Reggie in the Archie comics, Hal told himself. Then Campbell, LaMonde, and a couple of other teenagers also in black leather jackets left the stage together.
Huh, Hal thought. Weren’t black leather jackets mentioned in news feeds over the last few months? Small bands of young people in black leather jackets had been seen running away after a synagogue was firebombed in Atlanta, mosques were destroyed in fires in Detroit and Los Angeles, and a Chinese man was attacked and killed in the Chicago subway. Odd.