He started like this: “It will come down to a handful of
swing states and a hundred million dollars in propaganda.”
Last I saw my friend the Doctor he was running down his
driveway dressed in a monk’s robe and wielding a pitchfork. I chased after him
that afternoon in the hope I might prevent him from injuring himself or one of
his neighbors, but the retired professor was too quick for me and had too large
a head start. When nothing appeared on the KEYT News or the police blotter of
the SB Independent in the days following, I assumed the Doctor had survived.
That was a few months ago and life moved on as it always
does. The school term ended for my kids, the overblown summer Solstice festival
came and went, tomatoes ripened on the vines in the backyard, fireworks lit the
sky on the 4th of July, and the marine layer rolled in and out; some
famous people died, some unknown people were born; the happy little capitalist
renovating the triplex across the way finally finished, though he shows up
every other day to admire his handiwork.
Hearing nothing from the Doctor wasn’t unusual, as he often
went to ground for six months or more, traveling the globe, entangling himself
in doomed romances with foreign beauties half his age. When it came to the
Doctor, virtually anything was possible.
At least he called before midnight.
“Hey Doc, you in town or calling from your secret bunker?”
“I’m on the landline, which is probably tapped. I destroyed
my cell phone with a sledgehammer. I’m not letting the NSA track my movements
-- they can suck my ball sack. How’ve you been? What the fuck is up?”
“Nothing much. My wife got called for jury duty. Were you
aware that all bags, briefcases and backpacks brought into the jury waiting
area are subject to search, and that jurors are not allowed to bring firearms,
explosives, knitting needles, box cutters, toothpicks, nail clippers, knives or
any other item that might be construed as a weapon?"
“That’s the security state for you. The whole process would
move a lot more expeditiously if every juror packed a loaded Glock.”
“They also advise against wearing swim trunks, tank tops or
flip flops, and layers of clothing are recommended because the temperature in
the courtroom is unpredictable. I’m not making this up.”
“Country has lost its sense of humor. Humor died along with
accountability. OK, so what about Obama-Romney, how do you see this fiasco
playing out?”
I told the Doctor I had sworn an oath to my family not to
think, speak, or write about the November election until after Labor Day as doing
any of the three was detrimental to my mental equilibrium.
“OK, fine, but here’s the deal: Romney’s outspending Obama
by an astronomical factor in key swing states, and his Republican governor
cronies are doing everything in their power to disenfranchise thousands of
Democratic voters. Romney buys this thing or he steals it. Mark my words. It
doesn’t matter that Mitt zips around the country spouting complete gibberish or
that he’s a kooky Mormon – it’s just money, money and money. The Holy Trinity.”
Despite a brutal battering over the past decade, some of my
idealism remains intact, and I want to believe democracy in America is still
alive and that the dreams and aspirations of ordinary citizens still matter to
the men and women we elect to represent us. But my sense is of a corner turned,
a bulwark breached; the collective consciousness of the nation isn’t what it
was when we valued – and expected -- fairness, responsibility and
accountability in our political, business, and religious leaders.
Our worst and dullest have deposed our best and brightest.
The coup is very nearly complete.
“I know, Doc, but I can’t think about it without descending
into a major depression.”
“The last candidate I believed in was Jimmy Carter,” the
Doctor said, somewhat wistfully. “A fucking peanut farmer from the Deep South
who wasn’t afraid to talk about honor and decency. He was the beginning of the
end for the Democrats. All of them are craven pussies now. Well, fuck, at least
we are a nation of well entertained citizens.”
“Where would we be without the Kardashians?” I said.
“Or Hoarders.”
“Or Cake Boss.”
“Top Chef.”
“American Idol.”
“The Voice.”
“Jersey Shore.”
“Is that still on?”
“No clue. You drinking again, Doc?”
“Heavily. I can’t cope without drink and illegal
hallucinogenic substances. I’ve re-established reliable supply lines.”
“I’m glad. Your Buddhist monk phase threw me for a loop.”
“Me, too. I’m a warrior, man, not a saint. Keep the faith.
The pig fuckers are strong but by no means invincible. They will overreach, and
when they do, they will fall and be stomped to death.”
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