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Middle East Peace, Room 6

            “Hello?”          

             “This is The Milton-Whitlaw Survey Institute in Pennsylvania, sir. What age are you?”

            “Um-m-m… I’m sorry, we don’t give information out over the phone.”

            “Sir, this will only take a moment of your time. With national elections coming up, you’ll want your voice to be heard. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your age.”

            “Hello, young lady. Thank you for calling, but we don’t give out information over the phone.”

            “You understand our purpose, sir. We are a nationally recognized public opinion research institute. Your opinion is important to us. Without your input, our results may be badly skewed. Each demographic needs to be represented. When people such as yourself abstain from the process, you and your contemporaries risk being under-represented in the marketplace of public opinion. To avoid that, I have only a few simple questions that won’t take more than an additional three minutes of your time.”

            “This is a commercial survey?”

            “Most definitely. We at Milton-Whitlaw take great pride in the exactitude of our techniques. Sir, if confronted by a food product on the shelf of a grocery store, which of the following colors would you find most attractive? Red, blue, pink, orange—“

            Click! 

            The local Russian news sheet, Kommersant, contains an ad for Peace In the Middle East, a conference at Congregation Addis Ababa. I wonder if I can get a movie idea out of it? Even Hollywood has felt the oppression of the regression in the recession: Box office receipts are down. I can pitch, but will they catch? I go on-line, sign up and pay my $10 registration, plus a booking fee through Ticketmaster. As time goes by, Ticketmaster seems to get pricier and pricier. Or is it just me?

            Dare I say it, I am also looking for a little romance. I’ve come to the conclusion— sadly— that I have been judging books by their covers! A cute face, big blue eyes, 22-years-old, sexy? That’s not necessarily a recipe for disaster, but most 22-year-olds find it an uphill battle to delve into the minutiae of a policy wonk comme moi. Maybe I ought to stop shopping in the kiddie aisle and face a grown-up challenge. ‘Bout time and all.

            We participants trudge through an ice storm to reach the shul. A cornucopia of arabesques, it looms over the avenue threateningly. Some poor college student reading a paperback has been hired to sit in the cloakroom and guard our coats. What a way to spend the afternoon. I thank the man.

             The average age of the audience is pushing 50, so when our 35-year-old hostess Julie Newman begins her welcoming speech, I am all ears. This is my kind of woman: sandy-blond hair; hazel eyes (smolder, smolder); rhinestone eyeglasses, but discreet; a nose like a French fashion model (lots of character); a serious, business-like expression and a black suit. Her looks are such a turn-on, I cannot believe what she says.

            “It’s such a pleasure to see you all,” she tells us. “There are so many more of you than last year. I would like to take a moment to thank our sponsors… Allow me to thank our moderator… We’re so pleased to have as speakers and experts the following luminaries…”

            Uh, luminaries? Cross Julie Newman off my list! Must everything she says be a cliché? If the rest of the conference deflates as rapidly as Julie’s introduction, we’ll experience peace through narcolepsy.

            No such worries. As the Israelis told me 42 years ago, “You get four Jews in a room, you hear five opinions!”

            I’m sorry, but the Rabbi is named Franklin Nathan Stein. It says so in the printed program. Not my fault. Talk to his parents. So Frank N. Stein is telling us: “Let’s start with today’s premise. Grand gestures at the negotiating table have failed miserably. The only thing the Israelis got from Camp David was a good tan.  Peace must be built by fostering understanding between people on a daily basis… at street level.

            “That’s the basis of this event. If it works for you, stay! Talk! Argue! If not, okay. This discussion may not answer all your needs. But don’t look so disappointed! We won’t present any grand strategies. We’re discussing peace through face-to-face, one on one, hand in hand contact between Jews and Arabs, Israelis and Palestinians.

            “On with the show! Refreshments will be available during the break. We have more food than you can eat!”

            The lady rep from the Israeli Embassy says, among other things, “We are making some progress in Israel toward basic, human equality. Assimilation didn’t work. When the country was young, we thought, ‘Everyone comes here, we put them through the kibbutz and the army, they all come out Israelis.’ Now we see that this leads to unsustainable inequality and a lack of individual identity. Today, we emphasize, instead, multi-culturalism, where every ethnic minority has an equal right to their own identity and a fair share of society’s opportunities.

            “We are getting there, but slowly. Don’t say bad things about the country. No one claims we cannot do better! We are trying. Today’s screaming match is tomorrow’s oral history.”

            In 1970, right out of college, I went and spent a year in Israel. My intrepid little brother Timothy came to visit me there. Active in the local chapter of the AZA, the youth organization of B’nai B’rith, Tim was much more militant than I.

            “I ain’t afraid of no Arab!” he said. “Let the ferbludgevit Arabs watch out for me!”

            Among the things we did that summer was to visit the Christian holy sites in Jerusalem. I kept having to pull Tim away from these Palestinian gentlemen in western business suits who seemed to be standing on every street corner. A neophyte, a high-schooler, Tim didn’t realize at first that their spiel was always the same: “The Jews can have the land,” they chanted in fluent English. “All we want is compensation!”

            “Boy, that guy’s really wack!” Tim would say, turning away.

            “Goddam it, Tim, we’re supposed to be looking at the Tomb of the Holy Sepulcher. It’s right down the street. Let’s just hurry up and go.”

            “What’s your thing, man? Let’s rap!” I hear him asking, and sure enough, he’s talking with another Palestinian!

            “The Jews have appropriated our land. We welcome their efforts to improve Palestine. All we request is just compensation.”

            Uh huh.

            “Boy, that guy is really wack!” said Tim.

            So I know there was a fraction of West Bank Arabs who saw dollar signs where their brethren saw oppression. Not having visited Israel since 1982, I would not venture a guess how it is today.                        

            Shlomo Rappaport, a kibbutznik, takes his place behind the lectern and says in a heavy Hebrew accent: “In America, you have six million Jews surrounded by 300 million non-Jews. Yet the Jews in America have learned to navigate these disparate numbers and succeed. We have basically the same conundrum in Israel, around six million Jews surrounded by about 300 million non-Jews. We Israelis must learn from the Diaspora how one deals with this inequality in numbers. How one makes peace with the neighbors and succeeds in an unfair world. That is the challenge facing Israel today.”

            Raida Suleiman, startlingly beautiful, a fire and ice redhead, speaks to us of the Palestinian narrative: “Your birth pangs were our nakba, ‘catastrophe.’ When you gained a country, we lost everything. How can you have security, economic development, a sense of democracy, if 20% of the population in Israel is disenfranchised? You can’t.”

            Ah ha, one of those conference tables with a white table cloth and individual microphones is trundled to the front of the room by a motley crew of volunteers. We sit and wait while the electrician plugs in the mikes. Then Frank, Shlomo and Raida sit down for the Sturm und Drang, the push and pull of dialogue— or at least competing monologues.

            Shlomo: “We children of the kibbutz were brought up to be Masters of the Land. As a grown-up and a Jew, I see that I interact with an Arab as if I am his master. This is very wrong. It is inexcusable that the Palestinians in Israel, who have citizenship, lack basic equality. An equal partnership is required.”

            Frank: “American Jewish philanthropy is a wonderful thing. Mazel tov! But while we contribute to every form of Jewish development in Israel, inadvertently, we have created a gap between Israeli Jews and Israeli Arabs. Diaspora Jews don’t always see the need for helping Palestinians. But until both peoples have a sense of progress— economically, socially, in education and human rights— there can be no peace.”

            Raida: “There are 1.6 million Arab citizens of Israel, 20% of the population! A test of any democracy is how it treats its minorities.

           “I refuse to be a victim. The security apparatus complains that Arab Bedouin families have 10 to 12 children. Open a high school for women and the problem will resolve itself! Women who get an education are not going to put up with bearing that many children!  

            “Per capita income in the Arab sector is 50% of what you see in the Jewish population. Jewish kids get six times as much from the welfare budget as Arab Bedouin children.

            “Position Papers won’t change reality on the ground: In the Negev, Bedouins are 30% of the population, but live on only 3% of the land. The Israeli government is consolidating their holdings, uprooting 100,000 people into the seven villages recognized by the Netanyahu government. At that point, Bedouins will be living on 1% of the land!”  

            During my year in Israel, I worked six days a week for Israeli Educational Television, across the road from Tel Aviv University. My Israeli cousins fixed me up with the job. I became an assistant cinematographer.

             In the summer, even given time off without pay, I often left my little bro Timothy alone to wander. He went everywhere, bringing back empty rifle shell casings from the Six Day War and shards of pottery from the Byzantine Empire. (An archeologist at the university told us, “Oh, that stuff is nothing special. You find it among the ruins. It’s from about 450 A.D.”) There were blue, inter-city Eggèd busses that would take you anywhere in the country for a pittance. The little white tickets were the size of confetti, but they cost next to nothing and they got you there. The Tel Aviv Bus Terminal was in a notoriously rough neighborhood. Tim walked through there like Daniel in the Lions’ Den. “Don’t be angry with me, man. My brother works for the goddam television!” he would tell the vendors selling nuts wrapped in newspaper, newspapers, cheap plastic toys made in Japan, small kitchen appliances and children’s clothes.

            Jerusalem was Tim’s beat and he did me up proud. He met and charmed four Sephardic teenage immigrants fresh off the boat. They were from Tunisia, three boys and a girl, cute as kittens. My mom had insisted that Tim and I be fluent in French, a hold-over from the Russian aristocracy. Our Tunisian friends treated us like lost members of their tribe. They took Tim to the souk in Jerusalem and introduced him to Mahmoud and Fawzi, themselves teenagers. These Palestinian boys ran a stall, selling brass coffee sets, robes, scarves, jewelry and T-shirts to the American tourists. 

            The following Saturday, Tim couldn’t wait to haul me onto an Eggèd bus and take me to meet them.

            A week later, with many tears, our Tunisians disappeared into the Negev to join the kibbutz where their families awaited them. I went and visited them on Chanukah. Meanwhile, Tim and I began spending our Saturdays at the souk, arguing with the American tourists who gave Mahmoud and Fawzi a hard time, haggling over prices. “You never pay what they ask,” these middle-class matrons from Iowa and New Jersey had been instructed by their guides, so they marched into the alleyways jammed with people and donkeys and fought with the merchants. What a madhouse!

            Because what united us young people was our abiding gentleness. In a country teeming with edgy, angry people, we were the hippies, preaching peace, love and understanding. In Tel Aviv, we met on the grassy circle in front of the Central Post Office, talked, laughed, played guitars, sang songs and complained about the hard-nosed Israelis. One of the boys could do a word-perfect rendition of Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant. I carried a stash of hashish with me at all times. We were often so laid-back, we couldn’t stand up.

            Ten years later, I visited Mahmoud and Fawzi in Jerusalem, as part of an American military delegation. We were on one of those friendship, fact-finding missions to the Israelis: “Hi, guys, tell us what you need! This is Kevin, he speaks Hebrew and French. If you can’t make yourselves understood, everyone else on the delegation speaks English.” The brass didn’t have a whole lot of faith in my abilities as a communicator.

            Fed up with Mahmoud and Fawzi’s didactic claims of victimhood, I finally exploded, “Enough already! Ma-speek! Stop with the complaints about your poor orchard and how the Israelis took it away! Jesus Christ! Show me this goddam orchard.” Surprisingly, they took me on a bus into the commercial section of New Jerusalem. Standing on a street corner in the middle of the city, they declared, “Here! This was our orchard!”

            “Fuck me, guys!” I told them. “Look at this place. A high-rise on that corner, another apartment house here, office buildings on the facing corners. There ain’t no orchard here, boys.”

            “We know,” Mahmoud said in his dainty, Arab way. “We are willing to have our land returned as it is.”

            “Buildings and all, huh?”

             “We wish a return of our property. We will accept it in present conditions.”

              I laughed. These boys didn’t want to grow lemons, they wanted to become landlords!     

                                                          *

           Rabbi Frank N. Stein cedes his place at the table to local activist Esther Rosenwasser. God bless her, right away, she starts with hard facts: “Israel has a four year election cycle. If you can get it! The average lifespan of a government is 2 years and 2 months. That means that policies already decided upon don’t get implemented. A new school plan was developed by the previous government. Everything was complete. All they had to do was hire the teachers and implement it. When the current government took over, the Minister of Education said he wanted more time to read through the new curriculum. He’s still reading!

            “When, miraculously, good intentions surface, they get stymied by the bureaucracy.

            “There are five bilingual schools in all of Israel. Five! At the same time, 25,000 elementary school children— 15% of elementary school students— now study Arabic in the 5^th and 6^th grade.”

             Shlomo: “An ugly stream of racism seems to dominate the debate in Israel over the place of the Palestinian citizens. The younger generation hates the Palestinians. Nu? Why? The Intifada. When they were ten years old, suddenly they couldn’t go to school, leave the house, play in the street. The Palestinians were rioting. What possible motivation would they have for liking Palestinians? 80% of our young people believe the Israeli Arabs have never accepted the State of Israel and would destroy it if they could.

            “My generation, more experienced with both the good and bad sides of every person, at least is willing to judge people as individuals. We censure someone who behaves badly, be he Jew or Arab. We praise those who work together with us on individual issues. When these shared communities of interest spread sufficiently, they will have a significant impact on public policy and debate.”

            In 1999, the Israelis tired of the stalemate with the Palestinians. The One Israel Party, a new political entity, won the national election. Led by Ehud Barak, their platform was simply to, once and for all, reach an accord with the Palestinians. A two-state solution, along whatever lines were hammered out between the warring factions. In 2000, President Bill Clinton invited Yasser Arafat and his delegation to meet with Ehud Barak and the Israeli delegates at Camp David. In three days of recriminations, caterwauling and bitter concessions from both sides, they reached an agreement. Amazing. It touched on all the issues: Borders, Palestinian rights of return to the land of Israel, economic compensation, a Palestinian state in the West Bank and Gaza, further issues to be discussed and settled. Barak signed. He and President Clinton turned to Yasser Arafat and extended the pen of reconciliation.

            “If I sign that,” Arafat told them, “when I return home, I am a dead man.”

            Refusing to sign, he traveled back to Ramallah and called for a general strike, the Second Intifada. Apparently, Palestinian anger knows no bounds.

            The current, conservative Netanyahu government of Israel didn’t come out of nowhere. The Likud party got elected as a direct Israeli reaction to public disappointment in the failed peace process. If the Palestinians won’t negotiate anyway, why bother trying to reconcile with them?

            Having selected Yasser Arafat, a smarmy, sneaky charmer as their leader, the Palestinian people were led by the nose. Arafat was the perennial negotiator, totally uninterested in resolving the conflict. As long as he could keep the ball in play, his countrymen needed him. The power struggles within his own party, Fatah, never end. Should peace ever be declared, he worried that he would be retired emeritus and younger hands would take over. Since he and his wife were milking the treasury for all they could get, the longer Yasser could stay in power, the greater his fortune. After his death, the leadership of Fatah came for his wife Shula, put a gun to her head and said, “Give us the Swiss bank account numbers for the billions you and your husband stole or you’ll never see tomorrow’s sunrise.” She gave them the bank account numbers and the Palestinian Authority was able to reclaim the money.

            The Second Intifada, billed as “the anger of the Arab street,” featured daily confrontations with the IDF, the Israeli Defense Forces, where young Palestinians, and even some of their elders, pelted Israeli soldiers and civilians with rocks.

            Furious at the rock throwers, I emailed Fawzi and Mahmoud. “What in the world are you doing?” I wrote. “This is not the way to gain concessions regarding peace with Israel. This will only make the Israelis more obstinate, angry and distrustful.”

            Fawzi wrote back, respectful as always:

Dear Mr. Kevin,

Mahmoud and I study with great interest your ways of protest. You march in street with banners. You shout slogans. We also have ways of protest. For us, is stone throws. We speak with arm. Stoning.  Throwing stone.

Yasser Arafat say: Palestinian anger knows no bounds. The occupier must be forced from our land.

Also we feel so. 

We personally are so sorry you angry, Mr. Kevin. We liking you, as you know. Many years have we friendship.

Also this freedom of expression is important issue. Please allow to express ourselves as we choose.

You friend, Fawzi and Mahmoud and families.

            “My god,” I told my mom, “they see rock throwing as a form of free speech protected by First Amendment rights! Rock throwing is their idea of a dialog with the Israelis.”

            Wise, my mom said absolutely nothing. As far as she is concerned, Fawzi, Mahmoud and I are all nincompoops.    

                                                          *

              Raida: “The Israeli educational system does not teach Palestinians their history.

              “My mother says, ‘I am a Palestinian.’ My father says, ‘I am a citizen of Israel.’ He feels compelled to say that, because to call himself Palestinian costs him job opportunities.

             “Only when Palestinians can be proud of their identity, can they cooperate with Israelis.”

              I met plenty of Palestinians in the 1980’s working on moshavim— private farms run communally, like a kibbutz, but each family owning their own holdings— as hired hands, as well as in the building trade. They didn’t need to be proud of their identity in order to cooperate with the Israelis. They worked for shekels and they were paid in shekels. End of story. But I get Raida’s point. You can’t ask concessions of the Palestinians at the negotiating table, if they already see themselves as total underdogs.

              Raida: “We use language in designing and building consciousness. The way one identifies the Palestinians does matter. Are we the fellahin, hopelessly backward peasants? Are we Palestinian Arabs? Israeli Arabs? Israeli Palestinians? Palestinian citizens of Israel? Palestinian Israelis? Believe it or not, in Israel, each of these terms reflects a political viewpoint!”

              Shlomo: “155,000 Palestinians— Israeli Arabs— remained in Israel after 1948. They received citizenship.

            “250,000 Palestinians from Israel were uprooted and became refugees, living in camps in neighboring countries. There are no refugee camps in Israel. These people’s lives were based on their ancestral land. Now they have no land. I’m a kibbutznik! Land means everything to us. What is the identity of someone who has no land?”

             Raida: “The Bedouins of the Negev demand 800,000 dunams, 30% of the land. The land issue for the Netanyahu government consists of cramming the maximum number of Arabs onto the minimum amount of land.

            “My father owned vast tracts of land handed down through generations, but he has no written instruments to legally support this claim. Under the British and the Turks, land agreements were oral.

            “Once a Palestinian state is declared, 87% of the Palestinian people would go to their own state.”

             Shlomo: “Arab Knesset members still need to be allowed at the grown-ups’ table. Since the government doesn’t push for a shared, equal citizenship, our NGO’s must push for social inclusion and equality. ‘Democracy’ today is defined as ‘majority rule,’ not ‘minority rights.’ Israel has no Bill of Rights. Instead, there is a Law of Human Dignity, but the Knesset and courts can change it at any time.

            “I’m an optimist, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. 450,000 Israelis took to the streets during the summer to demand social justice. The Arab community supported this protest. Together, we are working toward a pluralistic society.”

             Uh. We take a break. We eat meatballs and veggies on plastic plates using plastic forks and plastic knives. The variety of cookies is staggering. There’s bottled water and there’s coffee. What more could anyone ask?

             Fine. Time for the Question & Answer session. We are 346 Jews, three Palestinians and one Christian university student.

             We Jews wail in frustration, tear the hemlines of our shirts and cry, “Next year’s conference, more Palestinians!” The three we have— professional activists— have visited more Jewish congregations in Greater Washington than I knew existed.

              Palestinian man: “I live in East Jerusalem. Because of my Arab name, I have less rights than an American tourist.”

            He could be Mahmoud or Fawzi. Palestinians, they’ve always occupied the lowest rung in Israeli society. When I arrived in 1970, you had sabras at the top— native-born Israeli Jews—  then Ashkenazi immigrants, then Sephardic immigrants and finally Arabs. With the arrival of the Ethiopian black Jews, the Arab population was moved down one peg in the social hierarchy, to make room for the arrival of society’s struggling newcomers.

            Answering a question regarding growing nationalism, Shlomo suggests this: “Post-Intifada, nationalism pits a Jewish state against a democratic state. Israel can only survive by becoming a little less Jewish and a little less democratic.”

            Raida: “There is a Jewish narrative and a Palestinian narrative. The future must be a shared narrative.”

            The printed program promises a comparison of the situation for the Druze, the Bedouin and the non-Bedouin Palestinians inside Israel. Raida the Palestinian is regaling us with an activist tale of the indignation she caused by demanding the microphone at her local mosque. A woman! An activist! Speaking in a mosque! Unheard of! It’s very entertaining, but the clock is ticking and as Jimi Hendrix sang, “… the hour’s getting late!” My hand shoots up.

            “Yes?” asks Rabbi Stein, the moderator.

            “I’d like…”

            “No, get up and introduce yourself. Then you can ask your question.”

            “Hi, I’m Kevin Feingold,” I slur, finding that the least interesting part. I quickly ask for the comparison. I see people shaking their heads “yes.” Anyone who ever read Leon Uris’s Exodus wants to know how life goes for the dear, little Druze families in their mountain-top villages astride Mount Carmel.

            Shlomo the kibbutznik frowns impressively and turns to Raida. We expect some facts and figures. Her answer is what colloquially only can be called “anecdotal.”

            Raida: “Some of the Druze serve voluntarily in the Israeli Defense Forces.” Pause. Grimace. “I have been to their villages and was not impressed.

            “Categorizing the Arab population into subgroups is the Israeli government’s method of ‘Divide & Control.’ We are all Palestinians! We all demand our rights!

            “Palestinians in the West Bank are under military occupation. The intelligence officer of the Shin Bet checks your documents whenever you travel and wants to know who you are. The West Bank Palestinians lack even Israeli citizenship. They are not considered Israelis. By both Israeli and international standards, the West Bank is officially occupied territory.”

            Sighing contentedly, she gives a wan smile, a very Palestinian shrug and turns to Rabbi Stein.

            “That’s it?” I’m thinking. “This 3^rd grade level school report on What I Did During My Summer Vacation is her comparison of Druze/ Bedouin/ non-Bedouin conditions? Yeesh! Give me a break!” When I look around, I sense that the consensus is, we can get more meat googling the Internet.

            “Yes?” Rabbi Stein asks.

             The Christian university student gives his name and says: “The poor Palestinians chased off their land and deprived of rights in the Left Bank, deprived of their freedom by the Israeli blockade of Gaza, deprived of equality in Israel. Yes, yes, I’m getting to my question. The Jewish aggressor lays waste to Palestine, throwing people out of their homes, expropriating orchards, forcing the Bedouins into concrete villages, stopping Palestinians at checkpoints everywhere in the West Bank. My question is, how can you American Jews stand idly by and allow such criminal behavior by the Israelis, condemned by the entire international community, to continue?”

              The guy is a jerk.

             “We don’t,” says Rabbi Stein.

            “ ’Scuse me?”

            “We don’t condone Israeli behavior. Next question!”

                                                          *

              My conclusions:

               The Palestinians will never be satisfied. It’s hereditary. As the Philistines in the Bible, even 2,000 years ago, they had a reputation as cantankerous troublemakers. Delilah, anyone? There’s a reason we make generalizations about ethnic groups. Some traits truly do reside in the genes.

                The Palestinians want their land back, and that means all of Israel. The only alternative that will satisfy them is the Jews marching backwards into the sea. Even then, knowing them, the Palestinians will have issues. Who left this shovel in this sandbox? An emotional people, the Palestinians too often let their hearts rule their heads. When the Israelis tired of Gaza and pulled out, the Palestinians “showed their anger” by dynamiting the concrete buildings left by the Israelis. They then bewailed their poverty and called on the international community to provide building supplies and to finance new construction.

                 The American Jewish community has trouble understanding Israeli conservative intransigence. We Americanos would like the Israelis to give more.

                  The Israelis have the thankless task of dealing with a Palestinian opponent who is never satisfied and not even grateful to be included in the dialog. As anyone can see, the longer the Palestinians dawdle— prolonging negotiations— the more land in the West Bank falls under Israeli control.

                   The Palestinians do not consider the State of Israel a legitimate entity. They see it as a clever way for the Jews to steal their country of Palestine. The maps in their school textbooks show a green, dagger-shaped Palestine going from the Mediterranean Sea to the Jordan River. The name “Israel” is nowhere on that map.

                   Dreamers, the Palestinians envision some wondrous Endgame where all the land is returned to them.

                  A thousand times more pragmatic, the Israelis repay every rebuff at the negotiating table by allowing the Settler Movement to appropriate additional acreage.

 

                                                           *

 

A Presidential Address

 

            “Good afternoon, my fellow Americans!

            “I take great pleasure in speaking to you today from this section of the White House named after Rose Garten. I never knew Rose, but I’m sure she was a wonderful American, whoever she was.

            “Some people say I shouldn’t have the Premier standing here by my side. My answer to them is: Only by opening a dialog with your opponent, can you hope to influence him in the right direction.

            “To those who say we shouldn’t be negotiating with the Premier, I say that only through open negotiation can both parties lay their cards on the table and make known their needs and desires.

            “Some feel we should not be entertaining a mass murderer in the White House. Again, it is up to us to extend the olive branch if any progress is to be made in securing a lasting peace. We want to make it easy for the Premier to aspire to better behavior internationally.

            “Many have criticized our various concessions, fearing they make us look weak. Yet, by conceding so much right from the outset, I hope to set an example for our opponent, demonstrating that sacrificing some of his cards doesn’t arbitrarily lead to defeat.

            “It’s audacious, but if you never try, you never win!

            “Some nitpickers complain about letting the Premier and his charming wife use the Lincoln Bedroom. My wife and I feel it is important to be gracious, welcoming hosts if these sensitive talks are to truly bear fruit.

            “It is my belief that letting the Premier freely use the facilities of the Oval Office forges a sense of brotherhood and shared responsibility between our two great nations.

            “As for our abandonment of certain other countries, in an effort to reach agreement with our adversary, as my Granny used to say, ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.’

            “I’ve heard criticism because the treaty we are about to sign isn’t written in English. I feel this is merely a symbolic bow to our guest. As long as we Americans know what we mean, it would be foolish to miss such a golden opportunity over something as trivial as language.

            “Is it wrong to accede American protectorates in other parts of the globe? History will show that these gestures of friendship and understanding, in the end, led to an accord that both sides can live with. At least for the time being.

            “Finally— and I’ve purposely left this most momentous decision for last— I believe that future generations will look back and fully comprehend why it is in America’s best interest, at this juncture in our history, to discard that musty relic of the past and rename our country more in keeping with the spirit of the times. In our hearts, we’ll always be America. It’s only the official designation that will change.

            “This is truly— and I say this from the depths of my heart— a monumental occasion.

            “Thank you and good afternoon. I will now let the Premier conclude this press conference with his prepared remarks.”

                                           –  President Blackie Diamond in my upcoming novel

                                                        *

 

 

 

Playmates

  

To: <Kevin Feingold; Oxburg, Maryland, USA>

From: <Dede Lopez; Mexico City, Mexico>

Subject: A Proposal

Dear Mr. Kevin,

Business is slow at the travel bureau here in Mexico City. So I have been reading blogs to improve my English.

You write about many interesting people. I wish I knew more about America to understand your references. Who is SOTU? Is that the American president? Why do you call him SOTU? I thought this is the black sauce you eat with Chinese food.

Have you considered writing in Spanish? I translated some of your sentences to Spanish. They are very funny. Especially the vague ones regarding sexual misunderstandings where a woman holds your penis and makes for you some problems. You poor little penis! We have telenovellas where people are upset like this, while off-camera, they are holding a man’s privates and such.

Perhaps you should write telenovellas !

I could help you with the language. As a woman, I can write the woman’s parts and you as a man will write for the men the dialogue. People speak angrily, emotionally. They threaten one another. They threaten to take life of the other person and/or themselves. How exciting! We make together these dramatic stories, you and I write as collaborators, yes?

Please excuse my English and I look forward to working with you on these projects.

Dede Lopez, Mexico City, Mexico

                                                      *

            On Sarah Palin’s Facebook page, she says the GOP needs “commonsense constitutional conservatives” like her.

            They do?

            The First Lady shows up on the Rachel Ray Show— regarding children’s health issues. Not the first person mom and I want to see in the morning. Mom groans, “Oh no!” and quickly changes the channel.

            I don’t need to go fishing for femmes fatales. Help! They’re closing in on me! The Swedish model features a winter hibernation with the sap rising in the Spring. This is America, in the midst of global warming. My body knows neither in nor out. What do I do with Gunhilde, my Icelandic banker? She has one of those short, starched women’s bodies— breasts, hips, legs, arms, torso, neck and head— on a 5’4” frame, everything in exactly the right place. Standing next to her sends testosterone pulsing through my veins.

            Ambivalent to her role as a personal manager, she doesn’t abuse my trust, waiting for the day I will eventually cave to her womanly dominance and let her dispose over my $125,000 fortune deposited in her bank.

            Everyone at the bank wants to help me “invest the money for a better yield.” As long as they get a 4% commission. Even Gunhilde. So far, she simply widens her stunningly painted blue orbs and impatiently waits for me to melt. With so many irons in the fire, I’m not there yet.

            “I mean, you are married,” I point out, eyeing the baroque ring she wears.

            “I couldn’t get to America without marrying an American,” she explains dismissively, all but going “Tut! Tut!” over such a small inconvenience.

            “I spend half my life writing film scripts and a third of my life asleep in bed,” I lament. “By the time I’m finished, I have no time for romance.”

            This is the same complaint I deliver almost every night to my mom at the dinner table. Sharing the house— I own 700 DVD’s and 2,000 music CD’s and she accepts it, complaining volubly— I live a comfortable, exciting life. But I dream of so much more.

            Passionate Oriental ladies licking my flesh, icy blond goddesses laughing in my face, beautiful brunettes tying my hands to the bedposts and ravaging my body, startling redheads shoving their tongues down my throat. All the usual clean-cut, American male fantasies.

            “I don’t understand you at all,” says Gunhilde in her thick Icelandic accent, plopping her cardboard coffee cup noisily on her desk. “You should open up. I’m here for the asking. Take this… opportunity.”

            “To let you handle my banking affairs?”

            Widening her baby blues, she shakes her blond head and says, “Yes-s-s!”

            “This would thoroughly fuck up the feng shui of your office.”

            “I have no idea what you mean,” she tells me huskily. I believe she thinks I’m making a sexual reference.

            “The people working in this bank would be scandalized if you and I start a relationship.”

            “Oh… That would not be good,” she agrees. As an immigrant, she doesn’t want any trouble.

            So, enticingly, tentatively, we are friends, but not more than that. Her husband, it turns out, met her while he worked as a U.S. military radar operator at the air base in Keflavik, Iceland. I, too, would have grabbed her if I was him.

                                                          *    

            The National Herald has a green, front-page photo of the aurora borealis over Tromsö in Norway. It’s very nice to look at in a still photo, but I visited the S-range in Kiruna, Sweden— well above the Arctic Circle— for a rocket launch one winter during the kind of solar flares that cause this kinetic activity. I did not like it. The Northern Lights don’t stand still, looking pretty, they move. Not accustomed to the sky writhing above my head, I suffered a total panic attack. Both amused and alarmed, the locals apologized profusely. They found themselves at a loss over what to do. Pulling up the hood on my parka, Leif suggested earnestly in broken English, “Don’ look at the sky.”

            That did the trick, but really, I wouldn’t recommend this ionospheric effect as a major tourist attraction. If the cold and the long, dark nights don’t get you, the lighting effects will.

                                                           *

            Like everybody else, Gunhilde hustles in the nicest possible fashion. She “helps” customers invest their moolah. Some of these people really don’t know what to do in the world of finance and require guidance. Gunhilde’s ambivalence enters the picture because annuities pay the highest commissions, prompting her and her jolly coworkers to constantly steer account holders in the direction of annuities.

            They also offer identity theft insurance, additional overdraft protection, and consumer buyer protection plans (“You don’t like what you bought, you return it for a refund. Always”). They can sell you household insurance, auto insurance and life insurance. Each one at the rate of $17.98 a month, deducted automatically from your account. No bookkeeping! The bank’s computer bleeds your account dry without requiring you to lift a finger!

            Such service!            

             I’ve been to Iceland four times. The women are other-worldly.

            Gunni (dare I use a nickname?) spends a lot of effort pleating and braiding her honey-blond hair. Her ‘do goes in about six different directions, a visual confection, tied in bows and held in place with colored plastic combs. When I see her in her white PVC trenchcoat and low black heels, my body hums to the rhythm of her heartbeat.

            What about the blue dots, dead center, above and below her eyes, on the upper and lower eyelids? Girls have worn eyeliner since I was a kid, but I do not understand these Bjork-influenced dots. Stranger than strange— “Now for something completely different!”— they’re so far outside the box, they turn a negative into a positive. How can you not stare into her pale blue orbs when they are accentuated by those weird dots? You can’t.

            I can’t.

            Not.

            Stare.

            I’ve seen her, sitting in her office, staring down customers, steering them in the direction she wants them to go.

                                    Train me, baby

                                    Train me tonight.

                                    Make me feel

                                    My life is right.

             Part of the problem is location: Every time I go in the bank, there she is, strutting in low heels, clack! clack! clack!, that announce “Here I am. Check out this body!”

              She’s said as much: “Growing up, everyone remarked about my classic Icelandic looks. I met Johnnie in a bar after winning runner-up in the Miss Iceland Contest. I was there celebrating with my friends. He asked me what the tiara was for. I told him, ‘It’s for you!’ After that moment, he couldn’t leave me alone. He still can’t take his eyes off me! And we’ve already been married three years. He’s a crazy man.”

               Depositing checks with Donnie the teller, a displaced Irishman, on a Friday afternoon, I see G in her PVC white, belted trenchcoat, looking like she just stepped out of a fashion mag. It would be hard to miss her, she stands right in the center of the room, looking distracted. When I complete my transaction, she’s still there. I don’t have the ego to think this has anything to do with me.

              “Waiting for a bus?” I ask. She stares into my baby browns and does her widening, widening of the eyes bit.

              “I’m leaving for the day,” she tells me in that husky contralto that makes my ears ring. She stalks past, almost knocking me over. She parades out the door into yellow sunlight. I go trotting after her. Good doggie! “Walk me to my car,” she commands.

               “You know,” I tell her, “I never talk to you socially because for me, you are a very dangerous woman.”

              “I am not dangerous!” she insists, worried as usual about getting deported.

               “I mean, I like you too much. You’re not only beautiful, you’re intellectually brilliant. I avoid people who are smarter than me. You’re way brighter than I am!”

               My extremely cynical Uncle Izzy once lectured me (he was a college professor in Political Science), “When you talk with a beautiful woman, don’t just compliment her looks. She hears that from everybody. Instead, tell her what a genius she is, how you admire her for the quality of her braininess. Since most beautiful women haven’t developed their higher faculties, this declaration will charm her. You’ll get to fuck her, where others have gotten shot down.

               “Praising a beautiful woman’s intellect is a sure way into her panties.”

                Cynical.

                He also told me, “The publishing industry is full of fairies. If you wish to become a published author, sleep with an editor at one of the big publishing houses.”

                I didn’t sleep with a man, but I took his first dictum to heart. I have developed an approach that works with some of the world’s most exotic creatures.

               “Oh, I’m not so smart,” Gunhilde ruminates, taking the bait. A radiant smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Head thrown back, her pert little nose points to heaven.

               “Well, I think you are,” I bray like a donkey. Playing the blockheaded cretin pleasantly excites my lower extremities. Gunhilde glances at my pants and smirks.

                “We should get to know each other better,” she says, pressing my arm with her little Scandinavian hand. A child of nature, she wears clear nail polish.

                “Yeah. Yes. Well, we’ll see.”

                 Why does it not surprise me that she drives a Volvo?

                  “I have a gold bellybutton ring, but I never get to show it to anybody.”

                  “I understand. Americans are funny that way. You’re not supposed to show your navel in public.”

                  She begins undoing her belt.

                  “Uh, no, no, no,” I stammer, glancing frantically around the parking lot.

                   “You should see it… someday,” she replies ruefully, giving me a withering look. At least she’s not baring anything here, next to the bank. In this brilliant sunlight, everything stands out a mile.

                  “Have you ever made love in a Volvo?” she asks.

                  “Ah! Now you’re getting personal,” I joke.

                  “I’ll schedule you for an appointment,” she remarks, falling back on her business school jargon.

                 “Pencil me in.”

                  “I always use a pen,” she replies wonderingly.

                   This is one wonderful lady! Very efficient, very officious. I guess they never got to the chapter about colloquial phrases.

                                                      *

                  My 90-year-old mom sleeps more now and has begun to suffer a series of memory lapses. This is upsetting in someone whose steel trap of a mind always demanded exact information of both herself and others.

                  As my little brother Tim says, “When paired with a navigator in a military exercise, the first thing to do is take away his map and compass. If you depend on him, you’ll both become hopelessly lost!”

                  Unfortunately, that’s started happening with mamman. Her driving directions often leave us stranded on a side road in the wilds of Maryland.

                                                      *

                   Madonna performs the halftime show at the Super Bowl, a real Las Vegas style extravaganza. She leads off with “Vogue,” featuring all the same embarrassing dance moves and choreography from her shows in the 1980’s. Michael Jackson, Britney Spears and Madonna, dance, dance, dance. During her second number, “Music,” she misses a back step on the bleachers and her left leg disappears off the back of the stage. Looking terrified, she pulls herself up like a trooper and strikes a pose of sexy defiance.

                    The lady’s a champ.

                    Of course, this still doesn’t answer the paparazzis’ question to Bruce Willis: “Is Demi Moore getting professional help?”

                     Are any of us?

                                                       *

SOTU

  

            Well, it’s that time again. As we say in my family, “Another speech, another dollar.” The Bible warns us against the sin of pride, so I’m just going to say I am willing to be here. Not proud, but… I’m okay with it. It’s a pretty big building and somebody has to make the speech. I’m your man. Some of you complain that all I do is make speeches! Ha ha ha. To them, I say, look over there to the left, see those pretty young ladies? Those are my daughters Basha and Natasha. See! I made them, too. So once in awhile, yes, I do put my nose to the grindstone. Although the body part in question isn’t actually my nose and it’s not exactly a grindstone.

            Which brings me to every politician’s pride and joy, his wife.

            First let me welcome to this convocation local politician Ernst Stavro Glickman. I’ve known the Glickman for… oh… twenty… twenty-five minutes. We were introduced in the car on the way over here. I told him to tag along. I thought, “Here’s a way to show my contempt for this body of elected officials. I can invite some goofball of a local politician to join us.” What’s that movie about bringing jerks to dinner…? Same concept.

            When my family and I sit down at the dinner table and say grace, we always add a word of thanks for Leo Padurski, Chief of the NSA, America’s protector. He is the jockstrap of America, protecting our vital parts from enemy attack. Thanks, Leo!

            Which brings me to my wife, who is not joining us here tonight at this special occasion. She’s off gallivanting around [dripping with venomous contempt] Europe. I mean, if she was gonna gallivant, why can’t she do her gallivanting right here in the good old U.S.A.? Well, she was deprived as a child. America was not the multi-racial, multi-culti society of today. Little pickaninnies didn’t get to make that all-important summer college trip to Europe. So my wife is making it now. She’s not in college, it’s not summer, but… whatever. She ain’t here.

            Also attending… I could go on, yada yada yada, read from the Manhattan phone book, but you all know who you are. If not, well, hell, introduce yourselves! We’re all family.

            We live in perilous times, so I’ve asked General Hartman, sitting in the third row… See that switch he’s holding? If I start to give away the farm regarding Iran or something, I’ve authorized him to cut off the mike.

            If that happens, please, those of you at home, do not try to adjust your set!

            Now to the nuts and bolts of my speech here tonight in this glorious, historic hall of government. Many of you have hunkered down in your seats, ready for the long haul, the 65-minute speech-a-thon, filled with endless platitudes, vague arguments, warm-hearted assurances, emotionally-charged moments of deep, spiritual confrontation!

            Forget all that.

            My staff has timed this puppy— no offense to my doggie, Butch— and it clocks in at just under 10 big ones. That’s minutes, gentlemen, not hours! I’m not going to get up here and do a Fidel Castro.

            We all know what it’s like to be on the inside, looking out. We’re forced to sit here in the chambers of power, while the Occupy Movement protesters get to have all the fun, flouting the law, smoking dope and engaging in group sex. I’ve read the reports about those encampments! Hopefully— and I’m audacious enough to say this— by next January, this heavy burden will be lifted from my shoulders. Then, I too can take to the road, engaging in book tours and frank discussions everywhere. I look forward to camping out all over this great country of ours. I do not shrink from this challenge, I welcome it!

            This is where we get to the emotional part of my speech. I can’t help but think of the time Walter Cronkite, reporting live on television, wiped the tears from his eyes and soldiered on. Obviously upset, he didn’t let that stop him. I think that was when he announced the resignation of Richard Nixon. That was a very emotional moment, I am sure. President Nixon was the one who said— he said many things, a great memoirist, he recorded hundreds of his conversations— he said, on national television— and I quote— “Meat prices must not go higher.”

            That’s a sentiment with which we can all concur. Even Eric Cantor and the Tea Party should be willing to agree with us on this one little thing, right? That meat prices— metaphorically and otherwise— must not go, you know, higher. We must fight the tendency of our meat to rise… that is, the prices… our meat coming to attention at the sound of the president’s voice. You’ve seen the photos of those troops mobbing me! They love me! But I’m okay with it. The hot button that says, “Revere the presidency,” and all of us getting an erection over that. I know I do! And I’m the president.

            So, in conclusion, and I said we were going to keep this baby under 10 minutes, Jobs, Jobs, Jobs! There! I said it. Steve is no longer with us, a moment of silence for an industrial titan, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Steve Jobs.

            …

            This is a great country! God bless America!

*

 

The New Politics?

  

            On January 1, 2012, after 14 years on the Oxburg Town Council, Ms. Anna Bola resigns her position to become Attorney General of the Great State of Maryland. (Applause!) With only four people on the Council, the town by-laws require a special election. I could say, “This is that story,” but the truth is, I’ve been way too busy cleaning and repairing my mom’s house to pay any attention. Yard signs (!) for Suzanna Son have sprung up on every street corner. (I was the sign guy for the Bola campaign.) Robocalls clog the chip in our telephone answering machine: “Hi, I’m Ted Hugo and I want you to vote for Suzanna Son…I’m Derek Derrière, and I want your vote for Oxburg’s next Town Council member, Paulie Marple!… This is State Senator Leonora Pix suggesting you join me in supporting Marcia Weinglass for the Oxburg Town Council. Marcia has years of experience…” I’ll bet she does!

            One Saturday afternoon, as I pile rotting wood panels from our basement by the curb, Iraqi War veteran Taylor Mitchell, a chiseled black dude with a shaved head, crosses the street to speak to me. My equally shaved head and my dust mask, my worn camo pants and white tee bring a smile to the faces of both Taylor and the fat guy with a clipboard acting as his campaign manager. The fat guy’s black tee sports the slogan, in white letters:

                                                   ASK ME ABOUT IRAQ 

            Irritated at somebody selling something, unwashed and exhausted, I grouse, “Tell me what you need, gentlemen! Just tell me what you need!”

            That’s when Taylor explains his mission and gives me his colorfully printed cardboard flier.

            Taking off my dust mask, I smile and say, “You’re running for Town Council? Good for you! Some new blood would do them good.”

            “I helped form the Provisional Government in Iraq.”

            “Ouch!” I quip. “I wouldn’t tell people that in this neighborhood. They’re anti-military and we all know how things went with the Iraqi Provisional Government. Thomas E. Ricks’ Fiasco has practically been required reading.”

            Taylor’s face falls, but he soldiers bravely on: “We need to open a fresh front on the myriad problems facing this township! We need to marshal our troops and set our sights on clear goals. It’s time to direct our firepower—”

            “Look, just tell people you can bring a fresh perspective to a group of entrenched bureaucrats,” I suggest. “Don’t even bring up the fact that they are megalomaniacs.”

            Embarrassed, both candidate and campaign manager have the good grace to laugh. They check my address off their list and walk up the hill to try their luck with other woters.

            In the next two weeks, we get daily candidate fliers in the mail. Still thinking like an Iraqi, Taylor sends us a letter bragging about how many endorsements he’s received from state officials. One sentence is so far outside the box, I have to quote it verbatim: “I am currently employed by Arkan, LLS investigating war crimes and incidents of sexual assault by military personnel in Iraq.” Is that… American military personnel? Or the new Iraqi Army and police force? Maybe Taylor figures people will get so upset, they’ll get off their butts and visit his website. I sure wouldn’t have written that in my appeal. He’s also “Director of Central Maryland Black Veterans For Obama.” Well, Oxburg is in central Maryland, he got that right.

            So when our local rag The Oxburg Sentinel announces a candidates’ debate, I tell my mom to schedule an early din-din. I want to see these Joes in action:

             Suzanna Son – Asian-American, 20-something, the only millennial running for office

             Taylor Mitchell – black, Iraqi War vet

             Jeeter Johnson – the “other” black, a ghetto, breakout NBA star sidelined by a knee injury

             Ernst Stavro Glickman – the unabashedly Jewish candidate

             Marcia Weinglass – the women’s Jewish candidate

             Paulie Marple – Casper Milquetoast in a suit, he kept showing up to work on the Anna Bola campaign

            David Davis – Ph. D., Tea Party candidate, a fourth generation Ron Paul clone

            The Ye Olde Firehouse Museum debate is an extremely physical event: When David Davis castigates Ernst Stavro Glickman on-stage for his campaign slogan—“Don’t Be A Prick / Vote For Glick”—the Glickman pulls a cattle prod from a blue canvas bag at his feet and zaps Davis one. When Asian-American candidate Suzanna Son— easily the brightest person in the room— goes to work on Marcia Weinglass, Marcia empties the contents of her plastic water bottle on Suzanna’s head. Jeeter Johnson takes occasional swings at Paulie Marple, in between exchanging vituperative perjoratives and cracking  “Yo mama” jokes with fellow-black Taylor Mitchell:

            “Honky-lover!”

            “Who’s a honky-lover, you Uncle Tom?”

            “You about as black as O-bama, whiteboy!”

            “Yo mama’s mouth so big, it won’t fit ina trunk o’ mah car!”

              In the beginning, moderator and museum curator Sylvia Sims tries to stop the mayhem, but finally, she simply leaves the candidates to duke it out among themselves. She’s all dressed up, sporting a bouffant ‘do, so no one can blame her. “Decorum!” she occasionally shouts, but there’s no decorum.

                Taylor Mitchell, the only candidate openly touting his work developing a Provisional Government in Iraq—“Boy, we all know how that turned out!” sneers Jeeter—says, in lieu of an apology, “Listen, we candidates may seem a little boorish, but in Afghanistan, people shoot their political opponents!… At least we don’t do that! “ he quickly adds as people at the back of the hall make a beeline for the exits.

               (Suzanna Son, a jogger, sports a bright red water bottle that says, “Run For Your Life!”)

              “Harrumph!” grunts precinct captain Arthur Pascoe, grossly overweight, sitting next to me in the front row. “This is a motley crew to be running for Town Council.”

               “Even if we deserve better,” I whisper, “obviously we’re not getting it.”

               “It?” asks Arthur, perennially obtuse. “What does ‘it’ mean?”

               “A reasonable candidate for Anna’s seat.”

               “Aha!”

               “Aha? What does ‘Aha’ mean?” I wonder, but keep my mouth shut.

                Taking a page from Speaker of the House John A. Boehner’s playbook, Paulie Marple bursts into tears every few minutes. Not while he’s under attack and not while he’s speaking, but apparently he takes his cues from voices inside his head: Nothing the rest of us can see or hear accounts for this geyser of tears.

               Marcia Weinglass: “Oxburg’s school system is the second largest employer in the township, second only to the U.S. Government. I will fast track a solution to our school problems, even at the cost of delaying other programs!”

                Paulie Marple: “I won’t just go along with the majority. I want to hear divergent opinions!”

                David Davis: “And then you’ll side with the majority!”

               When asked to define what makes him an acceptable candidate for Town Council, Jeeter replies, ‘Whassa mattah, O-blam-a, can’t take it?”

              “That doesn’t really define you,” moderator Sylvia Sims complains.

             “Oh? I think it do!” counters Jeeter— and most of the audience agrees. “Yo’ want frostbite, lady, y’all go outside!”

              “You see,” Arthur wheezes, “normally that kind of speech would disqualify a person, but we’re talking about a position on the Town Council here.”

               I’m impressed in spite of myself. Instead of the usual dullards and burnouts, we have seven candidates who actually have something on the ball. Why they want to run for Town Council, God only knows.

               Looking up at the stage, Arthur says,” It really depends on who endorses you. The person with the best endorsement wins. Every time.”

               Huh? Is that true? It sounds like b.s. to me, but I zip my lips.

               Paulie Marple: “We have a tendency to redo everything, repave streets, rebuild schools, replant trees, replace park benches…”

               David Davis: “The town should provide basic services, not finance capital projects.”

                Suzanna Son: “Currently, we’re borrowing to finance debt. Raising our debt ceiling has to be a last resort. We’re already at 8% equity. At 10%, we risk losing our Triple-A rating… It’s time to bring everyone to the table on this.”

                “I be there!” booms Jeeter from the stage, flashing his Michael Jordans for us to admire. “I speaks my mind! I one hi-top dude!”

                “I’ve been to Russia!” counters Ernst Stavro Glickman. Although some in the audience wonder if this is a swipe at the Politburo mentality of the sitting Council members, Arthur shakes his head knowingly.

                David Davis: “This meeting is pantywaist! Why, the Occupy Movement uses Human Microphones. None of this electrical P.A. system crap. ‘Public Address,’ my ass! Human mikes! The speaker at the front says, ‘We need to send a message to Wall Street!’ People in the front row pass it on back! By the time it reaches the cheap seats, what they hear is, ‘What’s selling at Wal-Mart?’ You can’t buy that kind of democracy!”

               Taylor Mitchell: “Now that one dance company in our area is staging a satire on reality TV and another has choreographed a tribute to the agonies of the Vietnam War, I have asked the Le Favre Dance & Shoe Repository to step forward and— with your consent— they will now give us a three-minute interpretive dance performance regarding this special election.”

              Grunting audibly “We are the 99%,” three gray-clad, ghostly figures come marching up the side aisles. Wearing Kabuki masks and writhing sinuously, they have those of us in the audience squirming uneasily in our seats. Filling the open space between the front row and the stage, they present three minutes of sexually-charged gymnastics. After which moderator Sylvia Sims gulps, “Well, that was refreshing!”

             “This is something that gets me in a party-down mood!” adds Taylor.

              Ernst Stavro Glickman: “The Oxburg Sentinel considers me one of 2011’s Top 10 Twitterati! I don’t go to the bathroom without tweeting about it. I’ve already sent three tweets since the start of this debate!”

             “Let me explain why I oppose making The 1812 Highway into a 6-lane road,” says Suzanna Son. “Where are the additional cars going to go when they reach Rockville Pike on the one end and Natalie Woods Parkway on the other? Rockville Pike is already running at full capacity. Natalie Woods Parkway has plenty of unused potential, but as we are all too aware, Natalie Woods Parkway doesn’t go anywhere! It starts in Oxburg and ends seven blocks short of the backside of White Flint Mall. No wonder no one ever drives beyond Oxburg, north on The 1812 Highway! Zero instant gratification!”

              Finally, I think, someone with a degree of expertise!

             “I say, fuck’um,” jeers Jeeter.

             “Ah, now is that any way to talk?” demands Paulie Marple, the best-connected of the candidates. Paulie knows everybody. He and Jeeter dance across the stage, shadowboxing.

             Marcia Weinglass: “Since the year 2000, we’ve lost 2/3 of our affordable housing.”

              Jeeter Johnson: (still punching the air) “That what I talkin’ about!”

              Suzanna Son: “A third of our roads, all our major arterials, are state-owned and financed. The Maryland Department of Highways controls our streets and our lives!”

              Marcia Weinglass: “We have to use ‘soft power’ in our dealings with Annapolis, since we really don’t have any ‘hard power.’ A charm offensive. We need to remind the state legislature that the Greater Washington area is one of the economic engines of Maryland.”

              David Davis: “Soft power, my fanny! I was once one of those crappy Democrats! We have no friends in Annapolis and it’s time for us to admit it. Local initiative is the only way!”

              You have to give them some credit, they all belong to IFO, one of the few organizations outside the military that is totally honest right from the get-go: the International Federation of Opportunists. Talk about transforming a negative to a positive! Wise beyond their station, heeding the advice of their campaign managers, these clowns up on the stage can now proudly admit to the organization’s motto:

                        “We See An Opportunity, We Grab It!” 

               In today’s cloistered, cluttered world, that proclamation feels like a breath of fresh, mountain air.

             Of course, none of them sing R&B as prettily as Obama.

             Town Council, Town Council, compare these guys to the Republican candidates for president, each madly jockeying for position and constantly embroidering the message to fit what they hope is the opinion of the electorate.

             Ernst Stavro Glickman: “Governor Romney is not the unfeeling, wheeler-dealer corporate raider he is made out to be! He cried crocodile tears of remorse as he fired every one of those people.”

             Marcia Weinglass: “The entire system is warped. These early Republican primaries are in states that want their moment in the spotlight. You can’t tell me that Iowa, New Hampshire and South Carolina are representative of American political opinion. God help us!”

             Paulie Marple: “The best candidates are dropping by the wayside! I grew up with Beverley Hills 90210. I would have voted for Luke Perry in an instant! I’ve seen all his movies, even his made-for-TV movies!”

            David Davis: “To stand here and regret that a B-list actor like Luke Perry isn’t running for president is beyond incomprehensible. That boy wasn’t even born until 1966. He’s only 45 years old! We all know what happened this last time, when we elected a 40-something to the White House! Obama and his wife are the ultimate teenagers. It’s all an act. They’re poseurs. They never grew up. Raised by doting grandparents, little Barry Obama thinks he’s the cat’s meow!”

           Wow! Talk about “The emperor has no clothes.” Half the audience is on their feet shouting, “Wrong! Wrong! How dare you attack Obama?!”

           Taylor Mitchell: “I volunteer at the White House reading incoming mail. 95% of the letters are hate mail, but I don’t let it bother me. Personally, I think Brother Obama has overdone the entire speechmaking thing. He’s become boring. He’s our boy, but he be an earache.” [This is an actual statement by a volunteer.]

            Paulie Marple: “It’s not my fault Luke Perry was governor of Texas. A man with that kind of experience…

             Jeeter Johnson: “…and he an actor! That be important! We already has an actor in da White House!”

             Marcia Weinglass: “Excuse me, the governor of Texas was Rick Perry. A different Perry entirely!

            The silence in the hall was deafening. Scratch two candidates.

            Taylor Mitchell: “The American Israel Public Affairs Committee, AIPAC, ‘America’s Pro-Israel Lobby,’ has become too powerful. They started the whole PAC thing. The super PACs are Israel’s fault.”

             Ernst Stavro Glickman: “Blame the Supreme Court. Hooligans versus Leeds United.”

             Marcia Weinglass: “Wrong! AIPAC isn’t powerful enough. When a government is out of control like this one, you need a strong lobby to maintain the pressure and, hopefully, reduce the damage. Beating up on the Israelis because the Palestinians refuse to come to the table! For shame! I completely lost my respect for Hillary. Keep the pressure on those creeps in the White House.”

             David Davis: “That was Nixon.”

            Marcia Weinglass: “What?”

            David Davis: “Creep, Committee to Re-Elect the President. Under President Nixon.”

            Taylor Mitchell: “He’s mad. Candidate Davis is a madman!”

            Suzanna Son: “We still don’t know the effect of the new ICC, the Inter-County Connector. It could bring big changes to Oxburg. The coming of Metro’s Purple Line will put us squarely on the map. I also foresee an expansion of light rail in Maryland.”  

            Marcia Weinglass: “This is a pivotal time for our community. Oxburg has divided into the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots.’ This town no longer works for everyone. I will always work for you! “

            That’s when we all realize, every man jack in the hall, that the fix is in. Paulie Marple knows simply everybody, but the heavy hitters are putting their money and influence behind Marcia. Granted, she is Jewish. Nationally, we’re only 4% of the population, although in Oxburg, the percentage is considerably higher. I look around. It’s Marcia Weinglass by acclamation! As the meeting breaks up, she’s swamped by Latinos. They know who will be the new voice on the Town Council. As Bob Dylan sang, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” I’m very disappointed! Suzanna Son marchers up to Arthur and asks, “How’d I do?”

            Introducing us, Arthur explains that Suzanna is the precinct captain for Oxburg High. “Kevin, here, let us down in the last election!” Arthur bitches.

            “Arthur does have a beef,” I admit, while Suzanna smirks wonderingly. “I couldn’t poll watch on Election Day because I had so many polling stations to monitor for the Bola campaign.”

            “Well, Arthur, there you have it!” says Suzanna, taking my side.

            Arthur then launches into one of his mindless monologues. Suzanna and I wait the obligatory two minutes and turn away for a private chat. “The others had good intentions,” I point out. “You, additionally, always brought a technical component to the mix.”

            “That’s the consultant in me,” she smiles, eating me up with her staring brown eyes.

            I assume that this is her way of working the room. I plow on: “The special election is going to Marcia Weinglass or Paulie Marple, probably Marcia. I’m discovering that the sad truth is, there’s nothing new in county politics. It’s the same faces endlessly playing musical chairs! I want you on the goddam Council. Get out and canvas doors. Send out a mailer! The yard signs are great, but we have to get your name out there! Buy a full page ad in The Oxburg Sentinel.”

            “You’re absolutely right. I only managed to knock on 1500 doors. But the election’s on Tuesday. No time to even send out a mailer,” she laments.

            “Seats on the Town Council will be contested as part of the general election in November. Here’s my card. I worked on the Bola campaign. We won with 58% of the vote. Not too shabby.”

            “Oh!” she chirps, “We’re exchanging cards!” Giving me hers, she says, “Would you mind terribly? There are people over in that corner of the room I have got to schmooze!”

            “Go for it!” I urge her.

            As she leaves, I wave good night to Arthur, thank Sylvia Sims for officiating and head for the exit. There is a stack of Paulie Marple yard signs leaning by the door. I look around for Paulie. I find him in a huddle with his people. “Paulie,” I ask, “can I take one of your signs?”

            “Of course,” he breathes excitedly. “Everyone, this is Kevin Feingold, the yard sign genius in Anna Bola’s campaign. I wish I had you doling out my yard signs!”

            I smile and quietly leave, discreetly taking the sign home— or as discreetly as you can wield a yard sign. I add it to my collection. What? You thought I was gonna put it in my yard?! Git outta here!

*

            Tuesday afternoon, 5 p.m., I take my 90-year-old mom to Oxburg High to vote. Taylor Mitchell has his supporters everywhere, inside the building and out, sporting his stick-on badges on both sides of their chests. This is wasted effort, people don’t arrive at the polls unless they already know for whom they intend to vote. In state-wide elections, campaign materials, stickers and posters cannot be closer than 50 feet to a polling place. At this intramural town scrap meet, there ain’t no such rules.

             During the last special election, mom almost collapsed for all the traipsing you have to do: One table checks you off the voting list. Another table has you sign a pledge that you are who you say you are and truly do reside in Oxburg. Then you go to a table where they give you a ballot. You fill this in behind the green curtain of a voting booth. Finally, at a fourth table, you shove your vote into a ballot box.

           When she was finished, she complained bitterly to the officials running the show. “Older folks can’t do this!” she seethed.  “People who walk with a cane— like me— or use a walker are being disenfranchised!”

            Having taken this message to heart, today they immediately offer her “curbside voting.” We enter the building, she gets to take a seat by the wall while volunteers bring her a pledge form, peruse her i.d., go inside and check her off the voting list, bring her a ballot on a clipboard, wait while she makes her choice, pop it into an envelope, seal the envelope, and carry it back into the school gymnasium and drop it in the box. She gets to sit through the entire process. “Curbside.”

            “They listened!” she marvels.

            Leaving her sitting out front, I walk down the hall past the candidates and their entourages to inspect the gym. Among the signs spread somewhat randomly throughout the room, I spy a large “Anna Bola For Attorney General” yardy. It’s leaning against a table. “Hey!” I tell Robyn, the stunningly beautiful brunette volunteering at the door, “I was the sign guy for the Bola campaign. See that sign? That’s one of mine!”

            “How exciting for you,” she cracks sardonically.

            “Yeah.”

            We both laugh. Yard sign guy gets a hard-on seeing one of his products in the Town Council election hall.

             Families keep streaming in, a huge turnout, considering it snowed the night before.

            On my way out, I josh with Paulie Marple. “Your robocalls are top notch,” I tell him. “You’ve got the voice! If you don’t win this election, you can always become a radio announcer.”

             Town Council Chairman Johnson J. Johansson keeps flouncing by in his charcoal gray suit, Mr. Executive, in charge of the polling, the heavy hand of the Town Council much in evidence. They have every reason to be scared!

            I have a long chat with Suzanna Son: “If you don’t get elected today and want to have a go in November, I am here for you. We need to get your name out there. You are so far superior to the other candidates, all you lack at the moment is name recognition.”

            “That’s the thing,” she whispers. A first-time candidate, she’s lost her voice from too many speaking engagements.” I don’t know if I want to go through this again. ‘Though all my supporters are pushing me to re-up.”

            “You don’t need to decide right away. Who knows, you may win this thing! Miracles do happen. It ain’t over ‘till it’s over! “

            We give one another a thumbs up. Suzanna is not only someone with ideas, she can actually master a fact sheet. In arguments with Johansson, she’ll be deadly.

* 

             And the winner is…? Marcia Weinglass, the Establishment favorite.

             Nothing has changed!

A Quick Fix

  

            As they say in the movie business, when the release of a film gets delayed for a year and a half, there are problems.

            In an attempt to do a re-make of The Prisoner of Zenda, things got a little out of hand at More Town Studios. In no way was it my fault that they ended up with such a bizarre shooting script. I have only been called in to help construct the trailer. My reputation precedes me: The love interest in my scripts tends to be either a dominatrix or a vixen. “You’ll be poifect to square this circle,” brays CEO David Groschen over the phone.

            I have been a little too generous of late to some of my lady friends. I need the money.

            Here are the bare bones provided by the studio:

                                         Trailer – The Prisoner of Zelda

             Josh (a Sam Neill type character): (close-up) “Let me go, Zelda!”

              Zelda: (close-up; laughing toothily) “No-o-o-o-o!”

                Everything else is action sequences: car chases, things exploding, even if one of the “things” is a guy’s underpants.

                I view the screener, pausing to jot notes. I’ve discovered that the impression I get on the first viewing— the details that stand out— are a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I can watch the movie a dozen more times, but I’ll never have as fresh a take.

                This motion picture is in serious trouble, and I don’t mean they risk missing Best Picture at the Oscars. A low-budget slasher movie, Zelda locks up men and saws off their limbs. Of course, the last 30 seconds before the closing credits have got to be in the trailer: An old-fashioned, Sigmund Freud type psychiatrist in a book-lined study all in tones of brown— the furniture, the leather chairs, the psychiatric couch. He says, “But my dear, you must be suppressing a terrible anger.”

                There it is! A movie for modern times. I telephone Groschen and pitch

                                          Trailer – The Anger of Zelda

                Narrator: “Never before has a motion picture dared immerse itself in the seething cauldron of emotions that underlie the most basic tenets of modern life— extremism, fanaticism, rage, anger. Zelda, society’s Everywoman, experiences it all! JOIN HER in facing the terror, the hopelessness, but above all, the anger.

               The anger.

               The anger of Zelda.

               Coming to a theater near you, August 2012.”

                “Okay,” I tell Groschen, “worst case scenario, we change the last sentence to ‘Coming to DVD.’ It floats. It works.”

               “I dunno,” David replies, but even from across the Continental Divide, I can hear the wheels turning. “Do the edit and send me the rough cut. You know the drill. I’ll run it by a focus group. We’ll call it Zelda’s Anger. It’s a sexy title, it’s potent, it carries a punch.”

              Which he does. Sonofabitch, we’ve got a sleeper! The focus group loves the trailer, the idea, the concept, the rough cut, my narration (I’ve got a passable microphone voice), you name it.

               That the movie itself stinks in no way diminishes the quality of the $10,000 check I happily receive from More Town Studios.

*

 

Convenience

 

            A tall, thin girl by the side of the road, long blond hair, a cute face, black slacks, a white down windbreaker, a black plastic garbage bag full of clothes at her feet. A blustery, cold day in January, she stands like a fashion model, her left leg arched forward provocatively. Naturally, I stop. I get out of the car and ask, “Is your ride coming?”

            “What’s it to you?”

            She looks like a suburban stray, but speaks with a hillbilly twang, not at all what I expected.

            “I can’t just leave you here, it’s cold.”

            She thinks about that awhile. “My boyfriend’s coming to get me.”

            “Good! As long as he comes.”

            A smile plays around the corners of her mouth. “You do this often? Stop and talk to strangers?”

            “Most strangers don’t look like you,” I confess. “You’re… stunning.”

            “Whatever.”

            “Have you called your boyfriend on his cellphone?”

            She gawks. “My boyfriend drives a pickup. He doesn’t have a cellphone.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry.”

            A radiant smile breaks out on her face. “Hey, mister, you got a cigarette?”

            “I quit. Awhile back.”

            “Huh? Why’d you quit?”

            “Burning up big bucks.”

            “Ha! That was dumb.”

            “Well…”

            “If you hadn’t quit, you could offer me a cigarette, jerko.”

            Looking into her lovely blue eyes, I say, “Yeah. I goofed. I… I’m sorry.”

            “Where is he? Do you own that car you’re driving?”

            “Yeah, that’s my car.”

            “Come on! It’s cold. I’m tired of waiting. Grab my stuff, wouldja?” she chirps, pivoting elegantly on one leg and marching off to my car. I grab her black plastic trashbag— which is unexpectedly heavy— and follow.

            “What’s in here, bricks?” I joke.

            “Why? What’s it your business?” she asks. She pops open the passenger side door and hops in my car.

            Plopping her bag on the back seat, I get in behind the wheel. “Where to, madam?” I ask in a cheeky chauffeur’s voice.

            “Hey, mister, just drive! I’ll tell you when I see a convenience store.”

            “What’s your name?”

            “Huh?” she grunts languidly, kind of floating in her seat. “Madeleine, but everyone calls me Maddie.”

            I drive. Stop light, stop light, gas station.

            “Oh, there’s a convenience store.”

            “Where?”

            “Right there!”

            “Oh. Right.” I pull into the parking lot.

            “Hey, mister,” she asks with a kind of stoner cluelessness, “do you ever do methamphetamine?”

            “What? No. Of course not!”

            “Huh? Shit, I do it all the time!” she assures me, leaning over the front seat, rummaging in her black plastic bag. First she brings forth a brown leather purse with a shoulder strap, very shiny, almost new. Then she dives back into the sack and pulls out a Glock 22 and points it at me. “Gimme the keys to your car.”

            “Cripes!” I swear.

            “Gimme the keys to your car! Look, Mr. Whoosis, I’m about to rob this convenience store. I got a gun. See?”

            “Oh, I see the gun, alright.”

            “What’s your problem? Give me the goddam keys to your goddam car. Get out an’ walk away. This here’s none of your goddam business. Let me do my thing and I’ll leave your car someplace public and, like, sometime soon you’ll get it back. Someplace in the tri-state area.”

            “What the hell is the tri-state area?” I dumbly ask.

            “Delmarva. Delaware-Maryland-Virginia. Now give me the goddam keys,” she rants, becoming hysterical.

            I feel like I’m locked in a closet with a rabid dog. I do the old movie trick and put my hand over the muzzle of the gun. I fully expect her to blow my hand off.

            “Take your hand away!” she howls.

            Quickly pushing the gun aside, I say very quietly, “No can do. I can give you money, Maddie! Money, money, money, as much as is in that convenience store. Why do a robbery when you can get the money handed to you on a silver platter, no crime committed?”

            “What are you, J. D. Rockefeller?”

            “Naw, but, yes, I’ve got some cash stashed.”

            “Where?”

            “In the bank.”

            “Get outta the car. We’re going into this store and gettin’ cash now !”

            “An ATM— “

            “Now! “

            I pocket my car keys. We get out of the car, walk across the lot and enter the store. The entire front window is neon signs, “Checks Cashed,” “Cold Drinks,” “Beer & Wine,” “Open 24 Hours.” It’s 5:30 p.m., just getting dark.

            “Yes, can I help you?” asks the Indian woman behind the counter. She’s dressed in a red and gold sari, a red caste mark on her forehead.

            But Maddie already has the gun pointed, her arms outstretched, all but touching the woman on the nose with it. “Just… give… us… all… your… money!” she recites.

            Frowning, the woman looks at me. “Aren’t you ashamed?” she asks. “We work hard. We have very small profit margins— “

            “Give me the money! “ screams Maddie.

            “She’s doped up!” I hastily explain. “You can’t reason with her. Methamphetamine.”

            “This is a very stupid thing,” says the woman resignedly, ringing up the register, removing bills from each slot in turn and extending the greenbacks to Maddie.

            “Take them! “ Maddie hollers.

            Not wanting the Indian woman to get hurt, I take the bills.

            “Do you want the coins?” asks the Indian.

            “What?” asks Maddie.

            “The coins. Quarters, half dollars, nickels, dimes, pennies.”

            “What about them?”

            “Do you want them?”

            “No, I don’t want them!” Maddie fumes, turning to me. “Take a cold drink.”

            “What?” I ask dumbly.

            “The sign out front says Cold Drinks. Get us a cold drink!”

            “Jesus Christ! What?! A Snapple? Grapefruit tonic? Coke Zero? Maddie! There must be a hundred beverages in here… Bottled water!”

            “Take that there!” she seethes, pointing with the gun at a cardboard case of bottled water. When she swings the gun violently back at the cashier, I fully expect a tragedy.

            None of us move. Somewhere in aisle three, I vaguely sense a customer, but whoever it is, they never show themselves.

            I grab the case of bottled water and say, “Okay, let’s go!”

            I open the door clumsily and back out. I stand on the concrete apron waiting for her. “Maddie, let’s just go!”

            She stands as if paralyzed, arms straight ahead, hands spasmodically clutching the gun in firing position.

            I re-enter the store.

            “Help me!” she screams. “I’m stuck!”

            I put the water on the floor, leave the dollar bills on top, approach from the side and gently raise Maddie’s arms so the gun is pointing at the ceiling.

            “You probably don’t even have bullets,” mutters the Indian cashier.

            “YOU BITCH!”

            “Please, don’t say a word,” I beg them, just managing to unpry Maddie’s right hand from the gun.

            “Okay,” Maddie sighs, seemingly back to normal, the gun in her left hand. Bringing it down to shoulder level, she gunbutts the Indian woman, who collapses on the floor. “Come on!” Maddie shouts, hightailing it out of there. 

            Feeling like an idiot, I grab the loose bills and the bottled water and follow her outside.

            “Quick! Into your car! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Maddie shouts.

            I mean, she still has the Glock.

            I pop open the back door, dump water and money, slam the door, hop in the front and… struggle to get my car keys out of my pants pocket.

            Watching me squirm, Maddie begins laughing hysterically.

            Eventually, I get us on the road. Maddie has me drive us to an apartment house in Virginia. “Shit!” she laments, “I forgot to get cigarettes!” I turn in at the parking area and pull up, the car idling in the middle of the lot. Maddie starts to get out of the car.

            “Just like that?” I ask. “Without a second thought?”

            “Why? Ya wanna do a Bonnie and Clyde? Now he wants a major crime spree! You think robbing people is a turn-on?”

            “Hey! I’m not the one robbing people.”

            “I need money,” she complains. “Nobody’ll hire me! I’m from the Ozarks and don’t have any skills.”

            “I wondered about the accent…”

            “Yeah, well, fuck you, mister!”

            “It’s Kevin.”

            “Oh, sure. Fuck you, Mr. Kevin. Leave me alone! “ she demands, hanging onto the open door. Interestingly, she just sits there, swinging the door back and forth. She doesn’t exit the vehicle.

            “Listen, Maddie…”

            “My boyfriend’s upstairs in an apartment on the second floor. If he knew I’d even spoken one word to you, he’d scalp us both! No foolin’. If you’re not gonna throw me outta yer car, I’d suggest we drive the hell outta here quick as the devil, mister.”

            Her car door hanging open, I hit the gas and spin the wheel left. Centrifugal force brings the door slamming shut. Maddie sits and sulks. “We better go to a motel,” she suggests.

            “Nah, that’s how you bring the police down on you like a ton of bricks. Do a robbery and check into a motel.”

            “So what are we gonna do?” she asks with that same stoner cluelessness.

            “We’ll drive to Maryland and park the car in a shopping center where I have my business. It’s a derelict shopping center. We can bed down in my office.”

            “Is that what you wanna do with me, Mr. Kevin? Bed down?”

            “Why do you think I picked you up?” I ask as she pulls the Glock from beneath her windbreaker and shoves the tip of the barrel against my neck.

            “Give me three good reasons I shouldn’t pull the trigger!” she drawls absent-mindedly.

            “Number one, I’m on your side, Maddie. Number two, I think I’m in love with you— “

            Frowning, she rests the gun resignedly in her lap.

            “Number three, I’m an accomplice. It’s my car, my license plate. I’m in this thing as deeply as you are.”

            “Pull over!”

            This doesn’t sound good, but I pull over. Not on the main drag, but at the first residential street we come to. Is she going to blow my brains out, dump my body and drive off in my car? She’s a meth head. The experts say their behavior is extremely unpredictable and their level of violence limitless.

            “C’mere,” she insists, the gun in her lap, reaching for me with both hands. She clasps my face and we kiss, long, drawn-out kisses, sucking air. She squirms in her seat, one hand drifting down to grab my swollen crotch. “You love  me,” she contends wonderingly. “You really love me!”

            “Yeah… yes, I do!”

            “That’s so… lame!” she laughs. “That’s so fucking lame! I rob a convenience store and you’re, like, totally turned on. Joey’ll die when he hears about this!”

            We kiss some more.

            “Pull down your pants.”

            “Put away your gun.”

            “Fuck you, mister,” she grouses, shoving the pistol back into the waistband of her slacks.

            I unbuckle myself, unzip and pull down my pants.

            “What’s that?”

            “Part of a sock. Keeps the nether regions warm and absorbs leaks.”

            “What leaks?”

            “Sometimes my dick leaks.”

            “Boo hoo hoo, poor man!” she jeers, tugging at my cock mercilessly.

            “We’d enjoy this more in the office,” I croak.

            “Why? I’m enjoying it now.”

            Fuck!

            We go back to heavy petting.

            “If I just kind of lean back on the seat here,” she asks, “will you drive us to this office of yours? I can’t sleep. Meth keeps you wired. But I’m tired. Or am I gonna wake up an’ find myself staring into a patrolman’s flashlight?”

            “I don’t think we’re going to see any patrolmen or their flashlights,” I reason, “but we’d better get a move on.”

            I take us to my office off Rockville Pike. The building is dark, although it wouldn’t matter if Boopsie and Jacqueline were there. Coworkers, we respect one another’s eccentricities. I all but carry Maddie into the building. I return to the car, which isn’t exactly hidden, but parked in the shadows along the side wall. I get her purse and the trashbag full of her worldly possessions. When I get to the office and turn on the desk lamp, she is curled in a corner of the room, seated on the carpet, both arms out stiff, pointing her gun squarely at my head.

            “What are we doing here?!” she demands icily.

            “Hopefully,” I admit, “we’re going to screw the daylights out of each other.”

            “Oh, yeah!” she yelps, throwing the gun against the desk. “Let’s make love!”

            Laughing, I pick up the Glock and lay it on the desk, go to the street windows and close the blinds, and return to find the spectrally white and creamy body of a 22-year-old female blond meth head who has just peeled off all her clothes. I follow suit.

            “Fuck me,” she chortles uncontrollably.

            “Truer words, rarely spoken.”

            …

            When I’m deep inside her, she groans, ”I wanted you because you’re so convenient.”

            I do her again.

            I sleep, in my clothes, her hand gripping my aching cock. She doesn’t sleep, of course, but she leans against me, resting, drooling spittle. At one point, she gets up, goes to the bathroom and does her thing. Groggily, I look up and see the yellow light outlining the bathroom door. I hear the water running. As I  drift off to sleep, I am rudely shaken awake.

            “I wanna go to Joey,” she says.

            “Sure, I’ll drive you.”

            I take her to the apartment house across the river in Virginia. After two minutes in the car, she’s like a zombie, staring silently out the windshield, her hands spasmodically writhing in her lap.

           “Can I turn on the radio?” I ask.

            “No noise! “ she screams.

             “Okay. Okay, Maddie. Okay,” I whisper soothingly.

              It doesn’t help. She’s almost jumping out of her skin by the time we arrive.

              “Hey! Thanks!” she says, brusquely grabbing her purse, the plastic bag and the dollar bills off the back seat, the Glock once again a conspicuous bulge beneath the hem of her jacket.

               That’s it, my escapade in crime. I watch as she flounces away at 3 o’clock in the morning to the barely lit entrance of a shabby, yellow domicile. I can only imagine what a desperate series of misadventures their lives must consist of.

               I drive home and go to bed. It’s cold enough to freeze a yak’s ass. The police awaken me at 11 a.m. the next morning, ringing the front doorbell. They’ve traced my license plate. Barechested, I invite the two of them in. “Let me go put on a shirt,” I suggest. I offer coffee. They decline. I heat a cup in the microwave and sit down with them at the dining room table to address their questions.

               “Your car was used last night in a robbery,” Lt. McKay enunciates clearly, glancing between his notepad and my face. “At first we thought it was a case of a stolen vehicle. You know. Not you in the car. Then— and here’s the bitch, here’s the kicker— we interview the proprietress and screen the surveillance video. That’s some footage. Who’s the dame?”

               “He means,” Detective Holt interjects, “who is the woman holding the gun? We’ve seen her on video several times before, but she continues to elude us.”

               So I give them a short explanation, meet woman, held at gunpoint, forced to participate in robbery.

               “It’s a carjacking,” declares Lt. McKay stolidly.

               “She did try to steal your car… and you resisted? And that’s when she made you enter the store? At gunpoint? Is that your story?” ask Detective Holt.

              “At gunpoint. When I wouldn’t give her the keys to my car. Yes.”

               They’re not even playing Good Cop / Bad Cop. They just seem intent on getting the narrative down pat.

               “What happened then?” asks the detective, while the lieutenant scribbles furiously on his notepad.

                I tell them about driving her to Virginia.

               “And that’s where you left her?”

               “Yup!”

              “Could you find this place again? That’s like, the clincher,” McKay  tells me. “Accomplice to armed robbery, driving the getaway car. Or, more likely, innocent victim forced at gunpoint to assist an armed felon.”

             “It’s not like you want to protect the lady or anything, right?” asks Detective Holt.

             “Gentlemen, let me get my shoes, my jacket, hat and gloves. Then we’ll take a ride across the river.”

              The two policemen exchange looks.

              “Okay,” McKay agrees.

               I never wrote down the address, but, yes, with only one wrong turn, I got us there. I mean, I’d already driven there twice. They kept me caged in the back of the cruiser while they called for backup. Eventually, Virginia law enforcement pulled stealthily into the parking lot and conferred with the Maryland police officers.

               Maddie and Joey looked appropriately disheveled and miserable as the cops led them from the building. I felt bad, but it was them or me, and whatever happened to me, nothing was going to get them off the hook. My going down would serve no purpose whatsoever.

              That was two years ago. I’m writing about it now because I just visited Maddie at The Montgomery Project, a halfway house. She is out on parole and looks as ridiculously angelic as always, ex-con or no. Creamy skin, long blond hair, perky blue eyes, plucked eyebrows, rosebud mouth, round dimpled chin, pert little breasts and those long, long legs. Until she smiles. Her teeth! The rotting stumps of a zombie apocalypse.  And she continues to have the distracted air of someone not  entirely in the room. Ouch!

              Since employment is such a big deal for those out on parole, I’ve hooked her up with a concert promoter who has her doing costumes, make-up and stage hand work, but he makes sure she stays out of his bed and he doesn’t let her get anywhere near the cashbox.

             So far, it’s working.

*

 

Our MLK Memorial

  

            Those of us living in Oxburg, Maryland have followed with great interest the erection, dedication and events surrounding the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial on the mall. We put up our memorial in 2001, a full ten years in advance of national trends. Actually, Vincenzo Panini, our local mafioso, and I put up the monument. One of my black buddies in the Army had informed me of the nice urn-and-eternal-flame monument erected in his Alabama hometown in honor of the Reverend Dr. King. Once planted, this seed took root. Lacking a ready network of contacts, I canvassed the PTA, the Town Council, the Better Business Bureau, the Oxburg Homeowners Association and even the Federated Oxburg Retailers Organization for help in launching a monument. No takers. Initially enthusiastic and intrigued, these stalwart assemblies each ran headlong into the political squeamishness of their members. Everyone agreed that a bright, shiny metropolis of democracy like ours should exhibit an ode to racial equality, yet no one group wished to be singled out as in the forefront.

            The only person unsullied by any such scruples was Vinnie Panini. “Wassa problem?” he groused. “Ya wanna putta up a statue, we raise-a the money and putta up these monument.”

            “They don’t want to be Politically Incorrect.”

            “’ do’ na! “

            Taking our cue from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, we accumulated construction funds through private fundraising drives, only petitioning the town for the actual plot of land to put it on. Relieved that they weren’t being called upon to spearhead the project, the Town Council readily coughed up a 4-foot by 6-foot rectangle right in the middle of the Towne Center Shopping Plaza.

            Great location! A paved, mauve walkway already in place, there were shops aplenty attracting customers, the hustle and bustle of traffic on the surrounding streets, and superb lighting to discourage vandalism or neglect.

            I love the work of Chinese sculptor Lei Yixin from Changsha in Hunan province, but our likeness required a weight (less than a ton), height (four feet) and cost ($250,000) commiserate with the shopping center. Anything too large or ostentatious could awaken the ire of the shop owners, who much preferred their storefront window displays to be the center of attention, not some dime store wooden indian depicting a last-century civil rights crusader known to have visited Oxburg only a single time in his entire life!

            “This is a very small suburb,” I pleaded with the retailers. “I mean, thank God that King and his entourage stopped here for gas and Cokes one day in 1962. I still feel we should spring for a memorial.”

            “Fine,” Milicent Palmer of Palmer Drugs agreed, “just put it over by the United Auto Service Center. That’s where they got their gas and Cokes.”

            See, even my supporters weren’t exactly helpful. For starters, we have no bones to pick with the blacks living in Oxburg, whether they live on The Palisades or in the Clearwater neighborhood. These are families who can trace their presence back generations to slaves and freed men from both sides of the North-South divide. The very farmland used to build the Town of Oxburg came from their holdings. Even the Dipple family, whose house occasions the only S-curve in The 1812 Highway, is viewed with humorous condescension, but no true animosity. If they want the constant roar of traffic and the stink of auto exhaust in their front yard, the choice is theirs. No entreaties could get them to move, not even the offer to relocate them and their house to 20 acres and a mule outside of town.

            We have no ambivalence toward the black community. Color isn’t an issue. The progressive, well-intentioned whites of our town are as oblivious of the blacks as they are of one another.

            Vincenzo and I commissioned local artist Tom de Witte to do a portrait likeness of King in bronze, 80% lifesize.

            “Why not 100%?” asked de Witte. “The cost is basically the same.”

            “Naw,” I explained, “a 100% lifesize bronze King would feel kind of creepy, like those wax figures at Madame Tussaud’s. We don’t want it to seem like a parody.”

            “I’m glad you told me that,” Tom exclaimed. “I thought you wanted a caricature. You want an actual photo likeness of Martin Luther King. “

            “Definitely.”

            “Jus’ make him looka good,” rumbled Vincenzo threateningly, ever observant of the niceties of negotiation.

            “Uh, Vinnie, relax,” I admonished him. “This is a friendly discussion.”

            “Sure! Jus’ so he make-a him looka good.”

            Tom de Witte assured us he would.

            Unlike the later, national monument, we didn’t fall into the trap of some lamebrain quote. On the side of our gray marble base, we had Jimmy the stonecutter simply inscribe, “I Have a Dream!”

            I understand that if the whole Martin Luther King thing on the mall doesn’t work out, aides to President Obama have expressed a willingness to have the block containing the head switched… to one resembling the president. Talk about “thinking outside the box”!

*

            The events of 9/11 overshadowed public attention, but on December 18^th in the year of Our Lord 2001, we held an unveiling.

            We invited President George W. Bush, of course, knowing full well that he wouldn’t come. We were shooting for Cheney or, if not him—in his green parka— at least Scooter Libby. Instead, an off-duty Secret Service black guy in a suit and an official of the Congressional Black Caucus both attended. From their grim inspection, it felt like they were there principally to ensure that we not make a mockery of King or his legacy.

            The ridiculously warm weather did have one effect, bringing a flock of seagulls wheeling down out of the sky to join us. Cawing noisily, they perched and defecated on our shiny new sculpture, giving Martin an interestingly mottled pate. Annoyed, we attendees took turns waving our printed programs at the birds to shoo them away.

            Thus, it seemed only fitting that bird-like, little Margaret “Maggie” Dipple, 94 years young, black as coal, gnarled as winter bark, dressed in a moth-eaten wool coat, should speak for the community. Croaking in a palsied voice, she announced: “T-T-T-Today, w-w-w-we c-c-c-celebrate the m-m-m-memory of ah-ah-ah-our bro-bro-brother M-M-Martin Luther K-King.” Overcome by emotion, unable to continue, swaying dramatically on her cane, she looked about to collapse. Several of us rushed forward, helping her to a seat on a nearby park bench.

            “Well,” Tom de Witte suggested, passing me the typed speech from Maggie’s trembling fingers, “it’s your idea. Why don’t you finish the eulogy?”

            So I did. “People will little remark nor long remember the words we say here today…”

            Boy, we sure got that right!

            “Never-the-less, this convocation celebrates our fond memories of, and the achievements of, a pillar of the black community, a man who was a symbol of all that is good and great in America.

            “Thank you!”

            Kind of a mixed metaphor, the Oxburg High School Marching Band then played a medley of songs from Alexander’s Ragtime Band while homecoming queen and winner of the Miss Oxburg 2001 title, blond Suzie Melnick with her tiny upturned nose, huge blue eyes, round chin and absurdly chunky body, broke a bottle of champagne against the base of the bronze statue. As if launching a ship. “I hereby declare you,” she lisped seductively, shouting to be heard over the tinny cacophony of her classmates in the band, “the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial.”

            A smattering of applause.

            That evening, well after dark, some boys in the local chapter of Sons of the Confederacy burned a cross on the grass verge a few feet from the statue. A county cop driving by in his cruiser stopped, got out and watched, but since there was no negative reaction from the community at large, no charges were filed.

            “Junior,” “Shorty” and “Midget Martin” are the most common references to the statue. Once a month, it has fallen to my lot to hose down both statue and base and then polish them with a bucket of rags. Otherwise, it’s just part of the shopping center, our very own Martin Luther King Memorial.

*

 

Movie Magic

            Hooray! My writer’s block has lifted and I am working on a new magnus opus screenplay, “I Am Uninterested… the Pink Version” (in Swedish, Jag är ointresserad… den rosa versionen).

            Synopsis: Lars, who has an identity crisis, wonders if he might secretly be Bjorn. As Bjorn, he is dating Camilla and building a major chateau in the countryside of Luxembourg. Easy to film, there are many castles in the countryside of Luxembourg. Meanwhile, as Lars, he is in a dead-end job as loading dock manager for a big box hardware retailer on Route 9 in Howell, New Jersey. Lots of “Fast and Furious” type action among the strip malls along Route 9.

            Cynthia, extremely sexy in a Dragon Tattoo way, has no reason to be in this movie, but breaks into Lars’ apartment, which in itself is amazing since there are, like, no apartment houses anywhere near Route 9 in Howell, New Jersey! OMG! Mile after mile of suburban developments, it’s all single-family dwellings. Go figure.

            For reasons of plot, Cynthia breaks into the apartment to steal the keys to Lars’ Lamborghini, a gift from Lars’ inanely rich and successful father (think of a character played by Christopher Plummer). Never mind whether the story line is credible, this gives us the op to show a luxury mansion, a Lamborghini, adult cigarette smoking and babes swimming in an indoor pool—all great for high-end product placement.

            Love those bikinis!

            Hans, friend to Lars (is the Swedish influence coming through here?), spirits him away on a mountain-climbing expedition up Mount Rainier. Ice axes firmly in hand, this adds suspense; think “Cliffhanger” or the slide scene in “Batman Begins.”

            Hans: (balancing one-handed on icy ledge)  “True story. In college, I had a girlfriend from West Virginia. I told her, ‘The British make fun of the French, the French make fun of the Italians, the Swedes make fun of the Norwegians, the Minnesotans make fun of the Wisconsonites and the Virginians make fun of the West Virginians. Who do the West Virginians make fun of?’ And she replied, ‘What?’”

          Eventually, they make it down from the mountain.

          Camilla announces she is preggies. Are we veering toward situation comedy? These couch-potato sequences of endless dialogue, clever repartee and a pet monkey alternate with “Boardwalk Empire” style activity—violent, garishly lit, clumsy—on the loading dock.

           Rich Monte Carlo gambling sojourn via father’s private Learjet adds James Bond spice to dragging middle of film.

            So far, so good. Enter the U.S. Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration Services. Since Lars originally came to the U.S.A. on a 3-month tourist visa and has been living in this country illegally for umpteen years, he is given a choice: Flack for the C.I.A. as a planted informer à la The Democratic Terrorist (Jan Guillou’s Den demokratiske terroristen) or get deported. Lars chooses deportation.

           Bitter, he joins a madrassa in Brandbergen, Sweden and becomes a Muslim fanatic. Also, at 34 years of age, he finds it embarrassing to be studying Arabic and Islam with 12-year-old boys.

            His very first mission is to blow himself up on the train to Uppsala, Sweden, demonstrating once again to the West the implacable fanaticism and determination of the Muslim people, etc. On the train, his explosive vest strapped securely beneath his flowing robe, Lars comes face-to-face with Camilla and his infant son. She has come to Sweden looking for him and to take a two-year course in gynecological nursing at the University of Uppsala, etc.

            Should Lars blow up the three of them or not? Or is he secretly Bjorn? This is a very Swedish predicament. Talk about a cliffhanger ending! 

*

            This screenplay is currently available for option on a first-come or highest-bidder basis.

*

Pedophilia

 

           There’s a rather stupid TV show where a female police officer goes on-line and pretends to be a 16-year-old girl. Chatting up grown men, the show lures some starry-eyed jerk to a rigged house where, upon arriving, he gets his one and only glimpse of his love object. “I’m running a wash! I’ll be right with you! Why don’t you wait in the living room?” she beckons. The fish willingly rises to the bait, getting caught inside the house by the debonair, urbane host of the show.

         “You knew this girl was underage when you came over here,” he informs the victim. “What are you doing here?”

         Mumbling incoherently, the stooge runs for his car.

         “But he won’t get away,” we are assured. “The police are waiting just around the corner to arrest him!”

         For what? E-mailing?

         Yet, according to this meshuganah show, the pornography and pedophilia laws make this very act of role-playing on the Internet drastically illegal. A pedophile caught in the act! Send that child-molester to jail and throw away the key!!!

        By dumbing down pedophilia, we make it harder to combat, not easier.  

                                                            *

         It would be erroneous, to say the least, to imply that every time I cast my gaze hungrily toward a teenage damsel, they respond in kind. Most times, it’s an unmitigated disaster!

         “Ew-w-w-w-w!”

        “U-u-ugh-h-h-h!”

         “Ooooh-h-h-h-h!” they grimace, sour lemon face.

          Those conversations never even begin.

           I once consolingly told a drop-dead gorgeous girl from a Catholic high school, who I met on the bike path, “Don’t worry about the taunts of your classmates. You’re better than them. You can always go into the Navy and make a career for yourself!”

          “Don’t worry about me, mister,” she giggled, flouncing her blond locks and eyeing me through turquoise-colored eyes. “Nobody taunts me. I’m one of the most popular girls in my school. I taunt them!”

         Open mouth, Kevin, squarely insert foot therein.

          Nor am I guilty of stereotype perambulations: I do NOT hang around the proverbial schoolyard, thank you! 

           If I’m shopping in Kessler’s or the grocery store, on my way to the bank or the library, and some wayward lass gives me the nod, I return the compliment. Not just any teenager, either. I am not so much predatory, as eternally lonely. Some ladies, regardless of age, by their mien, their gaze, the way they hold themselves, project the illusion of being both beautiful and ageless. They’re my partners in crime. I could say “They’re my meat,” but that’s not how they see it. Still testing their sexuality, they find me a ready subject, worthy of  experimentation. Mercifully, none has yet created a Frankenstein’s monster!

        On occasion, an over-rambunctious young person can’t wait to speak to me! The words come tumbling out in a high-speed stream and, truth be told, I cannot understand a word she says! The pitch, the southern accent, the sheer number of words per second combine to create a mélange of delightful, frustrating and unintelligible gibberish. She thinks I’m joking!  Tail between my legs, I can only smile wanly and slink off into the underbrush.

        My locale is suburbia, those endless streets of houses, shopping centers, intersections, schools, libraries and roads.

        In the name of honesty, allow me to tell of an encounter that did not work out well.

         I get out of my car to go to the library, and there she is, walking up the hill from the shopping center, carrying a white cardboard coffee cup in her left hand. Why left-handed maidens have this tendency to try harder, I can only surmise. She’s exactly my type: Around 15 years old; short, curly blond hair; a cute little chin and a pug nose; short shorts, black in color, that look like they’ve been painted on; a bright orange tee; and she’s looking at me! She is looking me over judiciously, head thrown back in a haughty glance.

         Forget the library!

         “Hi!” I shout, heading straight for her.

        “What’s that for?” she immediately asks, pointing at my briefcase.

         I love her voice, so shrill it could shatter glass.

         “I’m sorry, I was… at the office… of a political campaign where I volunteer. It’s got all my stuff, eyeglasses, ink pens, papers, sunglass case, cell phone.”

         “What kind of campaign?” she asks, making conversation.

         “It’s… for the Attorney General of Maryland.”

         “Is that what you’re gonna be? Maternal Gentleman of Maryland?”

          “Attorney General. No, that’s someone else. I just handle their signs and stuff.”

          Up close and personal, we stand on the street corner, looking each other over. At least I have clean tennis shoes, white knee socks that don’t sag, clean khaki shorts and a gray T-shirt. The fact that my wraparounds are industrial grade UV and my black cotton cap says “Mort’s Diner” just show I have style. She keeps alternating facial expressions: grinning at me one moment, marshalling a serious expression on her face the next, then returning to that glorious grin! She knows she’s got me. “What’s your name?” she asks.

          “Kevin… Feingold.”

         “You’re name is Gold?!” she exclaims excitedly.

         “Feingold.”

          “I knew… we had a hook-up! You know…” She starts waving her fingers in my face. “I’m Silver.”

         “Your name is Silver?” I ask, dumbfounded, mouth hanging open.

          “I’m SanDee Silver,” she primly chirps.

          “Hello!” I greet her more formally. “Hello, SanDee! I’m Kevin!”

         “Is that a football jersey you’re wearing?” she asks. “Why isn’t there the name of a football team on your jersey?”

         “It’s a T-shirt.”

         “ ’Cause if you’re into football, you could give me a football pendant on a chain to wear at school. School starts next week!”

         “Yeah, I know when school starts.”

         “Give me a gold pendant on a silver chain.”

         “You mean brass.”

         “No. Gold.”

         “Colored gold. Gold-colored. The pendants are made of brass.”

         “What is brass?”

         “It’s an alloy made of copper and zinc.”

         “You talk funny!” she chortles, dancing around me in a tight, little circle.

         “Is that coffee you’re drinking?” I finally get to ask. Fifteen years old and drinking coffee, it’s not right! I’m thinking.

        “Naw, it’s hot coco. Taste!”

         Here we go! Young people always do this. They share. I take a slug of hot chocolate. “Mmmm,” I have to admit, “it tastes good!”

         “They make them for me at the ice cream parlor.”

         “Oh, yeah, right!”

         “Bubba. He makes them for me.”

         By now, she’s ambling along the sidewalk, up the gently sloping hill. Walking beside her, I cannot miss her small, pointy breasts pressing against her orange T-shirt. “Wha-at?” she drawls, playing offended.

          “How old are you?” I ask.

          “Old enough to know better! I’m 14. This year, I’m caboosing middle school and starting high school. Major bummer!”

          “Why is it a bummer to go to high school? I think you’ll like it.”

          “And have all those boys throwing themselves at my feet? Slobbering on me? Pawing me? It sucks! When they see me, they look like they’re gonna wee-wee all over their pants! Not like you! You look like you’re gonna upchuck!”

         “ ’Scuse me?”

         “Just like you look now! See! Like a little baby who’s had his bottle and is about to upchuck all over himself!” she guffaws loudly.

          Ouch! I think. This lady plays rough! “I’m… I’m sorry,” I reply, kind of lost for words.

          “Yeah, well, look at you, mister! I know I’m beautiful, but I like to have fun, too! Without boys undressing me with their eyes!”

           The comedy is that we are sitting on the concrete steps to her house, her above, me two steps below, gazing up at her, as she delivers these barbs of condescension. She smirks at me, but she doesn’t tell me to leave.

           It’s a measure of her hold over me that I’m risking my reputation, my freedom, you name it, by sitting here in plain sight of the entire neighborhood. A grown man sits on the front stoop and flirts with a 14-year-old schoolgirl? Call the cops!

          “Wait here!” she says, rising, turning and unlocking the front door. She disappears into the house, leaving me with a crystal clear mental snapshot of her gorgeous little derrière. While she’s gone, I contemplate the fact that she is so fresh, young and unblemished, I simply cannot find anything to fault. Blue eyes the color of the sky. I should leave. But then she comes back out and says, “There’s nobody home, let’s go on the back porch!”

          This is a little more private, not much, and we sit in garden chairs facing one another. She takes the opportunity to say, “My mom works in an office, but sometimes she gets home by now.” Crossing her curvaceous, flawless legs, she begins kicking her foot at me. 

         “You want me to meet your mom?” I ask, checking my watch. Three o’clock. After that, I sit riveted to my seat, staring, fascinated, at her bouncing foot clad in a blue canvas sneaker.

        “Naw, not really! You wouldn’t believe what boys and I do when I babysit. They come over and we drool on each other! It’s wacko,” she snorts.

         “I’m sure it is!” I laugh.

         “D’ya have, you know, any kids n’ stuff at home that I could, you know, babysit for?” she asks, gushing, blushing, waving a hand in my face.

         “My neighbors do,” I reply, thinking aloud. “The Sabatini’s across the street have a one-year-old, and Lee Lechner and his wife Betty, two houses up, they have a kid who’s almost two…”

         “Well, see!” she exults. “Just get your name on the list of emergency telephone numbers and then I can call you and you can rush right over!”

          “I would… I will… What does your daddy do?” I wonder.

          “Whaddya mean?” she asks in turn. “He doesn’t ‘do’ anything. He lives in Portland, Oregon. We never hear from him. My parents are… divorced,” she says bitterly.

             Aha! That would explain what I’m doing on her back porch. Surrogate dad. Straw man. Stand-in upon which she can vent. Bull’s eye for her little darts of venom.

             Five fingers splayed in my face, she says, “Give me five dollars!”

             If I was hard before, I am solid as a rock by now.

             Glancing at my swollen pants, she says, “Better make it ten!” She sounds about five years old, her peepy little voice, her stifled laughter.

             I pull out my wallet and give her both, a five and a ten.

             She looks momentarily shocked, but holding the money, she considers and says, “Oh, well… okay!” Lifting her T-shirt, she folds the bills and slips them between her shorts and her satiny skin. “What’s your phone number?”

              I give her my card. “Don’t let your mom get a hold of it.”

             “No-o-o-o!” she wails, making the word sound like it has four syllables. “Ne-ver!”

               I leave, being careful to neither slobber, paw, wee-wee nor upchuck. Walking down the hill, I go to the library and send an annoyed e-mail to the Town Traffic Calming Committee requesting permission to peruse the ballots from the recent speed hump election. This is the second time I’ve tried to get a response. By the time I get home, there are two messages from my little friend on the answering machine!

             “Hi, I want you to come tomorrow to the ice cream parlor at, like, 12 o’clock and buy me coco and we can sit at one of the tables outside an’ talk. Bring money. Lots and lots of money. Maybe we’ll go shopping in your car. They have all these Back To School Specials and my mom and I don’t have enough money to get me stuff. My deadbeat dad doesn’t send any!!! Why aren’t you home???”

            Followed by a matronly, furious voice that says: ”This is Louise Silver, mister. I don’t know who you are, apparently some creepy neighbor. You call me, y’hear?!” She then recites her number, slowly and clearly, three times!

            I call her.

            “San-Dee!” a young, vibrant, childish voice chants into the telephone.

            “Hi! It’s Kevin! Your mom called.”

            A muffled sound of the telephone being passed, SanDee in a distant voice saying, “It’s him!”

            “Hello, this is Louise Silver!” says the mother in a no-nonsense growl.

            “This is Kevin Feingold. As you surmised, we are neighbors.”

            “What are you, some kind of nut case?” she asks outright. “Even a child-molester knows better than to carry on like a besotted teenager. Walking my daughter home from the store, sitting on the front steps, retiring to the porch. Did you touch her???”

            “What? No, of course not!”

            “Why? Not ready yet? Forget I said that. If you ever go anywhere NEAR my daughter… What did you two talk about?”

            “Babysitting. She babysits. A lot of my neighbors have young kids, one and two years old. We talked about getting her… work.”

            “Yeah, yeah, you’d love to lure her over there.”

            I can hear how this lady is just waiting for me to say something creepy, so she can call the cops!

            “Where the hell is this address on your card?” she asks.

            “By the 1812 Highway.”

            “Now I know you’re a pedophile! What were you doing all the way over here?”

            “Going to the library.”

            “Mister, you are unreal! KEEP AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!!!”

            Not wanting to go to jail, I do as the lady suggests.

                                                           *