"Stupid is as stupid does"

Hi, Everyone,

So, like everyone else in the known universe, I've been watching with horrified fascination while oil spills out into the Gulf, creating what could be the single worst environmental disaster of the decade. And, also like everyone else in the known universe, I've been watching with a similar sick fascination while everyone involved points the finger at everyone else. The government says it was the fault of British Petroleum…who says that it was the fault of the company that actually owned the rig, Transocean…who says that it was the fault of a contractor…specifically Halliburton.

It is the last one that's most interesting, of course. Halliburton is the company that used to be headed up by Dick Cheney (i.e., the power behind the Dubya's tottering throne). It was also the company that then went eagerly overseas, remaining incorporated in America but shifting most of its management functions to the United Arab Emirates…a move which made economic sense, but which was a PR disaster. It looked for all the world as if the company were wearing a huge sign that read, "F*ck you, America."

And now Halliburton is involved in an incident which may make the Exxon Valdez look like a tea party…and I'm not talking about the kind where Sarah Palin provides the opening remarks.

So, the question we have to ask, is this just bad luck? Could any company possibly be so often in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or is the company really part of a satanic conspiracy to degrade the environment and overthrow democracy?

Naturally, that's not really a question. There is no satanic conspiracy to degrade the environment and overthrow democracy. Halliburton has just been unlucky.

In other words, it is the corporate analog of Forrest Gump's evil twin. On steroids. With oil rigs.


Onward and upward.



Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

New Mexico #10

New Mexico #10! (It's finally over)


Hello, Everyone,

Well, believe it or not, really and truly, I'm going to get back to doing Xcargo. What's more, I'm even going to try to finish the New Mexico series I started way back last year.

No. Really. Would I lie to you…?

Okay, don't answer that one.

But, this time …at least…I'm gonna be almost halfway truthful. Which is a rare thing in this life. Think politics. So, enjoy it while you can. It's rare thing. Supplies are limited. Operators are standing by.


*

Okay, you'll recall that we went to visit my parents last spring. You'll recall, too, that they live in New Mexico. They're getting on a bit, now, but they're hale and healthy. Though…it's a good idea for us to check in now and then.

Now, there are a bunch of complicating factors in all this. First, Martha and I both teach. That means we have a pretty narrow window during which we can travel. Specifically, we had about a week between when the spring classes we taught ended and the summer classes we taught began.

Oh, but there's more. Not only did we have to get back in time to teach, we also had to be back in Massachusetts no later than the evening of Saturday, 16 May. That was because on Sunday morning, 17 May, Tufts University had its graduation. And Martha teaches at Tufts. And it is a command performance for Tufts faculty members to be at the students' graduation. Or else heads would roll. Okay, so maybe they don't really roll. I'm told the ears get in the way. So, maybe, just bounce.

But, still more complications. Our son, David Tillman, was ALSO graduating from his college…the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in downtown Boston…ALSO on Sunday, 17 May, but in the afternoon.

And we are damn certain we're not going to miss our kid's graduation.

So, let's get this clear, shall we? If we miss a connection, or if we are delayed, or if anything goes even slightly wrong…

All hell breaks lose.



*


So, we have a nice visit with my parents over the course of a week. Then, it is time for us to head back to Boston. Ergo, one bright morning, we head off to the Albuquerque airport…shed several tears saying good-by…endure the attentions of some particularly hostile Homeland Security types…stumble through a full-body scanner… that malfunctions…twice…think MRI machine with hiccups…and then find ourselves on the plane.

Well, we think, that wasn't TOO bad. Should be home in no time, we decide. Probably won't be a bit of bother, we conclude.

Then…

We wait.


*

And wait.


*


And wait. And wait. And wait…


*


See a theme developing here?


*


Someday. When it is all done and said. When I'm dead. And have been for several years…

They're going to invent a super-futuristic train like the ones they used to have pictures of in Popular Mechanics Magazine when I was a kid. The kind that flash through big plastic tubes. At hypersonic speeds. And get you from Santa Fe to Boston in half an hour. Tops. And there's a free lunch.

You betcha. They will.

And, to repeat, I'll be dead at the time.

BECAUSE I will have had a brain aneurism while sitting on A GODAMN PLANE IN SOME FREAKING AIRPORT …


*

I heard later it was something to do with weather someplace else in the country. Or maybe it was a mechanical problem. Or maybe it was gnomes in the jet air intake manifolds. That’s probably the most sensible explanation. But, I really couldn't say. All I know is that we sat there wilting like lettuce on a flab burger in a microwave while pilots cursed, passengers went ballistic, and the stewardi developed that frozen-faced botox smile that comes just before you consider jumping face forward into a document shredder because it would hurt less than living.

So…

I'll spare you the next few hours. Suffice to say that finally we get into the air. Then, after an uneventful flight (well, except for the turbulence…and the overcrowding…and $7.50 snack packs…and the really, Really, REALLY lousy in-flight movie) we arrived at another city where we were supposed to get our connecting flight.

Now, understand, we'd already missed our FIRST connecting flight, but they'd rebooked us a second connecting flight. Which, we figured, we could catch without a problem because there was a 30 minute gap between the time we landed and the time we were supposed to take off again.

So…we "deplaned" (thank you George Carlin), wrestled our luggage into motion, and headed off to our next gate. And, wonder of wonder! It turns out to be only a few yard away.

We arrive at our next gate. Martha sends me off to get coffee since we've got a bit of time and we settle down until they call our seat numbers.

And…

Then we notice something.

"Say," Martha says.

"Yes?" I answer, because I'm good that way.

"Have you looked out the window?"

"Um," I say, intelligently.

"Have you noticed that there doesn't seem to be a PLANE out there?"

"Eh," I say, insightfully.

"So, maybe," she continues, "you might like to, that is, check at the desk."

"Uh," I conclude.

"As in NOW," she adds.

"Er…okay."

So I trotted up to the desk, where a couple of women in company uniforms were sorting large piles of little bits of paper and diligently ignoring me. They clearly planned to finish the first activity in short order…but continue the other to the end of time. Maybe longer. But, by pretending to be about to have a major psychotic episode, I eventually managed to get their attention.

"Oh," they told me. "There was a gate change. Your plane is now at…" and then they named a gate that was another terminal on the other side of the airport.

"Urk," I said.

"We suggest," they said, "that you start running."


*

Okay, insert here a slapstick comedy of the two of us, dashing through the terminal, luggage going in all directions, coffee cups flying, scattering other passengers, knocking over little old ladies, running baggage carts off the road, going the wrong way, doing a U-turn, running back the other way, knocking over the same little old ladies…

I'd describe it in more detail, but, really, words fail me.

*

Further complication: at this particular airport, transportation between the various terminals is provided by an automated little "people mover." It is kind of like a trolley car crossed with an elevator that happens to go sideways as the result of an unfortunate inner-ear condition.

So, that means we have to catch the People Mover or we're not going anywhere. And, amazingly enough, we actually do find a station and we actually do catch one of the little People Mover trains and it actually is moving in the right direction.

We check the time. We can JUST make it.

I look at Martha. She looks at me. "Whew," we say.

And then …


*

It was between Terminal A and Terminal B…

Almost exactly half way between them, to be exact.

And that …

Was when…

We came to a complete halt.


*


There was a crunching noise. Then a kind of tinkle. Then a grinding sound. Then a lurch. Then a bump. Then…

Nothing.

Everybody on the little train looked at each other. Then we looked out the window. We were on a kind of bridge arcing between the two terminals and over the highway. The ground was about three stories below us.

It was about then that we noticed the buzzards. They seemed to be circling the airport. Directly above our little car. And they were smiling. And putting out condiments.


*

Again, I'll spare you all the details. Just repeat the section about being stuck on the tarmac at Albuquerque. Except make it a little shorter. And there aren't any pilots or stewardi. Because the People Mover is automated. And that means there's no one to complain to…or to tell that you're stuck…which means that you wonder if anyone is ever going to notice that you're trapped and you'll end up eating each other...that is, if the buzzards referenced above don't get their first…

*


After a rather long time, the People Mover started, well, moving people again. We arrived at our station, scrambled out, and finally arrived at our gate. There, a charmingly snotty woman told us we were late, and that the plane had left a long time ago, and that since it hadn't been the airline's fault that we were delayed, she really didn't need to put us another plane…

It was then that I stopped pretending to have a psychotic episode and started working on having a real one. They told me later it was quite colorful. Literally. I turned green with purple polka dots and pink stripes. I couldn't say myself. I blacked out after growing the third eye and the second horn.

But it did get us on another plane.


*

Okay, long story short, we finally get home at about three in the morning. We drive home, fall into bed, and go to sleep.

Now, a sort time later, along comes Sunday morning and the day of the two graduations. Martha goes off to hers at Tufts and comes back a little after noon. We then get ready and head out to David's.

Further complication: David's school is downtown. We live in the 'burbs. This means that if we took the car, we'd have to drive in, find parking, pay for parking, and otherwise deal with a lot of difficulties. So, logically, we decided to "take the T."

The "T" is the Boston-area subway and transit system. It ranges from buses to full-fledged trains and is almost always…almost ALWAYS…quite reliable. The trains and buses and subway cars just keep on running…regularly as clockwork. Most of the time.

So, you know, of course, that there'd be NO problem with our taking the subway into town.

Right?

*

It is two hours later.

We are in a subway train. We are underground. We are not moving.

Martha has started rhythmically pounding her head into the window beside us. Which is a nice change. Before, she'd been pounding MY head into the window beside us.

Today, of all days, was the day that the T had an electrical problem.

A word of advice…should you travel…and should you travel with us…do not do so if the trip involves any kind of mechanical conveyance.

Unless, of course, you are the sort of individual who greatly enjoys IRS audits and/or rubbing your teeth on the sidewalk.


*

We finally get out at a station and charge upstairs. We are several stops short of where we want to be, but we figure that we'll never get to David's graduation if we stay on the train. "We'll get a cab," I say, cheerfully, doing my best to Maintain A Positive Attitude. And Be a Good Husband. And prevent Martha from slaughtering me where I stand. "We'll be there in no time."

Except…

Except…

To "get a cab" you have to first "find" a cab.

And on that particular day, every taxi in the greater Boston area, plus Brookline and associated communities, had recently invested in a Klingon cloaking device of the highest quality.

"We'll be there in no time," I say, again, while Martha sizes up available walls for potential head banging. Whether mine or hers, I leave to your imagination.

*

Finally…thank God!...we got a cab. Of course, I had to leap into traffic and drag it back to the curb with my teeth, but we got it.

Then, we're off. The chatty little driver told us all about traffic in Boston and how the streets are weird and the pedestrians are all nuts but, not to worry, he was a trained professional.

Oh, he added, and by the way, for our convenience, we could now pay for the trip with our credit card using the newly installed reader in the back of the cab.

We looked and, sure enough, there's a reader in place. And, since we may need cash to pay for dinner, I figured, what the heck? I'll use it.

We arrived at the theater where David's graduation was about to happen. I ran my card through the reader and…

"It's not going through," the driver said.

"What?" I said, as we 're about to bolt out the door.

"It's not going through." He pointed at a terminal he has in the front. It shows lines and numbers and arrows, all moving and twitching, but none of 'em going any place in particular.

"What does that mean?" I said.

"I don't know," he said. "They just installed this thing yesterday."

"Well," I said, "I'm sure it will go through in a minute, and we're in a terrible hurry, so…"

He looked at me. He didn't exactly snarl. It was more subtle than that. It was more your basic unspoken, non-verbal response which says, louder than words, "If you think you're going to stiff me for the fare when your d*man fake credit card doesn't work out, well, you're even stupider than you look. And that's saying something."

"Ah," I said. "Er," I added.

It seemed insightful.


*

"Okay," I say. "Martha, why you don't go in and watch the ceremony. I'll stay here and we'll work this out."

She looks at me for a half a moment, and then, uneasily, leaves the cab. I remain sitting there while the little terminal thing on the driver's dash blinks and flashes and makes cute little grinding noises. Sort of like the sound the Tin Woodman's head made when he was thinking very, very hard. Or maybe that was George W. Bush. Hard to tell. I get them mixed up all the time.

Just then, the driver looked up and says, "Oh." He hits something on the side the terminal. It goes "ca-chunk," and then, with a burp, prints out a receipt. "There you go,"

I stagger out into the sunlight. "Okay," I think. "We're home free." I head up the steps into the theater. In the lobby, I find myself confronting a nice lady with a frozen smile.

"Ticket," she says. "Please," she adds, after a second.

"Ticket?" I say.

"Ticket," she agrees.

"As in the little piece of paper that lets you get into the graduation?"

"Exactly,"

"As in the little piece of paper which is in my wife's purse and she's already inside?"

"Uh-huh,"

"Oh," I say, in a very small voice.


*


Just then, a miracle occurred.

The nice lady with the frozen smile was called aside by an usher with some problem or other. I was, therefore, able to sneak in. God will surely smite me for my transgression. But, heck, it was worth it. And what's a few decades in Purgatory between friends? I'm particularly looking forward to the boiling oil and hot pinchers. I understand they're very stimulating.

So, finally, after everything, I went up the top floor of the theater, and after a bit of searching, found Martha. We sat down and waited.

Then…


*

We heard his name.

And there…there!...he was.

He crossed the stage. He approached the podium. A man and woman greeted him. They gave him a single white flower…his school's version of a diploma. He took it. He turned. He faced the audience briefly. Did he see us? I don't know. But we saw him.

Oh, Lord, did we see him.

And then he walked across the stage and vanished into the wings.

Martha held my hand.

I held hers.

We did not move…for a very long time.


*

We met David afterwards and went for dinner at a Thai restaurant he knew—name of '"Chilli Duck," no less. Martha took a picture of him standing in front of the restaurant. It shows this astonishingly handsome young man, casually dressed, a flower in one hand.

Where did the little boy go? The one used to be?

Well, if I look hard enough, I can still see him. I always will be able to. It is the special talent of parents.


*

Afterwards, we went home. Magically and maddeningly, the trip was smooth as silk. The trains ran perfectly. The car started right away. There were no more delays. It was as though the tension had drained from the universe, and we were simply carried along with the current of things. We arrived at the house and, a little later, slept without dreams.

And that's pretty much the end of this story.

In a way, it is also the end of yet another, larger story—that is, the part of our life that spanned our son's education and very young manhood. He will always be with us. We will always be with him. He may go to graduate school. He may not. But, one way or another, these things will be different from what came before.

And we will be different…the three of us.

We will change, in little ways or big, but we will change.

I wonder who we will become.


*

Well…

I can't tell the future. I can't say what David will choose to become. I can't say when, or indeed, if I will get the full time teaching job. I can't say when Martha will or won't decide to leave her university. I can't say what my parents' future will be.

But there are some things I know will be true.

We will hold fast to one another. We will love one another. No matter what…no matter what the train…no matter where it carries us.

We will hold fast.

Forever.


*

Onward and upward.




Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

"I'm tired...sooooo tired...." insert depressing music here

Hello, Everyone,

So, what can I say, I'm still not posting here very much. Mea Culpa. I'm so sorry. And feel free to whack me with a big stick when you get a chance.

And I wish I had a good excuse…like, maybe that I'd been kidnapped by aliens or hit by a blimp. But, alas, 'tis not the case. I've just been plain busy. I've got this book project I'm working on…a kind of a history-travel book about several cities…I just finished a 76 page chapter on Boston.

And I've got papers to grade. And classes to teach. And freelance gigs to find. And I'm still looking for a full time job. And…oh, yes, there are those voodoo dolls I'm doing for use on a certain millionaire investment bankers ..and maybe a certain dissertation committee…or ex-committee, as the case may be. And those are just taking far more time and effort than I'd expected.

So, I haven't been posting here.

But, not to worry, because, you see, if I were posting here on a regular basis, and telling you all about my life, all I'd be saying would be, "Cripes, I'm overworked, underpaid, unappreciated, disrespected, overtaxed, under-medicated, hyper-tense, humiliated, and, by the way, I'm so tired that when I travel the airlines charge me extra for the bags under my eyes."

So…when you feel the need to hear from me, well, just go look in the mirror.

If you are in any way like 99.9% of us today, you'll get exactly the same message…and you won't even have to boot up your computer.

Talk about efficiency.

Onward and upward.


Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

Wonders of Wall Street

Hi, everyone,

Well, I'm still not posting here as often as I'd hoped. And I still haven't completed my last entry on the New Mexico series from the summer.

But, like I said before, things are complicated. I'm working on four different book projects, teaching three classes, doing some freelance, and, occasionally, just as an exercise in futility, looking for additional jobs.

Which brings me to my topic for the evening. I've been fascinated by the way that the financial establishment has responded to the economic meltdown…which, by the way, was almost entirely its fault. The bankers and gurus and Wall Street wonders all plunged us into hell, and we've had to pull them …and us… out of the abyss with tons of money and lots of effort.

And, by the way, to keep the system running, all us normal people had to take major hits…which is why so many of us are out of work, and many more of us are under-employed, and we none of us are really happy about it.

The kinky thing? Go talk to some of the people who aren't working, and you'll probably find they blame themselves. God damnit, we say, if only we'd been smarter or worked harder or whatever, then we'd still have a pay check.

Which, of course, is absurb…because we didn't have anything to do with the crisis.

But, the people who did get us into this mess? The bankers and gurus and Wall Street wonders? The people who put us on the unemployment lines and destroyed a lot of lives and careers? The people who were at fault?

How do they feel about it?

Why they're just happy as a clam, thanks, and they're taking big money bonuses at tax payer expense and "economizing" by going to St. Tropez for only six weeks this year.

So…

To help me deal with my feelings regarding these people, I have made a little clay figure to represent them. See it?

Now, here's my response to their behavior.

SQUISH!

There we go. I feel much better.

Don't you?

Onward and upward.


Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

It's my birthday and I'll kvetch if I wanna

Hi, Everyone,

Sorry I've been so lax about doing my Xcargo blog postings. But, well, things have just been fantastically complicated over the last few weeks. I've had classes to teach, lectures to prepare, taxes to get ready... I threw my back act. And I had a bout of something called "benign positional vertigo," which is perfectly harmless, but you feel sorta like Dorothy in the tornado except Toto bailed out for a Dramamine someplace back around Nebraska.

But, today, I simply have to start posting again. And I've got reason. It's my birthday. And I'm now fifty-three years old.

Which means I'm not 22 years old any more. And I have to wear reading glasses. And I'm taking Lipitor, and folic acid, and high blood pressure meds, and baby aspirin …once a day.

So, let's celebrate. Ready?

Whoop-de-freaking-doo.

Onward and upward.







Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

Scott Brown

Hello, Everyone,

Well, first of all, sorry I've been out of touch. Things got a bit hairy for a while and I wasn't able to get to my Xcargo-ing.

But, now, I’m back from New Mexico and I'm ready for my first ever posting for 2010.

Specifically, what I want to talk about today is the recent election by which my home state, Massachusetts, selected Scot Brown, lawyer and former nude model, to fill the Senate seat formerly held by the late Ted Kennedy.

I know that some of you have asked for my reaction to this development. And, therefore, today, I'm going to try to give you that.

So, my reaction is…

ARGH !!!!!

I think that sums it up well, don't you?

Onward and upward.


Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

Off To New Mexico

Season's Greetings, plus one sad, sick bastard

B52 Strikes and Armed Pro-Lifers

Linx

"Judge To Hear Key Motions In Kan. Murder Trial," by Kathy Lohr, http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=121746158&ft=1&f=1003

"Judge says no to 'necessity defense' for George Tiller's alleged killer," by Justin Kendall, http://blogs.pitch.com/plog/2009/12/judge_says_no_to_necessity_defense_for_george_tillers_alleged_killer.php

hair cuts from the west

the linx

Texas parents, school tangle over boy's long locks — http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5jHTRVxrCriQ0q9mjS5cP9NkcjONgD9CL6PO02

Texas parents battle school over son's long locks — http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2009-12-17-texas-school-hair_N.htm

Texas parents battle school over son's long locks — http://news.yahoo.com/video/us-15749625/texas-parents-battle-school-over-son-s-long-locks-17178226

New Mexico #9: Sadness

New Mexico #9: Sadness


So, once again, I turn to New Mexico.

This one isn't going to be so funny, either.

It will start out light-hearted…or, at least, merely melancholy. But, then, gradually, it will slide away into the dark.

This is just to warn you.

*


You will recall that I'm writing a series about my trip to New Mexico last summer. Last time we had just gone to lunch at a restaurant at Santa Fe. My father had, with his sly humor, vast intelligence, and endless reserve of low-level sadism had just terrified a snotty, self-important woman of the sort described in song and fable as a Rich Bitch. A pleasant time was had by all. Except for the Bitch. But, then, she asked for what she got. And deserved worse.

Anyway, we ate. The sandwiches were good. We finished and then Martha and I spent some time on our own looking for a graduation present for my son—he was, you'll recall, just about to get his degree from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts.

So, Martha and I shopped. We didn't find anything we thought he'd really like. In the end, we got him a genuinely beautiful copper wall hanging form artist who lives in Albuquerque. I think he liked it. But who can tell? You give the gift and hope. It is a wise child that knows its mother. There is no parent quite wise enough to understand the child.

Anyway, so browsed a few more shops and, next we knew, it was time to catch the train. We met up with my parents and took the little van to the station.

Again, everything was magical. The station was wondrously clean. The conductors were young and cheerful. The cars were comfortable and new. We boarded and, shortly after, we were on our way.

At first, the magic continued as we went on our way. The sun was only then beginning its slow slant toward the horizon, and we'd have full daylight all the way to Albuquerque. Yet, still, everything…the mountains, the towns, the Pueblos, the adobe buildings we passed…began to take on that rose-honey color you see, sometimes, in the late afternoons of summer.

There was a crowd in the car, but, at first, people were quiet…as though no one dared to break the peace of the moment, or look away from the windows, for fear of missing something. The mountains and hills went past us, faintly glowing in the light, then we were in the Pueblos again, their streets peaceful and empty, the beautiful dome-shaped ovens beside the homes…

And then…

HE started talking.


*

You may remember way back, several New Mexico episodes ago, I mentioned that on our return from Santa Fe, we encountered a young lawyer on the train who began to lecture a pair of perfect strangers on the train about the bread ovens…and then wouldn't shut up.

Well, it was right then that the chap put in his appearance. We were not far out of Santa Fe when all of a sudden, we heard him address the party in the seat next to him. "Those are ovens," he said, cheerfully. "They bake bread in them."

His voice had a collegiate sound to it…the kind of voice you hear in a sports bar, or a bus and he's on the cell phone… loud, maddeningly chipper, and as inescapable as gamma rays at Chernobyl. He was the kind of guy to whom you'd love to respond in an appropriate way, but he's too big to hit and you don't have a chainsaw.

Somehow, he'd decided that the two women and one man next to him were tourists who desperately needed his wisdom. "It's great. You ought to try it while you're here. They call it fry bread and…"

The people tried to get a word in edgewise, "Well, that is, we—"

"But it's very rich. They cook it with butter or lard so you can't eat too much of it. And…"

"Well, we know, because—"

"And sometimes you can't get it in Albuquerque. But I think they sell it in Old Town. You really have to visit Old Town. It's…

"Because we—"

"It's a great spot if you're just starting out in New Mexico. Or if you…"

"WE KNOW! WE LIVE HERE!"

"Really?" And then, without missing a beat or displaying a trace of embarrassment, he changed the subject and was off on yet another lecture, this one on how convenient it was for him to commute from his home to Santa Fe…thanks to the train.

The three miserable souls beside him sank slowly in their seats, knowing the grim fate that awaited them.

*

He talked non-stop all the way to the station. I don't remember most of what he said…thank goodness…but pieces did stick in my memory. There was the long discourse on how boring the train ride really was, "I mean, all you have to look at is the scenery." But, he assured his victims, he could usually check email with his iPhone, so that made it a little better. So he could "get work done," instead of just "stare at rocks."

But, he continued, the train was a great way to commute. He got up at five in the morning, was at the train by six, and be in the office by seven. And then he'd catch the train home and be back by no later than nine. "It's great!"

He was on the way home early tonight because his daughter was having her birthday and he wanted to be there for it. She was, I gathered, six or seven. Usually he got home after she'd gone to bed, but today he was going to make an exception. "We're having a pony," he explained, "and a clown."

From there he was off on to the topic of child-rearing…on which, it seemed, he was a great authority. He'd seen some video on the subject, and read a book, and it was going to make everything just ducky for him while raising his daughter—the same one, that is, who was asleep when he left the house, and then was back in bed when he got home.

The theme of the book was that all human interactions are, in fact, based on commercial relations—business, in other words. So, "she doesn't get an allowance," he said proudly. "She gets commissions."

This, he explained, made all the difference. How so, it wasn't clear to me, but he assured his listeners that it did. And, besides, it would teach her to exist in a world in which nothing happens until someone sells something. Even better, "it eliminates all the tears." The girl would keep track of her commissions, and when they went to the toy store or where ever, she could buy only what she had enough commissions to purchase.

I listened. I wondered, Should I Warn Him? Should I, the father of a 25-year-old man (who knows the score) tell him what was coming? What will happen in ten years, when that girl would be sixteen, full of hormones, chasing boys, always on the phone, and telling her father exactly where he could stick his commissions?

I thought about it.

No. He'd never believe me.

In the words of the poet, there are some things that cannot be explained to virgins in either words or pictures.

*

Now, we begin our journey away from the light…


*

As I look at the material above, I realize I've been trying to be funny in this posting. At least a little. But, it hasn't felt quite right. It seemed forced.

Partly, of course, it was because of the lawyer—tall and blond, successful, every bit what this culture says a successful man should be. Or, woman, for that matter.

And, yet, in the end, he was sort of tragic. How little he understood of the world! How little it touched him. That great and magnificent world, with its mountains and desert, stretching off to infinity, and which he could have seen if only he'd looked.

And his child! I was joking—sort of—when I talked about what would happen when she was sixteen. But, it was perfectly true. Indeed, I understated the case. What will she think of this man, in ten years or twenty, when she looks back on him? The father who only appeared with a pony and a clown?

And what of him? What will he feel in forty years? When he is old? And he suddenly discovers that, by God, life is not like a corporation? That you cannot hold stock in it? Nor get a promotion by being in the office at seven? That, in the end, he who dies with the most toys, is still dead?

*

Ah, but there's the rub. We are taught this. We are taught to sacrifice all …everything in our lives!...if we "want to get ahead." It is unmanly to do otherwise. It is un-feminist to do otherwise ("you wouldn't say that if she were a man"). It is virtuous to be in the office at seven (or even six-thirty) and stay there deep into the night, your flesh growing pasty and pale under the fluorescents. Or minty green in the light of spread sheets and the powerpoints.


*


How much braver, stronger, wiser is the man or woman who defers their pleasures, their accomplishments, yes, even their fondest dreams. Who, once having the child, understands that this…the infant!...is their future, their destiny, their career. Who knows that the promotions will not come, the move to "the coast" and the corner office will be denied, because that is the nature of the bargain we have with life.

We are offered children, we are given the option of parenthood, and if we accept, then, well, the price is high. It is not happy. It is not easy. But it is the price.

The alternative is to be a stranger to your own children, and to court their justifiable hatred.

*

Let us then admit the greatness of the Small: the husbands, the wives, the stayers at homes, the worker-bees, the million-millions of men and women who are held in such thorough contempt by Hollywood and Manhattan and New England college towns.

And without whom the world would end in misery and dust.


*

Now… we move to the next part of my story. Less happy still.

*

The young professional wasn't the only reason for my sadness that day.

As we moved closer to my boyhood home, to Albuquerque, the delicate magic of the country, and the plastic wonder of the theme park known as Santa Fe, began to evaporate. The empty lots, the abandoned buildings, the dirty building, the long walls of concrete with the vast burden of gang graffiti and spray-painted obscenities…the features of a real city in this post-industrial age began to appear.

Then, we were back in the station at downtown Albuquerque. The declining light, which had seemed gentle and kind in the desert, was now merely dim. It played whitely over the concrete and the brick of the empty city, deserted on a Sunday evening.

Only the street people—and the police—were there.


*

We pulled into the station. We gathered up our jackets and purchases. The lawyer…thank heavens!...was gone.

We headed for the door. I led the way, for some reason. I don't remember why. Martha was behind me. My mother and father were behind her.

I came to the door of the train. There was a sort of bridge that led from the train to the platform. I crossed it, looking down just long enough to see that between the platform and train there was a deep gap. I could see a gravel surface below, the tracks, and the huge wheels of the train.

Martha joined me. Not thinking, we started ahead.

There was a woman's scream behind us.

My father had fallen.

*

I whirled and ran back. He was half on the bridge, one leg was over the side, down into the gap. A woman passenger and a conductor were holding on to him, desperately tight. The conductor pulled him up…finally…and I got to him.

He stood unsteadily in front of me. My mother was at his side, shaking.


*

He was embarrassed. He wouldn't stay. "Just lost my balance there." He led the way out of the crowd, thanking the woman and the conductor, and hurrying away from the scene.

*

How much pain he must have felt— the leg over the edge, the body on the bridge, straining to not to fall, the muscles contacting and tight.

He would not sit. He would not rest.

*

My father…

*

And that wasn't enough, was it? Not enough for fate and time. Not enough for a symbol. The universe wasn't finished with us.

*

We walked toward the station lobby. To get there, we had to take one route…the pathway that led from the station landing to the lobby building.

And as we turned the corner, we realized that there was a crowd of police and EMTs at the end of the path. In the street, we could see the blinking lights of emergency vehicles.

And they were kneeling and working on something on the ground.


*

We came closer. We had no choice. There was nowhere else to go.


*

It was one of the street people. He was on the ground. On the concrete. They were around him. The EMTS and the police. They circled him.

His flesh was dead white.


*

We went past him. We had no choice. There was nothing else to do.


*

We made our way past the police cars and the ambulance and the EMT truck. We made our way to the car where it was parked in the garage.

I drove us home.


*

We got to their house. We had dinner. It was my father's famous spaghetti. He's a very good cook. He served it cheerfully.

And, then, cheerfully, he asked us if we'd like dessert. Cheerfully, he brought out ice cream and cookies.

*

Then…

*

Then, the next morning, he cheerfully took me aside.

And cheerfully told me where all the family records were.

In case I should ever need them.

*

I didn't weep until later, in the guest room, with the door closed.

So no one would see or hear me.

*

Until next time.
























Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

Salem 1

trust

snowman kit

The quotes in Question

Among the quotes in question:

1) "If the antiabortion movement took a tenth of the energy they put into noisy theatrics and devoted it to improving the lives of children who have been born into lives of poverty, violence, and neglect, they could make a world shine."


and

2) "...there is no poison on earth more potent, nor half so deadly, as apartial truth mixed with passion."

Quotes

Do a search for "quotes Michael Jay Tucker" and see what you get...

Me, Publishing, Self-pity, good stuff like that

Michael Mugs

I promise I'll stop soon...

a morning walk

A little experiment...in video