Ordinary Obsessions

by Tom Corbett

  Kat stood suddenly and began pacing. “You are telling us that the election is, for all practical purposes, over.”

  “Yes.”

  “Trump will win, that is your educated guess.” Kat pushed him.

  “I am ready to bet the farm on it.” Chris looked at his sister without expression.

  “What should we do then?” Ricky chimed in.

  “Start moving on to a post-election strategy. The right has unlimited money, organization, a defined purpose, and now foreign allies in a country they once despised. But they also have worries. Really, can they continue to redistribute a country’s wealth up to the very top of the distribution forever without at least some of the working stiffs realizing they are being hosed? Can they alter immigration laws to keep what they consider undesirables out, who increasingly will vote democratic and, more importantly, deport the millions already here so that a white majority can be preserved? If they can, who will do all those jobs poor whites no longer will do? Can they somehow reach millennials or- what do they call the kids today? Anyone know? - and turn them into conservative robots? If nothing else, these kids don’t buy the social message of the right. What the economic elite needs to keep the evangelical nut cases in the fold - a hate driven social agenda - will drive the kids away. You cannot wish away that problem with sophisticated message targeting. What every group that aspires to dictatorial aspirations hates the most is a real democracy where everyone gets to vote. When the GOP has control of everything, the will make the last push to dismantle the last vestiges of the American experiment.”

  “No way.” This exasperated comment seemed to come from several around the table.

  “They will need just one more vote on the court. What if Anthony Kennedy resigns? He is the swing vote? If all else fails, you don’t think that a madman like Trump could not gin up a national crisis? He could do that in a heartbeat, get some conflict going with Iran or North Korea, or some fake border issue. Never forget that Hitler dressed up some SS men in Polish army uniforms and created border ‘provocations’ to invade that hapless country. That is one story from my father I have not forgotten. Spill some American blood and people will accept a lot. Remember our concentration camps in World War II for Japanese-Americans? Hell, we treated German prisoners of war better. Face it, as I have said before in different ways, this is their last best chance to advance their agenda on a permanent basis and America’s Achilles heel - our embedded racial hatreds - is their path to ultimate triumph.” Chris paused and turned to Beverly. “Oddly enough, you probably know my father better than anyone these days. What do you think he is capable of?”

  Beverly leaned back and seemed to ponder her brother-in-law’s question. “I have been thinking about this question a lot lately. Funny, he has become more animated lately, his mood has improved. He even has been more open with me, bringing me into his confidence as if I were really his daughter, and not just by marriage. I wondered why. Now, listening to you, Chris, I think I am figuring it out. He is winning, or he thinks he is winning. He was not a Trump fan, thinking him a fool. They all know that Trump is a moron. But he also believes that he is such an idiot that he can be used. I think it is as Chris says, his group, whatever they call themselves, had never thought this day possible, the day they could control everything. Now that they can taste it, they will stop at nothing.” Beverly then turned to Kat. “He will stop at nothing…not even murder.”

  Chris stopped at the security desk and had an extended conversation with a guard. Then, he was told to sit and wait. Several minutes later, a well-built man in a suit exited an elevator and walked directly toward him. “Come with me, Mr. Crawford.”

  As the man turned away to lead Chris back to the elevator, his suit jacket opened slightly to reveal a holster and large automatic handgun. Suddenly, Chris wished he had told someone where he was going, but this was an impetuous act, something that had sprung unbidden from the deeper recesses of his heart. He had felt this urge to confront Charles Crawford Senior.

  The elevator slowly rose to the top of the building, opening to a foyer where another security person sat at a desk. Chris had expected efficient-looking secretaries, not refugees from the World Federation of Wrestling. What was going on here? He was sure that his father retained an active investment life on his own. He had probably screwed many investment partners and competitors. His felt need for such security was ominous indeed. Was it necessary or simply a manifestation of a crippling paranoia? He was ushered through a side door. After his mother had moved out, his father had sold the old place and moved into a new penthouse suite that, Chris reflected, probably better reflected his new world, whatever that was. Of course, it was conceivable that his father had relocated because the old place reminded him of his lost family connections. Chris dismissed that notion as absurd. That would imply that the man had a residue of human sensibilities when it was clear that he had none whatsoever.

  The destination was a modest sized library. The walls were lined with bookcases filled with what appeared to be first editions of the classics. Chris almost laughed. Did his father bring in an interior decorator to fill in the décor of the library? Surely, the family patriarch had not read these works. On the other hand, Chris would have loved this place growing up. When not improving his athletic skills on the playing fields of Chicago, he loved old bookstores, not the chains, but the old ones where the musty smell was unmistakable. He loved touching what he assumed were old masterpieces. The feel of antiquity itself lent them an air of authority with which no glossy publication of recent vintage could possibly compete.

  Sitting in an overstuffed chair adjacent to a large globe of the world sat the patriarch of the Crawford clan. With one glance, Chris was satisfied that not a single hair was out of place. His clothes were impeccably tailored and his blue eyes as intense and penetrating as ever. He managed a tiny, forced smile as he indicated a chair to his only surviving male heir. Chris focused on the hand that pointed to a vacant chair. Like the rest of the man, it was manicured to perfection. If his father had suffered from the dissolution of the family and breakup of his marriage, Chris could not see the effects. He had not paid attention during his one exchange with him a few months back. Now, Chris was focused on what the man looked like. What he saw was a man apparently comfortable with his world and his place in it.

  “My, this is an unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe my good fortune?” Charles senior issued his unctuous smile.

  “Simply a son visiting his father.”

  “I am most gratified that you still accord me that station in life.” The elder man continued to smile.

  “Well, one cannot easily undo biological reality.”

  “True, son, but I suspect you know that fatherhood is more than impregnating a woman.” There was an emphasis on the word ‘son’.

  “That, Father, is a lesson from which we all might benefit.”

  “However, I doubt that you came by to exchange views on parenting. Let me add that I do hope your family is well up there in Madison.”

  “Very well, indeed. It is a lovely place and we are thriving. But you are right, that is not why I am here. I came by to congratulate you.”

  “On what, may I ask?”

  Now Chris smiled. “Why, I am convinced your man is about to win the presidency.”

  “I believe such congratulations are decidedly premature. Not even Nate Silver is predicting a Republican win.”

  “Ah, yes, but the pundits and political seers are not looking deep enough, they are not seeing what is really going on.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed just a sliver. “And I am sure you are about to educate me on the, what shall we say, reality of things?”

  “I don’t have to, dear Father.” Chris emphasized the final word. “You are the one in a position to educate me. But I suspect that hell shall freeze over before that happens.”

  “Remember this, son,” he said and again emphasized the word ‘son’, “I gave you every opportunity
to join me. I wanted you at my side. But you chose to run off and join your younger sister. In fact, I am a patient and forgiving man. I always hold out for the possibility of personal redemption, even among those who seem long lost. The story of the prodigal son was always one of my favorite biblical fables.”

  There was something in the way he said the word ‘sister’ that sent a chill down Chris’s spine. The younger man recovered and continued. “Nevertheless, I spent enough time in athletic contests to know when the game is over, and I don’t switch teams just because I am on the losing side. I could be wrong of course, but I suspect the world shall be shocked the day after the election. Am I wrong? Tell me I am wrong.”

  Charles smiled but said nothing for a while. “You are very intelligent. I am proud of that. You are wasting it, but I am too often surrounded by lesser men with no imaginations. Oh, these men are bright enough, the best of educations and training, and blessed with great wealth or at least aspiring to it, but often they lack something. Perhaps it is wisdom, or maybe something we have never defined. You, however, have it all and are throwing it away. Too bad we have free will, some employ it to their disadvantage. So sad, but we have been down that road before many times. In truth, I am not terribly certain that anyone will win come election day.”

  Chris was legitimately puzzled at this. “I am not sure I understand.”

  “Oh, Mr. Trump may well come out with a plurality of electoral college votes but look at that man. Have you listened to him, seen the people at his rallies? They are rabble, less than rabble. Mrs. Clinton was correct when she called them the deplorables.” Then the elder man suddenly stopped as if he were on the cusp of revealing too much. After a pause, he apparently decided to finish his thought. “Of course, it is also true that the rabble is easy to manipulate.”

  “Unless they begin to believe an uncontrollable leader. We both know full well that Trump is so dumb that he doesn’t know how dumb he is. He has only one style - bullying, insulting, and intimidating his way through life. And he has an unhealthy fascination with the Russian bear, clearly something is amiss there.”

  Charles Senior now widened his ever-present smile. “It is very likely that you know more than I do. You clearly have taken a strong interest in my…hobbies. But yes, he is so stupid that he cannot fathom his own limitations. That is sad and perhaps a challenge.”

  “Challenge? For whom? The country? The Democrats?”

  “Country? Democrats? Don’t be silly my son. When you walk the streets of Chicago, what do you see? You see unthinking robots going about their desperate and limited lives. They have no idea what is going on, what the big stakes are. They are like those rats in experimental mazes. They barely understand what is happening around them. They have their little routines. You control their maze, the available rewards, and you control them. You can shape behaviors simply by altering opportunities and incentives. They are barely conscious beings.”

  “And you are the grand experimenter, the man in the white coat behind the curtain?”

  Charles Senior tilted his head back slightly, as if thinking. “I wish it were that simple. The truth is, a wild card like Trump can…upset the best of plans. He is so vile, he could tarnish the brand, get the rabble to think, to feel something beyond their own base needs. There is nothing so dangerous as rabble that think about their situation. Surely, son, you must look about you and recognize how superior you are? You really were meant to be with me, to lead.”

  “You know, Trump’s greatest contribution to mankind might not be discrediting the hard right, as you fear, but uniting the other side of the spectrum. Alas, the center left is always squabbling about silly and inconsequential things like who is the purist on the left. They just might unite in their hate of this man.” Chris looked as if he had just thought of this.

  His father hesitated as if Chris had said something unexpected. His response was a non sequitur. “You know, all the babble you see on twenty-four-seven news and commentary is just a side show, Trump-mania, the evangelical nut cases, abortion, and immigration and nativism, and all the rest. Those are just the tools to be used for what really counts.”

  “Which is?” Chris asked though he could guess.

  Charles Senior hesitated but he had to finish now. “Control. Mastery over all that counts. Do you think, really think, that the future should be entrusted to the unwashed hordes out there? Hell, most of them cannot control their own families, their pathetic little aspirations, let alone determine the fate of a country, or mankind. Don’t be an idiot. What you think of as democracy is a free-for-all by a bunch of morons fighting for short-term gain, for scraps. There is no vision there, no purpose beyond the next election cycle. What we need are the few with exemplary intelligence, with vision, with a long-term perspective. We need those who can make hard decisions, not coddle or sustain miserable existences on the palaver that all life is noble or sacred. What hogwash!” He was warming to his topic now. “You surely have studied Schumpeter, the concept of creative destruction? You probably adore Darwin, he is scientific enough for you, with his principle of survival of the fittest. Progress, the future, the next transformation of mankind will not just happen. Darwin’s devotee, Herbert Spencer, was right. It will be forged by the will of those capable of making it happen, those capable of seeing what needs to be done, and strong enough to make it happen. If we must destroy some, or many, wipe out old useless governmental forms, then we will. If even the seemingly mighty become inconvenient, even that moron Trump, he will be…neutralized. And if he becomes a distraction, he will be…removed. No one will stop us.”

  “Even those you love,” Chris barely whispered, now beginning to wonder if his father had read some of the classics in this library.

  Charles, the patriarch, looked at his son for a long time. “They will be among the first,” he said in a clear voice. “But I don’t want that. Above all, I don’t want that, believe me.” The elder man’s face almost softened a bit. “I beg you, one last time. Join the correct side of history.”

  “Father, we have been down that road too many times. You don’t seem to understand. I am on the right side.”

  His father grunted, it was an odd sound. “Yes, yes, a road oft-visited, I fear. Just remember that there really are only two types of people in the world, those that lead and…the rest.” The patriarch’s jaw was set, his eyes flashed with an animal intensity. “I can still remember the stories when I was little more than an infant. They were fresh recollections, and I was like a sponge. My Polish family, neighbors, and friends were crushed and brutalized simply because they had no power to resist. I was never, never going to let that happen to me. If anyone was going to be crushed, I would be on the right side of that equation. I still recall that, as a child, I vowed I would be the one to do the crushing.” He seemed on the verge of saying more but controlled himself.

  Chris stared at the elderly man across from him. It was almost impossible to believe they were connected by blood. They were so different in almost every respect. If his mother had not been such a virtuous Catholic, wedded to the principle that sex was justified only for the sake of procreation, Chris might have concluded that he and his twin sister Kristen were the bastard issues of an illicit tryst. He had long concluded that personal dispositions and attributes are at least partially hard-wired, a product of the genetic roll of the dice. Did he take everything from his mother and nothing from his father? That seemed unlikely, perhaps impossible. He must ask Kay about these matters one day. Of course, it just might be that he had some recessed beliefs and behaviors waiting to erupt at the correct moment. Perhaps his father would say a code word and suddenly all that had been repressed would come out. Then Chris realized that his mind had been wandering. What had his father just said? He decided to pick up where he had last paid attention.

  “Sometimes, Father, you do amuse me. You call your interests, your vision, what…hobbies? What a quaint way to refer to it.” Chris tried to smile.

  “Well,”
Charles Senior mused, looking at his slender hands poised on his lap. “I strongly suspect you have another term for it. Otherwise, you and your sibling would not be spending so much time and effort looking into it.”

  “I have always taken an interest in you. Didn’t you realize that?” Chris fought to maintain his calm. Yet, a chill swept through him. His adversary was way too crafty to reveal too much. Beverly was the only hope for inside information. Besides, that is not why he had come. Still, did this man know exactly what he and Kat were about? Was he merely guessing, or did he have inside information? For one moment, the notion that Beverly really was spying for her father-in-law occurred to him. But he quickly dismissed that, though he knew not why.

  “Just remember this. Remember this. I will always want you at my side. I asked you to be at my side, many times. Your feckless brother was too weak. You were the one I needed. And you so bitterly disappointed me. You know that my associates and I are focused on things way beyond mere political power. That is merely a means to an end. Evolutionary direction will be dictated by the strong, those meant to lead. You are either a part of that vanguard or…not.” There was something very ominous in the way he ended his sentence.

  Chris stood up. “Enough of this. In truth, I stopped by to deliver one message. Listen to me and listen carefully. If any of my siblings or immediate family come to harm, in any remotely suspicious way, let us say an automobile accident, I will come after you. Do you understand? I will get you if it is the last thing I do, and your fucking palace guard won’t be able to stop me. That is not a threat, it is a promise. No, even more than that. It is a solemn vow. Do you understand me?”