Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

“I’m warning you Junior Junior, the next time that horse you call a dog comes over to my house and digs a hole in my front lawn while on his way to my tomato garden to take a dump, I’m going to call Chief Barley and file a complaint. This is my second warning, so don’t think I won’t do it if there is a third time. I don’t care if we are distant cousins, I’ll do it!”

  I, along with everyone else in the diner, couldn’t help but over hear this most recent complaint concerning Junior Junior’s roving hound. At least weekly, someone came into the diner howling about J3’s (that’s Jesse # 3) latest search and destroy mission. J3 made late night excursions throughout the community whenever the mood struck. His owner refused to restrain the animal in any way, therefore, condemning the local homeowners to constant raids upon their home environs. The familiar sound of knowing chuckles resonated from a number of tables because all the locals knew of or had earlier experienced one or more of J3’s late night visits.

  “I’m going to be late for work this morning because I had to clean dog crap off my shoes.” This barely audible final complaint came from the irate property owner as she exited the diner heading for her waiting car.

  I glanced to the front of the building to see how Junior Junior responded to this latest gripe concerning his wayward dog. I observed no response, as Junior Junior said nothing nor implied any interest at all in the proceedings. He merely picked up a copy of his favorite fishing magazine and sat down in his worn out chair to read it or more likely, I expected, to gaze enviously at all the trophy fish pictures.

  I don’t know why I expected anything other than that from Junior Junior. Lately I’d tried to stop myself, but a suspicion had gained purchase in my cranium regarding Junior Junior being an idiot. Not in a bad way idiot. I mean a natural born idiot. He probably didn’t ignore people while they stood waiting for a reply to a question. He most likely simply didn’t understand the question. He did not laugh at the antics of the crazy old coots coming in daily because he simply didn’t get their jokes, or realize they were jokes. And as for his dog crapping in someone’s yard, Junior Junior probably figured outsides are outsides.

  I turned back to the more pressing matters at hand, which at that moment meant helping Flo clean tables to make way for the constant flow of new customers coming in to enjoy Junior Junior’s increasingly popular morning buffet. As I grabbed a tray to bus a couple of recently emptied tables over near the geezer corner, I automatically prepared myself for whatever mischief they were sure to toss my way. I did not mind their perpetually clumsy attempts at political and social humor at my expense. As a matter of fact, I kind of enjoyed sparring with them because they were for the most part a jovial and good-humored group. I did marvel at their profound ignorance regarding most of the topics they tried to use as a way to have some fun at the expense of one of those Socialist Democrats that to them included anyone who didn’t agree with their far-right limited viewpoints. My initial lie to Preacher Roy claiming to be a Democrat had come back to haunt me.

  “Hey, Will,” came the expected call to arms.

  “Yes, gentlemen? Nice to see all of you here this morning. Is there something I can get for you? As you well know, we fortunate members of Junior Junior’s dedicated service staff take great pride in our prompt and courteous service to you, our loyal customers.”

  It took a while before any member of the group responded. I don’t think more than a couple of them realized that I was kidding

  “You a real funny guy, Will, I mean a real funny guy!” countered Big Bob Buford, the group ringleader. “As a matter of fact,” he continued in the same snide manner, “I’ll bet you learned how to be such a friendly and personable fellow back there in one of those big eastern colleges where they teach all those ultra libral socialist courses you Democrats are so fond of. Ain’t that right?”

  I loved this guy. He typified the far-right mouth organ, meaning he possessed a miniscule knowledge base and no one would ever accuse him of having verified a supposed fact. Neither would he ever allow the truth to get in the way of a well-nurtured lifelong prejudice.

  “Why Mr. Buford, nice to see you again this morning. Perhaps you would first enlighten me as to your definition of ultra liberal socialism. I’m not familiar with the phrase?” I observed my adversary pause momentarily as he parsed my inquiry. Confident he understood what I asked of him, he responded.

  “Well pardoner, let me spell it out for you in plain language. What it means is, there are a lot of free loaders that are getting money and places to live and food and free medicine and doctor services they don’t work for. That’s what it means.”

  Having acquitted himself admirably, if the part snarl, part grin now covering his face represented his estimation of his response, he sat back to watch his victim squirm.

  “So basically,” I began my rebuttal, “people who get or take things that they did not work for such as money, housing, food, and medical assistance are liberals and socialists. Is that about it?”

  Big Bob was all smiles. “You got it, pardoner. It’s real plain and simple, ain’t it?”

  I deliberately paused to let the group have time to observe Big Bob’s glee at having trapped me in a corner. Finally, he had put one of those slippery ‘librals’ in his place.

  “By the way, Big Bob,” I began, “do you get Social Security?”

  Eyes narrowing to slits, he responded. “You damn straight I do, and I paid for it, too. So I deserve every penny I get.”

  “Of course you do, and hopefully one day there will still be Social Security for me, too. But is there anything else you might get that you didn’t pay for? I mean anything?” I waited for his response.

  “If I’m getting it… I paid for it, and I deserve it.” His tone sounded even more defiant this time.

  “How about the rest of you gentlemen, about the same? If you are getting it, you paid for it?” I awaited the group’s response, which came immediately. To a man, they avowed they all received only what they were due.

  “Well then, I only need to ask a few questions before I get back to my day job. How much have you paid into the Medicare fund? I believe you are all over sixty-five and you rely on those services. I believe most of the burden for providing for these vast and essential medical services is being laid upon the shoulders of our currently employed workers and future generations. I realize you very generously paid for part of the previous retiree’s Medicare Part A hospitalization coverage and, likewise, current workers are presently paying for yours in return. That’s socialized medicine.

  And what about Part B of Medicare? You pay a monthly premium taken from your monthly Social Security checks for Part B that is equal to less than 25% of the actual cost of the services you receive. That’s socialized medicine.

  Plus, the Social Security trust fund that is supposed to provide for your monthly Social Security checks by withholding the monthly premium for Part B has no money. It was spent long ago on your behalf in lieu of your government having to tax your generation more for the services you received. So it turns out your generation spent the trust fund money and is dependent upon a new generation of taxpayers to make up for those deficits to the Social Security trust fund. That’s socialism.

  And lastly, what about the Social Security prescription drug coverage plan sponsored by the current President and his supposedly conservative party? Against all that the Republican Party stood for and to the primary benefit of the corporate pharmaceutical companies, they sponsored and passed a drug benefit plan for retirees providing for the major part of the cost for prescription drugs which also allows these same companies to sell those same subsidized drugs to retirees at nonnegotiable prices in excess of several hundred percent more than they are sold in other countries. That gentlemen, is not only socialism, but socialism designed primarily to profit those wonderful paragons of capitalism at corporate America. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to work.”

  Having finished my response to the geezers’ latest attempt at
playing political smack down, I walked away to resume my much more important table busing task. I could hear the majority of the group talking hurriedly amongst themselves as I began piling the last of the dirty dishes into a large plastic tote. I instinctively knew one individual did not partake in idle chatter at this time. For him, this represented more than polite political discourse; this was all about political domination. Yes, even the friendly geezers had an Alpha Male, a Big Dog, a provocateur to guide them along the road to hating all things not consistent with an increasingly belligerent and limited neoconservative worldview.

  I didn’t bother to look up as I heard chairs being pushed aside by someone in a hurry to get to the front part of the building. The loud bang preceding the usual squeaky noise heard when the front door opened and closed confirmed my suspicion. Elvis had left the building. You just had to do it, didn’t you? You just couldn’t leave it alone. Chastising myself would not make any difference, and I knew it. Big Bob was a showoff and a bully, and I instinctively disliked bullies regardless of their religious or political views. As for the showoff part, Big Bob possessed nothing more than a narrow-minded, self-serving, and unsubstantiated viewpoint.

  “See you tomorrow, Will. See you tomorrow, Flo,” came a chorus of farewells from the laughing and chattering geezers as they headed for the exit to make their way home to momma and the ubiquitous list of small chores that their spouses used to control their otherwise unproductive lives.

  As I turned to acknowledge the group’s farewells, one of the group members, a pint-sized and usually reticent individual named William Miller, broke off from the exiting party and came towards me.

  “Hope you don’t pay any attention to Big Bob’s sometimes less than polite remarks, Will. You’re doing a good job,” was his lone comment to me as he patted me on the shoulder before passing on by towards the exit.

  “Thanks,” I said, watching him follow the others out the door. This was a good reminder to me to not let the callous actions and rude comments of a misguided few color my opinion towards the other members of the political party that sadly had been coaxed into sponsoring the selfish interest of corporate and evangelical America during the last eight years.

  I looked at my watch. Nine a.m. on the dot stared back at me from my oversized wristwatch. No longer did I sport around one of those fashionable thin faced, no numbers, designer brand watches that had become an absolute necessity back in the corporate butt-kissing era of my working life. Someplace I still had one of those multi-jeweled, multi-caret gold, ‘my bank account is bigger than yours’ screaming pieces of jewelry prized by most of the members of any ‘Egomaniacs with an Inferiority Complex’ society. Now I sported a watch that cost less than thirty dollars and had a face bigger than most wall clocks.

  Flo brought me back to the present with one of her patented threats to any regular that tried to leave without tipping. She had devised a way of watching the whole room no matter what else she was doing. Often one of the regulars simply forgot to leave a tip after jawing for an extended period with another customer. When this occurred she never said a word until the offender got to within ten feet of the door. Then she let them have it.

  “Delbert Watson, I know where you live, and I will come over there and steal your bird dog if you try to get out the door without leaving me some hard evidence of your appreciation of my professional attention to your fine dining enjoyment!”

  Of course, Delbert and anyone else caught trying to abscond always scurried back to the register counter to not only pay their bill but also leave an even larger tip. Flo, stealing a page out of my, how to act magnanimous manual, always smiled and assured them they were forgiven and were welcome to come back tomorrow for some more of Junior Junior’s fine food and Flo’s always professional food delivery and optional romance counseling services.

  A short time later as I stood by the register checking out the establishment and having decided all appeared well for the moment, I espied a frightening sight coming towards the diner’s front door. Mayor Jimmy Jenkins had me in his sights before he came within ten yards of the building. I felt a sense of panic come over me. If the back door was to be my escape route, then I needed to start for it on a dead run if I expected to get away. I quickly realized running across a filled to almost capacity restaurant and bursting through the designated emergency exit might cause our newly gained regular clientele to follow suit. I realized to my own horror that I was trapped. I had to take one for the team.

  “And a very fine morning to you, Will,” chirped the local Mayor, realtor, et al as he came directly to the checkout counter where I stood, frozen grin and all.

  “Mayor Jenkins, how nice to see you this morning. Will you be dining with us, I hope?” I deserved an award, as I showed no sign of the near panic I’d felt only moments earlier.

  “No time today, Will. My schedule is too crowded. I was wondering if I might have a private word with you.” His face oddly lacked the usual forced grin most salesmen customarily display when cornering their prey.

  “Well…sure, I guess so. Let’s sit in the area over towards the exit door. It looks to be clearing out.” I didn’t trust him not to make some kind of sales pitch once we were seated. Flo looked curiously in our direction as I led the way to the only clean table in the area. She knew how hard I tried to avoid the Mayor.

  I sat down first so I could take the chair that put my back to the wall, allowing me to watch the entire room and be ready to help Flo if things got hectic while I entertained His Honor.

  “So Mayor Jenkins, how can I be of help to you this morning?” I said this to let him know I expected not to be taken from my work to listen to a sales pitch. The Mayor acted as if I’d not said a thing.

  “I understand you have an extensive financial background, Will. Is that correct?” asked the mayor as if he were interviewing me for a job.

  I did not have many fond memories of my former life in the corporate financial sector so I felt somewhat uneasy with his inquiry. “At one time that statement would be true, but I haven’t functioned in that capacity for some years. Why do you ask?”

  The Mayor rubbed his chin and then glanced around the room before responding. “Because I’ve heard that you were, in your past, something of a maverick when you worked for various big corporations, and I also heard you were not afraid to go toe to toe with your superiors when you disagreed with their policies. Is that correct?”

  This surprised me. Something else was going on here. I had to admit my interest level increased. “Preacher Roy must have told you about some of my past that I revealed to him, and that’s fine. I never told him to keep it private. So yes, I earned a reputation as a royal pain in the ass to various corporate hierarchies. The Preacher must have also told you that for some odd reason I get angry when I see bullies trying to take advantage of the average Joe who works hard for his wages.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d hoped to hear, Will. I’m going to ask you to do something for me, if you would. In this folder, which I’m going to ask you to take and review in complete privacy, is information relating to a civic issue that is beginning to cause me some concern in my capacity as the town’s official representative. You are an outsider who might possibly offer an unbiased perspective on a very important project the town is considering undertaking. This needs to be done in complete secrecy, Will. Preacher Roy told me you are the one individual I can count on for help. How about it? Can you help me get the information to make the right decision for my fellow Jonesboro citizens?”

  To say I appeared stunned would be an understatement of the first order. I’d been fearful the guy wanted to sell me something, and instead, someone wanted me to fix another local problem.

  “I don’t know Mayor, I—” The Mayor didn’t let me finish.

  “Will, you have a reputation as a guy who is willing to stand up for the working people. This may be a situation where those same folks are about to get taken advantage of big time. I believe this is important Will
, and I need some help because frankly, I’m in over my head. The people I may be going up against are well-funded corporate professionals, and I’m sure they’re going to throw numbers and statistics at me that only a professional can decipher. To get that kind of help, I will have to look for professionals from out of town. That would take the approval of the rest of the city council, and I suspect they will not allow it.”

  “Why wouldn’t they allow it?” I asked hurriedly.

  The Mayor took his time before answering my question as if he were weighing how far he could trust me. “Will, what would you think about fellow commissioners who stand to make a lot of money off a business deal telling you, ‘it’s not about the money?’”

  “It is most assuredly all about the money!” I told him without having to think about his question for even a second. “I’ll take a look at it tonight.”

  Chapter Nine