by W.H. Harrod
“Hey Will,” yelled one of the friendly geezers, “what did you and your new buddy, UB2, talk about Saturday? How to make an atom bomb look like a muffin? Ha! Ha!”
The entire group erupted in laughter. The geezers had carried on the entire morning starting when I came through the door and came face to face with the largest gathering of humans I’d encountered in one place since arriving in town. I knew I needed to play along to deflect any suspicion regarding my surprise visitor. I looked over the crowd and caught sight of Flo and Mary June both looking in my direction with their eyebrows raised as if asking me how long I intended to put up with this unrelenting harassment.
Accordingly, I decided to have some fun, plus I wanted to further impress upon the citizens of the community my being no less surprised than they were regarding the unexpected visit.
“Actually, we did have a nice conversation during the short time he stopped here,” I responded. “I suspect he felt to be in the presence of a kindred spirit, if you know what I mean.” Not a man in the entire group had the slightest notion of what I meant, nor did I expect them to.
“Huh?” replied the obviously confused originator of the conversation.
“What I’m saying, gentlemen, and I first want to compliment you on raising the level of the discussion to a more civil and learned plane, is that we can all learn from the lessons taught to us by Mr. T. Kaczynski when he speaks to us through his seminal treatise, “Industrial Society and Its Failure.” He eloquently addresses the ongoing degradation of human rights and freedoms brought about by our slavish adherence to the dictates of an unforgiving modern technological society.”
I halted momentarily to take inventory of the number of old people’s skulls that had exploded. They displayed not the slightest idea about the subject of which I spoke. Most of them merely scrunched their brows in a display of complete incomprehension. At least one old fellow’s eyes crossed while three more acted as if sharp objects suddenly penetrated into their brains.
“Huh?” responded several of the geezers not yet displaying cranial damage as they joined with the original questioner in expressing their complete lack of understanding of what I said.
“So in conclusion,” I continued, “I would suggest that we all embrace the redeeming inner spirit which urges us to deterge our denigrated souls of their profligate propensities immediately, lest we hasten the complete and inevitable collapse of this now all consuming technological morass we call our modern society.”
Looking out upon my audience, I realized I’d said enough. Possibly too much if the pained grimaces displayed by many of the geezer group were taken into consideration. More important duties awaited my presence anyway. The pots and pans piled up in back required my expert attention. I made a quick mental note to continue my attempt to enlighten or if the pained looks of several of the diner’s senescent clientele could be trusted, torture them with my ontological musings at a later date.
“Hey Will, who’s this Kaczynski fellow?” asked one of the few geezers not yet displaying brain damage. “Is he gonna show up around here and try to tell us how we ought to terge our souls before we fall into a more’s ass?” Almost the entire group quickly recovered and joined in the ensuing laughter. The conversation sank down to their level. They understood this line of thinking.
I halted my short journey back to the kitchen washbasins where stacks of dirty platters, dishes, and trays awaited my attention. “I doubt very much that you need concern yourself with Mr. Theodore Kaczynski showing up in town,” I responded before turning to start for the kitchen.
“Why not?” came the immediate reply from an individual I did not recognize as a regular member of the geezer crowd. “Maybe UB2 is looking for another socialist to help him make this evil industrial society share its hard earned pay?”
I tried hard not to reflect the justifiable air of condescension I knew lay just below the surface of my forced smile. These individuals possessed little, if any, knowledge of the history of their country. Like so many of the true adherents of partisan politics and religious dogma, they did not burden themselves with historical precedent or inconvenient scientific facts. “Because gentlemen,” I said with a palpable weariness present in my voice, “Mr. Kaczynski is the original Unabomber. And he has displayed his great displeasure towards his fellow citizens’ distain for any attempts to preserve our fragile environment for future generations. And as for causing this society to fail, the present administration in Washington, D.C., is doing just fine all by themselves.”
Mary June followed me into the kitchen with a smile on her face. “That may have made my day. I know most of them have no idea of what you were talking about, but I’m positive they, at least, suspect they have been insulted.”
I thought about what she said as I filled the large washbasin with hot soapy water and commenced to place the stacked platters and the dirty utensils into the steaming liquid. I had mixed emotions about my almost daily smack downs of the local lumpenproles. Mostly I did nothing more than shoot fish in a barrel. It wasn’t as if they were bad people or mean people or that their intellectual malaise was reserved solely for voters whose politics skewed to the right. Both major political parties failed miserably, as far as I was concerned. Right now, the conservative right held center stage in the ongoing battle to populate the leadership positions of our country with the largest number of diehard party ideologues and corporate shills. My best guess was that soon the nation’s voters would send the Republican Party back to the sidelines in favor of the candidate of the almost equally inept Democratic Party. Then, most probably, after all the election noise abated, the new leadership would continue with business as usual which consisted mainly of chasing the pork, and who owned and distributed the pork? Corporate America, that’s who, I thought as I suddenly became aware of a deep and abiding weariness enveloping my entire existence. I looked around to where Mary June awaited a response to her analysis of my most recent geriatric flogging.
I started to say something when she saw the tired expression on my face and cut me off. “I know what you are going to say, and you are right. I should not gloat over their constant display of ignorance, nor of the necessity of your having to continually make fools of them. I’m going to try to do better— I swear I am. I’m actually beginning to see things more your way, if you can believe it. Like you said, ‘We either all win, or we all lose. We will either hang together, or we will hang separately. Because one way or another, we will all hang.’ Or something like that.” A very welcomed smile encompassed her face. “I better get back out front,” were her last words before turning and heading back to the dining room.
I stood alone at what now substituted as my desk. Instead of piles of important looking legal documents and personal knickknacks, dirty pots and pans were piled high awaiting a bath in the soon to be greasy dish water. Contrasting the executive lifestyle I’d fled many years ago with the pile of greasy pots, pans, and utensils piled before me, the beginning of a smile came to my face. I easily knew which one I least wanted to be doing. The smile turned into a chuckle as I grabbed a hard bristle brush and submerged a large baking pan into the hot soapy water.
By early afternoon I felt worn out. Not from the hard work at the diner, but from having to come up with a contrived version of UB2’s visit over and over again. After the morning rush, both Flo and Mary June trapped me in a corner of the kitchen and pressed hard for information regarding UB2’s visit. I could not tell them the truth, so I tried to be evasive not wanting to outright lie to them. I think after a while they came to understand that, for the time being, I’d told them all I could. They seemed content to wait. How long their patience lasted remained to be seen. A fleeting image of two agitated ladies holding me upside down by my ankles and repeatedly dunking me into a dirty tub of dish water until I came clean with the real story flashed before my eyes.
I also received visits from the Mayor and Chief Barley. Both wanted a complete accounting of the local mad man’s surprise visit. I was e
vasive in my responses to the Chief, but the Mayor, after learning the truth, was even more shocked than me at finding out UB2 served as our Carlton contact. After I told him, he sat immobile with eyes crossed mumbling incoherently. Summing it all up, UB2 and I spending time together, alone, became the talk of the town.
Possibly the UB2 affair would have dominated local conversations for days or weeks, except that steady rumors started to arrive by lunch time reporting the likelihood of the plant in Justice City closing. No one knew for sure, but if true, it amounted to a disaster for local workers. If the plant no longer existed, hundreds of local bread winners stood to lose everything. Absolutely nothing else was available for the workers to do locally to earn a similar wage. Homes would be lost and families left without health insurance, as well as many local businesses, barely hanging on, would also go under. This represented a potential catastrophic event for the local economy. To me, this looked to be nothing less than another complete sell out of the American way of life by corporate America looking for a chance to exchange reasonable earnings for obscene profits by transferring all production to third world countries where destitute people worked for near slave wages, countries where there are no environmental regulations, and where child labor laws do not exist while the tax breaks further increase bottom line profits by over fifty percent for these companies. All this made possible by corporate America’s well-paid professional lobbying pimps who funnel corporate dollars in never-ending boat load amounts to practically every member of Congress in exchange for a Senator’s or Representative’s abandoning their now nearly destitute constituents’ interest.
By the time Flo and Mary June left the building to begin the rest of their day’s planned events, I felt more than ready for some quiet time. It started to look and sound to me as if things in and around Jonesboro were about to get a lot more exciting. I looked forward to having some time alone to organize my own thoughts and go over how I managed to get myself into the middle of this outwardly bucolic, small farm community’s sordid affairs.
Good job there, Will. You know, it’s a good thing you were not alive in 1912 or, for sure, you would somehow have managed to land a consulting gig on the Titanic. Yeah. Or even better, you could be washing dishes on the Hindenburg! One day, long into the future, some nosey archeologists will be digging through the rubble around here and come upon a large stone bearing the inscription, ‘It was that crazy socialist’s fault!’
I heard a voice on the radio I usually turned on only when I wanted to punish myself further by listening to the talking heads go on and on about practically every issue presently endangering modern day humanity’s very existence. I’m definitely a big picture person. No focusing on only those issues threatening to destroy the city of Jonesboro’s ability to exist. That’s why the monotonous voices on the radio, talking on and on about the Democratic Convention being held that same week in Denver, Colorado, barely six hours drive to the west claimed my attention. I apparently wanted to add more to my plate. Like who would lead our country into the future as we continued the never-ending wars we had committed our children and their inheritance to? Or who would assume responsibility for preventing the pending collapse of the dollar as the world’s reserve currency as well as determine whom to hold responsible for the failure of our financial institutions. All being important issues surely vital to diner managers and dishwashers everywhere.
As the monotonous radio voices in the background went on and on about any of a hundred issues threatening our country’s way of life, my mind drifted back to the matter of the loss of jobs if the local plant closed down. I knew the entire matter could be avoided if only our elected representatives took the time to pass a few sensible laws prohibiting large corporations from sending jobs along with formerly taxable profits off shore. So absorbed in the radio noise did I become that I forgot to lock the front door and was reminded of that fact when the two individuals in the community who I could count on most to try to solicit my brain and bodily energies for all sorts of extracurricular activities burst into the room.
“Hey Will, glad you’re still here!” The Mayor offered this greeting as he, with Preacher Roy in tow, moved across the room to where I stood.
“Afternoon Mayor, Preacher Roy. I hope you guys aren’t looking to have lunch because I’ve already put the food away.” I don’t know why I said this because I could tell right off these guys had other matters on their collective minds. I had no idea what they wanted, but I started to get another bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“No time for that, Will, We’ve got something else we need to talk to you about. Can you take a break and sit with us a minute while we tell you what’s happened?” The Mayor, followed by his still silent companion, started pulling chairs away from a table before I had time to answer.
I realized it served no purpose to try to beg off, so I nodded my approval and headed to the front door to lock it in hopes of staving off further intrusions. I arrived back at the appointed meeting table and promptly took a chair. No sooner did I get situated than the Mayor started in.
“Will, we’ve got a real problem that’s just come up. The farm implement manufacturing plant over in Justice City has announced they are presently entering into discussions with outsiders to sell the plant. They haven’t come out and said it but the gossip is the work here will be transferred either off shore or down to Texas where corporations don’t have to pay any state income taxes. Will, the loss of that plant will just about destroy this county. If that plant leaves, hundreds of families from around here are going to have a real hard time surviving. We can’t let that happen, Will. We need to do something quick. We need your help again, Will. I’m sorry, but the Preacher and I have talked about it, and we don’t have anywhere else to turn, except to you.”
I’m sure they could not help but notice the look of pained disbelief on my face. Not more than five minutes earlier I sat lamenting the fact I allowed myself to get lassoed into all the other local issues occupying more and more of my time. Now they expected me to pull another miracle out of my rear in hopes of averting another local crisis. I simply did not know what to say. Deciding to move complex production operations involving equipment, inventory, management personnel, suppliers, and much more to another state or country involved a lot of planning. These decisions did not get made without extensive deliberations. And once decided upon, the planned course of action usually required an act of God to halt.
A full half-minute went by without any further discussion. My two plaintive visitors sat quietly awaiting my response.
I didn’t know where to start. “Guys—”
“Will,” the Preacher said, interrupting me before I could get started, “before you answer, I, we, need for you to know that we came here to see you for one reason. That’s because you’re a knowledgeable person who knows what’s going on in the world. You know how things fit together where we don’t. You have special skills and information about things we can only imagine. I believe to the bottom of my heart you were sent here for a reason. You may not agree with me on that, and you may feel as if you are being put upon, but we can’t worry about that. If you want to get angry or irritated at our coming to you with our problems, well so be it. I only know I cannot be deterred in my efforts to serve my brothers and sisters. You know something about this situation, Will, I’m positive that you do. What you know may not be enough for us to change anything, but we still have to do what we can. We can’t simply stand by and watch all these folks have their lives destroyed by a bunch of greedy money changers.”
Talk about taking all the wind out of the sails of the good ship USS Whiner. The Preacher had both chastised and complimented me in the same breath. The guy made a good point in that I did know something about the subject. The weasels I previously worked for in my earlier life were all over this scam. We also investigated a number of potential deals similar to this. The only reason my former corporate bosses had not made a similar deal was because the state listed a
s our present domicile imposed no income taxes for corporations, and the local labor pool consisted mostly of farmers moonlighting for the puny hourly wages sans benefits. My company paid for unskilled laborers to assemble the various parts and components into a functioning piece of equipment. Many of the components were purchased and shipped in from various oriental sweatshops located off shore. Now though, corporations went a step further by setting up shell corporations in countries such as Ireland where tax laws are much more forgiving. The end result ensured more bucks going to the fat cat corporate honchos and fewer jobs for the increasingly desperate American workers scratching and clawing to salvage a disappearing lower middle class lifestyle.
“Well, you’re mostly right Preacher, but still, what ideas I might have would need to be considered a long shot. I mean a really, really long shot.”
I’m not sure, but I thought the Preacher mouthed a thank you prayer before he looked up with his tired, weather beaten face.
“Give us anything you’ve got, Will, and we’ll run with it. Anything that holds the slightest possibility of helping these workers out,” said the Mayor with a renewed sense of hope having replaced his previously grim countenance.
“What I’ll do is not burden you with a lot of detail right now and simply ask you to find out if the workers at the plant in Justice City have a company sponsored savings plan. That’s all I need to know. If they do, and if they are serious about wanting to keep their current jobs, well, then maybe, and I stress the maybe, something can be done. Otherwise, I’ve got nothing. Okay?”
Moments later, I found myself alone at the table. I’ve never seen the Preacher move so fast. Both he and the Mayor headed towards the door so fast they wedged themselves together in the doorway for a split second before exploding out into the parking lot filled with a new hope they were so desperately lacking minutes before.
While I sat there, surprised and pleased I helped lift their spirits, I wondered if maybe I hadn’t simply raised their hopes for nothing. The idea I had in mind represented the longest of long shots. It is next to impossible to stop one of these off-shoring trains once it gets up to speed. So many things must come together for my idea to succeed. But if they did, well, then I knew I would do whatever I could to help. And if the Preacher wanted to believe God made me do it, so what? Maybe I hadn’t bought into the old idea of it’s either heaven or hell way of thinking since I had learned to tie my own shoes, but that didn’t keep me from acknowledging the valuable contributions most of the Christian denominations regularly made to our society. In my simple way of thinking, there were basically two types of Christians: those who believed they were here to help and those who thought they were put here to judge. Preacher Roy and his struggling parishioners represented the former. No matter that they struggled to make ends meet, they still made time to help others. They left the judging to their creator. As to those so-called believers who ignored the Bible’s admonition to not judge, lest you be judged yourself, and who devoted most of their time and energies calling down God’s wrath upon all those who did not believe and live the same as they said others should, I tried hard to keep my distance, lest I found a big stick and got into the judging business myself.
Chapter Twenty
