by W.H. Harrod
The next morning came way, way too early. I felt the effects from so much delicious home-cooked food. After another hour of conversation with Mary June the previous evening, mostly related to the pathetic state of affairs in the world and, especially, Jonesboro, I’d headed for home. The elixir did help, but not enough to prevent me from suffering a bout of late night indigestion. Stumbling towards the diner the next morning feeling as if I needed at least another six hours sleep to get me anywhere close to feeling normal, no thoughts crossed my mind other than getting through what loomed over me as a very long day. Not until much later in the morning did I have the presence of mind to recall all the issues so thoroughly dominating my consciousness prior to Mary June’s amazing home-cooked meal.
Even the constant chatter amongst the diner regulars regarding the much-anticipated debate hadn’t actually registered until half the day went by. I barely recalled hearing their comments relating to how my opponent, Cecil Wonkers, looked forward to putting one of those soulless socialist in his place. I did recall hearing them say Cecil was so intent on being prepared that he bragged to his supporters he planned on reading a book, but only if he found the time away from his busy schedule of watching conservative political programs aired daily on cable television. Cecil reportedly said that everything a God-fearing Republican needed to know could be gleaned from reading the Bible and watching politically conservative television channels every day. To be able to say that he had, for sure, covered all the bases, he conceded it was time to read another book. The last one he read was in 1968, right before Nixon got elected. It was a biography about Warren G. Harding. Cecil claimed it to be the finest book he’d ever read. It made such a strong impression on him, he had naturally become loath to ever read another for fear it would contaminate the profoundly uplifting revelations gleaned from the Harding book. Cecil went on and on about the mostly forgotten President’s wise determination to pursue an isolationist policy when it came to the sordid affairs of the European continent. Cecil, henceforth, became an inveterate isolationist, forever condemning the ongoing influx of all late arrivals to this great country, excepting of course, those English- speaking adherents to the traditional Anglo-Saxon version of Christian orthodoxy.
The most important concept he extracted from this seminal work regarding the life of the individual who most every scholar in the western world considered the worst President in the history of America and the one that made the greatest impression on him, dealt with the nebulous subject of Nativism. Nativism was loosely defined as a policy promoting the rights and interests of current inhabitants of a nation over the specious claims of more recent immigrants. It basically opposed future immigrants coming in and attempting to establish any ethnic or cultural traditions that differed from the ones the earlier immigrants set up first.
Best of all, these isolationist and Nativist ideas could be encapsulated in the most effective slogan ever attributed to President Harding, “Normalcy.” Harding said, “America’s present need is not heroics, but healing; not nostrums, but normalcy.” It became a catchphrase he used effectively in maneuvering the voters. Yet Normalcy was not a program, rather it was more akin to a code word used to deter the masses from asking Harding about his political ideology which, in fact, did not exist and backwards towards an idea of a more pleasant place and era that had never even existed.
To me, it made sense that a doofus like Cecil chose as his role model a President who spent his time playing golf and poker with his cronies and courting his mistress. All this went on as his administration handed out oil concessions for bribes, creating the Tea Pot Dome Scandal. Never before had the White House been so completely aligned with corporate business interests. Only Harding’s untimely death in 1923, just two years into his first term, prevented him from climbing to even greater heights of public scandal. I had no information regarding which crooked politician Cecil had in mind to read about next, but I’d be inclined to put my money on Tricky Dick Nixon. Cecil was reportedly one of only a handful of living human beings that actually believed Nixon when he so forcefully proclaimed, “I am not a crook!”
About the time I began to get my brain wrapped around everything going on in my life regarding the community’s dysfunctional affairs and began to zone in on the fact I was expected to stand before the community that very night to support a political view point anathema to the local denizens, life happened. The diner’s sewer drain stopped up.
In this highly industrialized modern world, few things can expose a society’s limitations and weaknesses quicker than a stopped up sewer pipe. When the crap won’t flow— the world don’t go! During the greater part of the diner’s operating day someone is visiting one of the two lavatories every ten minutes. Every cup, glass, pot, pan, and utensil is washed, and every square foot of floor is mopped repeatedly.
Within a half hour of learning that every drain in the building did not function, the fear showed on the faces of the staff and customers alike. At first, everyone maintained their composure and even made jokes about it. The reality of life without plumbing soon began to take its toll. Both ladies began to display something akin to mild hysteria at the thought of being without plumbing. After an hour without working pipes, I tried to stay as far away from my fellow workers as possible. It became apparent both were prepared to place the blame for the crisis squarely on my shoulders. I did not take this threat lightly and stayed on the phone to get a plumber to come and save us. One of the idiots I spoke with actually tried to get me to make an appointment unless I agreed to bare the extra cost of declaring an emergency, wherein they would drop everything to come out immediately. Maintaining an attitude consistent with my lofty employment position, I merely inquired as to just how high must the crap be piled before it constituted one of those real emergencies. The nice lady got my point and redirected one of the company’s trucks to our location.
A long white van eventually pulled up to the front of the building that was now vacant of customer vehicles. Displaying the typical haughty attitude of an individual who knew without a doubt he maintained all the negotiating leverage, our rescuer calmly sauntered inside and inquired as to what the problem was. I politely informed him, just as I had informed his dispatcher, that basically our crap simply refused to leave the building. I told him I didn’t want to seem presumptuous, but utilizing my vast experiences as a leader of industry and boss of a roadside diner, as well as a long time user and admirer of commodes, my money would be bet on finding a stoppage somewhere in the main sewer pipe.
Then Hoyt, according to the name on his suspiciously clean work shirt, smiled politely and told me he’d check things out. I thanked him for coming and left the man to his business. Meanwhile, I felt brave enough since professional help had arrived to venture back to the area where the two ladies hovered like witnesses to a terrorist attack. This was no small deal. For them, nothing worked without water. They cooked with it, cleaned with it, bathed with it, washed clothes and dishes with it, grew gardens and lawns with it, even got baptized in it, and somebody damn sure better get whatever needed to be unplugged, unplugged, so it could once again flow into and, more importantly, out of the building.
“Well ladies,” I said to them, “hopefully things will be back to normal soon. Hoyt’s going to check things out real quick and get back to me. Until then I guess we may as well take it easy. Fortunately, we got through most of the lunch period before things plugged up, and if necessary, we can serve the afternoon crowd with carry out plates and cups which we won’t have to wash.” I finished attempting to reassure my team by offering up my most positive face.
Mary June received my assessment with a show of optimism, but Flo simply directed my attention to the far end of the diner where our recently arrived crisis control expert carried on a casual conversation with one of the few customers.
“Hope he doesn’t wear himself out trying to find out where the problem is,” said Flo as our would be savior finally broke away from the cordial chit chat and went looking for so
me, sure to be profitable, work.
I didn’t take the bait and made a suggestion instead, “Maybe you two might use this time to run personal errands. Then when this guy’s finished, we can all reconvene and get ready for tomorrow. I’ll stay here and do what I can and find out how badly this is going to hit Junior Junior’s wallet. Will that help?”
Mary June said okay immediately, but Flo felt it necessary to inform me I was lucky this wasn’t one of her hair appointment days that she never, ever, canceled excepting for maybe a funeral or a chance to meet a feller. Soon only Hoyt and I were at the diner. I’d gone ahead and put hot coffee and the last of the pastries on a table located next to the front door with a sign to help yourself for free. No need to risk the wrath of a few afternoon customers who depended on the diner for a quick sugar and caffeine fix.
Deciding I might as well use the down time by actually giving some thought to the coming evening’s festivities, I poured myself a cup of coffee, took a note pad, and sat down at one of the rear tables. Hoyt, busy attempting to isolate the drain problem, had received the go ahead to fix whatever was broke, so I determined to try to clear my mind to be able to organize my thoughts relating to the most salient issues confronting the country. I checked to see if I had enough notepaper and quickly surmised, my list would not be a short one. I told myself not to try to prioritize anything until I’d listed everything I could think of. Fifteen minutes later, I finally put my pen down. Enough! I had three pages of notes and hadn’t even broken a sweat. This country is really screwed, I told myself as I gazed at the pages filled with solid lines of closely printed words. I felt I pretty much addressed the major issues, but, by now, my partially energized brain also told me most of what I listed would not be considered vital to ninety-nine percent of the attendees. It was good for me to remind myself of the entire universe of salient issues, although, I felt sure the debate would center on a mere handful of what I considered less important matters. That’s where I needed to be prepared, if it was possible to prepare to debate periphery issues such as abortion, homosexuality, gay marriage, prayer in public schools, and the right to end one’s life with dignity. I recognized all of these as legitimate points of discussion but certainly not at the expense of debating and acting upon far more important issues. Issues such as: our nation’s financial instability, fair taxation, national security, illegal immigration, terrorism, global warming, military interventionism, corporate malfeasance, corporate lobbyists, national debt, education, poverty, real estate market crash, destructive political partisanship, current and future energy needs, globalization, outsourcing of jobs, corporate farming, and old age entitlements, just to name part of a very long list of important issues.
I decided right then that if I permitted the debate to dwell in the nether regions of non-quantifiable social issues, all would be lost. You can’t argue prejudices. One person’s prejudice is often another person’s core value cornerstone. Somehow, I had to redirect the debate back to the important issues whenever my opponent tried to hide behind a hot button social issue smoke screen. Whenever Cecil tried to rely upon the customary exchange of prejudices, I intended to redirect the debate back to the discussion of more critical issues.
There would not be an official moderator at my insistence. I wasn’t going to be fool enough to stand up there and allow some local party hack to direct the debate away from the current administration’s history of almost total incompetence and outright deceit. That demand was non-negotiable if they wanted me to participate. Each participant would be allowed five minutes to make an opening statement, and after that, we were free to argue, condemn, chastise, orate, preach, obfuscate, or pretty much anything else except cuss.
It was about this time that Hoyt came out of the kitchen to inform me he had finally located the main sewer pipe clean-out plug. The reason it took so long was because someone long ago concealed it by placing a linen cabinet over it. The cabinet had to have been there for sometime. Hoyt said we were lucky he was familiar with the construction of concrete block buildings of this nature built mostly during the ‘70s and ‘80s. The plumbing codes by that time always stipulated there must be a clean-out plug somewhere. Now he could bring in his ‘heavy-duty commercial grade sewer pipe auger and get it done.’
I flashed him the thumbs up before checking my watch to see it was getting close to 2 p.m. I figured if Hoyt finished by 3 p.m. it would require at least a couple of hours to get things cleaned up. That meant I wouldn’t be getting out of the diner until around 5 p.m. I decided to kick back and relax because no benefit came from worrying about the debate. I’d do my best to explain my positions and point out the fallacy of my opponent’s arguments. I doubted I stood much of a chance in changing anyone’s core beliefs. Mostly because their so-called beliefs were, to a great extent, merely extensions of deeply ingrained prejudices passed down to them from their ancestors. What is it they say? An apple, pear, peach, banana, dead buzzard, or whatever never falls far from the tree. To borrow and misuse a term generally associated with nature lovers, these people were tree huggers, though, only in the sense they seldom ventured far from the limbs and leaves protecting them from being exposed to the sunlight of real facts and figures.
Awakening from my mental wandering, I spotted Sheriff Slaybaugh coming through the front door with Preacher Roy in tow. They saw me sitting alone in the back of the room and immediately headed in my direction. Preacher Roy halted his progress long enough to stop by the free coffee and pastries table and avail himself of the goodies.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” I said as they approached my table.
“Afternoon, Will,” responded the Sheriff.
“Howdy, Will,” offered the Preacher right before he took his first big bite out of the oversized blueberry muffin he held firmly in his large, calloused hand. “Thanks for the muffin.”
“Sit down,” I said to them both waving my hand in the direction of the vacant chairs at my table.
Both did, and then the Sheriff, after determining his associate wouldn’t be talking until he’d finished off the muffin, spoke up.
“Will, both the Preacher and I wanted to stop by and tell you how much we appreciate your taking the time to participate in tonight’s debate. I truly don’t know if you will accomplish much trying to respond to Cecil’s infernal ramblings and the local folks’ predisposition to lean to the far right, but we want you to know there are folks around here who look up to you for being the person you are, if not for your politics. You pretty much go along with that Preacher Roy?” asked the Sheriff as he turned to his traveling companion busy trying to get the last of the muffin into his mouth.
“Umph! Umph!” was Preacher Roy’s terse response as he chewed his muffin while nodding his head in approval.
“Thank you both. I appreciate that you stopped by to say this. It means a lot coming from the two of you.” I fully expect the smile on my face gave away my grateful feelings well before I’d said a word in reply. “I’ll look forward to seeing both of your friendly faces in the crowd this evening.”
They headed back out the door but not before Preacher Roy stopped by to pick up the last blueberry muffin for the road. He even managed a thank you with his mouth half full of the remnants of the first muffin. As I watched the two sympathizers to my plight depart, I decided to go ahead and close out the register in preparation of closing down as soon as possible after we got back to work. Soon afterwards, both ladies returned in hopes of doing the same. Fortunately, their wait wasn’t long. Hoyt exited the kitchen area pulling along his drain cleaning device and announced he’d completed his job. We were once more officially connected to arguably the most important public service civilized societies everywhere aspired to provide— liquid and semi-liquid waste removal. No need to go out to some dilapidated wooden structure sitting atop a most vile and odorous hole. We could simply pull a plug or activate a lever and, shazam, all our waste products miraculously headed downstream. We didn’t have to bury it. We didn’t have to
put it on a truck and haul it off. We didn’t even have to burn it, and I especially appreciated this, remembering all too well the thick clouds of black smoke constantly rising up from the thousands of G.I. shit holes set afire with diesel fuel and left to burn in Vietnam, causing minute particles of human feces to drift away until caught up in the hairs of an unfortunate G.I.’s nose. We had been rescued. God bless plumbers everywhere.
Caught up in the excitement of the occasion, we all gleefully set forth to render our fine dining facility fit for the next day’s expected activities. Less than an hour later everything sat cleaned and ready. Flo looked so relieved she even wished me good luck with the debate. Unfortunately, she would not be attending the affair to cheer me on but only because she had set aside the evening to try a new hair color. The most recent shade failed its main purpose of securing polite comments from the men folk. She held off changing colors for an additional two weeks just to make sure, and now that she was, color number two hundred and twenty-two had to go. When Flo made a decision regarding her hair, nothing stood in the way.
Mary June hung around for a little longer to see how I held up in light of the major event happening that evening. She offered to give me a ride to the gym. I thanked her for her concern and for the ride offer, but told her everything was fine and that I preferred to walk. Walking helped clear my brain. Still not completely convinced of my outward calmness, she assured me I would do fine and gave me a hug before departing the premises to go home to tend to personal chores before heading for the high school gym.
I truly did appreciate her show of support and confidence, but I also experienced an unexpected pang of guilt over having not told her the truth about my not being a registered Democrat that I fully expected she thought I was. To my recollection, only Preacher Roy and the Mayor were aware of my true Independent status. Technically, I probably should have told her, but I truly could not imagine a registered Democrat anywhere in the country being anymore opposed to the destructive and deceitful policies presently being forced upon our country and the world by the current administration. Still, I figured, one of these days I needed to tell her the truth.
I followed my loyal co-workers out of the diner and headed for my apartment and some much appreciated quiet time. Maybe I could even get in a short nap. Or maybe I’d find some glass slippers, put’em on, click my heels, and get the hell out of Kansas!
Chapter Twenty-Nine
