The Global War on Morris

by Steve Israel

  “Four more years! Four more years! Four more years!”

  Vice President Cheney soaked in the deafening roar at Madison Square Garden. He tried to wave as practiced, but his stiff movements made him look as if he were swatting at the audience. A towering graphic of an American flag sparkled behind him.

  Seventy-one years after FDR calmed the nation by assuring them there was nothing to fear but fear itself, it was now up to Cheney to make his prime-time national audience shit in their pants with fear.

  When the chanting subsided, the Vice President proclaimed, “Mister chairman, delegates, distinguished guests, and fellow Americans: I accept your nomination for vice president of the United States!”

  “Four more years! Four more years! Four more years!”

  Cheney grew impatient, thinking, Let me get to the point.

  He marched through the early parts of his speech. Ticking-off the obligatory references to domestic issues as if they were irrelevant distractions.

  Then he pronounced “September eleventh, 2001.” He felt the words heavy on his tongue but also deep in his chest.

  “On that day we saw the harm that could be done by nineteen men armed with knives and boarding passes. America also awakened to a possibility even more lethal: this enemy, whose hatred of us is limitless, armed with chemical, biological, or even nuclear weapons. . . .”

  The hall was now still and silent.

  “The fanatics who killed some three thousand of our fellow Americans may have thought they could attack us with impunity, because terrorists had done so previously. But if the killers of September eleventh thought we had lost the will to defend our freedom, they did not know America, and they did not know George W. Bush.”

  He waited for the applause to die down. It seemed like hours.

  He pushed through, his impatience growing. Reminding Americans about the hundreds of al-Qaeda members killed or captured, the terrorist camps destroyed, the weapons of mass destruction secured. Kind of.

  Now, he was approaching his target. A few more passages. Just around the next rhetorical turn. Right . . . there: John Kerry.

  The words tasted sour in Cheney’s mouth as he spat them. “Senator Kerry began his political career by saying he would like to see our troops deployed ‘only at the directive of the United Nations.’ ”

  Angry boos thundered through the hall.

  “. . . Senator Kerry opposed Ronald Reagan’s major defense initiatives that brought victory in the Cold War.”

  “Booo!”

  “. . . Senator Kerry voted against Operation Desert Storm!”

  “Booo!”

  Cheney paused. The way the speech coach suggested. To shift gears. To bring the audience to a different place.

  “Even in this post–nine-eleven period, Senator Kerry doesn’t appear to understand how the world has changed. He talks about leading a ‘more sensitive war on terror.’ ”

  Derisive laughter echoed in the hall.

  “. . . As though al-Qaeda will be impressed with our softer side.”

  More laughter.

  “He declared at the Democratic Convention that he will forcefully defend America after we have been attacked. My fellow Americans, we have already been attacked!”

  The audience erupted in applause. Cheney heard a few spontaneous chants, then more, until all of Madison Square Garden was booming, “USA! USA! USA!”

  He continued: “. . . Senator Kerry also takes a different view when it comes to supporting our military. Although he voted to authorize force against Saddam Hussein, he then decided he was opposed to the war, and voted against funding for our men and women in the field!”

  “Flip-flop! Flip-flop! Flip-flop!”

  Cheney hated giving speeches. But this speech was almost fun. And almost over.

  “. . . We all remember that terrible morning when, in the space of just one hundred and two minutes, more Americans were killed than we lost at Pearl Harbor. We remember the president who came to New York City and pledged that the terrorists would soon hear from all of us.”

  Applause.

  “George W. Bush saw this country through grief and tragedy. He has acted with patience and calm and a moral seriousness that calls evil by its name.”

  Applause.

  “. . . When this convention concludes tomorrow night, we will go forth with confidence in our cause and in the man who leads it. By leaving no doubt where we stand and asking all Americans to join us, we will see our cause to victory!”

  “Four more years! Four more years! Four more years!”

  PART THREE

  THE THERAPIST & THE TERRORIST

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2004

  The days were growing shorter, the pain in Hassan’s groin sharper.

  After an entire summer of flesh, Hassan could barely stand in the towel hut. The pain was worse, like a knife plunging into his innards, twisting and turning. And so he braced his stooped body against the counter, dispensing towels, collecting towels, shuffling like one of those ancient cripples who would sometimes come to the boardwalk, one arm resting on a cane, the other intertwined in the arm of a visiting nurse.

  How far he had fallen. From terrorist-in-training at the Abu al-Zarqawi Martyrs of Militancy Brigade to resident-in-waiting at the Dade County Jewish Home for the Aged.

  Summer was fading. Another summer without a word from Tora Bora. And thank God for that! If they sent the signal today—activate the cell, Hassan, contact your brothers, take up your arms, mix the explosives, hit the target—he simply couldn’t. Not with this pain. Not with the headaches that had dulled his senses and blurred his vision. Unless, of course, the seventy-two virgins were waiting. For the promise of the seventy-two virgins, he could ignore the pain.

  Ouch. It hurts.

  The recent news—the American elections, a hostage crisis in Russia, bombings in Fallujah—had been eclipsed by special bulletins about a hurricane named Frances. She would smack Florida tomorrow or the next day. There was talk of mass evacuations. Politicians planted themselves in front of television cameras, surrounded by grim-faced emergency services officials, and pretended to be meteorologists. Adding hot air to the coming storm. Meanwhile, plans were being made to defend the Paradise to the last umbrella stand. Hassan’s assignment was to dismantle the towel hut and store it in a safe place. When the storm passed, life would continue. From utter destruction, the towel hut would rise again.

  Praise Allah for this hurricane and the merciful end of summer. Let these infidels flee, only to be caught by the wrathful winds of God. May it come soon!

  It couldn’t come soon enough. This was the proverbial calm before the storm, as Paradise guests crowded the main pool to soak in every last ray of sun before the deluge. It was summer’s grand finale of intertwined limbs, of jiggling, bouncing, sweating bodies. One final surge of towel-usurping, piña colada–slurping infidels. If Hassan could just manage to get through the next few days, he would pass the test. Hurricane Frances would come, the tourists would leave. The summer would be over. Then Hassan would be nearly alone for the winter, with seagulls swooping on the beach and closed umbrellas standing like lonely sentinels on a forgotten battlefield. The main pool would grow quiet. And Hassan could recuperate. The pain would subside. He would regain his strength. Until winter break.

  He was close to a whimper. The last gasp of a forgotten terrorist ending another season.

  And then—

  “Excuuuuuse me!”

  Hassan’s thoughts were interrupted by that unmistakable accent, piercing his ears and curdling his blood and heralding the arrival of yet another New Yorker. Hassan’s eyes fluttered as the pain burned.

  And in the harsh sun that beat on him, he saw a vision.

  “Excuse me, if it’s not too much trouble, may I have a towel . . . puuleeze?” Rona Feldstein asked.

 
How could this be, thought Hassan. A woman who asked politely for a towel rather than demanding one. A woman who said “Please.”

  A modest woman who wore a broad straw hat that cast a deep shadow across her face and oversized sunglasses that shielded her eyes.

  And this burka! Hassan marveled. Okay, maybe not a burka, he thought, but it has the same utility. Layers of black fabric, wrapped around her from neck to sandals. Not an inch of flesh exposed. True, he could do without the blue canvas tote bag she was clutching, stenciled with I MADE IT TO MASADA! UJA NY DIVISION MISSION TO ISRAEL. But then again, this was Boca. What did he expect?

  Hassan squinted in the sun. “How many towels would you like?”

  Rona seemed frozen. She stared at the towel limit sign, then removed her sunglasses, and read it slowly. Her brown eyes sparkled as they scanned the sign. “It says two per guest. But I only need one.”

  Allah be praised!

  “Morris, my husband, fell asleep upstairs. Watching the Mets, of course. Did you evuh? We buy a place in Florida, and what does he do? The same thing he would be doing if he were home right now! And on such a gaw-jus day. Maybe the last day of sun before the hurricane. You know what, if he should wake up and decide to join me, we can ask for anothuh towel. For now, one will do. Can you help me find a chair?”

  Hassan led Rona on a journey for the perfect spot. Far enough from the pool “so I shouldn’t get splashed,” but close enough “so the people serving drinks can see me if I should get a little thirsty”; not too close to any young families “because I adore children but I have to have my peace and quiet”; but “not near those two, over there, because it’s a little uncomfortable sitting on top of people groping each other in public. I mean I’m happy they seem to be in love but do I have to watch their business in broad daylight? Isn’t that what the hotel is for?”

  Hassan found a spot within eyesight of the towel hut. As he bent to unfurl the towel over the chaise, a wave of dizziness overcame him. He grabbed the back of the chair, steadied himself, and rose slowly.

  “Oh. My. God!” Rona exclaimed. “Are you okay?”

  No one had ever asked Hassan that question. He was flustered, and embarrassed. As he rubbed his temples, the entire pool seemed to spin around him.

  “Are you dizzy? You look a little dizzy to me. Is it the heat? You could plotz from this heat. Gottenyu!”

  “I am fine.” He resumed covering the chair, tucking the towel between the vinyl slats, adjusting it, smoothing it. And when he stood again, he did so slowly.

  “Thank you. That’s very nice,” said Rona. Then she peered at the gold nameplate pinned to his yellow polo shirt, glinting in the sun, just above the stenciled PARADISE HOTEL logo. “Hass-in. Is that your first name?”

  “Has-saan.”

  “I’m Rona. Rona Feldstein. It’s a plesh-uh to meet you.”

  “Here’s a little something for you, Hassan. Thank you.” She pressed a dollar into his hand.

  He nodded in protest.

  A camera snapped nearby.

  “Ah, ah, ah!” Rona said, wagging her finger. “You take this, Hassan.” And as she pushed the crinkled bill into his palm, she asked, “So where do you live? From around here?”

  “Yes. I live nearby.”

  “Me too. We just bought right here. In The Residences. Our other home is in New Yawk. Great Neck?”

  A question or a statement, Hassan wondered. He nodded.

  “You’ve heard of Great Neck? About a half hour to the city. Unless there’s traffic on the LIE, of course. Which there always is. And that Queens–Midtown Tunnel. Aaaach, you could suffocate in there. We just bought here. A designer model! Everything else was sold out. And we’re here now because it’s Labor Day weekend. Morris—that’s my husband—had so much vacation time coming to him. God fuh-bid he should use his vacation time. He’s a sales representative. For a drug company. But it’s not what you think. He’s not a drug pusher. He supplies doctors’ offices. For Celfex. Celfex Pharmaceuticals? Maybe you’ve heard of it? Anyway, then we’ll come again for the Jewish holidays. We’re not that religious, to be honest. As far as I’m concerned, people are people. What difference does it make what you are? What do you think, Hassan?”

  No one had ever asked Hassan what he thought. Either they told him how to think, or told him what to do. Bring more towels, Hassan. Clean up those towels, Hassan. Destroy the infidels, Hassan. “I think—”

  “Do you think the hurricane will hit soon? Just our luck, Morris and me, to buy a condo just when the storm of the century is coming! Did ya evuh?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Well, I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. No biggie. There are some things we have no control over and the weather is one of them. Right, Hassan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me ask: Do a lot of the owners rent their units when they’re not here? Morris thinks that’s what we should do. To recoup our investment. Look, we’re not the Rockefellers, if you know what I mean. So maybe some rental income would be nice. On the other hand, the thought of dealing with other people’s schmutz in our unit—it makes me queasy.”

  Hassan wasn’t sure what schmutz was. He knew queasy.

  “So is this what you do full-time, Hassan? Schlep towels?”

  “No. I am . . . in school.”

  “Studying what, may I ask?”

  “Nursing.” A much better cover than they concocted for the last sleeper cell. Aviation school! Why not just send them to the community college and ask if they offer Terrorist Infiltration 101? What were those imbeciles in Tora Bora thinking?

  “Nursing? Ooooooh, how nice. I’m a CSW.”

  Hassan stared at her.

  “That’s Certified . . . Social . . . Worker.” Her voice underlined each word, but just to make sure she used her index finger to draw lines in the air. “I have a small therapy practice. In my home. In Great Neck. Just a few clients. Stress reduction. Anxiety issues. Meditation. For example, I can tell something about you Hassan. I know something about you already.”

  Hassan stiffened.

  “Do you want to know what it is?”

  He looked into her eyes, as he was trained to do. “Please,” he said. “Tell me.”

  “Something is wrong.”

  “No. Everything is—”

  “Ah, ah, ah!” Again the finger wagging. “I know it when I see it. And I’ll tell you what I see. . . . You have a headache. Don’t you? A terrible headache. Am I right or am I wrong?”

  How did she know about the headache? he thought. I hope she doesn’t ask about the groin pain.

  “You can tell me, Hassan. I can see it in your eyes. I’m trained to recognize stress signals. Let me guess. It’s at the back of your eyes, and in your temples, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve had it for weeks. Yes?”

  “It won’t go away,” Hassan stammered. And just by getting the words out, the pain seemed to ease. As if talking about it relieved it.

  “And does it spread? Through your sinuses, down your whole face?”

  “Yes. Yes it does.”

  “Uh-huh!” she said confidently. “And the dizziness. Does it blur your vision?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “Sure!” Rona exclaimed. “I knew it. From the moment I saw you I knew it. Here, I have something that may help.”

  She plunked herself on the chaise lounge next to the one Hassan covered, and using her arm as a crane, lifted the giant United Jewish Appeal tote bag and tipped it forward. A waterfall of medicines cascaded out. Above the sound of pill bottles, cellophane, plastic, and cardboard containers clanking as they hit the chair, Rona said, “My husband works for Celfex, but my friends say I’m a walking pharmacy. And why not? God forbid you’re in the middle of nowhere and need a little something!”

  Her “little something�
�� was more like a pharmaceutical manufacturer’s delivery truck. Everything from aspirin to zinc. Hard candies and softgels, tablets and caplets, drops and pills, lotions and creams. In greens and blue and pinks and silver. The pile grew with Cold-Eeze and Sleepeaze, Dayquil and Nyquil. There was Advil and Alka-Seltzer. There was Bayer (“Just in case Morris gets chest pains, it could save his life,”). There was Benadryl, Blistex, Claritin, Dramamine (“Look, I get a little queasy on the plane.”), Excedrin, Imodium, Kaopectate, Motrin, Pepcid, Pepto-Bismol, Sine-Aid, Theraflu, and Tums (“You don’t know what they’re serving you in some of these places!”). And Tylenol, Tylenol Sinus, Tylenol Extra Strength, and Tylenol PM. And Visine and Vaseline and Zantac. All mixed with little clear bottles of hand sanitizers and tiny pink aerosol cans of Lysol disinfectant. Plus, what looked to Hassan like enough Kleenex tissues to clean an oil spill.

  And then, topping off the pile, like gravy, was the assortment of brown pill bottles filled with Celfex products procured from the black bag that Morris stowed in his trunk. Harmonex for occasional anxiety. Digaflex for nausea. Lunaflex to help Rona sleep at night, and Vasoflex to elevate Morris’s good cholesterol levels. Finally, the last stubborn bottle dropped from the bag and plunked into the pile.

  Hassan watched as Rona picked through the pile as if she was searching for gold. “Got it!” she puffed, and retrieved a single pill bottle, like one of those arcade claws that dips into a pile of stuffed animals. She looked around, almost suspiciously, opened it, and let a single pink pill slip into her hand.

  “Here. This should help. It’s my Migramize by Celfex. An absolute lifesaver, I can tell you. Take it now. If it doesn’t help, you’ll come see me.”

  She deposited the pill into his palm. “Be sure to take it with a full glass of water. So you shouldn’t get a stomachache. You understand, Hassan?”

  The camera snapped again.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He could feel the sweat of his palm on the pill, and when he opened it, a soft spot of pink appeared.

  “You know what?” she said. “Come to think of it, I think I feel a headache coming on. Sure, you go from air-conditioning to heat, heat to air-conditioning in this place. Achhh, you could plotz!” She popped a pill into her mouth then grabbed a bottle of water she had brought down from the condo, and sipped it.