Idaho Wall-Mart Blues

“HEY BUBBA, YOU wanna tell this psycho to get this fucking gun out of my face?”
“It’s Barry, kindly, and I do apologize to ya sir, but Hank don’t much listen to anybody.” Barry smiles warmly, “But I don’t figure he’s lookin to harm you, anyway.”
Hank cocks the gun. The movement is so smooth and brief, it almost seems imagined. Barry abashedly averts his gaze towards the forested hills. Max, who hadn’t flinched at the elevated threat, thinks to try a different approach.
“So, Barry, you got any kids?”
The pudgy, sweating, anxious man perks momentarily at the question, and just as quickly seems exasperated by it.
“No, well, yes, but,” he stammers, “They’re um, back at home with my wife.”
“I thought so. See Barry, my wife and kids are back at home too, probably waiting to see me. And I’ll bet your wife and kids are waiting for you too.”
“Ha!”
Both men’s heads swing towards the pretty young thing sitting up against the heating vent. Five minutes ago she was enjoying a staring contest with an iridescent, blue dragonfly that happened upon her knee. They hadn’t heard from her since.
“I’m sorry, as the only set of ovaries up here, I can tell you with certainty that no woman in her right mind is sitting at home waiting for him.” She smiles at a weakened Barry, “I’m sorry, you seem like a nice guy, but if you were a Greek god, you’d be Patheticus, God of Under-arm perspiration and all things Awkward.”
Max shoots her a look that reads, “You. Dumb. Bitch.” She smiles back, then returns to Barry, “When do you think we’ll be done with all this?”
Barry gathers himself and says in the sternest voice he can muster, “All questions will be answered when Roscoe gets here. Now sit tight and be quite, he should be here any minute.”
“Thrilling,” says Christine.
“The thrill is gone, the thrill is go-o-one away. You know you’ve done me wrong baby, and you’ll be so-o-orry some day.” Quizzical glances bound towards the frail specter of a man nursing a cigarette on the far wall - even from Hank, though no one noticed. He had yet to mutter a peep, making his soulful B.B. King rendition all the more odd, but no less pleasant.
In the span of three breaths, the doorway to the stairwell flies open, ejecting a thirty-something man in camos and an American flag beret atop his salt-and-pepper crew cut.
“Barry. Why is your van parked in the handicap space?” he demands.
“Well, cus it was the closest one. Besides, won’t nobody be here for at least another six or seven hours,” says Barry.
“Well that was dumb.” He clears his throat and inhales, “Ladies and Gentlemen, you may be wondering…Barry, where are all the hostages?”
“This is them, boss. Only ones we could find about town, right Hank?”
Hank lowers his gaze a few degrees.
“Pathectic. Ahem, as I was saying,” the man continues, “You may be wondering why you’re here. My name is Roscoe Kourp, and you…” Roscoe stops to glare at a snickering Christine, “Something funny?”
“Everything is funny.” Christine says, catching her breath, “It’s just…be honest, did you steal your name off a cracker box? I mean, come on, Rosco Corp.?”
Roscoe marches toward her. “Listen missy, first off, it’s spelled differently, and second, this isn’t your turn to talk.”
“You asked,” she says.
“I asked rhetorically.” His head juts back, his expression sours in a double-chinned display of surprise, “Barry? Why is she tied up? I got the tazers because they’re more effective and efficient, didn’t you get my email?”
“I know boss,” Barry explains, “but she asked to be tied up.”
“It’s more kinky that way, adds to the menace.” Christine says winking at Roscoe.
He shakes his head and continues, “Whatever. Anyway, where was I? (murmuring) ladies and gentlemen you may be… right. My name is Roscoe, and you are now part of the New Revolution. For too long, the great people of Idaho have reluctantly been a part of the United Sins of America. Our airwaves, our Internet, our schools and our streets have been forced to deteriorate right along with the rest of this Heathen country. Well, we say no more!” His index finger rises as quickly as his voice, and he turns and marches towards Max.
“The men and women, excuse me, the men and woman here today have the distinct honor of helping the Idaho National Separatists movement make a bold statement to those folks in D.C., letting them know we’re serious. If you choose to cooperate, we will spare your lives today, and in the bloody civil war to come.” Roscoe looks around excitedly to the hostages -- eager to gauge the effect his rant has made, and is disappointed to find none.
Christine gives a raised-brow smile to Roscoe for the effort, and looks past him at the old man, “Hey blues man, got another one of those smokes?”
The old man stares blankly ahead for a moment, then bellows, “I’m a man. I spell ‘M’. ‘A’ child. ‘N’. That represent man.” He flips a smoke to the sky, and, beaming at it mid-air, Christine adjusts her head left, right, then throws it back and catches the filter end in her mouth.
“How about that,” Max marvels.
“Ha ha! That was so cool,” says a bubbly Barry.
“Lets see you light it.” Roscoe remarks, and throws a lighter full-force at her face.
“Excuse me, Roscoe – you don’t mind if call you Roscoe, right? – well Roscoe, my name is Max Wellden. I own a dealership, biggest one in Pocatello. And I can see that you’re very serious about your, um, cause -”
“Revolution,” Roscoe snaps.
Max recovers, “Yes, of course, revolution. Well I have friends in some pretty high places. I know people. If you let me leave now, I can help you. The sooner I can contact them, the better, you know?”
“You can’t be serious.” Max is surprised to hear this, not from his captor, but from Christine, who had somehow untied herself and lit the cigarette.
Roscoe spins towards her, just as surprised, “Huh?”
“Ok. First off, what’s the deal with the confederate flag lighter? The Idaho you so cherish was first made a territory by Abe Lincoln, and it was part of the union.” Christine pulls off the plastic confederate wrapping, and tosses it at Roscoe, “Second, what made you think the best way to show ‘those folks in D.C.’ you’re serious would be to hold hostages on the roof of a Wal-Mart? Were you watching the movie Airheads and surfing Google maps when you devised this plot of evil genius?”
“Who the fuck are you?” The militant reaches into his jacket and draws a pistol, “Give me one good reason not to blow your pretty little head to pretty little pieces.”
“Um, boss?” Barry interjects.
“What Barry?” yells Roscoe.
“I thought it says in the manifesto that one of the things we’s against is cuss words,” says Barry
“Not now, Barry,” Roscoe’s temper is rising in a manner quite appropriate of his madness. He turns his attention back towards Christine and rests the barrel on her temple, “Yup, you’re just like every other bitch on this planet, always trying to belittle me and get in my way. Not this time.” He cocks the gun.

***

The gunshot shocks everyone. The deafening blast has echoed off the hillsides by the time they source it to the hand of the old man. Hank swings his firearm up, but is quickly met with a slug in the chest.
Stunned, the remaining three glare at the man. He lowers his gun.
“He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. I got a 32-20, got to make the camps alright.”

How To Write Instructions

1. Obviously,
you’ll need a pen.
Any pen will do,
but the best instructions ever written were those of
Reginald Q. Reginald
on
“How to Churn Butter at High Altitudes” (c. 1714)
Mr. Reginald insisted
that the best implement
to impart instructions
is the tail feather of a
Dodo.

The Dodo,
of course,
is extinct,
but a stuffed Dodo
resides in basement of
the London Museum of Natural History.

The guard,
a mild mannered half-wit
named Henry, will
let you pick a feather in exchange
for a box of
Nabisco Animal Crackers.

2. Next, you’ll
want to find a piece
of paper. You could use this one,
but don’t
because someone has
written
all
over it.
Also, try not to use
papyrus.

3. Try your very best
to remember what,
exactly,
you are trying to write instructions
for.
Keep in mind that you can always
write it down.

4. Keep it short.
And simple.

5. Know your audience.
Know that the average IQ
is 100.
Know how dumb that is.

6. With that in mind,
write your instructions.
Remember, not on
this paper!

7. Read them out loud
and see if they make
a pig’s penis worth
of sense.
Once you’re satisfied,
get yourself a lobotomy.

8. Re-read your instructions.
If they still make sense,
you’ve done well.

If not, repeat steps 7&8
as many times
as necessary,
Being careful not to drool on the page.

Scholarly Discource: CLC Edition

“They try to be very diverse, but really they’re all stuck up and judge other people for not being religious enough,” says Corduroy Jacket Chick.
“Where’s the church?” asks Guy Too Young To Be Balding That Much.
“Grayslake?”
“Aren’t we in Grayslake?” He smiles warmly to indicate that his question was intended to sound less mocking than his tone implied.
“Um, yeah, I guess I’m not sure where it is.”
“Okay.” Baldy pauses for a moment to separate them from that last awkward exchange, “Don’t you think your reaction was a bit extreme? I mean, you dropped your religion because you were mad at your church.”
“No, I just saw it for what it was, you know? Like, really judgmental.” She seems flustered again. I have the feeling she is easily flustered.
He smiles at her in that eerie cult-smile the devout get when talking their religion; it’s their way of showing how god makes them a monk on demand. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the church’s message at all. I mean, haven’t you read the bible?”
I wonder, what snippets has he read to come to that conclusion. After all, the paradise he awaits begins with “The Judgment”.
“Have you ever read ‘The Secret’?” she asks.
“No”
“Oh, well, that’s what I’m into now. It’s all about positive thinking and stuff.” Damn it, now she’s lost me. I’d sided with her up until that last exchange, being an adamant atheist. But I hate “The Secret”. It’s one of those self-help books that takes a scientific principle – usually from quantum physics – and corrupts it by drawing far-reaching spiritual conclusions that have nothing to do with the original fact.
“Oh, cool. I’ll have to check that out.” He’s pretending to care, but he sees her loading her purse and realizes he’s lost the sale.
“You should totally do that,” she says, and walks toward the door.
“I will.”
He won’t, and some part of that pleases me.

Black Friday

When I awoke this morning
I told my cat
That I was to man
The gates of the holy city

At 4, I passed the Marauders –
The bellicose beasts of this black day.
Untold salutations lay ahead,
And I would extend none prematurely.

At 4:30, I heard the angry chants
And belligerent bullying of the chains
As I studied the offerings of
The big yellow Face.

At 5, I tried the lock.
They became impatient.
It’s funny how random
Those last thoughts can be.

“Cleats, Aisle 12”
“First Aid Kit, End Cap of Aisle 10”
“Flowers, Back Wall, Garden Section”


http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2008448574_shop290.html

Vision from the Invisible

I have never considered myself a racist, nor, in any way, a bigot. In fact, I’ve always felt an innate revulsion to prejudice. Although I grew up in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago – a place where “rich and white” is not as much the norm as it is the rule – I’ve always immersed myself in the history of the civil rights movement. As a child I had black friends (which is statistically more impressive than it sounds). Were you to ask an eight-year-old Dave Balson about his favorite movie, he would earnestly inform you (what a cute kid he was) about “Panther”, which chronicles the rise and fall Huey Newton and The Black Panther Party. For our 5th grade biography project, my choice of Malcolm X was the only Black non-athlete presented.
Luckily, I’ve matured a bit as I’ve grown – at this age, sentiments like, “Some of my best friends are black,” or “Power to the people, brother!” seem shallow and placating. As I look at all the loud, stupid assholes out there, I always think, “There is so very, very much to dislike about people, and you’re going with skin color? You're not even trying.”
There is a tendency common among liberal-minded folk like myself to want to give too much or too little credit to our humanism. The latter I’ve best seen exemplified by a former teacher of mine. Sheila, a woman who came of age as an activist in the turbulent late-sixties, is a woman I admire greatly. But in her Peace Studies class, she was committed to a view I found rather imprudent: To be white – and to therefore benefit from “White Privilege” – was to inherit an intrinsic form of racism. Although I appreciate the sentiment, I felt this idea worked against itself on both ends of the spectrum. On the one hand, it disregards the efforts of those who have worked all their lives to overcome prejudice and battle for equality; on the other, it allows those who harbor racists ideals to justify them as, “just a part of being white.”
Sheila’s philosophy is the expected reaction to the former tendency. Given the effort and commitment required in keeping one’s opinions exposed and amendable, it’s hardly surprising that most people go as far as “tolerance”, but fail to arrive at acceptance. Most often, just feeling sympathetic to an oppressed people is enough to proclaim one’s self a card carrying liberal. In fact, I have been quite happy, if not proud, to put myself in that category. That is, until I began reading Invisible Man.
I have come to expect from great literature that it demand me to ask far more questions than it itself answers. In this expectation, Invisible Man has not let me down. Reading the sermon delivered by Reverend Barbee left me wondering of myself, “Am I not as blind as this man? Is my ideology as simple, self-serving, and ultimately unrealistic?” But by the time I had asked myself this, I already knew the answer: Yes, Dave, it is.
See, I began asking this question on page one, trying to decipher this metaphor of invisibility. We all know people who say proudly that they are “color blind”, those who, if pointing out the only black person in a crowd of whites, will go through great descriptions of their clothing, hair style, and height before you finally say, “Oh, you mean the black guy?”
“Um,” they say, “yeah, I guess so.”
These same people would not think twice to point out a white person by skin color in a crowd of blacks, so it can be hard to believe that they simply don’t notice skin color. What’s worse about that ideal is that it is degrading to people of color – “Don’t worry, boy, I’ve learned to look past your little skin predicament” – and to humanity as a whole, in suggesting that we can’t all get along and look at each other at the same time.
Evolution has given us the mixed blessing of noticing patterns and making connections, often erroneously, in an effort to protect ourselves. Still, we’ve reasoned our way past primitive instincts far less absurd than racism. I know intellectually that no one race is superior to any other, but all things considered, I’m probably slightly more comfortable around whites than blacks. In what way is that not racist?
When I first started going over the invisibility metaphor, I had trouble reconciling racism as blacks being both more and less visible in the eyes of whites. After hours of mulling it over however, I see it now in my life. In situations where I have less control, blacks become more visible to me. Walking around in parts of the city at night, I note a group of black men with more anxiety and skepticism than I would a group of white men. Other factors weigh in more than skin color, clothing and disposition for example, but it’s still there, my prejudice staring back at me.
In situations where I feel more in control, at school, or a bar maybe, blacks become less visible. I’m less likely to engage them in conversation, or to assume they’d even want to talk to me. None of that is a conscious thought occurring at the time. But looking back, really thinking about it, I have to admit that at some level, I fail to see them in the same light as their white peers.
Of the two, the invisibility scares me more. I can justify my fear of a group of young black men with prior experiences - I’ve been mugged twice at gunpoint, both times by groups of young black guys. Also, I am aware of my prejudice in real time. My failure to see blacks where I’ll otherwise see whites is not conscious, it is not to protect myself, and it doesn’t have a basis I can grab onto and examine. I’m not sure I know how to overcome that and, realizing that, I can’t help but feel disappointed with myself.
Maybe Ellison intends something else with his metaphor, and I’m sure that it will reveal itself as I read on. Invisible Man is already a masterwork in my eyes. It is too rare a gem to find a book that reaches into your brain, slaps it with a decisive “Think again!” blow, and makes you grateful all the while.

What We, Dusk Did

At dusk
We broke the seal.
Sun of Burn, Son of Abraham,
Brother of Abel, Brain of Caligula.
The smoke is for the ashes,
The Fire
Is for Us.

The grubs surface
From the log’s bowels –
Like fetid gnocchi, like Us –
And burst.
They are fireworks.
They herald Our coming.
They curse the butterfly,
Whose wing flapped this storm
Into existence.

We do too.
All too
Well. But not yet.

At dusk
We broke the seal.
Son of Aesop, Sugarcane Stars,
Daughter of Moon, Brother of Scars.

Don’t be shy.
We invented the wheel,
Y’all forced it into a halo.

We made the G-spot.
We made Pluto, and
Y’all killed her.
We made Mars.

The smoke is for the ashes.
The Fire
Is for Us.

Blank. Canvass

My first time was immensely embarrassing. I just couldn’t get it going, and it didn’t help that the waiting woman was a dominating and impatient one. I gathered my thoughts and tried to concentrate, to no avail; she slammed the door in my face. “That will take some getting used to,” I thought.
In my combined two years working intermittently as a canvasser, I’m not sure I ever did get used to people slamming doors on me. But to keep my morale high enough to push on through the nights, I got very used to brushing it off. I learned and honed many a precious skill working that job – sales, negotiation, guerrilla sub-division bathroom location – but none am I more grateful of than learning to brush things off.
Literally fresh off the farm, I graduated hippie-organic-farm-Quaker-boarding-school in no mood to pursue college or a job working for the Man. That there was even a section in the Tribune classifieds for jobs in “activism” further affirmed my conviction that there was a life in the outside world where people didn’t need to be trained in their passions. Because it sounds like such an odious occupation, you’re nearly knocking on your first door by the time they tell you what your job is.
But, masochistic as it may sound, the idea doing door-to-door fundraising for a not-for-profit environmental organization seemed ideal to me. I’d be working for a good cause, talking to people and raising awareness; plus, I’d get to be outside all day. I liked to brag, in those early days, that the righteousness of my job helped me sleep at night; upon reflection, the twelve-hour days were the more likely sedative,
It is a hard job. The repetition is brutal, both when people aren’t home – write address, ring doorbell, force friendly smile, wait twelve seconds (sing Pointer Sisters' "Pinball Number Count" à la Sesame Street [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-YcBVEnLT8]), next house, repeat – and when they are. Of the people who were home and would answer their doors, there were basically three groups: nice liberals, nasty liberals, and conservatives. Figuring out which group the person standing in front of you belonged in was of primary importance; the pay is 100% commission, so it’s best not to waste time on the curmudgeonly old guy who says “Far as I can tell, jury is still out on global warming”, other than being glad the that opinions of Fox News pundits don’t actually preside over legal matters. Bitterness and anger flowed freely from the foyers of the conservative homes. If they weren’t immediately irritated that someone -- particularly, one donning the deviant dreadlocks I did at the time -- would come to their door for money, they were bound to be enraged at my liberal, hippie agenda. Our campaign to save the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from oil drilling was the first time I heard the phrase, “Fuck the Caribou, go back to France!”
The nice liberals were the best. They offered up hefty checks, and, often, healthy snacks. For them, the only real job was bumping up their contributions as much as possible without offending them. Most of the job’s success lied in finagling money from the nasty liberals. They weren’t all nasty; in fact most of them were quite nice, but quite unwilling to part with money. I couldn’t fault them for this; I was showing up at their house asking for money with no tangible return beyond some marginal assuagement of guilt. I call them nasty because the hard fought battles often went their way, leaving me to further train the short-term memory loss of refreshing for the next house.
The method of burning off the lard of frustration formed by the failures at a former door depended on its consistency. A light grease was easy to shake off by whistling Cat Stevens on my stroll/dance to the next door. When I came across someone genuinely vile, and vindictive of my presence, I might mutter some insult on my way to the next house and make vast speculations on their personal lives to snootily judge the hell out of. But that approach was ineffective for the same reason the Cat-dance approach was effective. The individual asshole wasn’t really all that frustrating, it was the abundance of assholes that was truly troubling, and it was best not to dwell on that for long. There were times when the lard congealed and the load became so oppressive, only a cigarette could cleanse my mental palate.
Eventually it takes its toll. I stopped believing the words of anyone who wouldn’t give me money. I had completely burnt out, and the resentment I felt towards those who didn’t give me money piled onto my back exponentially. I refused to lash out at anyone, to give them any excuse to castigate either cause or canvasser; but forcing it all inside found me rotting from a once optimistic core.
In my first month canvassing, I was greeted by a woman in Glenview who seemed nice enough, but responded less frequently and emphatically as our conversation went on. This was typical; a lot of people would blank out when they realized you wanted money, and felt it respectful to let you finish your point before shutting the door. But this one was different.
“And that’s why it’s really important that everyone who’s with us on the issue get involved at some level tonight,” I said brightly, with an attitude wholly uncharacteristic of all who knew me.
“Oh…well, I don’t think I can…my husband…see,” her gaze veered downward and became waterlogged, as if her thoughts were melting through her eyes, “…he just passed, and…” Then she began to cry, and, crumbling inward, nearly fell when I caught her. She wrapped her arms around me, and through sobs buried against my chest said things like, “It all happened so fast,” and, “I’ll never really know what to do next.”
I hugged her back and stayed with her like that for a few minutes. She gathered herself, apologized, and closed the door with the same hand she'd wiped her tears with. I walked away from that night so happy with my job.
The last day I canvassed, I met a woman who was entirely sympathetic and supportive of the issue (as I recall, we were fighting the BP plant being built in Indiana and promising to pollute our beloved Great Lake) but when I asked for cash, she said – and I believed her – that her husband had just died, and that the funeral costs alone might put her in debt. I offered my forged condolences, said thanks and walked off, fully despising the avaricious...widow? I couldn’t believe I could be angry with this woman in any way.
I saw clearly that day that my heart was becoming callused, and that I was about one month of canvassing shy of becoming desiring a fascist dictatorship – a far cry from save-the-planet fundraiser. I came back to the office that night and said my goodbyes; they asked me to stay, but they were never surprised.