The Mayor’s Business

 

 

 

The Mayor’s Business

by

James L. Secor 

 

The Mayor was a man who liked paper. He believed in paper. And so there was lots of paper on his desk. It was a very big mahogany roll-top affair with a throng of cubbyholes and myriad drawers. Stacks of paper adorned his deck, a side table and the bottom shelves of the bookcase. The Mayor’s office was a veritable library of paper that, to the untrained eye, looked like chaos. But The Mayor had a practiced eye. He knew where everything was.

On this particular day, he was furiously reading papers in three different piles. He stood up from his padded leather swivel chair and laid out the papers from each pile so they were next to each other. They were full of figures. The Mayor liked numbers, believing in the basic mathematical numerology of life. He moved from one to the other to the other and back again. And again. Again and again. And then he slammed his hands down on the papers, stared at or through the office wall and smiled. His eyes grew big. He put the papers together and slipped them into a particular cubbyhole, pulled down and locked the roll top and strode out of his office.

“Lunch meeting,” he said over his shoulder as he shut the City Offices door.

It was 10 AM.

The sun was high in the cloudless blue sky. Even with his 10-gallon white hat on, The Mayor shielded his eyes as he walked across the street to the Lone Star Inn and Bordello Lounge and Coffee Bar where it just so happened that Medusi Minkowski IV, Captain Bill and a few of his other cronies were gathered chewing the fat over the weather, the immigrants and the fate of the world over a cup of java. The Mayor scuttled across the dusty main street and down the boardwalk and into the Lone Star Inn and Bordello lobby like a horny toad after a good meal. He didn’t even slow down to say hello to his two favorites hostesses, Jezebel and Delilah. They, of course, hailed him in passing. Before even sitting down, The Mayor began his pitch:

“Boys. I got us a opportunity.”

“Take a load of, The,” suggested the Sheriff.

“Hey, boy!” ordered Captain Bill. “Another cup o’ black joe.” He elbowed his buddies to either side, “I just love sayin’ that to that jigaboo.” And laughed and laughed at his own joke.

“What is it, The?” asked one of the other good old boys.

“We got us a bidniss,” The said.

“Spit it out, The. You know we’re always lookin’ for a way to make a buck,” said Medusi, twisting his head from side to side and brushing off his badge.

“Here it is–thanks, boy,” said The Mayor as his coffee was set before him. “This town’s been growin’. More’n more people been comin’ in.”

“Tell us somethin’ we don’t know, The.”

“Every year the past three years we been growin’. Steadily. Each year a bit more. Now, what’d'ya think that means?”

They all looked at each other.

“The town’s growin’ bigger?” ventured Medusi.

“You been readin’ yer figgers again, The?” Captain Bill teased.

But The Mayor paid no mind to their ribbing.

“It means they gotta have houses.”

“Yeah-uh. Since it’s against the law to live in a tent,” concluded Clint Flintlock, attorney-at-large for The Bildersberger & Gunpowder Law Firm.

“And somebody gotta supply the wood,” continued The, oblivious to the teasing. They were ever a hard group to bring around, favoring the obvious in their judgments.

“They git their wood from Waco,” said another of the gang.

“But we got our own forest right to hand.”

“Chalk Mountain Forest?”

“And we can operate the Brazos River Basin Logging and Builders Association. Exclusive suppliers to the metropolis of Chokepointe Piste.”

Everyone was quiet for awhile. This was a good idea and needed some ruminating.

“How do we stiff the competition? Waco Board gonna throw a hissy fit,” said Clint.

“Import tax,” said The Mayor, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.

“How we gonna collect?” asked Captain Bill.

“Well. . .that gimp’s got himself a toll booth out there. We pass a law he’s gotta collect and we give him ten percent for services rendered. He’s gotta be good for somethin’ besides hoppin’ ’round after that damn Hellecchino character.”

“Five percent.”

“Three percent.”

“Okay. Three percent. He’s only got one and a half legs to feed,” quipped Clint.

Everyone laughed. It was always good to laugh at others’ misfortunes.

“We build the lumber yard just outside of town right on the river. Right there at the narrows so’s we can trap the logs as they come floatin’ downriver.”

“Damn! Ain’tchu the thinker,” said Medusi, slapping his thigh and twisting his head from side to side.

“I’ll go draw up the papers,” said Clint.

“And git me an import tax law for an emergency session of the City Council tomorrow,” said The Mayor. “Bill. . .you take some boys out there and scout out a location for the mill. I’ll run down to Andy Warthole’s an’ git him workin’ on a signboard.”

They all got up and went their separate ways. The waiter boy waited five minutes, to make sure they’d all dispersed, before he asked for leave til the noon rush hour. As the lounge and coffee bar were empty, this was allowed, though his pay would be docked for the time off, and off he went to tell Buck of the doing’s around town.

That evening, another of The Mayor’s business ventures was in full swing–both arms. The enterprise was a very successful operation. The Mayor ran a rather exclusive prostitution ring. The main house, which catered especially to sado-masochistic proclivities within the male populace, was located outside the city limits, just north of the Chalk Mountain Forest that was to be harvested. Only Mr. Mayor had figured that logging would also increase his sex trade as, via the logging road, access to the house of ill repute would be more direct, relieving the burden of time some of his clientele suffered under. This was listed, at the Chamber of Commerce, as a private gentlemen’s club, name: The Bait and Switch. Mr. Mayor never ceased to wonder at the many fishing aficionados there were in town. A special offer was available for business associations: delivery service.

The second piece of this clandestine concern was gathering resources, which had become much more difficult with the disappearance of the disappearing machine; however, low tech solutions to the problem had worked before the advent of high tech and, though rather painstaking, would be adequate again. That is, girls had to be procured. Kidnapping was effective but costly, for there were laws and some laws could not be broken with impunity. Getting caught in the act–or even ex poste haste –was a dangerous business risk. So, a more effective and efficient method was adopted: buying the goods. There were always people who were hard up, who had too many mouths to feed or were simply–as with The Mayor and his business associates –greedy. Money talks. Indeed, money talks so loudly that it trumps humanity. As people continued to be fruitful and multiply–who wants to take the fun out of life?–there was an unending supply. Generally speaking, this ingredient of the business was acquired under cover of darkness, as much due to its nefarious nature as to its inherent furtive excitement. However, it must be admitted that there were contract workers, brought in, of course, from outside: unsatisfied housewives and bored socialites. The thrill of taboo breaking had immense drawing power.

Of course, there were further enhancements to pleasure and thus there was a brisk trade in pharmaceuticals. The Mayor steered clear of this. Captain Bill–Roaring Bill MacDonald–took care of this end of the food chain. Medusi Minkowski IV, Sheriff of Chokepointe Piste, helped by making appropriate raids and confiscating the evidence, to be distributed elsewhere for a 100% profit.

As is the way of the world, everything went along smoothly for some time, including the new logging and building adventure. Indeed, so efficient were they at clearing the forest that the partners found themselves with a surplus of wood. They took up the slack by building a surplus of houses. Planned communities. This investing in the future occurred at all levels of society, from shanties to dream houses, all constructed according to code and in the appropriate location.

Nevertheless, this super-efficiency and over-exuberant zeal had an unforeseen downside. Log jam. This log jam on the river created another problem. A shortage of water. Water for farming, water for washing, water for cooking, water for drinking. That is, when the supply diminished, it was discovered just how important to life water was. You’d expect that the business conglomerate would see their way to making more money from this debacle but such was not the case. Before The was able to see how he could profit from the misery of others yet again, the people’s complaints reached Hellecchino’s ears.  Of course, most of the people so adversely affected were from the other side of the wall and their lot was already a hard one. Their frustration boiled over easily. Like all good heroes, Hellecchino had good hearing. And he was a good listener. Like a true hero, too, he reassured the restless citizens, for he had a plan. When asked what it was, all Hellecchino said was, “Greed is a kind of hubris and hubris is a kind of blindness.”

Everybody thought that was pretty profound and returned to their dry homes ooohing and ahhing.

Hellecchino however heighed himself into town to buy a kazoo.

“Hold down the fort, Buck. I’m going into town to buy a kazoo and then I’m going out into the woods to practice.”

And that’s just what he did.

As Hellecchino expected, it wasn’t too very long before he was discovered out in the woods. He was caught gathering faggots for firewood. In these woods, this had become against the law with the result that people were reduced to eating cold gruel, cold soup, cold stew, cold etc. So it was he was caught red-handed picking up sticks.

What brought about Hellecchino’s discovery was that every time he strained, he kazood. Sometimes, this sounded like a sick bird, kind of like a duck with indigestion. And the perimeter guard heard this. And he went in search of the sound. And he found a man all in brown bent over grappling with the vines and bushes and pulling together sticks and branches–and kazooing as he did so.

“Who the hell are you?” shouted the cowboy perimeter guard.

Hellecchino was in disguise.

Hellecchino did not answer.

“What the hell are yew doin’!” shouted the cowboy perimeter guard.

Hellecchino continued scratching at the underbrush for good kindling.

“I said goddamnit who the hell are you!”

There was the ominous click of a gun being cocked.

Hellecchino did not stop what he was doing but he did bend over a little more, making his butt stick out from beneath his brown cloth over-blouse.

“I’m man-who-breaks-wind.”

“Yer shittin’ me.”

Just then, Medusi Minkowski IV rode by on his way to supervising the new business development. They were now harvesting green pine. He was going to see if they could sell them as “you don’t have to paint your house” lumber. Always fresh as the day you bought it.

“What seems to be the trouble, cowboy?”

“I got this here guy says he’s man-who-breaks-wind.”

“And you were going to shoot him to see the escaped wind?”

“No, sir. He just wasn’t answerin’ to my query.”

“God damn! You know I don’t cotton to homosectshuals! You’re fired!”

Before the cowboy perimeter guard had a chance to explain himself, Medusi Minkowski IV began beating him with his reins and kicking him with his pointy-toed boots. This not only caused the cowboy to run off but the horse to buck and skitter about and carry on til the Sheriff fell off.

Hellecchino never once turned around.

Sheriff Minkowski IV gained his feet and wiped himself off. He polished his badge and twisted his head from side to side. He gathered up the reins of his horse.

“You the man-who-breaks-wind?” he asked the swaying ass before him.

“Yeah. Dat’s me. Man-who-breaks-wind.”

“Let me see ya prove it or I’m takin’ you in. You know who I am?”

“Nope.”

“I’m Medusi Minkowski IV, Sheriff of Chokepointe Piste.”

“Yew don’t say. . .”

“I do. And if you don’t prove you’re who you say you are, I’ll arresting you for impersonating an old fart.”

“Okay. Glad to oblige.”

Now, Hellecchino never did anything half-assed. And, true to form, he did not this time either. He not only kazood as he strained, he kazood bird calls and at least one verse of a popular hymn.

Well! Medusi Minkowski IV was truly amazed. He laughed and laughed and asked for an encore. Hellecchino very nearly shit himself obliging the Sheriff.

“This is great. I just gotta tell the boys ’bout this.”

So, up he got up and spurred his mount into a near gallop back toward town.

Hellecchino, once the hoof beats had paled, stood up, gathered his firewood in a bundle, strapped it to his back and walked off. He knew Buck would be pleased as punch to get some warm food for dinner.

When Medusi Minkowski IV returned with The Mayor, Clint Flintlock, Clyde Moyen Bucket (“bouquet”), Gyorgy Yabu and the Yabu Yeoman editor, Edward Garcon, Hellecchino was long gone. As fate would have it, though, a big brown bear had wandered into the Chalk Mountain Forest foraging for food and escaping the Indians on his trail. The town fathers hunted around and, hearing the snorting and pawing, followed the sound to the bear. They were on foot as getting the horses to pass through the undergrowth and trees was a mite too difficult. They were laughing and carrying on and not paying one bit of attention to what they were doing.

“Hey! I’m back. Go on and do your ass singin’ again,” shouted the Sheriff.

The bear did not respond.

Medusi Minkowski IV walked up to the big brown mass and kicked it in the ass.

The bear responded. He spun around and stood on his hind legs and roared his indignation. Great paws gnashed at the air. Spit flew from his jaws. And the town fathers took to their heels. The bear, of course, took off after them, though his hunger for satisfaction and human meat was never satisfied. The humans jumped on their horses and high-tailed it back to town.

Next day the Yabu Yeoman blared a panic-stricken headline: Bear Found Shitting In The Woods!!

That pretty much put an end to both the logging business and the whoring business. It also brought about the rediscovery of some of the missing peoples because, without their pharmaceutical fix, they wandered off in search of something to make themselves feel better. Addiction is not a pleasant sight. Nevertheless, when these denizens of ill-got means were discovered, their families were ecstatic and thankful all to heaven. There would have been a scandal but most of the damaged goods belonged on the other side of the wall and so the Yabu Yeoman carried no story. It was as if nothing had happened. And, of course, the good side of town was happy in its ignorance, ignorant of the fact that it was ignorant.

But the other side of town benefited in another way, too, for now they safely foraged for wood for fires and once again were able to drink hot coffee, hot chocolate and hot toddies.  This was so because of two reasons: 1) the Indians caught up to the bear and took him down; and 2) everyone else was afraid to go into the woods, bears being known for their mindless frenzy.

No one did anything about the log jam, following Hellecchino’s suggestion, for he realized that eventually the water would overflow the river’s banks and work its way around the dead wood and continue its way downstream, thus opening up water to the populace. Eventually, too, the lumber would flood downstream and be harvested by any interested bystander and used for fuel, thus getting rid of the need to raid the Chalk Mountain Forest, which really was a long walk, especially on the way back.

“Sometimes,” explained Hellecchino to Buck one evening from atop the toll booth blockhouse, “sometimes you just have to let the problem overwhelm itself.”

Jim Hatfield Undercover

One fine morning, Jim Hatfield presented himself at the Hacienda loco plátano under the guise of Janus Beauregarde, assistant to Dr. Chicane Milchrot. Nothing could be done about Jim’s height but his grey eyes were somewhat shielded behind large, black-framed spectacles and his eyebrows had been plucked and peaked. His nose had been reshaped into a moderate hatchet-shape, to mimic of Gyorgy Yabu’s. One tooth was missing from the front right. Jim had grown long fingernails, though not quite so long as those sported by the ancient Chinese. And he walked with short, mincing steps, as if hampered by skirts. He carried with him especially elaborate stationary with Chicane Milchrot’s heading and writing in order to introduce himself in his boss’s absence. Anything impressive was guaranteed to work with Gyorgy Yabu. He liked show.

“So,” said Gyorgy by way of a conversation opener, “you’re Dr. Milchrot’s assistant. How come you wasn’t here before?”

“I was left behind,” Jim said in his smooth, slightly East European accent, “to carry out further experiments, of course.”

“Ah. Good. Good,” said Yabu for lack of anything else to say.

“May I see the machine, please, yes?” And Jim-Janus bowed slightly from the waist.

“Well, yes. Of course! Raght this way, mah man.”

On the way down to the basement, Yabu was conniving how to get information from this Janus Beauregarde guy. He figured it would not be too difficult as second raters or second seaters were ever ready to show off their stuff in the absence of their overlords. All he had to do was ask, really. And so, when they stood before the machine, he did.

“Ah!” shouted Janus, throwing up his hands in glee. “The Chicane Disintegrator! How wonderful it is, no?”

“How th’hell does this dang thang work?”

Janus-Jim took a deep breath.

“Simple,” he silvered. “Let me give you an example. When certain crystals are placed in water, they dissolve and disappear. You would not know that they had ever been there.”

“What are crystals? You don’t mean the ones that’re worth money, do ya?”

“I am talking about salt or sugar.” Yabu nodded, mouth open in comprehension. “If, by evaporation or by some other fashion, you lessen the amount of water–et voilá!–there you have crystals again, visible and the same as before. It is by this evaporation process that you, an organic being made up of the same crystals, can be dissolved into the cosmos. Then, by a subtle reversal of fortune, your bits and pieces are reassembled elsewhere.”

Jim-Janus rolled his eyes to the ceiling, hoping this mishmash made sense, for, truly, the body was not made up of crystals, though it was of the same substance as the rest of the cosmos. Yabu, however, thought Janus was looking to heaven for insight and thanks for a job well done, something that he himself did often enough.

Nevertheless, “This is stupid,” he cried. “It is a monstrous assertion that we could be dispersed by some disruptin’ power.”

“The objection is an obvious one. But it is working, no? This is how Dr. Milchrot’s Chicane Disintegrator works, I assure you. He has carefully instructed me in all its various phases and conundrums and I can assure you there is a visible framework that requires that every crystal flies back into its true place,” lied Jim, Janus-faced. “You may smile, Mr. Yabu, sir, but your incredulity and your smile may soon be replaced by quite another emotion. After all, we have disappeared many, no?”

“Where did they go?”

“Ah! It would not be a secret if I told you, would it?”

“Yes. I see your point. You know,” and Yabu kind of giggled, indicating the kitchen above with his head, “sometimes I’d like to disappear–but only fer awhile, y’ understand.”

“I could arrange it.”

“Could you?” Yabu bit his lip, shifted his eyes round a bit. “Does it hurt?”

“No one has ever complained,” replied Janus in a reassuring but no less conspiratorial voice.

Yabu shrugged his shoulders. “I’m ready, then. Perhaps I c’n relieve some o’ th’ stress ‘n strain o’ home life. If ya know what I mean.”

“Yes. There is something I would impress upon you, Mr. Yabu, which may help you to grasp the idea. You have heard in Oriental magic and Western occultism of the phenomenon of the ‘apport’ of objects, when suddenly brought from a distance to appear in a new place, yes?”

“I don’t understand this term ‘apport,’” said Yabu shaking his head. “I’m not good at scientific stuff. As long as it works is good enough for me.”

“It is the loosening of molecules, their conveyance upon an etheric wave and their reassembling, each exactly in its place drawn together by the irresistible laws of physics and philosophy.”

“I do not believe in apports, Mr. Beauregarde, since I do not understand them. Since I do not believe in them, they do not exist. My time is valuable and if we are t’ have any sorta demonstration, I wanna proceed right this minute, without farther ado.” Gyorgy Yabu’s haughtiness hid an inner trepidation, as could be seen by the constant shifting of his feet and the little cough he occasioned throughout his demand.

“Yes,” said Janus, approaching the machine and placing a hand against its smooth, shiny surface. “This is the machine that is destined to be famous, altering the balance of power in the country. Who holds this, rules the world.” Jim tried to hold back the rising sourness from his stomach. Sometimes, playing a part was not so tasteful. “Now, Mr. Yabu, will you dare to sit upon the chair and allow me to demonstrate upon your own body the capabilities of this new force?”

But Gyorgy Yabu had not the courage of a lion and anything in the nature of defiance or threat, real or otherwise, roused him to an instant frenzy and he spluttered and gaggled as if speaking in tongues. Then, “I shall go.”

“Perhaps you’re life is too valuable–”

“It is monstrous, this contraption,” said Yabu in awe-struck wonder. “The nearest approach to this thing I’ve ever seen is the ‘lectric chair at Sing Sing. This ain’t gonna fry my ass, is it?”

“I guarantee its safety,” said Janus, bowing. “I would be held for manslaughter if anything befell you, no?”

“That would be poor consolation t’ me, leavin’ the work unfinished. Let you, at least, go first, an’ then I c’n follow.”

“And who would work the machine then?”

“Ah! Good point.” Yabu stamped his foot.

Personal danger had never assailed Gyorgy Yabu before and the idea that this scientific work might leave him unfinished hit him hard. He hesitated. Before he could make up his mind, Janus pushed him forward and into the chair. Janus put his hand to the handle. It clicked. Then, for a moment, there was a sensation of confusion and a mist before his eyes. When this cleared, Mr. Yabu, with an odious smile, was standing beside Janus, his usually apple-red cheeks drained of blood and color, staring over his shoulder.

“Well, get on with it!” he said.

Janus pulled himself up. “It is all over. You responded admirably.”

Although he himself was amazed, Jim had never seen a man so utterly upset. His nerve, for a moment completely failed him and he grasped Yabu’s arm with a shaking hand.

“My, God, Mr. Beauregard, it is true! I vanished from there and now I’m here. There’s no doubt about it. There was an instant of vacancy as I’ve never felt before and. . .how long was I away?”

“Two or three minutes. I clicked this lever, if it is a lever, into a new slot and there you were, standing where you now stand, looking a little bewildered but otherwise the same as ever.” Janus mopped his brow with a gig red handkerchief. He was horrified–even at the perfect coolness of his operation. But he managed a cool, “It is an interesting process, is it not? When you consider the tremendous inocuity of the Professor, it is strange to think that he is at present a molecular cloud suspended somewhere. He is now, of course, entirely busy on a mission of mercy. If we choose to leave him in suspension, there is nothing on god’s earth to prevent us.” Janus smiled broadly, revealing long yellow teeth. “Do you know. . .I have discovered that the hair of the body, being at an entirely different vibration to other living organic tissues, can be included or excluded at will. It would interest me to see the bear without his bristles. Behold him!” And Jim-Janus, without the slightest idea what he was doing, flicked a small lever and Yabu stood before him, bald as a jaybird. He could hardly keep from roaring with laughter at the joke he played.

Perhaps at the wide-eyed laughter of Janus Beauregarde and, perhaps, the evil glint in his eyes tipped Yabu off, for his hand shot up to his head and he became conscious of his condition. His huge head was as bald as a baby’s ass and as smooth as a girl’s lily white breast. The next instant, he sprang forward and seized Janus by the throat, hurling him to the ground.

“For God’s sake be careful!” shouted Janus. “If you kill me, you can never get matters right again.”

“Really?” snarled Yabu from betwixt his clenched teeth. Then he began babbling again, as he ever did when excited and out of sorts. “This violence is quite unnecessary. It is not a harmless joke–”

“It was my wish to demonstrate the power of the machine. I imagined that you wanted a full demonstration. No offense, I assure you, Mr. Yabu. None in the world.”

“You will fix me. Do not take any liberties.”

Janus was let go and rose on shaky legs. He approached The Lagniappe. For all of his bravado, could Jim bring this off? Damn him for getting a big head! Now he understood the problem of the actor who loses himself in his role–no control. He took a deep breath.  He pulled the same lever in the opposite direction and, in an instant, there was Gyorgy Yabu with his tangled mane once more. Gyorgy stroked his head affectionately with his hands, passing them over his cranium to be sure that the hair restoration was complete. Then he turned an angry visage on Janus Beauregarde.

“You done taken a liberty, Mr. Beauregarde, that woulda had very serious consequences to yoreself. However. . .I am content to accept yore explanation that you only did it fer purposes of demonstration. Now, if I may ask you a few direct questions upon this remarkable power which you claim to have discovered for me. . .”

“I am ready to answer anything save what the source of power is. That is my secret–and that of the great Chicane Milchrot, my inestimable teacher.”

“Do you seriously inform us that no one in the world knows of this except yoreself and Milchrot?”

“No one has the least inkling.” Finally, Jim Hatfield spoke the truth. Nevertheless, he broke out in a tingly, cold sweat.

“How does it work?”

“Well,” Jim collected himself for another salvo from neverneverland, “it acts vertically. Certain currents are above you and certain others are below you and they set up vibrations. But the process could be lateral. If it were so conducted, it would have the same effect and cover a space in proportion to the strength of the current.”

“And you have sold this secret as a monopoly to only me, yes?” Gyorgy rubbed his hands together.

“Yes, sir. When the money is paid over, you shall have such power as no man ever yet has had. You don’t even now the extent of the possibilities if placed in capable hands, hands which did not fear to wield the weapon which they held. They are. . .immeasurable.” A gloating, evil smile passed over Janus’ face. “Conceive a quarter of Bexar gone in the flick of a switch. Poof! The people we’ve been doing so far are peanuts. Imagine the effect of such a current. . .”

“Why,” Yabu burst into laugher, “I could imagine the whole Pecos Valley being swept clean, and not one man, woman or child left of all those teeming millions to disturb my peace. No Injuns. No immigrants. No darkies. Nobody to stand in my way.”

These words filled Jim with horror–the air of exultation with which they were pronounced. But, then, to hide his disgust, Janus himself broke into a genial, yellow-toothed smile and held out his well-manicured hand.

“Well, Mr. Beauregarde, I must congratulate you and Dr. Chicane Milchrot. There is no doubt that you have come upon a remarkable property of naytcha which you have succeeded in harnessin’ for my use. That this use should also have a destructive power is no doubt very deplorable but science knows no distinctions of the sort, following knowledge where it may lead, no? Apart from the principle involved, you have, I suppose, no objection to my examinin’ the construction of the miraculous Lagniappe?”

“None in the least. The machine is merely the body. It is the soul of it, the animating principle, which you can never hope to capture. It is so scientifically etheric.”

“Exactly. . .but the mere mechanism. . .”

For some time, Gyorgy Yabu walked around The Lagniappe and fingered its several parts and levers. Then he hoisted himself into the insulated chair.

“Ah. Would you care for another excursion into the cosmos?” asked Janus.

“Later, perhaps, later. But meanwhile. . .is there not some leakage of. . .electricity? I can distinctly feel a weak current passing through me.”

“Impossible! It is quite insulated.”

“But I assure ya, Ah do feel it.” He got down from the chair and indicated that Janus take his place.

Janus sat down. “I can feel nothing.”

“There is not a tingling down your spine?”

Janus closed his eyes and considered. “No, sir. I do not observe it.”

There was a sharp click and Janus disappeared.

“Good heavens,” said Yabu, smiling benignly. “Dear me. I may have inadvertently touched the handle. One is very liable to have awkward incidents with a rough model of this kind. This never should certainly be guarded. Hmm. . .it is in the number three slot. That must be th’ slot that causes disinteegration. Yes. I c’n operate this. Yes. Quite adequately indeed.” And he moved the lever again. A white, slightly shaken Janus Beauregarde reappeared. “Enjoy yore trip? I was so excited I guess I didn’t watch what I was doin’. Didja notice it?”

“I may have noticed it, yes, Mr. Yabu. But I do not burden my mind with such small details.

“There are many slots and I do not know their purpose. I might make the matter worse if I experiment with the unknown, don’tcha think? Perhaps it is best to leave matters as they are, in yore hands. For the moment.”

“And you would–”

“Exactly. It is better so. With your interesting personality distributed throughout the cosmos, this machine is worthless and certain people. . .if you get my drift. . .”

“The first duty of a loyal citizen is to prevent murder,’ said Janus.

“Enough! Enough!” said Yabu, holding up his hand. “The theme will not bear discussion. It has already disengaged my thoughts too long from matters of more importance.”

And Yabu stalked out of the basement, leaving Janus, aka Jim Hatfield, alone, still with the problem of finding and re-rendering the disappeared. He looked again at the machine. . .so many levers. . .was there perhaps a storage bin? He looked around for Milchrot’s plans.

The old “I’ve got nothing to hide” excuse

I really try to stay away from talking about my family but this item is the height of selective blindness. It is this: my family finds absolutely nothing wrong with the fact that the government is reading their mail, listening to their phone calls, following them on the Internet or has the ability to break into their house and arrest them, take them to jail, not let them have access to an attorney and, basically, disappear. This is cool. It’s part of the two Patriot Acts and the Military Commissions Act. Those are laws of the land. Nothing wrong with that. Why is it okay with my family? Because, “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I think this is ignorant. Worse, they are ignorant of their ignorance. I guess they’re waiting for Eve to bite into the apple, which is both the fruit of the tree of life and the fruit of love. Interesting pairing, that.
But let’s put aside my prejudice and look at their excuse: I’ve got nothing to hide.
It is selfish. It is only concerned with them, themselves. As if to say, to hell with anyone else. This is, of course, the ultimate in individualism, as it has been re-interpreted since Ralph Waldo Emerson and the Transcendentalists brought it up. For Emerson and the Transcendentalists, no individual is separate from the community; the community helps define the individual. That is, to be totally, 100% an individual is antithetical to social stability. It is anarchy; that is, everyone doing what they want regardless of the effects it may have on anyone else. Some might say it guts the social contract. It is, indeed, a denial of social responsibility. It is a denial of involvement. It is irresponsible behavior. It is utter chaos. Of course, if you’re part of society, you are part of what society does and the repercussions of those actions. As Karl Jaspers noted in A Question of German Guilt, everyone is guilty. Everyone. He does not exclude himself, even though he ran from the fascist regime.
So, to claim total independence from society via one’s claiming individual choice is irresponsible.
My family, too, believes it is making its own choice, without bias or forethought. They read the conservative Washington Times and The Wall Street Journal and then, I’m told, make up their own minds what to believe. To someone of little brain like myself or Winnie the Pooh, this sounds a little like they’ve made up their minds before they begin. That is, they’ve chosen ahead of time which information outlet to pay attention to, ignoring all the rest, before they “make up their own minds.” Another word for this is “prejudice,” I think. As my family are self-proclaiming Christians, I can see where they get this kind of logic.
But, here, with their professed Christianity, there is another conundrum–dare I say contradiction? Paradox? Christianity is supposed to be a religion of love and respect for your fellow man, even your enemy. Yet, in the “I’ve got nothing to hide” syndrome, there is no love nor no respect or consideration for their fellow men. As long as they are home free, everything’s hunky-dory. It is saying, as God’s chosen are wont to say, I’m good but y’all are sinners. I’m better than you are, na-na-na-na-nah! Wilhelm Reich has pointed out this is fascist thinking, maintaining all religions are this way: my way is right, so yours is wrong. [The Mass Psychology of Fascism] This means, of course, that you, the wrong one, can die because, being wrong, you can’t be saved, you’re not one of us, you’re expendable. Ergo, “I’ve got nothing to hide” means I’m right, you’re wrong and so you deserve what you get.
There is an inherent superiority in this, a kind of hubris. I think the cliché, coming from ancient Greek, is “pride cometh before the fall.” Such a tragedy.
But. . .do they have nothing to hide? Are they sure they have nothing to hide?
To maintain “I’ve got nothing to hide” means that they know, for sure, what the government is looking for. That is, they can read the government’s mind. Like some women can read the minds of all men via “that look in their eyes” and Christians know God’s plan even though God’s ken is way beyond a human’s ability to comprehend. Truly, how sure are they?
In fact, it doesn’t matter whether they’ve got nothing to hide or not. If someone else is nailed and they have a connection with a member of my family, my family is implicated and disappeared. If the other person bears a grudge, of the sort found with Montressor for Fortunato [Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amantillado], then my family’s name will fall off that other person’s lips like drool from a toothing baby’s mouth. Also, their being picked up puts me in dire straits and I’m not even in America. Their “I’ve got nothing to hide” that got them into trouble by someone else’s say-so–commonly called hearsay evidence–screws me. That they feel no guilt over this possibility is frightening, though not out of line with prior behavior: when the ICU wanted my next-of-kin and I sent a friend to contact my family, my family did not respond. How unfortunate for my family that I survived.
But let’s assume, just for kicks, that the person disappeared is someone they do like, someone close to them that they respect. When he’s disappeared, do you think they’ll look into the matter, call up to find out where he is? Run on down to his house to see where he’s gotten to? He’s not been seen for so long. Do you think they’ll stand up for the disappeared and maintain his innocence? Do ya, huh? I don’t. I think they know better than to step out of line and be honest and upright and, as they will be more than likely to say, stick their nose into business that isn’t theirs. After all, who’s important?! This is fear. This is the fear their government wishes to instill in its subjects–er, citizens. This is the fear they’ve snapped up like that fly the frog ate for dinner. This is the fear that makes them forget they’re human and they’ve got friends.
If you can’t trust no one, who can you trust?
So. . .they are inconsiderate, inhumane, innocent, irresponsible and ignorant yet. . . they have nothing to hide. And they have an ethics problem. Stephen Pepper would consider them psychologically diseased, seeing some people as expendable and themselves not. [World Hypotheses]
I may be over-reacting here but I’m frightened of these people. They know not what they do. And. . .they know not what they say. And they don’t give a damn, just as long as they’re left alone. I’m innocent! I’m innocent! I ain’t done nothin’!
Let me see if I can make my family clearer for you. . .”I didn’t know why they were cramming all them Jews into them box cars at machine gun point.” And, “I ain’t never heard o’ no concentration camps. Ain’t that whar ya larn how to thank real hard?”
My family’s about as clever as Br’er Bear:
Well, Brer Fox, he was plenty mad that he’d worked so hard on those peas only to have them eaten by someone else. He suspected that Brer Rabbit was to blame for this, but the rascally rabbit had covered his tracks so well that Brer Fox couldn’t catch him. So Brer Fox came up with a plan. He found a smooth spot in his fence where a cunning rabbit could sneak in, and he set a trap for Brer Rabbit at that spot. He tied a rope to a nearby hickory sapling and bent it nearly double. Then he took the other end of the rope and made a loop knot that he fastened with a trigger right around the hole in the fence. If anybody came through the crack to steal his peas, the knot would tighten around their body, the sapling would spring upright, and they would be left hanging from the tree for everyone to see.
The next morning, Brer Rabbit came a-slipping through the hole in the fence. At once, the trigger sprung, the knot tightened on his forelegs, and the hickory tree snapped upright, quick as you please. Brer Rabbit found himself swung aloft betwixt the heaven and the earth, swinging from the hickory sapling. He couldn’t go up and he couldn’t go down. He just went back and forth.
Brer Rabbit was in a fix, no mistake. He was trying to come up with some glib explanation for Brer Fox when he heard someone a-rumbling and a-bumbling down the road. It was Brer Bear, looking for a bee-tree so he could get him some honey. As soon as Brer Rabbit saw Brer Bear, he came up with a plan to get himself free.
“Howdy, Brer Bear,” he called cheerfully. Brer Bear squinted around here and there, wondering where the voice had come from. Then he looked up and saw Brer Rabbit swinging from the sapling.
“Howdy Brer Rabbit,” he rumbled. “How are you this morning?”
“Middling, Brer Bear,” Rabbit replied. “Just middling.”
Brer Bear was wondering why Brer Rabbit was up in the tree, so he asked him about it. Brer Rabbit grinned and said that he was earning a dollar-a-minute from Brer Fox.
“A dollar-a-minute!” Brer Bear exclaimed. “What for?”
“I’m keeping the crows away from his goober patch,” Brer Rabbit explained, and went on to say that Brer Fox was paying a dollar-a-minute to whomever would act as a scarecrow for him.
Well, Brer Bear liked the sound of that. He had a big family to feed, and he could use the money. When Brer Rabbit asked him if he would like to have the job, Brer Bear agreed. Brer Rabbit showed him how to bend the sapling down and remove the knot from his forepaws. When Brer Rabbit was free, Brer Bear climbed into the knot and soon he was hanging aloft betwixt heaven and earth, swing to and from the sapling and growling at the birds to keep them away from the goober patch. [Bre'r Rabbit Earns A Dollar A Day, Joel Chandler Harris]

Or, maybe, they’re suffering from George Warren’s little canary, Chippie, syndrome:
Once there was a parakeet named Chippie. Chippie loved to sing because he didn’t have a care in the world! Chippie had a wonderful life in his birdcage until one day something happened to bring all of that to an end. It was the day his owner decided to clean the cage floor with her canister vacuum cleaner. She put the nozzle in the cage and started vacuuming the floor of the cage, and at that moment her telephone rang. She turned around to pick it up, and inadvertently pointed the nozzle up into the air–right at Chippie! She sucked poor Chippie into the vacuum cleaner, head first! Well, she panicked and threw down the phone, turned off the vacuum cleaner and quickly opened up the bag. And sure enough, there was Chippie on the inside–dazed and stunned and covered with dust. She quickly grabbed him and raced off to the bathroom and washed all the dust off, but then the tiny bird began shivering, soaking wet. And so, she did what every compassionate bird owner would do. She reached for her hot air drier and turned it on and blasted poor old Chippie with hot air! Well, a few days later, the friend on the phone called to see how Chippie was doing, and I love the woman’s reply. She said, Well, I’m not sure. He doesn’t sing anymore. He just sits here and stares! [When Your World Is Falling Apart, Look Up]

The old “I’ve got nothing to hide” excuse

I really try to stay away from talking about my family but this item is the height of selective blindness. It is this: my family finds absolutely nothing wrong with the fact that the government is reading their mail, listening to their phone calls, following them on the Internet or has the ability to break into their house and arrest them, take them to jail, not let them have access to an attorney and, basically, disappear. This is cool. It’s part of the two Patriot Acts and the Military Commissions Act. Those are laws of the land. Nothing wrong with that. Why is it okay with my family? Because, “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I think this is ignorant. Worse, they are ignorant of their ignorance. I guess they’re waiting for Eve to bite into the apple, which is both the fruit of the tree of life and the fruit of love. Interesting pairing, that.
But let’s put aside my prejudice and look at their excuse: I’ve got nothing to hide.
It is selfish. It is only concerned with them, themselves. As if to say, to hell with anyone else. This is, of course, the ultimate in individualism, as it has been re-interpreted since Ralph Waldo Emerson and the Transcendentalists brought it up. For Emerson and the Transcendentalists, no individual is separate from the community; the community helps define the individual. That is, to be totally, 100% an individual is antithetical to social stability. It is anarchy; that is, everyone doing what they want regardless of the effects it may have on anyone else. Some might say it guts the social contract. It is, indeed, a denial of social responsibility. It is a denial of involvement. It is irresponsible behavior. It is utter chaos. Of course, if you’re part of society, you are part of what society does and the repercussions of those actions. As Karl Jaspers noted in A Question of German Guilt, everyone is guilty. Everyone. He does not exclude himself, even though he ran from the fascist regime.
So, to claim total independence from society via one’s claiming individual choice is irresponsible.
My family, too, believes it is making its own choice, without bias or forethought. They read the conservative Washington Times and The Wall Street Journal and then, I’m told, make up their own minds what to believe. To someone of little brain like myself or Winnie the Pooh, this sounds a little like they’ve made up their minds before they begin. That is, they’ve chosen ahead of time which information outlet to pay attention to, ignoring all the rest, before they “make up their own minds.” Another word for this is “prejudice,” I think. As my family are self-proclaiming Christians, I can see where they get this kind of logic.
But, here, with their professed Christianity, there is another conundrum–dare I say contradiction? Paradox? Christianity is supposed to be a religion of love and respect for your fellow man, even your enemy. Yet, in the “I’ve got nothing to hide” syndrome, there is no love nor no respect or consideration for their fellow men. As long as they are home free, everything’s hunky-dory. It is saying, as God’s chosen are wont to say, I’m good but y’all are sinners. I’m better than you are, na-na-na-na-nah! Wilhelm Reich has pointed out this is fascist thinking, maintaining all religions are this way: my way is right, so yours is wrong. [The Mass Psychology of Fascism] This means, of course, that you, the wrong one, can die because, being wrong, you can’t be saved, you’re not one of us, you’re expendable. Ergo, “I’ve got nothing to hide” means I’m right, you’re wrong and so you deserve what you get.
There is an inherent superiority in this, a kind of hubris. I think the cliché, coming from ancient Greek, is “pride cometh before the fall.” Such a tragedy.
But. . .do they have nothing to hide? Are they sure they have nothing to hide?
To maintain “I’ve got nothing to hide” means that they know, for sure, what the government is looking for. That is, they can read the government’s mind. Like some women can read the minds of all men via “that look in their eyes” and Christians know God’s plan even though God’s ken is way beyond a human’s ability to comprehend. Truly, how sure are they?
In fact, it doesn’t matter whether they’ve got nothing to hide or not. If someone else is nailed and they have a connection with a member of my family, my family is implicated and disappeared. If the other person bears a grudge, of the sort found with Montressor for Fortunato [Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amantillado], then my family’s name will fall off that other person’s lips like drool from a toothing baby’s mouth. Also, their being picked up puts me in dire straits and I’m not even in America. Their “I’ve got nothing to hide” that got them into trouble by someone else’s say-so–commonly called hearsay evidence–screws me. That they feel no guilt over this possibility is frightening, though not out of line with prior behavior: when the ICU wanted my next-of-kin and I sent a friend to contact my family, my family did not respond. How unfortunate for my family that I survived.
But let’s assume, just for kicks, that the person disappeared is someone they do like, someone close to them that they respect. When he’s disappeared, do you think they’ll look into the matter, call up to find out where he is? Run on down to his house to see where he’s gotten to? He’s not been seen for so long. Do you think they’ll stand up for the disappeared and maintain his innocence? Do ya, huh? I don’t. I think they know better than to step out of line and be honest and upright and, as they will be more than likely to say, stick their nose into business that isn’t theirs. After all, who’s important?! This is fear. This is the fear their government wishes to instill in its subjects–er, citizens. This is the fear they’ve snapped up like that fly the frog ate for dinner. This is the fear that makes them forget they’re human and they’ve got friends.
If you can’t trust no one, who can you trust?
So. . .they are inconsiderate, inhumane, innocent, irresponsible and ignorant yet. . . they have nothing to hide. And they have an ethics problem. Stephen Pepper would consider them psychologically diseased, seeing some people as expendable and themselves not. [World Hypotheses]
I may be over-reacting here but I’m frightened of these people. They know not what they do. And. . .they know not what they say. And they don’t give a damn, just as long as they’re left alone. I’m innocent! I’m innocent! I ain’t done nothin’!
Let me see if I can make my family clearer for you. . .”I didn’t know why they were cramming all them Jews into them box cars at machine gun point.” And, “I ain’t never heard o’ no concentration camps. Ain’t that whar ya larn how to thank real hard?”
My family’s about as clever as Br’er Bear:
Well, Brer Fox, he was plenty mad that he’d worked so hard on those peas only to have them eaten by someone else. He suspected that Brer Rabbit was to blame for this, but the rascally rabbit had covered his tracks so well that Brer Fox couldn’t catch him. So Brer Fox came up with a plan. He found a smooth spot in his fence where a cunning rabbit could sneak in, and he set a trap for Brer Rabbit at that spot. He tied a rope to a nearby hickory sapling and bent it nearly double. Then he took the other end of the rope and made a loop knot that he fastened with a trigger right around the hole in the fence. If anybody came through the crack to steal his peas, the knot would tighten around their body, the sapling would spring upright, and they would be left hanging from the tree for everyone to see.
The next morning, Brer Rabbit came a-slipping through the hole in the fence. At once, the trigger sprung, the knot tightened on his forelegs, and the hickory tree snapped upright, quick as you please. Brer Rabbit found himself swung aloft betwixt the heaven and the earth, swinging from the hickory sapling. He couldn’t go up and he couldn’t go down. He just went back and forth.
Brer Rabbit was in a fix, no mistake. He was trying to come up with some glib explanation for Brer Fox when he heard someone a-rumbling and a-bumbling down the road. It was Brer Bear, looking for a bee-tree so he could get him some honey. As soon as Brer Rabbit saw Brer Bear, he came up with a plan to get himself free.
“Howdy, Brer Bear,” he called cheerfully. Brer Bear squinted around here and there, wondering where the voice had come from. Then he looked up and saw Brer Rabbit swinging from the sapling.
“Howdy Brer Rabbit,” he rumbled. “How are you this morning?”
“Middling, Brer Bear,” Rabbit replied. “Just middling.”
Brer Bear was wondering why Brer Rabbit was up in the tree, so he asked him about it. Brer Rabbit grinned and said that he was earning a dollar-a-minute from Brer Fox.
“A dollar-a-minute!” Brer Bear exclaimed. “What for?”
“I’m keeping the crows away from his goober patch,” Brer Rabbit explained, and went on to say that Brer Fox was paying a dollar-a-minute to whomever would act as a scarecrow for him.
Well, Brer Bear liked the sound of that. He had a big family to feed, and he could use the money. When Brer Rabbit asked him if he would like to have the job, Brer Bear agreed. Brer Rabbit showed him how to bend the sapling down and remove the knot from his forepaws. When Brer Rabbit was free, Brer Bear climbed into the knot and soon he was hanging aloft betwixt heaven and earth, swing to and from the sapling and growling at the birds to keep them away from the goober patch. [Bre'r Rabbit Earns A Dollar A Day, Joel Chandler Harris]

Or, maybe, they’re suffering from George Warren’s little canary, Chippie, syndrome:
Once there was a parakeet named Chippie. Chippie loved to sing because he didn’t have a care in the world! Chippie had a wonderful life in his birdcage until one day something happened to bring all of that to an end. It was the day his owner decided to clean the cage floor with her canister vacuum cleaner. She put the nozzle in the cage and started vacuuming the floor of the cage, and at that moment her telephone rang. She turned around to pick it up, and inadvertently pointed the nozzle up into the air–right at Chippie! She sucked poor Chippie into the vacuum cleaner, head first! Well, she panicked and threw down the phone, turned off the vacuum cleaner and quickly opened up the bag. And sure enough, there was Chippie on the inside–dazed and stunned and covered with dust. She quickly grabbed him and raced off to the bathroom and washed all the dust off, but then the tiny bird began shivering, soaking wet. And so, she did what every compassionate bird owner would do. She reached for her hot air drier and turned it on and blasted poor old Chippie with hot air! Well, a few days later, the friend on the phone called to see how Chippie was doing, and I love the woman’s reply. She said, Well, I’m not sure. He doesn’t sing anymore. He just sits here and stares! [When Your World Is Falling Apart, Look Up]

Missing Persons

Gyorgy Yabu was not a man to sit still with his victory or even find it satisfactory, that is, enough. There was always more to be had and Gorgy Yabu wanted it. Wanted it all. He was a man famine-cursed: in a famine, no matter how much is planted, it is not enough. With a famine, there is not enough. Of anything. Gyorgy Yabu was like a famine: no matter how much he ate up, he was never satisfied. Would he sell his soul–to the Devil, of course–to win the world? Would he sell his daughter? Well, perhaps only one of them would do the trick. After all, Agamemnon only required one.
So, it should not come as a surprise that when people stood in his way, Gyorgy Yabu became frustrated until he had removed them. This was often exhausting, causing him uncomfortable sleep and a general kind of irritation by day and occasionally a twitch at the left side of his mouth that caused him to grimace in a smiling sort of way. It was in his wish to banish these physical impediments, including the people, that Gyorgy Yabu found and hired–every hand has his price–Dr. Chicane Milchrot, an expert in his field. The project he set him was building a machine, a smart machine, a machine that would disappear people. It was of no concern where they were rendered, as long as they were gone out of his way. In the perfecting of such a miraculous machine, the more miraculous as it was to be designed to select one individual out of a crowd, guinea pigs were needed. Thus it was that arbitrary people were randomly picked up off the street, usually from the other side of the wall, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. Which, of course, was the whole idea. However, all along the way, people were incapacitated and died. An unfortunate side-effect but unavoidable, all things considered. As the dead were secretly disposed of, tortured limbs and all, it was all the same: they just disappeared and no amount of inquiry could uncover them.
Buck notified Hellecchino of every disappearance. Hellecchino kept a Domesday Book of names, dates and circumstances. Buck’s position as town disabled person and his living outside of town made it easy for him to disappear for days at a time in his search for Hellecchino, who was never in one place twice. They could have used carrier pigeons but Clyde Moyen Bucket liked to bird hunt and to him all birds were the same: dinner on the wing. And he liked to be the one with the most hits, so he often used a modified short barrel with #1 buckshot, even though it occasionally took out a fellow hunter. A mortally wounded pigeon would divulge its message and a later look for similarly fine feathered friends would have drive Clyde to ride through the night across the Coahuila near-desert sands in an attempt to follow the bird to its destination: Hellecchino, the swingest grade A number one East Texas choice frustration. So, the most obvious and direct method, so utterly within everyone’s sight and right under their noses, was the best way. Thus it was Buck hopped on his burro and clip-copped across the chaparral to wherever Hellecchino might be. Even I can’t tell you where he was or it’d not be a secret. Buck always limped back home with guidance for the corralled population, that is, all those on the other side of the wall. Fat lot of good it did–where was he when he was needed, eh? Stupid fucking hero!
Of course, Buck wasn’t the only one looking for Hellecchino. Jim Hatfield was looking for him, too. Jim Hatfield, no longer a Texas Ranger, had time on his hands. What better way to employ his time than by finding this much-talked-about thorn in Gyorgy Yabu’s, Medusi Minkowski IV’s, Clyde Moyen Bucket’s and The Mayor’s sides. Any man capable of invigorating so many enemies in so short a time must be formidable indeed. Now that Jim Hatfield knew how Gyorgy Yabu worked and what the long arm of the law really meant, he was anxious to meet Hellecchino. Perhaps there was something that he could learn, old dog that he was.
So it was that one day, in the middle of Yabu and Brownwood Causeway, just outside of Kaikai’s Hostelry, Jim Griffin and Kaikai waved good-bye to Jim Hatfield and Goldie. Even though the boardwalks were crowded with shoppers and loungers and the street modestly filled with buggies, buckboards and horses, nobody noted Jim Hatfield’s passing. After all, people were coming and going daily. Nothing unusual here.
So it was, too, that Jim Hatfield found Hellecchino. In amongst a group of wildly gesticulating and shouting Indians, Hellecchino stood cool as a cucumber. Everybody reverted to silence as Jim Hatfield rode up. Hellecchino looked around.
“Why, Jim Hatfield! Glad to see ya, buddy. Hop on down and join in the discussion,” said Hellecchino.
Jim did, loosely holding Goldie’s reins in his left hand in case the palomino got spooked.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Everybody knows ya, Jim. You’re the most known man in the West.” A couple of the Indians grunted. “The most known white man in the West.” The Indians were happy with this. “But we can talk about that later. How’d you find me?”
“Buck’s burro bunnies,” replied Jim with a smile.
“We’ll have to see about his bagging it. You weren’t followed, were you?”
“Nobody even remarked my leaving.” Jim looked down, Goldie blew a gust out his great nostrils. “You ain’t afraid of them finding you, are you?”
“Hell no! But I’m not ready to be found. Ya gotta keep ‘em guessin’, Jim.”
“I suppose so,” said Jim, rubbing his chin. “But there’s no telling what’s going on in their heads.”
“The more fantasy, the better. Keeps ‘em occupied. Besides, they’ll be so involved in their possibility stories, we can slip right by ‘em. It’s a pink elephant, Jim.”
What the hell’s a pink elephant got to do with things?”
“Just you don’t think nothin’ about it.”
“What’s going on here? It’s against the law for Indians to gather like this.”
“You see anybody watching?”
Jim scanned the horizon. No hill or rise or big bush anywhere around. “Nope,” he said.
“That’s why we’re here. Right out in the open right where everyone can see is right where no one will be looking. If people think you’re sneaking around, they will only be looking for hiding places.” Hellecchino turned to the Indians. “Jim Hatfield wants to know what’s the problem” The Indians were silent. “It’s okay. He’s not a Texas Ranger any more. Gained some Indian friends out to the west of here.”
The Indians looked around to each other.
“You come do sweat lodge?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.”
“They come after our land. It’s our land. We don’t want them to have it. It’s all we got,” said a big Indian.
“They will return with blue coats. Always it is so,” said a short Indian standing right before Jim.
“Who’s they?” asked Jim.
“Monkey Ears and Twisted Lips.”
“We don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah. We always lose.”
“Not so damn fast,” warned Jim Hatfield. “If you think that way, you certainly will lose. You’ve already lost.”
“You’re language sure has taken a tumble, Jim,” said Hellecchino.
“Happens when I’m a little put out.”
“What do we do, Hellecchino–why you have such a difficult name?”
“I had no choice.” Hellecchino paused. “What land is this?”
“Our holy land. It is where we go to feel the spirit.”
“And so they want it.”
“They come two, three times. Always more money.”
“Soon we have no land.”
Great group assent.
“Well. . .the more you fight for it, the more they’ll want it. They want it because it’s important to you. You gotta tell ‘em they can have it as long as they don’t take the other place.”
“What place?”
“Hell, I don’t know! Any old piece of worthless land a ways away. Draw a circle of stones on it. Don’t give it up. Fight tooth and nail–metaphorically, that is–and when you got a better deal, right up to the point that they’re threatening you, you give in like a bunch of yellow bellied cowards.”
“What do they want with worthless land?”
“If you’re fighting to keep it, they’ll think it’s worth plenty. Only you know it’s priceless.”
Jim Hatfield burst out laughing. Goldie neighed.
“That’s good hone, Hellecchino! Priceless indeed.”
The Indians were scratching their heads.
“Look,” explained Hellecchino, “you are leading them down a blind alley.” No comprehension in their eyes. “On a wild goose chase.” Still no comprehension ase’ceov the seminole sasv’kwv.”
“A group “Ah” and holding of black long-haired heads. These foreigners and their Indian!
“No one wants worthless land, right? Only you can make it worth something.”
“That’s a good idea,” said the big Indian.
“Alright then. Problem solved. Now. . .when you make the sale, you come find me and we’ll celebrate with a big dinner.”
And with that, the Indians jumped on their pintos and rode off into the south wind.
“You’re pretty slick,” commented Jim after the sound of hooves had receded and the dust settled.
“Depends on which plane of existence you live on.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” said Jim, scratching his head and unsettling his hat.
“You don’t have to live in the world somebody else makes for you. You may not like their rules and their interpretation of the world. Ain’t that why you quit?”
“So?”
“Well, if you don’t buy into it, you know the rules anyway and you can play it back at ‘em. Charming Jonson called it blow back.”
“And Jimmy Zimmerman called it blowing in the wind.”
“More like spittin’ into the wind.”
“I guess now I’m on a different plane.”
“Sure seems like it.”
Jim and Hellecchino stood around shuffling their boots for awhile.
“I’m parched,” Hellecchino broke the self-conscious silence. “Let’s go get a drink.”
“Where do we find a drink out here? You gotta be careful of drink. It clouds the mind.”
“Lu Da’s got some fine wine. Water, too, for you.”
“Okay, let’s go.”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the disappearing machine was working well, though not so secretively as planned, and the disappearances became pandemic. Gyorgy and Chicane Milchrot had no idea who leaked the knowledge of the machine, nicknamed The Lagniappe, though Gyorgy liked to call it the Giving Machine. He was into Critias-type rhetoric, though, in reality, he would have had no idea who Critias was–and probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce the name properly. Everything outside of Brazos River Basin dialect was Greek to him. But sometimes secrecy was not as important as chutzpah, for if you pull it off right in front of people’s faces, they’re so appalled at your gall, at your audacity to flaunt your inhumanity, that they’re frozen in action and reduced to bitching about it. The best defense is denial, anyway.
Hellecchino was able, by way of his Domesday Book, to discover a pattern to the disappearances, temporally and geographically. This was not difficult to do, as people who are so sure of themselves that they feel they can do the most heinous of deeds right out in the open tend to operate in a very constrained and predictable manner. More often that not, they will also react predictably. And this is how Hellecchino worked to thwart Gyorgy’s plans for total Coahuila domination. This is why, too, the people of Chokepointe Piste considered Hellecchino to be a gifted, if not magical, being. Of course, he was a hero. Heroes were known for their superhuman life-saving efforts.
It was not at all surprising that at the time and placed of the next disappearance, directly upon the heels of outrageous behavior of one sort or another, in order to thwart it, Hellecchino was to be found. Unfortunately, spies and–worse–informers were about. Chicane Milchrot knew of the plot and simply retimed his disappearing act and–bingo!–Hellecchino was discredited, made to be a fool. Ll it takes is one such incident to get people to wondering about a person’s worth and reliability, especially those who are dependent, that is, those who do nothing. But this happened twice before Hellecchino found the clue to his failure. So, he set a trap. A stupid, simple trap. So simple in fact, that it smacked of the ingenious. Directly in front of the suspected snitch, Hellecchino told a secret to Buck that was easily overhead. And, sure enough, the Lagniappe did its bit just ahead of schedule. Hellecchino and Buck were there to witness it, as were, of course, a few others, including the ratfink, who was of course duly astounded and flabbergasted and ran off lickety-split to report the faux pas thus giving himself away. No one disappeared because Hellecchino told the intended to stay away until 10 minutes after the incident. Which he did. It was so good to see him again that Hellecchino’s reputation was restored. As for the ratfink, well, he disappeared, albeit not as cleanly rendered as Chicane Milchrot’s victims. Which is why Medusi Minkowski IV and a posse comeditatis tracked down Hellecchino and surrounded him, bull-in-the-ring fashion, south of Chokepointe Piste, on the way to McDonald’s farm, though why he was heading in that direction was a mystery and would remain so forever. However, legends grew up.
“Is this a welcoming committee?” asked Hellecchino after he’d been duly surrounded.
“Yore wanted for questioning,” said Medusi Minkowski IV.
“Well! Here I am. Ask away.”
“Yore willin’ to be questioned?” Medusi Minkowski8 IV was incredulous.
“Shore thang, sheriff. ‘Sides, I ain’t got much of a choice.”
“That’s for sure!” Medusi Minkowski IV jabbed a finger at Hellecchino.
And then everyone was silent. The posse comeditatis had come expecting resistance. They did not know what to do with acquiescence. Finally, Medusi Minkowski IV spurred his mount into the ring. He bent over his saddle horn and breathed down into Hellecchino’s face.
“I don’t like your sort,” he snarled.
“So?”
“I wanna know about the disappearance.”
“What disappearance?”
“Harvey Matusow.”
“Harvey?”
“Yes. Harvey. You hard o’ hearin’?”
“Harvey’s disappeared?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
“Where’d he go?”
“Are you really so fucking dumb?!@ When people disappears nobody knows where they gone.”
“How should I know?”
“I ain’t out here on no wild goose chase, goddamnit! Now, tell us what you know!”: shouted Medusi Minkowski IV, getting down off his horse.
“I don’t know noting’, ‘ceptin. . .”
Medusi Minkowski leaned in. All members of the po9sse comeditatis leaned in.
“‘Ceptin there’s been alotta disappearances lately.” Silence. “You ever check into them?”
Medusi Minkowski IV put his hands on his guns, took a wide stance. “I’m takin’ you in.”
“Hey!” Hellecchino held out his hands, pals up. “My hands are clean. I washed ‘em before I left Lu Da’s. See?”
Medusi Minkowski IV looked.
“Alright.” He stuck a finger in Hellecchino’s face. “I’m goin’ t’check. If’n you wasn’t there, yore ass is grass. Alright, boys,” he said, still staring menacingly at Hellecchino, “let’s ride.”
Medusi Minkowski IV turned and strode manfully, purposefully to his horse, relinquished hid hold on his guns and mounted up. The cowboys rode off, leaving Hellecchino standing in a cloud of dust.

Among the wondrous things that Chicane Milchrot had created–aside from the disappearing machine and an eater of the dead–was a remote sensing telegraph. A hand ditta. It was because of this particular invention that Chicane was able to be at the next disappearance at the same time Hellecchino was: he had been telegraphed.
“Ah-ha! I’ve got you now, Hellecchino! You’ll never get away.” Eureka’s Chicane Milchrot.
Hellecchino was surprised. “Whoa!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? I mean. . .how did you know?”
“I have a hand job,” announced Chicane rather proudly, throwing out his chest.
With that, the great scientist opened up his hand and showed Hellecchino his new device: the hand job. AKA the hand conn. Gyorgy Yabu, however, called it the Bush Pilot. Hellecchino was duly amazed if not over-reactive, a kind of wild goose chasing behavior in order to induce the confidently proud scientists to further exhibit his device. Chicane was more than obliging.
After an hour or two of dissertation, Hellecchino, still nodding and smiling, asked the dapper fabricationist one simple question. It was a safe question because there was no one else around. Thus Chicane Milchrot’s next solution to the problem would hurt no one in particular.
“Now you have me, Dr. Milchrot, what are you going to do with me?”
“Ah-ha!” And the hand job disappeared into a large side pocket of his Zoot Suit coat and out of another another hand held device appeared. “I’m going to disappear you with my mini-lagniappe.” And without another word, he flicked a switch and the little gadget leapt to life. “What’re you gonna do about that!” A button was depressed –but too late.
You see, Hellecchino had jumped back and assumed one of the many Kong-fu pre-set stances, left hand extended before him, a look of horror or hatred on his face, and when the mini-lagniappe’s disappearing ray struck his hand Dr. Chicane Milchrot disappeared with a little pop. He had been rendered into never never land. Because Hellecchino was holding a mirror in his extended hand and the ray of the unseen was imaged right back at the Frankensteinian doctor.
End of problem.
Many years later, Hellecchino was to explain this phenomenon by stating that a good many people could not look at themselves in a mirror because they’d see nothing. He did not tell that he’d gotten the mirror from Walt Disney, though. That would have been just too unbelievable. Who believes in magic mirrors, eh?
Later that night, as Gyorgy was fretting that his ace in the hole scientist was not home yet, Hellecchino, Jim Hatfield and Buck were discussing things over an open fire outside the cinderblock house. There was no need to hide any more. Indeed, it was better to be out in the open and above-board with everything as this would be threateningly frustrating to the bad guys who thought they owned the world and assumed everyone was secretly plotting against them, thus creating a self-fulfilling prophesy, creating their own little world and, at the same time, imposing a nightmare scenario on everyone else. A kind of perpetual paranoia machine.
“Seems like we got ourselves a new problem,” opined Jim Hatfield.
“How so, Ranger?”
“Buck,” Jim leaned forward on his chair, “I’m not a Ranger any more.”
“But. . .but. . .you’ll always be Ranger Jim to me. Ya just can’t give up yore identity like that. It ain’t right.”
“I’m still the same man, Buck. Just with a coat of a different color.”
“What’m I gonna call you, then?”
“Jim would be fine.”
“How’m I s’posed to do that? There are so many Jims.” Buck chewed on a thought for awhile. “I’ll call you Jimhatfield.”
“How about me?” said a voice from the doorway.
Everyone turned.
“Hello, Jim.”
“Hello, Jim. What are y’all doing?”
“We have a problem now Hellecchino got rid of Milchrot. Come on in and join the discussion,” Jim Hatfield said.
“How can getting rid of Milchrot be a problem?” queried Jim Griffin.
“Well. . .we still have to find and deactivate the machine and with Milchrot gone there’s no telling what Yabu will do.”
Jim Griffin shook his head. “You really did it this time, Hellecchino.”
“I’m fallible. I’m only human,” Hellecchino spread his hands sheepishly.
“Yore a hero, Hellecchino. You ain’t allowed,” said Buck. “Not everybody can be a hero, y’know.”
“There’s no need for everyone to be a hero, Buck,” Hellecchino clapped his sidekick on the back. “I’ll just have to think of something, that’s all.”
“But yore a hero!”
“C’mon, Buck,” Jim Griffin remonstrated. “Give the guy a chance. It’s not like it’s the end of the world.”
“It is if Yabu discovers Milchrot is no longer around!” shouted Buck.
“Well, then,” drawled Jim Hatfield, “we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t find out right away. That’s all.”
“How you plan on doin’ it?”
“That’s the problem we’re discussing here, Buck,” Hellecchino quipped.
“Somebody better start thinkin’ then,” mumbled the little man.
So they all sat around thinking for awhile.
“We have to get to the machine and put it out of commission, it seems to me,” suggested Jim Griffin.
“Nobody gets into Yabu’s ranch.”
“If he thought it was one of his own. . .”
“Milchrot’s gone. Disappeared by his own hand.”
“But his assistant’s still here.”
Jim Griffin sat back and let the silence settle.
“He gotta assistant?” asked Buck, screwing up his face.
“He does now.”
“Yore joshin’ me!”
Hellecchino laughed.
“Where did he come from, Jim?”
“We just made him up, Jim. Dr. Theodore Nemore.”
Hellecchino laughed. People were solving their own problems. Amazing!
“I’ve been talkin’ to Sherlock Holmes about disguises. . .” Jim Griffin let the thought hang in the air again.
After a moment, Buck slapped his thigh. “We just make up Hellecchino and send him in there. Great idea Jimgriffin.”
“Nope. Not Hellecchino.”
“Nope, Not me,” said Hellecchino.
“Who then?” asked Jim Hatfield.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“Nope. Not me. No, sir. I’m not up to–I’m not going to be in one of your fictions, Jim Griffin!”
“I’ll work out okay, Jim.”
“No it won’t.”
“You doubtin’ my creativity?”
“Ain’t no doubt about it.”
“Good! Come on with me and I’ll fix you right up. In the meantime, we have to come up with an excuse for Milchrot not being around.”
Jim Griffin pushed Jim Hatfield out, leaving Hellecchino and Buck to come up with a lame duck excuse for Milchrot sending his trusted assistant to take up the slack. But where to put the good doctor in the meantime. . .

Tibet, China and Human Rights

What is happening in Tibet is horrible, though not so bad as in Burma. The media and governments on both sides of the reporting are cooking the books, as it were. Propaganda, after all, must be used; it is often more effective than military might. However, there are some misconceptions and anomalies that are not being addressed.
The Dalai Lama has noted that Tibet is a sovereign nation with a long and illustrious history. This is just not so. The Yellow Hats, his sect of Buddhism in Tibet, only came to power via war and the support of the Ming Dynasty emperors. Since that time and into the 20th century, Tibet paid tribute to the country that made its religious elite all-powerful.
The Dalai Lama has said that he’s no such person to make his monks and the people stop rioting, in other places he has noted that he told his monks to protest, albeit non-violently. However, the Dalai Lama is such a person to control his Tibetan horde. The Dalai Lama is stronger than god but, like god, withholds his power to save his people for some unknown reason. That is, by not helping to put a stop to the violence, he is abetting the deaths of his own people. Great guy, the Dalai Lama. But that’s the way it is in the world, no? Some people are worth saving and some are worth less.
In Burma, the Buddhist monks were non-violent in their protests; not so in Tibet. But, then, remember they came to power by violence. This truly tarnishes the patina of the Buddhists as non-violent people, people who will not support violence. This truly is a wake up call for those who follow the Dalai Lama and Buddhism, at least the Tibetan strain, that the great patriarch found by following a star is talking out of both sides of his mouth, like any politician.
We must remember, too, that the Dalai Lama was, at one time, paid by the CIA. That he’s not now is a question. But spies are ever on-call after retirement.
Tibet is, as the Chinese are handling it, a human rights violation. But the outcry, and the protests, come at an interesting time: right when the US is making a move against the Olympics in Beijing. There has been a spate of China-hate and a call for boycotting of the Olympics because of China’s human rights violations. The US is the only country to have boycotted an Olympics–and the athletes were angry. Many, because the US government does not support its athletes, suffered extra-Olympically. The US is the only country who, when confronted with athletes protesting the rampant racism of the country, sent the athletes home and stripped them of their medals. That is, silenced them. Surely not! Surely not something one is ONLY likely to find behind the Iron Curtain or the SILK SCREEN or in Burma or Pakistan. . .
The US is after creating a problem for China and its Olympics, if not for the sake of embarrassment, then to divert the world’s attention from its plans for the next Middle East debacle. For all of the vicious military involvements in countries by the US, not once has any country called for a boycott of the Olympics when held in the good ole US of A. ONLY the US. Think about it.
And then think about this:

The Information Office of the State Council published a report titled
Human Rights Record of United States in 2007

The State Department of the United States released its Country Reports on Human Rights Practices for 2007 on March 11, 2008. As in previous years, the reports are full of accusations of the human rights situation in more than 190 countries and regions including China but mention nothing of the widespread human rights abuses on its own territory. The Human Rights Record of the United States in 2007 is prepared to help people around the world understand the real situation of human rights in the United States and as a reminder for the United States to reflect upon its own issues.

I. On Life, Property and Personal Security

The increase of violent crimes in the United States poses a serious threat to its people’s lives, liberty and personal security.

According to a FBI report on crime statistics released in September 2007, 1.41 million violent crimes were reported nationwide in 2006. . . . (FBI Release its 2006 Crime Statistics, FBI, www.fbi.gov/pressre1/pressre107/cius092407.htm). Throughout 2006, U.S. residents age 12 or above experienced an estimated 25 million crimes of violence and theft. . . . (Criminal Victimization 2006, U.S. Department of Justice, www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs). In the United States, one violent crime was committed in every 22.2 seconds, one murder committed in every 30.9 minutes, one rape in every 5.7 minutes, one robbery in every 1.2 minutes and one aggravated assault in every 36.6 seconds (FBI Release its 2006 Crime Statistics, FBI, www.fbi.gov/pressre1/pressre107/cius092407.htm).

A survey by the Police Executive Research Forum in 163 U.S. cities shows that 65%of them reported increases or no changes in homicides during the first half of 2007, 41.9% of cities reported increases or no changes in aggravated assaults, 55.6% reported increases or no changes in robberies (“Survey Shows Shift in Violence,” USA Today, October 12, 2007). . . .

The United States has the largest number of privately-owned guns in the world. Frequent gun violence poses a serious threat to people’s life and property security. There are an estimated 250 million privately-owned firearms in the United States. . . .

In the United States, about 30,000 people die from gun wounds every year (“Update 2-Senate Passes Gun Bill in Response to Rampage,” Reuters, December 19, 2007). The USA Today reported on December 5, 2007 that gun killings have climbed 13% overall since 2002. An estimated 25% of all violent crime incidents were committed by an armed offender. . . . (Criminal Victimization 2006, U.S. Department of Justice, www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs). . . .

II. On Human Rights Violations by Law Enforcement and Judicial Departments

The abuse of power by law enforcement and judicial departments in the United States has seriously violated the freedom and rights of its citizens.

Cases in which U.S. law enforcement authorities allegedly violated victims’ civil rights increased by 25% from fiscal year 2001 to 2007 over the previous seven years, according to statistics from U.S. Department of Justice (“Police Brutality Cases up 25%; Union Worried Over Dip in Hiring Standards,” USA Today, December 18, 2007). The national average among large police departments for excessive-force complaints was 9.5 per 100 full-time officers (The New York Times, November 14, 2007). But the majority of law enforcement officers accused of brutality were not prosecuted. . . . (Cf. The Chicago Police Department’s Broken System, University of Chicago, www.law.chicago.edu for specific details). . . . On May 1 when Latino immigrants were campaigning for the rights of illegal immigrants at MacArthur Park in downtown Los Angeles, police officers abused their power by clubbing demonstrators and journalists and shooting them with rubber bullets (The Los Angeles Times, October 9, 2007). . . . According to a report released by the U.S. Department of Justice in October 2007, 47 states and the District of Columbia reported 2,002 arrest-related deaths between 2003 and 2005. Among these, 1,095, or 55%, were killed by gunfire of state or local police (Death in Custody Statistical Tables, U.S. Department of Justice, www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs).

The United States of America is the world’s largest prison and has the highest inmates/population ratio in the world. A December 5, 2007 report by EFE news agency quoted statistics of U.S. Department of Justice as saying that the number of inmates in U.S. prisons has increased by 500% over the last 30 years. By the end of 2006, there were 2.26 million inmates in U.S. prisons. . . . The U.S. population only accounts for 5% of the world total, but its inmates make up 25% of the world total. There were 751 inmates in every 100,000 U.S. citizens, far higher than the rates in other Western countries (EFE news agency, December 5, 2007). . . .

Abusing inmates is commonplace in U.S. prisons. According to a report released by U.S. Department of Justice in December 2007, an estimated 60,500 inmates. . .experienced one or more incidents of sexual victimization. . . (Sexual Victimization in State and Federal Prisons Reported by Inmates, U.S. Department of Justice, www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs). The U.S. government acknowledged in a January 16, 2007, report that suspected illegal immigrants were mistreated in five prisons, breaching the principle of humane custody (The Washington Post, January 17, 2007). The Washington Post reported on December 17, 2007 that juvenile inmates in a West Texas youth prison were sexually assaulted or beaten and denied medical care. Those who reported the crime [suffered violent retribution]. . . . (“Dad Dismissed Prison Reform,” The Washington Times, December 17, 2007; see also International Herald Tribune, January 8, 2008). Guards in American prisons regularly use taser guns. According to a 2007 report from Amnesty International, 230 Americans have died from taser guns since 2001. . . .

U.S. prisoners often die from HIV/AIDS infection or inadequate medical service. A report released by the U.S. Department of Justice in September 2007 said there were 22,480 state and federal inmates who were HIV infected or had confirmed AIDS at year end 2005, 5,620 inmates had confirmed AIDS. . . . (HIV in prisons 2005, U.S. Department of Justice, www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs). According to a report by the Los Angeles Times on September 20, 2007, 426 death cases took place in California prisons in 2006 due to belated treatment. . . . On April 14, 2007, 41-year-old diabetic prisoner Rodolfo Ramos died after being left alone and covered in his own feces for a week. Prison officials failed to get medical treatment for him despite knowing of his condition (The Associated Press, April 27, 2007).

The justice of the U.S. judicial system is increasingly put in question. Surveys find that since the first DNA exoneration in 1989, there have been 209 post-conviction DNA exonerations in the United States. . .15 of the 209 people exonerated through DNA served time on death row (Facts on Post-Conviction DNA Exonerations, Innocence Project, www.innocenceproject.com). . . .

III. On Civil and Political Rights

The freedom and rights of individual citizens are being increasingly marginalized in the United States.

The House of Representatives and the Senate of the U.S. Congress passed the Protect America Act of 2007 on August 3 and August 4, 2007. The act enables the U.S. administration to eavesdrop on terrorist suspects in the United States without court approval. It also permits intelligence services to conduct electronic surveillance on digital communications between terrorist suspects outside the United States if the communications are routed through the country (The so-called Protect America Act, http://public.findlaw.com, August 10, 2007). According to a report by the Washington Post on March 10, 2007, the FBI improperly obtained personal information on more than 52,000 people without court oversight through the use of national security letters (NSLs) from 2003 to 2005. Verizon Communications, the second largest telecom company in the United States, disclosed that the FBI sought information identifying not just a person making a call, but all the people that customer called, as well as the people those people called. . . . The records included Internet protocol addresses as well as phone data. In that period, Verizon turned over information a total of 94,000 times to federal authorities. . . . The FBI is embarking on a 1 billion U.S. dollars effort to build the world’s largest computer database of peoples’ physical characteristics, called Next Generation Identification, a project that would give the government unprecedented abilities to identify individuals in the United States and abroad. The increasing use of biometrics for identification is raising questions about the ability of Americans to avoid unwanted scrutiny (“FBI Prepares Vast Database Of Biometrics,” The Washington Post, December 22, 2007). Statistics show that the government’s illegal dragnet electronic surveillance has put sensitive personal information from millions of people at risk. . . . (Cf. USA Today website, December 10, 2007). In July 2007, the Homeland Security Department was granted more than $4 million to install 175 video cameras on the streets of cities. . . . The Boston Globe estimated that up to hundreds of millions of dollars were being spent by the department to install new surveillance systems around the country, accelerating the rise of a “surveillance society” (The Boston Globe, August 12, 2007).

Workers’ right to unionize has been restricted in the United States. . . . Employer resistance stopped 53 % of nonunion workers from joining a union (“Sharp Decline in Union Members in ‘06,” The New York Times, January 26, 2007). According to a report by the Human Rights Watch, when Wal-Mart stores faced unionization drives, the company often [broke up the organizing, fired the involved employees, or closed down their stores].

IV. On Economic, Social and Cultural rights

The deserved economic, social and cultural rights of American citizens have not been properly protected.

Poor population in the United States is constantly increasing. According to statistics released by the U.S. Census Bureau in August 2007, the official poverty rate in 2006 was 12.3%. There were 36.5 million people, or 7.7 million families living in poverty in 2006. In [other words], almost one out of eight American citizens lives in poverty. . . . The poverty rate of major American cities was 16.1%. . . . The poverty rate in the Washington D.C. [the nation's capital] was 19.8%, which meant nearly one-fifth of its citizens were living in poverty (“DC’s “Two Economies” Headed in Different Directions, Report Finds,” DC Fiscal Policy Institute, October 24, 2007).

The wealth of the richest group in the United States has rapidly expanded in recent years, widening the earning gap between the rich and the poor. . . . Top executives of major U.S. businesses made an average of more than $10 million in 2006, 364 times more than that of ordinary workers. They earn as much money in one day of work as ordinary workers make over the entire year (AFP, January 4, 2008).

The past five years have witnessed relatively strong growth in the U.S. economy, but the fortune of millions of Americans just gets worse. The ratio of American wage expenditure to gross domestic product (GDP) has dropped to the lowest since records began in 1947. The average income of households consisted of members at working age has seen a continuous decline in the past five years, and is 17% less than five years ago (U.S. News & World Report, January 1, 2007; see also, USA Today, October 24, 2007; and The Associated Press, December 14, 2007, which notes stress-related suicides).

Hungry and homeless people have increased significantly in American cities. The U.S. Department of Agriculture said, in a report released on November 14, 2007, that 35.52 million Americans, including 12.63 million children, went hungry in 2006. . . (“Over 30 Million Americans Faced Hunger in 2006,” Reuters, November 15, 2007). Results of the 2007 Hunger and Homelessness Survey released by the U.S. Conference of Mayors showed that 16 of the 23 polled cities reported increased requests for emergency food assistance. . . . In 20 survey cities, 193,183 people applied for emergency shelter or transitional housing. The number of residents applying for government rent subsidies surged by 30% in Baltimore County in 2007 (“More Seeking U.S. Rent Subsidy,” The Baltimore Sun, December 17, 2007). It is estimated that 750,000 people are homeless on any given day in the United States (“Care Critical for Homeless,” The Washington Post, October 22, 2007). . . . Research shows one-third to half of the homeless have a chronic illness. . . . (“Care Critical for Homeless,” The Washington Post, October 22, 2007). . . .

The number of people without health insurance has been increasing in the United States. A Reuters report on September 20, 2007 quoted the U.S. Census Bureau as saying that 47 million people in the United States were not covered by health insurance. A U.S. family organization said nearly 90 million people below the age of 65 were not covered by health insurance. . . (Reuters, September 20, 2007). . . .

V. On Racial Discrimination

Racial discrimination is a deep-rooted social illness in the United States.

Black people and other minor ethnic groups live in the bottom of the American society. According to statistics released by the U.S. Census Bureau in August 2007, median income of black households was 61% of that for non-Hispanic white households. Median income for Hispanic households stood at 72% of that for non-Hispanic white households. . . .(Income, Poverty, and Health Insurance Coverage in the United States: 2006, see Census Bureau website: www.census.gov; see also Washington Observer Weekly, November 30, 2006). The prevalence rates of HIV/AIDS and other diseases are higher among blacks and Hispanics than among non-Hispanic whites (Cf. “Study Calls HIV in DC. A ‘Modern Epidemic’,” The Washington Post, November 26, 2007). . . .

Ethnic minorities have been subject to racial discrimination in employment and workplace. According to the U.S. Department of Labor, in November 2007, the unemployment rate for Black Americans was 8.4%, twice that of non-Hispanic whites (4.2%). The unemployment rate for Hispanics was 5.7%. . . . (The Employment Situation: November 2007, issued by the U.S. Department of Labor on December 7, 2007, see www.bls.gov). . . .

There is serious racial discrimination in the education sector of the United States. According to a media report, public schools tend to take tougher discipline sanctions on black students, and the rate of black students disciplined is much higher than that of white students. . . (Chicago Tribune, September 25, 2007; see also The Associated Press, Jena, Louisiana State, September 20, 2007). . . . Nazi symbol swastika was also found on the campus of the Columbia University in 2007, apparently targeting American Jews, according to a report by the World Daily.

Racial discrimination in the U.S. judicial system is shocking. According to the 2007 annual report on the state of black America issued by the National Urban League (NUL), African Americans (especially males) are more likely than whites to be convicted and sentenced to longer terms. Blacks are seven times more likely than whites to be incarcerated (National Urban League: The State of Black America 2007, www.nul.org). Blacks are 10 times as likely to be imprisoned for drug offences as whites, even though both groups use and sell drugs at the same rate (“Study Finds Racial Divide Across U.S. in Drug Arrests,” The Washington Post, December 5, 2007; also, Prisoners in 2006, issued by the U.S. Department of Justice on December 5, 2007, at www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs; and Los Angeles Times, November 19, 2007). . . .

In the United States, minorities are the main victims of hate and violent crimes and murders. According to a FBI report published in November 2007, there were 7,722 hate crimes in the country in 2006, up 8%. Among them, 51.8% were motivated by racial bias. Hate crimes against Muslims increased 22%. Hate crimes against Hispanics went up 10% (“FBI: Hate Crimes Escalate 8% in 2006,” USA Today, November 20, 2007; and Black Victims of Violent Crime, http://www.ojb.usdoj.gov/bjs).

VI. On the Rights of Women and Children

The condition of women and children in the United States is worrisome.

Women account for 51% of the U.S. population, but there are only 86 women serving in the 110th U.S. Congress. Women hold 16, or 16% of the 100 seats in the Senate and 70, or 16.1% of the 435 seats in the House of Representatives. . . . (Women Serving in the 110th Congress 2007-09, Center For American Women and Politics, www.cawp.rutgers.edu).

Discrimination against women is pervasive in the U.S. job market and workplace. The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission said it received 23,247 charges on sex-based discrimination in 2006, accounting for 30.7% of the total discrimination charges (Charge Statistics FY 1997 Through FY 2006, www.eeoc.gov/stats/charges.html; also, Reuters, Los Angeles, February 6, 2007). The average income of women is. . .77% of men’s. . .(Income, Poverty and Health Insurance Coverage in the United States: 2006, issued by the U.S. Census Bureau, see www.census.gov).

The poverty rate of women is higher. Statistics show that at the year end of 2006, more than 5.58 million single women above the age of 18 were living in poverty, accounting for 22.2% of women in that group. Some 4.1 million, or 28.3% of female-householder-with-no-husband-present families were living in poverty in 2006, much higher than the national family poverty rate of 9.8% (Income, Poverty and Health Insurance Coverage in the United States: 2006, the U.S. Census Bureau). Colored women are more likely to fall prey to poverty and misery. A report issued by the American Center for Reproductive Rights shows the maternal death rate of the United States ranks the 30th in the world. The maternal death rate for black women is four times that of white women. The proportion of black women infected with AIDS and venereal diseases is 23 times and 18 times that of white women, respectively. . . .

American women are victims of domestic violence. According to information from the National Organization for Women, about 1,400 women are beaten to death every year by their husbands or boyfriends in the United States. It is estimated that two to four million women are battered each year. Women are 10 times more likely than men to be victimized by an intimate. Women who are separated, divorced or single, low-income women and African-American women are disproportionately victims of assault and rape. Domestic violence rates are five times higher among families below poverty levels. . . .

Women are frequently victims of sexual harassment at their workplaces and military barracks. The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission said it received 12,025 charges on sexual harassment in 2006, 84.6% of which were filed by women (Sexual Harassment Charges EEOC & FEPAs Combined: FY 1997-FY 2006, see www.eeoc.gov). The National Organization for Women said every year approximately 132,000 women reported that they had been victims of rape or attempted rape, and that two to six times that many women were raped, but did not report it. The U.S. department investigating military crimes received about 1,700 sexual harassment charges in 2004, including 1,305 rape charges. . . . (Cf. Latin American News Agency, Havana, February 10, 2007, for more information). . . .

Women inmates are increasing in American prisons and they are often subject to grave conditions. Figures released by the Department of Justice in December 2007 show that the number of female inmates in federal and state prisons increased by 4,872, or 4.5% in 2006 to reach 112,498. . .(Prisoners in 2006, issued by the Department of Justice on December 5, 2007, see www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs). Amnesty International said in a 2007 report that in American prisons, male watchers can do full body searches on female prisoners and watch them washing and changing clothes. In most states, male watchers are allowed to enter female cells without supervision.

The living conditions of American children are of great concern. The Houston Chronicle reported that a survey by the United Nations on 21 rich countries showed that though the United States was among the world’s richest nations, it ranked only 20th in the overall well-being of children. In the dimension of health and security, the United States was at the very bottom of the ranking. Statistics show that by the end of 2006. . . . Children accounted for 35.2% of the impoverished population in the United States. The rate of impoverished children in female households with no husbands present is as high as 42.1% (Income, Poverty and Health Insurance Coverage in the United States: 2006, issued by the U.S. Census Bureau in August 2007, see www.census.gov). More children are doing without medical insurance. . . . More children are becoming homeless. . . . (Mayors Examine Causes of Hunger, Homelessness, press release by the U.S. Conference of Mayors on December 17, 2007, www.usmayors.org). According to the Centers for Disease Control & Prevention, the infant mortality rate of the United State was seven in a thousand in 2004, and the mortality rate of black infants was 2.5 times that of whites (The Associated Press, November 10, 2007). The infant survival rate of the United States is lagging far behind other developed nations. A bill that would have expanded government-provided health insurance for children was vetoed by President George W. Bush in 2007. . .(“Bush Vetoes Kids Health Insurance Bill,” The Washington Post, December 13, 2007).

American juveniles often fall victims of abuse and crime. According to a report on school crimes in the United States released by the Department of Justice in December 2007, 57 out of 1,000 American students above the age of 12 were victims of violence [with] 14 school-associated homicides. . . . (School Crime Rates Stable Children 50 Times More Likely to Be Murdered away from School Than at School, issued by the U.S. Department of Justice on December 2, 2007, see www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs). . . . Sexual violations are widespread in American schools. A national survey by the Associated Press in 2007 found that 2,570 educators were punished for sexual misconduct between 2001 and 2005. Eighty % of the victims were students. A survey by the U.S. Congress shows that. . .an average of three sexual abuse cases take place in American schools every day (The Associated Press, Washington, October 21, 2007).

American juveniles are ill-treated at boot camps. A report mandated by Congress said thousands of teenagers suffered terrible abuses at boot camps, some even lost their lives. Governmental investigator said boot camp abuses took many forms, including youths being forced to eat their own vomit, denied adequate food, being forced to lie in urine or feces, being kicked or beaten. . . .

Millions of underage girls become sex slaves in the United States. Statistics from the Department of Justice show some 100,000 to three million American children under the age of 18 are involved in prostitution. A FBI report says as high as 40 % of forced prostitutes are minors.

American children are not properly protected by the justice system. The United States is one of the few countries in the world that sentences children to death. . .and sentences more children to life imprisonment than any other country. . . . Colored children and those from impoverished families are more likely to suffer fate of this kind.

VII. On the Violation of Human Rights in Other Countries

The United States has a notorious record of trampling on the sovereignty of and violating human rights in other countries.

The invasion of Iraq by American troops has produced the largest human rights tragedy and the greatest humanitarian disaster in modern world. It was reported that since the invasion in 2003, 660,000 Iraqis have died, of which 99% were civilians. That translates into a daily toll of 450. According to the Los Angeles Times, the number of civilian deaths in Iraq has exceeded one million. A report from the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) revealed that about one million Iraqis were homeless, half of whom were children. . . . According to media reports, guards of Blackwater, a security service company with State Department background, shot dead 17 Iraqis for no reason on September 16, 2007, and it was given immunity by the State Department (The China Press, October 31, 2007). Investigation by the Iraqi government found that Blackwater guards had killed 21 Iraqis and injured 27 others before that. State Department investigation showed that Blackwater was involved in 56 shooting cases in Iraq in 2007. A U.S. Congress report said the company was involved in nearly 200 shooting cases in Iraq since 2005, and 84% of them were random shooting. . . .

U.S. troops have killed many innocent civilians in the anti-terrorism war in Afghanistan. The Washington Post reported on May 3, 2007 that as many as 51 civilians were killed by U.S. soldiers a week (“Karzai Says Civilian Toll is No Longer Acceptable,” The Washington Post, May 3, 2007). An Afghan human rights group said in a report that U.S. marine units fired indiscriminately at pedestrians, people in cars, buses and taxis. . .(New York Times, April 15, 2007).

The United States has many secret jails across the world where prisoners are treated inhumanely. “Secret prison” and “torturing prisoners” have become synonymous with America. In May 2007, the UN special rapporteur on the protection of human rights while countering terrorism. . .expressed his concern over the conditions of detainees at Guantanamo Bay and other secret detention facilities, the lack of justice protection and access to fair trial for terrorist suspects, as well as the rendition of suspects. He also expressed his disappointment that the U.S. government had refused to allow him to visit Guantanamo Bay and other places of secret detention (Preliminary Findings on Visit to United States by Special Rapporteur on Human Rights and Counter-terrorism, May 29, 2007, www.unog.ch). In addition to Guantanamo Bay where prisoners were subject to gruesome tortures, the United States also ran secret facilities in Jordan and Ethiopia, where detainees were brutally treated. . . . The detainees came from 19 countries and included women and children as young as seven months. . . . (The Daily Telegraph, April 5, 2007; The Associated Press, Nairobi, April 5, 2007). The Washington Times reported on December 14, 2007 that CIA often tortured detained terrorist suspects by using waterboarding and mock execution (“House Approves Ban on CIA Waterboarding,” The Washington Times, December 14, 2007). The American Broadcasting Company (ABC) described in a report how waterboarding is done: the prisoner is bound to an inclined board, feet raised and head slightly below the feet. Cellophane is wrapped over the prisoner’s face and water is poured over him. Unavoidably, the gag reflex kicks in and a terrifying fear of drowning leads to almost instant pleas to bring the treatment to a halt. . . . Iraqis said there had never been so many rapes and atrocities against women in any war since the Middle Ages as witnessed in the Iraqi war (Rebellion, May 5, 2007).

The United States has always adopted double standards on human rights issues. It frequently exerts pressure on other countries to invite the UN special rapporteur to examine and report on the status of their human rights status, but itself has never done so. The United States requests others to obey the UN norms that allow special rapporteurs to visit any place and talk with anyone without interference or surveillance, but itself has rejected such norms and has turned down the request. . .from several special rapporteurs.

The United States has to date refused to acknowledge the right to development as part of the human rights. Although it signed the International Convention on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights in 1977, the United States has not yet ratified the convention. The United States claims that it attaches importance to the protection of the rights of women and children, but it has not yet ratified the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women 27 years after signing on the convention. The United States is one of the seven U.N. members that have not ratified the convention. The United States has not yet ratified the Convention on the Rights of the Child 12 years after signing on it, though 193 countries have already done so. Since March 2007, the Convention on Rights of Disabled Persons has been open for signature and many countries adopt active attitude towards the convention. By the end of December 2007, 118 countries had signed the convention and seven ratified it, but the U.S. has not yet signed nor ratified it.

To respect and safeguard human rights is an important achievement in the progress of the human society and an important symbol of modern civilization. It is also a common goal of people of all countries and races and a key theme of the tide of progress in our time. . . . No country in the world should view itself as the incarnation of human rights, and use human rights as a tool to interfere in affairs of and exert pressure on other countries and realize its own strategic interests. The United States reigns over other countries and releases Country Reports on Human Rights Practices year after year. Its arrogant critique on the human rights of other countries is always accompanied by a deliberate ignoring of serious human rights problems on its own territory. This. . .exposed the double standards and downright hypocrisy of the United States on the human rights issue, and inevitably impairs its international image.–

This is not to say China has human rights violation problems: it does. But the US needs to take a firm look at itself before pointing its pot black fingers at a kettle. The US has brutally take care of any group that protests its war and terrorism policies, utilizing not only beatings and tasering but chemical weapons by police. The full extent of the two Patriot Acts and the Military Commissions Act are not at all approached in the above report but it’s easy to put it in simple terms: your house and be broken into and you arrested and confined without warrant or reasons given for your arrest/imprisonment; there is no ability to defend yourself, that is, the writ of Habeas Corpus has been taken away. Anyone can be listened, followed on line or their mail read at any time for whatever reason–even no particular reason at all. These are the kinds of things that happen in military dictatorships, socialist dictatorships and tyrannies. Why, then, do they happen in the US?
In truth, both countries–China and the US–should be taken before the International Criminal Justice Courts and dealt with accordingly.

[NOTE: quoted text has been edited for grammar and clarity and many individual statistics have been eliminated in the name of brevity, the original document being 13 pages long]

when the stone man nods his head

It was a long journey and I stopped to rest. My legs ached from hanging loosely down from the saddle blanket. My ass from the donkey’s backbone. My lower back from the animal’s steady plodding sway. My hat shaded me but sweat oozed out around the brim and coursed down my face, collecting in my moustache and beard. I halted the donkey and slid off. I shambled to the edge of the road hoping the bow in my legs would straighten up. The dusty air was no better at the side of the road but I perched atop a rock anyway. My donkey lumbered off to graze near-by, content to be free of my lead. I tried to clear the dust from before me. I sneezed. This was not the first time. I decided that resting here, in such tainted air, was not such a good idea. But where was the surcease? I led my reluctant ass back to the roadway, mounted and continued my journey.
Not too much farther along, I came upon another traveller. I stopped. He sat on the side of the road. On a stone. His staff lay at his feet, covered with the detritus of his travels and collecting more. I saw no pack beside him. He was travelling light. He rocked and moaned as if asking pity of the relentless gods. Clutched in one hand, the veins standing out against his dusky skin, was a little pouch. A medicine or herb bag. Perhaps a magic charm lay within, for he occasionally shook it.
“Is that medicine in the bag?”
“Yes. Here. Take it.”
“I don’t need it but it might do you some good. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing can help me. I’ve lost my way and don’t know where I am.”
“Well, then, come along with me. We shall be two.”
“No. I can’t.”
“I don’t understand. We must find you–”
“Where are you going?”
“Down the road. To my destination”
“Where is your destination?”
“At the end of my journey. And yours?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“I see.”
“A sword blade cuts things but eyes do not see themselves.”
“Then what can you tell me?”
“I can tell you why this road is so dusty.”
“Can you?”
“Yes. I can.”
I thought about this for a moment. This powdered air was a bit unnatural. There was no wind. As he didn’t seem inclined to continue, I thought I might humor him and dismounted, taking a seat beside him.
“Why is this road so dusty, then?”
“Do you really want to know or are you humoring me?”
“Yes. I have sat beside you.”
“I see that. Are you sure you don’t want this medicine? It’s good medicine. No explanation needed.”
“I have no disease.”
“Well then. . .I’ll begin my story. It isn’t a long story. As stories go.”
“I have plenty of time.”
“Are you some kind of holy man?”
“No. I wouldn’t say so.”
“Ah. . .a wise man!”
“I wouldn’t call myself that.”
“It’s what others think and say about you that makes you what you are.”
“So wise men and fools live together.”
“Yes! That’s it. And they travel down this road. But that’s not where the dust comes from. That is from the digging of Jeppe. You don’t now Jeppe. You’re not from these parts. This dust is because Jeppe became obsessed with digging. So much so that people avoided him. And this road. One day he found a tiny gold nugget beside the road. A little farther on he spied another. Jeppe was a fool. He did not look up to see that there was a rich merchant ahead of him with a hole in his saddlebag. Jeppe ran home to get some digging utensils. His wife caught him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ ‘I’m digging for gold.’ ‘You put those tools back before I beat some sense into you.’ ‘Oh woman of little faith! What do you think this is?’ He thrust the gold nuggets in her face. She took them from him. As was her wont. She took everything from him lest it slip through his fingers. Jeppe scampered off to his digging.
“Jeppe dug pits all along the roadside. He dug furiously. There was no gold. Never had been. Jeppe, though, could not see that, immersed in his cloud as he was. Once he had dug up one side of the road, he started on the other. The clouds of dust he raised became thicker. So thick he could not see where he was going. Or what he was doing. Travellers began taking other roads than this to avoid the dust and discomfort. The way was longer but what could they do? They raised the prices on their goods to make up for lost time. Around town, it began to be asked, ‘When will the fellow who plays with dirt ever be done?’
“Well, one day Jeppe struck his gold. ‘Eureka!’ he cried. ‘I’ve done it!’ By this time he had dug himself out near the lake. You’ll see the place a little farther on. There’s a marker there. He had covered that lake with dust. The townsmen said that at night the frogs could be heard coughing and choking in Jeppe’s dust. People couldn’t eat fish any more. They died from lack of oxygen.
“Jeppe saw his little vein of gold and shouted. Thinking one more thrust would unearth more gold, he jabbed at the sparkling metal. His shovel clanged. Sparks flew. Dust and debris were tossed up around him. Jeppe screamed, grabbing at his face. He twisted and shouted and writhed about until he fell into the lake and drowned. Jeppe hit gold alright. And then he blinded himself with a shard of the precious metal.”
The man became silent. He still rocked back and forth. He still held the bag of medicine out and up, an offering. I waited for more but as no more seemed to be forthcoming, I spoke up.
“So that’s why this road is so dusty?”
“It is.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“You must take the medicine.”
“I have no need of it.”
“You will. It is medicine. It will cure you. If you go along this road.”
“Let me tell you a story.”
“Eh? You have a story?”
“Yes. I’ve travelled a bit.”
“Ah. Have you? Well, then. I’ll hear your story.”
“In a far off land there was a doctor. He was a very good doctor. People liked him. One day a strange epidemic came into his town. It crippled children and killed adults. It threatened to sweep through the district, leaving a decimated ruin of a world behind. Luckily, however, this good doctor stumbled onto a cure for the disease. Instantly he became famous. For the epidemic was not just in his district. It was throughout the land.
“As the ravaging disease was taken under control, more and more uses were found for his medicine. His fame grew as did the stories about him. But his practice at home suffered. He fell under the spell of Super Doc. His diagnosing became superficial, always ending with a treatment of his curative. There were deaths and defections. This doctor had stopped paying attention to people.
“This went on for some time until he had lost all his old patients. He then turned to treating out-of-towners who wanted a personal infusion of his magical curative. The doctor, coming to believe that it could cure anything, was more than happy to oblige. Until he gave his medicine to a young girl who promptly died. When questioned about this, it was found that the doctor had not diagnosed the girl but simply given her the miracle cure as a matter of course. The girl was his daughter.”
“So. . .you will take this medicine?”
“I’m not sick.”
“You will be when you get to the other side of this dust.”
“Hmm. . .since you are staying here in the middle of this dirty fog, I should think you will need it more than me.”
With that, I gathered up the halter rope of my donkey and set out on my journey again. The man had been right. The dust did get worse. But once past the lake, the air suddenly cleared. I took a deep breath. I felt this was the first I had breathed in weeks. I sat down to rest and clear my lungs. I sat back and looked at the clouds and thought about the meaning of life. Interesting that there were as many meanings to life as there were people. Everyone was ready to fight for the preeminence of his meaning. How silly this was. There is a saying, all voices are the master’s voice, all forms are the master’s form. Still, there are those that think one voice is many voices. If it’s all one, why does anyone fight over it? Why does anyone try to change others’ minds? There is no miracle cure for life.
I took a deep breath and rose. I could not stay here forever, lost in the ramblings of an aging man. A common man on a journey of no particular importance. I gathered up my donkey’s lead and led him down the road into the sunset, happy to walk at a time like this.

a question of talking

Just the other day I was reading a book, Language Shock. Not a well-written book but filled with tidbits about the interrelatedness of culture and language, a subject I’m interested in, perhaps because of my world travels. I was stuck, about half way through, with the author’s contention that “Americans never get any interesting debate going.” This is apparently because contradiction to an American is a threat to the relationship. Granted this is a broad generalization–there are always exceptions–but it rings true. Americans don’t like to hear something that runs counter to their beliefs. Even more, Americans don’t like any opinion that questions their opinion. This spans the political spectrum from right to left. The attitude seems to be, “You’re telling me I’m wrong so to hell with you.” Or, “You’re opinion doesn’t jive with mine so I’m not going to pay attention.” In the publishing world, this means no publication for writers who aren’t status quo–within whichever political or social stratum they may fit.
What is the result? No problem truly gets discussed. No attempt at solutions to problems can be entertained. A continuation of the same old same old, though perhaps with a different hat on.
Let me give you an example. I read an article the other day that breaks down the political problems into Democrats and Republicans. I happen to think this is simplistic. I happen to think this sidesteps the problem or any discussion of the problem. It is much easier to make discussion via this kind of divisiveness as it is status quo and doesn’t really talk about anything than to raise the spectre of a discussion on “What is a government for? What does it do? What is its relationship to its citizens? What’s wrong with government?” With frightening topics like this, real thinking comes into play. Worse, as you argue you may find your beliefs are without merit or founded on myth or something as uncomfortable. No, no, no–better to stay with the known, the well-trodden, the non-issue even if wrong.
And, of course, that’s where a problem lies for Americans: any questioning, any divergent opinion is automatically turned into the threatening challenge of “You’re wrong!” And nobody likes to be told they’re wrong. There is such a finality to that proposition. So much so that often when people fight back, they fight back viciously, almost damningly, for if they don’t win–and win hands down–they will lose, lose face, be seen as weak, be losers. Americans hate to be wrong and they will do whatever they can to make sure they are right, even to the lengths of pounding their opponent into the ground. Indeed, Americans tend to see the world in a conflict mold: everything is one side pitted against the other. Opposition is the overriding worldview. And that worldview creates itself. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
For some people, this statement of divergent viewpoints leads to fruitful discussion, even if heated, and thence to some kind of understanding. Or not. Divergent opinions are not considered personal attacks, for some people and many people not American. I argue incessantly over political issues with a good friend; we disagree almost vehemently–and he’s much more passive than I am which is very frustrating because I’d rather argue than win, especially without any fight. But we remain good friends. I don’t hate him because of his beliefs. I do think he’s a damn fool. I do wonder how he can be so blind. I even argue with my Chinese friends, though they inevitably begin the conversation with, “You can’t say that in China.” And then they open up since it’s private, I’m foreign and I’m safe. Indeed, a very good friend and I really go at it. She’s a staunch believer in the system, though she will admit the government doesn’t always do the right thing.
In America, I lose friends. In America, I alienate others. In America, I lose jobs. Because I don’t agree. Because I ask difficult questions. Because no one really wants to face the thought of making a decision, a decision that might shake up or change their world. But, of course, you don’t need to change your opinion, as most Americans seem to assume must happen. You can come to an impasse. What’s best, of course, is that you are talking. When you don’t talk, when people don’t talk, what do you know?
But who cares about that? It’s better to be in opposition. It gives America definition. Since it’s founding, America has been in opposition. The British settlers were in opposition. The rich merchants were in opposition. In the 19th century as America sought for its own definition separate from its heritage, it was framed “in opposition to.” Hmm. . .does this bespeak a negative attitude in Americans? That is, definition by way of it’s negative, what it’s not?
What you find, then, in America, is normalization. The status quo. Conformity. Obedience to authority. Stereotyping. No one wants to be different. Even when they take sides. Democrat vs. Republican. Right vs. Left. Same behavior. Different frame. Same basic assumptions. No new thought. America is Ortega y Gasset’s mass-man. And free speech is only what I want to hear. Everyone else has an agenda (not me/us). So no one ever really talks and, therefore, nothing ever really happens. And this is cool because everyone gets to go home happy, feeling as if they’ve said and done something.

the empty cart

Mr. King walked to work as he had for the past year, with an assured step and a sense of his own importance. Here he was, at age 36, second in command of a small school within a big college. He was in charge of production and he had been successful enough at his young age that continuance in his position was assured. After all, nothing had happened on his watch; this was because he believed in smoothness and harmony. Balance was what was important and as long as nothing happened balance was maintained. Mr. King even prided himself at the balance in his own life.
Mr. King did not think about why the morning was so enjoyable. It was, in fact, no more enjoyable or wonderful or enjoined as it was any other day. As per usual, nature was without consideration of Mr. King. So, Mr. King was imbuing the day with his own perception of himself, as men have done since time immemorial; however, this is different from projection, being more akin to the Queen’s magic mirror, for nature cannot answer back, so man gives it voice for his own pleasure.
Mr. King was so pleased with the world because he was so pleased with himself. He had been up into the wee hours of the morning, the deep shadows filling his office, slithering stealthily along walls and floor and ceiling until he was alone by himself in a pool of metallic light until a wrinkled smile broke up his face and he sighed through his tired teeth. He had solved his problem. He had figured out how to get rid of an irritant, an unwonted burden thrust upon him by necessity. And this very morning he struck. The simplicity of the solution brought another crooked smile to his bovine face. Foreigners always thought themselves superior, so ingratiatingly superior, but, in reality, they were ignorant arrogants—which was why it was so terribly easy to fix this one’s wagon. He was Mr. King. He was Dean. He could do it. So, he did it. Mr. King terminated the foreigner’s priveleges based on executive decision based on rules and regulations that could be bent and adjusted when and where necessary. This was the traditional way. It was making sure nothing happened. By the time the ugly foreigner—ugly being a sign of degeneration and decadence—discovered that he’d been invalidated, it would be too late. Satisfaction was so easy to come by sometimes.
And so, the morning was fine and blown full of confidence. But Mr. King did not think of the connection between his self-righteous victory and the nature, which was, inreality, indifferent to him. Because he did not think so deeply was not a symptom of a wanting or weakness in intellectual ability. No. Mr. King was one of those liberals who has an open heart and curtained windows and closed shutters—he kept his best rooms empty awaiting guests he didn’t have to put up.
As he was crossing a side street, without looking as was his wont, something untoward occurred. That is, something that was not supposed to happen. Mr. King was hit by a racing electric bike, spun around and had his pants leg torn. He called after the driver but what could he do? Nothing. As he was uninjured, it was nothing serious and so he continued on his way. Mr. King would telephone Mrs. King and have her bring another pair of pants to the office.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Call my wife and have her bring me another pair, would you?” said Mr. King to his secretary and disappeared into his office.
Mr. King never shut his door when he was in the office. It was more amenable and inviting to have it open. To close his door would be closing other people out and Mr. King did not wish to give that impression. No. If he had private business with a subordinate, Mr. King went elsewhere and shut the door there. But, it must be said in all fairness that Mr. King never invited anyone into his office because no one ever came by. Other than his secretary.
Shortly after Mr. King had made himself at home in his nice leather chair, there was a loud crack outside his window and a large branch from the great big tree there plummeted to the ground, shearing off scads of smaller branches in passing and carrying telephone and electrical wiring with it. These lines snapped, the electric lines writhing around like angry snakes and spitting fire. The building went dark. Nothing worked. All activity ceased. Even at 10 AM, without lights it was dark and eerie. There was no background hum. Nothing.
“What was that!?” shouted the secretary.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see a thing.”
“What do you think we ought to do?”
“Nothing. Someone will fix whatever it is.”
As the cracking and popping continued outside, the secretary went to the window, opened it and leaned out. A crowd had gathered across the street. They were watching the dying spasms of the electrical line and the small fire the sparks had ignited in the dry leaves. It wasn’t a big fire but a bit more than a smoulder. The secretary looked hard—no one was doing anything. It wasn’t often they got to see a fire in broad daylight, so they were perhaps enjoying the spectacle.
“Mr. King?”
“Yes?”
“People are doing nothing out there.”
“And we’re doing nothing up here.”
“But there’s a fire out there.”
Mr. King grudgingly rose from his seat, went to the window, opened it and looked out. “Sure enough,” he said, “there is.”
“What should we do?” The secretary squealed, seeing the first flames erupt from the smoulder.
“There’s nothing we can do. Besides, the appropriate responsible parties will arrive soon.”
Mr. King sat back down. The gentle crackling and popping from outside the window lulled him into a half-sleeping stupor, so that he did not wake to the shouts of the people until the blaze was a virtual bonfire and his curtains were melting and curling round the edges. There was nothing he could do. But suddenly he wanted to do something. He wanted to do something in the worst pssible way and ran around the office shouting, “Do something! Do something! Somebody do something!”

No one ever found out just what it was that happened. There was a fire, a conflagation, yes. This was readily agreed to. In fact, it could not be denied. Too many people had seen it. But, then, well, an explanation was in order so that throughout the university there was a frenzied activity. People who had not been known to have move, other than for nature, food and going home, shuffled furiously from office to office, sometimes muttering under their breaths, sometimes shaking handsful of paper. Once self-assured, smooth telephone voices mutated into strident, pinched acute angles sharp and hard enough to cut diamonds.
It could not be the Fire Department’s fault, if for no other reason than the firehouse was too far away to have had any effect if it had known. But, of course, it was not called and by the time the billowing smoke came to the firemen’s attention, it was too late. The clouds did look like storm clouds—at least to begin with. And it was the rainy season. Such billowing dark clouds were a common occurrence and protented rain. Who could know that they would bring a bonfire?
The campus police were about their first priority and most important business: directing traffic. There was a rather middling serious accident down at the major intersection and traffic had to be rerouted amidst the bloody murder shouting drivers and the ineffectual amelioration of the campus police on the scene. City police were also involved in the melee, so their hands were full too—so many people to police. By the time they were free to acknowledge the greater world around them, it was too late and they had another problem on their hands: keeping the crowds away from the blaze.
And the administration across the street. . .well, they were busy shuffling paperwork concerning human affirs—as they were after the fact—to have the time to look out their smoked-glass privy-windows and through the heavy foliage of the trees at the workings of the world. Everyone must, after all, be responsible for carrying out his duty else the machinery of life will not function smoothly and efficiently, albeit somewhat slowly.
Teachers being the dedicated and responsible lot they are, the school was sure they were concentrating on carrying out their jobs instructing students on the most efficatious and appropriate way to think. So that a great many students were similarly engaged in their life’s work: making the grade. There could be no fault here.
There were those students, staff and visitors who were not otherwise engaged to consider. They watched in dumb horror, it is true, but the innocence of the passer-by cannot be questioned. They were not there by design, chance being what it is. Though, of course, not all passers-by are equal. That is, some are entirely different. The school found this to be notably notable and a good lead to be investigated fully and, so, they began examining the evidence. Sure enough, an oddity exhibited itself, as oddities are wont to do. It was observed, after seemingly endless interviews, that, off to one side of the crowd, a foreigner had been seen sculking about. With blackened face and hands. And, oh yes—singeing to his shirt. Definitely a him. Definitely foreign, judging from his nose and his blond hair. All of the locals were blackheads.
Here was the culprit. The fault had been found and explanations and excuses could be laid aside and an easy breath drawn.
But when he was sought after, no one could find him. True, he had enough time to abscond, as the fault-finding investigation had taken six weeks due to the care and consideration required in such a sensitive situation. It was decided then to accept, in the name of saving face and assuring a continuance of parental and alumni giving, as well as maintenance of enrollment, that circumspection was the better part of valor and the incident was ascribed to a freak of nature, much as this went against the controlling interests of the school officials. But, after all, no foreigner, no problem.

A page 17 story later appeared in one of the city’s rags about the heroic efforts of some foreigner in saving someone from some burning building, a story gotten from some secretary or other. It was a story that died a quick death.

the law east of the pecos

It was one of those usual Indian Summer Octobers when the sky is a bluer blue and the wind is windy, portending the incoming clouds and greyness that mark off winter form the rest of the year, when Jim Hatfield rode into Chokepointe Piste. He’d been gone a long time, so no one questioned or even raised a second thought to his hardened look. Oh, he smiled at those who spoke to him, his white teeth flashing in the dusky sunlight, but he eyes remained uninvolved and kind of like the sky over the Gulf of Mexico before a storm. Otherwise, he looked his usual self: tall in the saddle, his white hat hot quite hiding his jet-black hair, a straight back with his left hand on the reins and his right running free along his side and brushing his holster, his dusty boots held slightly forwards so he didn’t accidentally spur Goldy into a run for his life. He just wasn’t too happy.
Like every range rider, Jim rode straight to the saloon to wet his whistle. There’s a lot to be said for the healthful effects of fresh water or the succulence of cactus or aloe, but a man of the range needs a little more taste, a little more fire, and even though it was inevitably a shot or two of the rawest rotgut whiskey west of Boston, Baltimore or Baton Rouge, it was a welcome quaff indeed. But, unlike most saddlebums, drifters and cowpokes, Jim was a responsible man. He was a Texas Ranger. The Texas Rangers’ Texas Ranger. Jim Hatfield had obligations and he was not a man to shirk his duty. So, he only had one shot and then strode back out of the saloon. He looked both ways, up and down the boardwalk, and then crossed the street to the Texas Ranger office.
The glass-paned door was dusty, not having been opened or cleaned in his absence, and inside was musty and humid. Upon opening the door, the little office exhaled a great pent up sigh of hot air. Jim did not close the door. He jangled to the solitary desk and sat down in the old swivel chair. He dusted off the desk, took his hat off and set it at the far left corner of the desk top. From the stubborn desk drawer, Jim drew out a piece of paper, a pen and a bottle of ink. It was report writing time.
Later, after he closed up shop and took his golden sorrel to Kaikai’s livery that he discovered the wall. He stood there in the dusty roadway looking at its expressionless face. He looked up and down the length of wall before him and couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was doing there. Goldy snorted and shook his head.
“Kaikai,” Jim hailed the horse hosteller.
“Well, Jim Hatfield!” said Kaikai, jumping up from his chair. “When did you blow into town? Good to have you back.”
“Thanks. Good to be back. Sleeping out on the plains ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Cooped up schoolboy nonsense, eh? Bet your legs are sore, too.”
“I guess you can tell by the way I’m walking,” Jim smiled and patted him on the back as he moved into the darker, shadier interior of the great barn. “This old friend of mine’s tired too. You take good care of him.”
“Don’t I always?”
“You’re a good man, Kaikai.”
“Alot’s been happenin’ since you been gone,” ventured the stocky little man.
“So I see.”
“Oh, yeah. That too. Kinda splits the world into two difficult parts. Like a woman ain’t speakin’ to her man over somethin’ she ain’t talkin’ to him about ’cause if she tole him what was buggin’ her she’d be talking to him and she ain’t talkin’ to him.”
Jim began unsaddling Goldy. “Must not be too good for business, either.”
“No. It ain’t. I expect to make it through the winter but I ain’t too sure of the summer. Ain’t nobody thought o’ that, of what’s gonna happen tomorrow.”
“Depends on where your focus is, I guess.”
“I guess. People got longer noses than that there French guy. Still. . .damnedest thing I ever seen.”
“Me too. Worse than any fence out on the range,” sighed Jim. “Gimme the brush, will you?”
Kaikai did so.
“What the hell they got fences out there for?”
“Beats the hell outa me. Makes gettin’ around difficult. You have no idea how far I had to ride outa my way to get where I was going.” He decided against talking about the other kind of fence out there in God’s Country, the kind that was more or less invisible unless you looked at the kind of land it enclosed and the comings and goings of the blue-clad caretakers and the lost faces of the contained. Jim shook his head. His white brethren had such ironic names for things. Even the Great Wall of China did not keep the barbarians out.
“Why do people feel they have to own a piece of the world and keep other people off’n it? Downright uncivil, if’n you ask me.”
“Well, Kaikai, my man, I saw enough uncivility while I was gone to make any man sick.” Jim handed the brush back to Kaikai. “But. . .I don’t want to dwell on it now. I want to put my feet up and relax a bit. Maybe I’ll have better eyesight in the morning.”
“It’ll still be there, Jim.”
“I suppose you’re right. But I gotta rest anyway.”

The next day, Jim rode on out to Fort Fisher to make his report and catch up on shop talk but there was no one around other than the little secretary, Miss Brooks, a new face for Jim Hatfield.
“Hi. I’m Jim Hatfield. Where is everybody?”
“Hi, Ranger Hatfield. I’m Miss Brooks. Somewhere or other I lost my given name but, anyway, a secretary doesn’t need one, does she? No one knows who we are–not like you. Everyone’s heard of you. I’ve been waiting to meet you and now here you are! Right out of the blue yonder. You’re just as tall and handsome as your dime novels depict you to be.”
“You can’t believe everything you read, Miss Brooks.”
“Why’s that, Ranger Hatfield? Are you telling me your report here is fiction?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not. It’s not. It all has to do with rhetoric and writing one thing when you mean another. Using a lot of high-sounding words to impress you with your stupidity.”
“Oh, yes. Convincing people of a wrong thing just to convince ‘em. Um-hum. I’ve been there. I used to be a school teacher, you know.”
“What brought you out to the wild west?”
“Intellectual stimulation.”
“Things must be dull back East.”
“Dull. Yes. That’s one way to put it.”
“I see.” Jim shuffled his feet.
“The answer to your question is that they’re all out policing the wall that Gyorgy built.”
“I might have known it was his idea.”
“They draw walls differently in the East. You can’t see the walls out there. It’s called ‘it’s just the way things are.’ “
“Oh, yes. I know those walls. They’re out here, too.”
“Well, I guess I haven’t gone far enough, then.”
“Well, look, Miss Brooks. Since no one’s around, I’m going on back to Chokepointe Piste. That’s my station. You tell the Captain I’m back, will you?”
“Sure thing, Ranger Hatfield.”
Back in Chokepointe Piste, Jim didn’t rightly know where to go. His usual haunt was on the other side of the wall. He’d learned quite quickly which side was the good side. So, he went on to The Lone Star Inn & Bordello. No sooner had he swung through the batwings than a booming voice called out from the far end.
“Jim Hatfield!”
Jim looked up. There at a table just to one side of the backroom door sat his old buddy, Jim Griffin, writer extraordinaire.
“Long time no see, Jim Griffin,” he shouted back.
“Come on over and join me, Jim Hatfield. Ain’t had no one to talk to since you left town.”
“Where’s Buck?”
“Oh, he’s got his own place out north of town. A toll booth or something like that. Most disgusting block house you ever saw. Great big umbrella atop the roof, too.”
Jim sauntered over. “Do tell.”
“It’s all on account of that new guy that blew into town and now ain’t here no more. Name of Hellecchino. He certainly made things interesting around here.”
“Never heard of him,” Jim commented as he sat down.
“Nor did nobody. Goofiest lookin’ cowboy I ever saw.”
“Musta got his idea of how to dress from your books.”
“Hey, hey!” said Jim Griffin grinning from ear to ear. “Is that any way to say howdy-do?”
“Best I can do for a damn scribbler. At least you know somebody’s reading your books.”
“Only person I ever met. Here’s to ya,” and Jim saluted Jim with his sarsaparilla.
“How can you drink that stuff, Griff?”
“Ten o’clock in the morning. That’s how.”
“Hey, Randy?” called Jim to the bartender. “You got any coffee in the back?”
“I can heat it up, Jim,” suggested Randy.
“That’d be appreciated.”
And so it was that over more or less burnt coffee and sarsaparilla the two Jim’s told their tales, though mostly it was Jim Griffin, for he was not only a writer, he was a talker. He told about the things Hellecchino had done, especially the embarrassment of Clyde Moyen Bucket, the Millinery Bargaining Incident as it had come to be known. Jim Hatfield laughed fully and heartily, as if he had not laughed in centuries and now all of the pent up humanity came pouring forth in great puffs of sound. It was around noon before they took a break–before Jim Griffin ran out of talking points–and so they decided to go to Fancy Dan’s for some lunch.
“Can’t afford a place like that on a Ranger’s salary, Jim.”
“I’ll pay–if’n it ain’t on the house. You know how these people treat you ’round here.”
“Yeah,” Jim stood up, “and it gets to me sometimes. I can’t be a hero all the time. I’m only human.”
“Ain’t many o’ your type left, seems to me, buddy. Come on. Let’s go.”

The table in the far front corner, just outside the visible portion of the window, was the favorite of Jim Griffin. Indeed, he’d not sit anywhere else and if it were taken, he’d go elsewhere for his feeding. But this particular day, there weren’t too many customers. Jim Griffin ordered two shredded pork sandwiches on thick bread and two beers. “And bring the beer now. This man’s got a thirst to kill from riding through range dust.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Griffin. How are you, Ranger Hatfield? Good to have you back in town.”
“Thanks, Dan. It’s good to be back.”
As Dan personally brought the beers to the Jims, he smiled and said, “This’ll be on the house.”
“Rangers don’t take bribes, Dan.”
“Jim Hatfield!” said Dan straightening up and opening his eyes wide. “However could you think that of me?”
The three men laughed and Dan went back to his front desk and his new-fangled adding machine. He’d not had it long, perhaps a year, but the red paint on the handle had been worn off in spots and the metallic paint was chipped in places. The mechanical operating noise that was the drawback to any technology was a little more clattering that when he’d bought it. But apparently it still worked fine. Jim Hatfield noted a few new wall hangings as he looked around the place. Mostly old wanted posters in shiny black frames. Pictures of bad guys certainly were romanticized, thought Jim. They usually weren’t so grubby–or so well-got-up in some cases.
“So. . .tell me about yourself, Jim,” said Jim.
“Ain’t much to tell,” Jim said, drinking his beer and trying to avoid the subject. He looked out the window.
Jim let him have some time to himself, then suggested, “Chasin’ the bad guys gets to you sometimes, don’t it?”
“Sometimes the guys you’re chasin’ ain’t the bad ones,” drawled Jim.
Another pause imposed itself between the friends. Both took drinks of their beers, Jim Griffin wiping the suds from his mustache. Jim Hatfield, contrary to fashion, did not sport a mustache. He was clean shaven, what the women called devilishly handsome.
Although his eyes flashed that kind of sea grey that presaged action, Jim Hatfield spoke slowly, “I was sent out to round up the Indians. Put ‘em back in their places.” He didn’t speak for awhile again. “I couldn’t do it this time, Griff. I spent my time roundin’ ‘em up and then listenin’ to ‘em talk. There ain’t nothin’ dangerous ’bout ‘em.”
Jim Griffin knew that something was bothering his friend in a deep and abiding way, for he rarely spoke such poor English.
“God damn,” Jim Hatfield whispered and took another drink. “There’s a wall up out there, Griff, an’ I come back here and I find another kinda wall. Out there it’s a wall of words an’ ideas that just don’t fit reality. . .don’t fit the crime. That’s what it is, Griff. A crime. And al the talkin’ in the world ain’t gonna make it fit the facts. Not at all.”
“Prejudice?”
“Yeah. . .yeah. It’s that, I guess. But it’s bigger and so invisible it can be denied as it’s being built–not just by the builders, neither. Both sides got. . .both sides are stuck in the mire.”
Jim Hatfield finished his beer. Jim Griffin signaled for another.
“This’ll have to last me, Griff. I still got work to do.”
“You don’t hafta apologize to me, buddy.”
“Well, then, who the hell do I apologize to for what it is I’m supposed to be doing!”
“Calm down, big boy.”
“You ever been with the Indians, Griff?”
“No. Can’t say as I have. They’re kind of off-putting. Don’t smile much.”
“They ain’t got much to smile about. . .and their souls come out in their smiles. They don’t want that. They gotta keep somethin’ for themselves. White man’s taken everything else.”
The waitress, Lulu’s replacement, brought the sandwiches and plopped them down on the table. She turned and trundled back to the kitchen.
“She’s a saucy wench,” commented Jim Griffin.
“Saucy wenches ain’t the problem, Griff.”
“No. I s’pose not. Not out on the range.”
“It was easy trailing them,” began Jim Hatfield. “There was no attempt to hide their coming and goings. When I came upon them, I camped around their tee-pees. I told them why I’d come. They invited me in for dinner. After dinner, we sat around chatting, everyone speaking his turn until they had had their say. Then they quietly looked at me. What was I supposed to say to a bunch of people we raped of their self-respect? I felt sick to my stomach for my job.”
“You’re a Texas Ranger, Jim. You have a duty.”
“Not when my duty is hurtin’ others, I ain’t!” his eyes flashed grey again.
“Easy, boy. Easy,” calmed Griff. “Go on with your story.”
“I told that group that sooner or later they’d get caught. I couldn’t stop that.” Jim sighed, drank some. “The old one stood up and signaled me to follow him. We went outside. The sky was red and purple and orange all around its edge and creeping in on the grey-blue up top. A few stars glinted up there. He indicated the surrounding countryside in its eerie sunset light. He swept his hand over the whole of it. Big and open like I never seen it, Griff. I was bowled over by it. Then, he touched my shoulder. ‘Even a little freedom can keep a man from death.” Well, I spent the night and rode on the next morning. Next day, I came upon a different group of Indians–you know, Griff. . .they’re not all alike. So many different looks, so many different characters.” Jim stopped for another sip of beer. “This group was led by an old grandmother, Singing Cloud. She was very different, very different. I listened to her tell a story to the children.” Jim took another sip. “I saw. . .I saw in this story an ill-fortuned future. She showed me how prejudice is passed on and kept alive and I saw how some people must keep their hat alive in order to stay alive themselves. They kind of need it like people need air. This is her story, a best as I recollect. . .
‘The white man says, it is aggravating you can not talk to these people, they never give a straight answer but speak instead in circles.
Grandmother would laugh and try to explain, there are many answers to each question it is the seeking that brings the lesson.
White man writes his words in books hard answers in black and white, but how many times through the years are these answers proved untrue?
Red man tells his children if you ask then you should be seeking, there is no set answer the questions have many shadings.
White man says these are the rules I ask you answer it is that simple, what I say is so must be, I went to school and was taught this way.
Red man laughs and says to him, Mother Earth is my school what she tells she proves, in this life there are no rules everything is always changing.
White man says God rules my life, He approves my greed and strife, because my skin is white He loves my kind more than yours.
Red man answers with a question, did not Creator make all things, what then makes you better than the rocks, earth and trees?
White man says I have a brain, I can think, feel, love and hate, I know that I am right do not I rule all in sight?
Red man only laughs and laughs, if you had a brain you forgot to use it, your kind only destroys and what you rule is only in your mind.
Rise up say your prayers give thanks to your Creator, sing, dance, find true joy, live your life in humbleness.
We are equals all in the sight of our Creator, there are answers to every question it is up to you to find them.
The man who forces his truth on another has no truth, peace or happiness, he is forever on his guard afraid someone will take it from him.
Live to find peace, gentleness and unity of heart, let the feelings in your spirit guide you, each person knows right from wrong and there is no person better than another!’ “
“Sounds like she’s damning all white folk, not just the bad guys,” commented Griff.
“Yup. I was real uncomfortable staying there, so I made some excuse or other and slept out in the open. I told her they’d sooner or later find her but she just spat into the dirt and walked away. I roamed around for awhile, not really wanting to have anything to do with anybody, red, white or black, until some old man found me sitting on a bluff throwing stones into the stream at its foot. He took me back to his camp. He was a man of few words. But the next day he took me herb hunting with him. At noon, we stopped and had some pemmican, sitting in the shade of the only tree for miles. Don’t see how he found it. There’d been none all day. “See. . .how cruel the whites look. Their lips are thin, their noses sharp, their faces furrowed and distorted by folds. Their eyes have a staring expression. They are always seeking something. What are they seeking? The whites always want something. They are always uneasy and restless. We do not know what they want. We do not understand them. We think that they are mad.’ ‘Why are whites all mad?’ ‘They say they think with their heads.’ ‘Of course. What do you think with?’ ‘We think here.’ He tapped himself on the chest. ‘Why are you telling me this? I am a white man.’ ‘You are a different kind of white man. For you, the vessel floats freely on deep, alien seas.’ ‘I am afraid it is a new kind of sailing.’ ‘And what is more enjoyable, catching sight of new shores or discovering new approaches to old knowledge almost forgotten.’ Then he got up and went back to his tee-pee.” Jim finished his beer. “I stayed awhile with those people. But eventually, I had to come back.” He sat back in his chair. “I do not like my job any more, Griff.”
“What’re you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Jim.
In the silence that followed, the other customer, who’d been sitting quietly, apparently minding his own business, scraped his chair back and stomped out. He stopped on the boardwalk and spit viciously, then mounted his horse and rode off.
“You gonna quit?”
“There are bad people out there, Griff.”
“Hell of a place for you to be in, buddy.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Maybe I’ll write this into my next book.”
“And ruin your career?”
“I can always get the you-guy tortured and killed. Gotta satisfy the bloodthirsty public, you know.”
The both laughed.
Later, sitting in his office going over the mail, Jim Hatfield was interrupted by a dusty cowboy. The same cowboy who stomped out of Fancy Dan’s.
“Mr. Yabu wants to see you,” he said and remained standing in the doorway.
Jim looked up at him, realized the messenger wasn’t going anywhere and rose slowly to his full height. He put his hat on and strode over to the door, standing over the short cowboy.
“You gonna let me get my horse or you gonna stand there like a cow paddy waitin’ for the sun to turn you into a pancake?”
The dusty dude stepped out of the way. He mounted his horse and followed Jim to Kaikai’s. Then he followed Him all the way to Hacienda loco plátano where he dismounted, mounted the porch, opened the door and poked his head through the opening.
“That fella’s here.” And then he stepped off the porch and led his horse to the corral, where a group of ranch hands had gathered.
Gyorgy Yabu opened the door and stuck out his hand.
“Jim Hatfield! How are ya, buddy? Come on in and set for a spell.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and went back inside. He knew the Texas Ranger would follow. Jim did, quietly shutting the door behind him. He did not immediately sit.
“Siddown. Siddown,” Gyorgy gestured. “Don’t worry ’bout the dirt. The little woman’ll clean it up. There been dirtier’n you through this house.” Gyorgy chuckled. Jim sat. “What’ll it be? You must be mighty thirsty, ridin’ the range long as you been.”
“I’m working. Just water, thank you.”
“What it is, then!”
Gyorgy went to the bar and presently returned with drinks. Water for Jim, whiskey for himself.
“You’re a good ranger, Jim,” began Gyorgy. “The best.”
“That’s what people say,” replied Jim, not biting.
“You done everything you been asked to–and more sometimes.” Jim remained silent. “But this time I hear you was in derlixicon of your duty.”
“People say odd things. Others her how they want.”
“Selective blindness, eh?”
“Sorry, sir. I’ve never known anyone to see with his ears.”
Gyorgy laughed. “Oh, that’s a good one!” Gyorgy laughed some more.
Jim Hatfield was silent and still, all but his eyes, they were keen on Gyorgy, cutting him out of his surroundings, isolating the form of the man.
“How long you been a Texas Ranger, Jim?”
“Twenty years.”
“That’s a long time doin’ anything. I hear the pay ain’t so hot neither.”
“No, sir, it’s not. But being a public servant is what I like.”
“You ain’t no public servant, Jim Hatfield. You’re mine.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir.”
“I support the Texas Rangers. I foot the bill. I own the Texas Rangers. It’s my private club.”
“As you own Chokepointe Piste?”
“And all of the country round about.”
“Except that you have to wall off the parts you don’t like. You don’t own them, sir.”
“I do. I wall ‘em off an’ all they can do is bitch about it. If they decide to fight back, the law’s on my side. So it’s treason.”
“You don’t own all the law, sir.”
“Why is that, Jim Hatfield? I pay your salary.”
“Not any more, Mr. Yabu.”
Jim Hatfield carefully unpinned his star and set it on the table between them. Jim Hatfield stood up. Jim Hatfield walked to the door.
“Where you goin’ boy?!”
“I’m not your boy, Mr. Yabu. And I’m going out to live my life.”
“You can’t do that. There’s a job to be done.”
“You’ll have to do it yourself. You’re not writing my story any more.” Jim Hatfield opened the door.
“And the legend dies,” mused Gyorgy.
“Legends never die, Mr. Yabu, and the bad guy always becomes a lesson on proper comportment.”
“What the hell are you on about?” asked Gyorgy to the closed door. “Clyde!” Clyde Moyen Bucket slid out of the kitchen. “You hear what that boy said to me? You see what that boy did to me? We gonna let him git away with it?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Good. Meanwhile, contact that Ratso fella.”
“Roñoso Ratón. He’s on his way. But there’s a problem, sir.” As Gyorgy did not answer, Clyde continued. “He’s an illegal immigrant.”
“Not if I hire him, he ain’t.”
“But the people, sir–”
“I’ll fire him when the job’s done. Lied to me about his parentagion. Then he’ll be a damned foreigner taking good jobs away from Chokepointe Pisters. You git my drift?”
“We think alike, sir.”
“Let’s go fishin’. Problem solving is exhausting.”

But Yabu had other plans up his sleeve. . .