SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

Since I was such a big hit with the children, I spent time with them. I handed out more coloring books, gave skateboard lessons, and played basketball games.

Children find me fascinating.

My friends call me Doctor Drewlittle. Kids and small animals gravitate my way. I don’t go out of my way to get their attention. They manage to show up. It’s surprising. I do not look friendly. My default face is unequivocally not warm and fuzzy. It’s a cross between George C. Scott when he portrayed General Patton and Lurch from the Addams Family.

It doesn’t make for a festive vibe.

I’m a catastrophe at social events. I unnerve the hell out of people:

Me – Hi, I would like to introduce my….

Person – Look, I’m sorry if I said something to offend you.

Me – No, it’s all good. I wanted to say hello and….

Person – Okay, okay…I know you’re angry, but there is no need to get confrontational.

Me – I’m not angry in the least. I was hoping we could meet and….

Person – Fine! Here! Take my wallet! Take everything. I don’t care. Don’t hurt me or my wife!

Me – Dude. Keep your wallet.

Person – Please, please, please don’t kill me. I have children. How can you be so insensitive? You monster…

Me – Well, this has been a delightful conversation. I can’t wait to do this again. I’ll be leaving now.

Person – Help!!! Help!!! Call 911! [Runs away, enrolls in Witness Protection, and checks into a psychiatric ward due to advanced PTSD.]

Next time, I’ll introduce myself by saying, “I should have killed your grandmother when I had the chance.”

The point is that adults usually give me a wide berth. I don’t have to say or do anything. It’s true. In my neighborhood, if I’m walking on a sidewalk and adults are walking towards me on the same sidewalk, then there’s a one-out-of-three chance they will cross the street and continue walking on the other sidewalk. I’m not kidding. I’ve counted.

I can see it coming. As we approach, the approaching adults start walking slower and look around, hoping to locate reinforcements. When they find none, panic sets in. Fight-or-flight takes over. The people frantically look for weapons. Flight takes over as there aren’t a lot of automatic weapons lying around in my neighborhood. So, they go across the street. Do any of them check for oncoming vehicles? No. It’s a chance they’re willing to take. The risk of death is worth the reward of getting the hell away from me. Assuming no one ran them over, they’ll quickly walk to the nearest psychiatrist’s office and attempt to deal with the shit.

I try not to take it too personally. Chances are we’ll never see each other again. Not if they have any say in the matter.

So, those are the adults. 

Children and small animals look at me and see the word “sucker” tattooed on my forehead and quickly assemble around me. Their first thought is, “I’m gonna take this jackass for all he’s worth.”

Children are superb judges of character. I am, without any reasonable doubt, a pathetic half-wit who’s glad to give the children whatever they want. I am not a parent (to the best of my knowledge). I have proudly maintained my “overindulgent uncle” status for decades.

The young ones enjoyed the basketball quite a bit. They didn’t pick up some of the finer points. No one seemed to take to dribbling the ball very much, and their defensive strategy was to tackle the lucky person who had the ball.

Skateboarding wasn’t much better. They loved it, although no one was concerned with inconsequential matters such as how to stop. I showed them how to stop. They didn’t care. Their chosen method of stopping was to plow into a group of other children and knock them down like bowling pins.

Rules and safeguards aside, we were having fun. I felt no compulsion to stop. Even thinking about going into the church to view the very dark psychodrama between Sara and Luke was exhausting. Plus, I couldn’t bring myself to mingle with a load of self-congratulatory, flatulent yahoos telling me what blessings they were to the less fortunate.

Eventually, the children dispersed, and I strolled back inside to the young and the shameless. The lovebirds were by themselves. Sara was crying. Luke was waving his arms around and whining. They saw me and immediately stopped talking. Luke didn’t look happy to see me. I turned around in a hurry and walked into the sanctuary where the earnest young Americans were having a heartfelt conversation on topics about which they knew almost nothing:

– Religion

– Economics

– Politics

As is usually the case when people don’t know what they’re talking about, they all had simple solutions to fix all the troubles that existed on Planet Earth for thousands of years.

The first topic on which everyone agreed was capitalism: it’s terrible. Very bad. No good. It had to go. Dump it. It’s a horrible idea. It’ll never work. Basing an entire economy on self-interest is unfair and, obviously, not sustainable. One eager participant said the person who invented capitalism was guilty of crimes against humanity. Many agreed.

I’m not kidding.

The experts in the group shed some extraordinary light on this subject. In your travels, you may have heard that free markets have been around for thousands of years. You may have also heard agrarian capitalism became a going concern in the late 14th century. Then, in the 16th century, examples of merchant capitalism started to pop by. You may have heard about that, too.

Well, you heard wrong. Not a word of truth to any of it. 

The National Bureau of Economic Research, London School of Economics, World Bank, Oxford University, IMF, and the Encyclopedia Britannica were all off.

Per the conversation leader, the real story was that some clown invented it, not coincidentally, in 1776. What is the clown’s name? No one remembered. He was a rich degenerate. When he wasn’t busy beating his wife, robbing widows and orphans, knocking over liquor stores, and killing his children for their loose change, he wrote a book. No one could remember the name of the book. It could have been “How to Commit Criminal Capitalism: Six Easy Steps in Your Bathroom.” He sold the book to America, and America liked it. All of America, I guess. See, America was looking for a way to perpetrate expansionism, but America didn’t know how until it read this book. America, who could either read quickly or only read the notes on the dust cover, declared its independence soon after the book came out. Armed with this sinister capitalist insight, America formed a more perfect way to rob other countries by making them, the other countries, buy overpriced crap made in the USA, such as fake vomit, whoopie cushions, and Hamburger Helper, which gave America the means to go into other countries, buy all their beachfront property, jack up the rent, force everyone to work in sweatshops 33 hours a day, build a bunch of 7-11s where the Slurpee machines only work half of the time, set up military bases, crush the entire country’s spirit by making everyone eat frozen TV-dinners featuring “Salisbury Steak” with the “gravy” that turned into gelatin before your eyes, and when no one was looking, stealing everyone’s money and dropping it into Swiss Banks. Swiss people are corrupt Capitalist pigs.

They agreed that the results of all this pugnacious, anarchic, narcissistic, inhumane, tumultuous, and malignant capitalist behavior included (not limited to):

– Colonialism

– Racism

– Religion

– Oppression of the masses

– Genocide

If I followed their logic correctly, none of the above existed before 1776.

The youngsters in the room passed the motion to remove the filth and pestilence of capitalist behavior. Exterminate Capitalists—no excuse for the little bastards.

Next item: Money

As I learned from the group, money was complicating things. The wrong people had too much of it, and those bad people weren’t jumping at the chance to give their money to the right people. Something had to be done, especially in America. This whole money fetish in the States was unhealthy.

Fortunately, one earnest young American was able to provide an easy resolution that gained some momentum in the group:

Make all US currency disappear. No money. Zero. Throw it away. Set it on fire.

I’m not kidding here, either.

You could hear the IQ points dropping on the floor.

While the concept seemed satisfactory to the committee, the motion to torch money was tabled due to the logistics of taking away everyone’s cash.

Next item: Equitably distributing wealth to all the planet’s inhabitants.

Here was everyone’s cue to jump off the diving board of rational thought and into the baby pool of Marxist theory. The rank-and-file agreed that Marxism was the only way to go. Contrary opinions need not be tolerated. I mean, it’s so much fairer. The conversation leader advised us that there is no poverty in Marxist states. There is plenty of cooperation from cuddly governments and devoted neighbors. The rebellions in the Czech Republic and Hungary were people being pissy over some misunderstanding. It had to do with the weather. And, well, the Soviet’s reaction was a bit much, but it’s better than capitalism. Okay? Besides, it so happens that things were going well in those countries, so, hey, no harm done.

Cuba was another one. Castro was putting in a solid performance. Cubans were having the time of their lives.

There you have it. Marxism will create a communal paradise. We can realize the utopia in all our hearts through massive legislation and government intervention. Everyone has the same amount of stuff and the same amount of cash. The prices of everything are low, and no one’s trying to make a profit. Really. What could go wrong? Everything is good. Everybody is happy. And no one invests all their time trying to get rich. Instead, people can spend their abundant number of leisure hours reading excellent books instead of all that brain-dead crap Capitalist bookstores sell.

The motion to create worldwide Marxism passed.

The next item on the docket was religion.

The eager young Americans were unified on this topic, too:

Religions are stupid. Except Buddhism. Not too much. The part where you sit under a tree and think for a long time.

Judaism has too many weird rules and rituals, none of which make any sense—more trouble than it was worth. Plus, the food is lousy.

Islam. Doesn’t that one have a god, too? Alan? Abdullah, maybe? Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Islam is like Christianity. It makes its followers kill people.

Oh, yeah. Allah! That’s the name.

Christianity? Puh-leeze. The invisible man who lives in the sky, who loves you and takes all your money while looking for any flimsy excuse to send you to Hell, where you can burn for eternity? Uh, no.

Fortunately, according to the conversation leader, when it comes to Marxism, religion does not apply. I mean, you can be religious. But why? It’s so stupid. And it makes everyone else uncomfortable. Just because you want to be all religious all the time doesn’t mean you’re better than us. Okay?

The motion passed. Dump religion.

After concluding the arduous work, folks felt free to present their philosophies to anyone listening.

Five earnest young Americans backed me into a corner and pressed me to disclose my profound thoughts on the proposed new world order.

“Well, I dunno, you’ll need a massive government to ensure everyone behaves themselves. Self-interest doesn’t go away because you told it to.”

The response took the form of five blank stares.

“Um…black market…seems to be taking over the USSR, so…”

Nothing. Silence.

“…so, might wanna do something to…do…something to discourage that…maybe?”

The group conferred and agreed that this mindless, reflexive, and unfounded negativity on my part was precisely what the movement didn’t need.

I left.

Eventually, I found the jeep, where I rummaged through my suitcase, located one of the several holy and sacred hip flasks filled with some of the tequila Diego stole from his drug-dealing friend who’d recently been shot to death, lit a cigarette, threw down healthy shots of said tequila, and settled onto the flatbed.

Once the tequila began to have the desired effects, a voice from the darkness approached. “Yoo-hoo, Drew-who, where are you? I need you-who. Auntie Sara is coming for you.”

I would have preferred being alone. I’m sure I didn’t sound excited in my response. “You reached his answering service. Mr. Lowry is unavailable as he’s attempting to erase the memory of his last hour in Hell while desperately hoping to remove the immense socialist stain on his psyche courtesy of the great minds inside solving world problems. You can leave him a message. In the unlikely event his status improves from ‘critical’ and indicators are not favorable, he will ring you back. Cigarette? Tequila?”

“Yes, and YES. Please. This little girl needs bags of booze before she goes potty.”

“‘The Edge of Pottiness.’ Starting this Fall, after ‘General Hospital.’ Brought to you by Hitachi. Try the new and improved Hitachi Magic Wand for girls of all ages. Vibrate your cares away. While your husband’s away having it off with the secretary, let the Hitachi Magic Wand take care of business in a way hubby never could. No muss, no fuss. Act now and buy three Hitachi Magic Wands for the price of two so you can share some exceptional moments with your daughter and her best friend. Let the magic of the Magic Wand do its magic on your happy-magic-fun-button. The Hitachi Magic Wand. Veni, vidi, VENI!”

Sara laughed and shook her head. “Where does your little mind go to come up with this on the fly?”

“I have no idea. The more urgent question is why. So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

“That’s your best pick-up line? Really?”

I reminded Sara, “I have no pick-up lines. You know that. When I go to bars, I sit in the corner looking despondent until a woman walks over and asks me what my problem is. Works every time.”

“Well, not with this little girl. When I’m in a bar, I expect some initiative. We need to get you some pick-up lines. Try this, ‘I have a phone number; you have a phone number. Think of the possibilities.’ One time, some schlub asked me, ‘Can I take your picture? I want to show Santa what I want for Christmas.’”

We shared a round of tequila shots.

“How’d that work out for him?”

“Not well. Is this what Diego stole from the dead guy? Really? I’ll have to send him back for another bottle. This is making your auntie feel very tingly in all her parts.”

“Now, let’s discuss the part about you going potty. Where are you in that process? Are we in Act 2 of Hamlet, or will you be climbing the tower soon?”

Sara looked to be seriously mulling over the question. “Well, today, which has been gobs and gobs and gobs of merriment…hmmm, Shakespeare. Oh, I’m in the role of….Ophelia. Wait. I started as Ophelia. I so wanted to get me to a nunnery…or anywhere…else. By three o’clock, I was recast as Lizzie Borden. Feeling so happy and well-adjusted. Right now? I’m two miles south of Joan of Arc…it’s over… Please, Suh, may I have some more…booze? Gawd, I feel awful. This has been terrible for you. I’m so, so, so sorry. While you’re at it, another cigarette would be nice.”

She threw the bait out there, so I bit. “What’s over?”

“The Holy Anointed One and yours truly. All gone. My boyfriend is all gone. Goodbye, boyfriend. I’m a bad, naughty, selfish, mean young lady who makes our savior’s life miserable, and I should be severely punished for my crimes against humanity so I can feel the pain I cause him. I am guilty, My Lord. Punish me as you see fit.”

The anger in her voice was escalating, as was the volume.

I thought a low-key reply would be helpful. “The court is in a foul mood today. We sentence you to 120 continuous hours listening to New Age Music. That’ll teach ya.”

I thought wrong. “Am I a drama queen? Well? Am I? I want your honest answer. Am…I…a…drama…queen? Well?”

“Um, I don’t…”

“No, I am most certainly not. I’m not demanding. I’m nice. Or, used to be. Now, I’m a monster. Have I turned into a cruel bitch? That’s what I was told. Am I mean? And vicious? Am I that cruel?”

“No. I think…”

“Hush. Rhetorical.”

“Yes, Dear.”

Sara stared into the dark distance. “He could have…once…maybe, I…I dunno…at least once. He could spoil me a little. Adore me. Shower me with undeserved praise. Love me properly and give me silly gifts. I’m like all the other girls in line. We like all that stuff. That’ll never happen. Now, it’s like he wallows in his dark little world. Wherever. Dark. Darker. He’s not dragging me down with him. Uh-uh. You’re so laid back. You’re never dark. I would…”

“Whoa! Slow down. My 100%, money-back guaranteed promise to you is that I’m the darkest person you’ve ever met. I don’t burden anyone with it. I have excess dark. I have so much dark that I could start a New Age music empire. I have dark I haven’t even used yet.”

“You are so full of it! You are! Don’t you dare give me that look, young man. You’re never down. Nothing bothers you. I know you.”

I wanted to tell her how little she knew. I changed the subject instead. Pointing towards the church, I asked, “Are these the two-year-olds you must put up with on your road trips? Did you hear any of the happy horseshit that poured out of their mouths? What a load of…”

“Oh, them? They’re idiots. His Hiney loves them. Of course, he would. He’s their mentor, philosopher, teacher, guiding light, political and economic adviser. Did they talk about their ideas on the economy and….”

“ARGH!!!!!!!! Wouldn’t shut up about it.”

Sara, pretending to be a TV reporter, held an invisible microphone and said, “I’m here from your local lowest common denominator television affiliate conducting man-on-the-street interviews to see what a typical American loser knows about economic theory. Tell me, Sir. What is your name?”

“Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“Yes, so you say. Well, Eleanor, if that is your real name, look at the camera and explain to the WLCD audience what, oh, say, the Classical Economic Theory is. Hmmmmm? Well? We’re waiting.”

“Well, Muffin. You don’t mind if I call you Muffin, do you?”

“I most certainly do mind and would….”

“Good. Classical Theory of Economics…let’s see, two words: market forces. That’s right, market forces. You got the demand. I got the supply. Trust me. Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever seen you before? Oh, do you want the popular one? Ah, we’re all out. Here’s our deluxe model at twice the price. Wait, there’s good news. Order now and get a bonus gift of natural homemade chocolatey goodness….in a can. PS, poor people suck. They need to stop being so meek. Get in the game and kick some ass.”

Sara was staying in her TV character. “Well, that was fascinating. So, tell our viewers how that may contrast with, say, what you learned from your new best friends.” 

“Drive-by Marxism, you mean. Simple. Keep printing that money, Honey, keep on printing. Of course, the money’s worthless. We KNOW that. THEY don’t. They’re peasants. They’re stupid. Tell them what they want to hear. Then lie some more. Tell them the Monkeys are a great band. Hell, give them tickets to a Monkeys concert. They’ll be thrilled. I know they suck. THEY don’t. Now, what is going on with Luke? And you? And why do I think I’m in the middle?”

Sara leaned back in the flatbed and looked towards the very bright stars. “He thinks you and I slept together at your luxury hacienda. It’s all he thinks about. Oh, and that I’m a mean, selfish bitch. I wish we had. I wish we could right now.”

That sounded like a terrible idea.

We were side-by-side and motionless. We avoided looking at each other. Sara was tense. We both were.

Sara cleared her throat and said, “This would be a wonderful time for you to say something. Like, oh, I dunno…”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to say anything that might sound like I was undermining Luke, so that ruled out, “Yee-haw!! We’re gonna be poontanging tonight! Lemme get my lucky condom.”

On the other hand, there was no need to have her feel bad for bringing it up, either. So, I decided against “Sex? What, with you? Ew, gross. No way.”

I considered, “Let’s do it! The safe word is ‘meat cleaver.’ Don’t forget. I need you to sign this liability waiver.” However, there was no need to scare the poor woman.

I went with, “Sara, that would be lovely. Sadly, our timing truly sucks. Neither one of us could do it to Luke.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that…”

“I do. You’d feel awful. You wouldn’t forgive yourself even if you two already decided to pack it in.”

“I know. I want to make love anyway.”

“Me, too. People would notice if you didn’t show up until morning.”

An exasperated Sara responded, “I know, I know, I know.”

After a long silence, Sara said she wanted to return to the church and find some available floor space to sleep. She and I agreed we should not walk into the place together. Sara went in first. I walked to the back of the church, clowned around on the skateboard for half an hour, and walked into the rear of the building. A couple of people were in sleeping bags on the hall floor leading to the altar. I found a couple of couch cushions in the hall just outside the sanctuary, tossed them on the floor, and stretched out on top of them. The next twenty agonizing minutes were spent listening to Luke pontificate to the assembled masses in the sanctuary on a subject that I can best describe as his “holy-and-sacred-multidimensional-celestial-non-linear-spiritually-profound-cosmic-universal-tubular-oneness-on-a-stick” life philosophy. It was ghastly. His followers were enthralled.

During his learned data dump upon his flunkies, Luke occasionally asked Sara if she knew where I was. The first three times, Sara replied, “No clue.” The fourth time, her response was closer to, “Luke, how should I know? If it’s so important, then look for him. He can’t have gotten far.”

“I need to let him know about going to Guatemala City.” After a prolonged silence, he added, “I don’t know where he is.”

Sara blew a gasket. “Then welcome to the club! Go ahead. Ask me again. Please,  do it. Ask me one hundred times, and I’ll give in and tell you where the body is buried. Pretty please, ask me where he is again.” Another pause. “If you want to find him, get up and look for him. And, anticipating your next question, I still don’t know where the fuck he is!”

At this point, all ambient noise and side conversations stopped. The only sound was me trying not to laugh out loud.

Luke wandered around for a bit until he saw me. I pretended to be asleep. He stood beside me for a minute, walked back into the sanctuary, and told Sara I was no longer awake. 

“Thank you, Walter Cronkite. You might allow the rest of us to follow his example.”

There endeth that conversation.

I knew nothing of Guatemala City other than that it was a city that wasn’t in Mexico. So, my strong feeling was that it had to be a hundred times better than the hellhole we were in at that moment.

I was mistaken.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

—END OF CHAPTER SEVEN—

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