FIVE
Hammering rain lashes the house in a powerful, wind-driven assault. Liquid sheets cascade off the roof, rolling and rushing through the gutters and tumbling noisily down the spouts onto the saturated earth. Wave upon wave of nearly horizontal pellets beats on the glass to the creaking of the old house rafters as the wind courses and shifts in its fickle fury.
I should be sleeping, but the clamorous storm has rattled me awake, and I now lie here restlessly with my thoughts more illuminated than in the light of day. And, though I am painfully aware of my need for sleep, my mind rolls on, rapidly and uncontrollably, like the storm.
I worry about the remarks I made last evening, as well as everything I failed to say to the governor and others at the dinner, verbal offerings that might have revealed me in a more favorable light or perhaps helped me expand my network of contacts. At the very least I could have been more attentive, witty and engaging. Also, my near-neglect of Maryanne eats at me, and, though she said it was nothing when I apologized, I know better. My writing schedule has slipped, and I am facing deadline at five o’clock, Sunday evening. Considering all the time I pour into my job, I fear that I am abandoning Maryanne. What’s more, the last time I’ve seen my parents was probably two months ago. They must view me as the epitome of a selfish and ungrateful only child. I cannot remember the last time Maryanne and I did something cultural. For that matter, I wonder when we will manage to take a real vacation — perhaps a trip to a Caribbean island where worries, pressures and deadlines are left far behind. A couple of weeks of pure relaxation might be exactly what’s needed to set everything right. Suppose one of us got sick, and all such options for enjoying life drained away like our youth? I have to put more time and effort into my personal relationships, especially my family, small though it may be.
My greatest fear now is that I may have misjudged Colin and his ambitions. What if he truly is what he tries so hard to be: a sincere public servant, looking out for the good of the Michigan citizenry, working all the angles and pulling the proper strings to facilitate progress and a better life for all. Perhaps my cynical side has jaded me into suspicion regarding his motives. A more objective person might not see any disingenuousness in him at all, no guile, only the best of intentions. Considering all the articles I’ve written about Colin, I try to remember if I’ve publicly revealed my underlying feelings about him, my mistrust and bias that has always held him at arm’s length as the transcendent politician. Becky Travis’ words from last evening echo in my mind: “How can you be sure that you are writing the truth about someone if you don’t really know them?” The truth is, I don’t really know Colin. Yet, for two years, I’ve written about him with the confidence of one who does. He said last night that he appreciated my work, called it forthright. Maybe he was patronizing me, just playing the role of the fatherly governor. Nevertheless, he did invite me to the dinner when he could have easily invited a colleague or a competitor. Is it folly to think that I could ever truly know or understand him? After all, up to now, I have failed at even knowing myself.
I laugh to myself when I think about our exit from the mansion, with the valet trying to hold a single umbrella for both Maryanne and me. The wind turned the flimsy nylon shell inside out, and the rain drenched us in the few seconds it took us to get into the car at curbside. But during the ride home, Maryanne commented that she absolutely loved the party. She enjoyed the mansion, found Cindy and Brent entertaining and the Rierdons, most gracious. She only wished she could have met more of the dignitaries. This was her first inside look at how the elite live their lives. I said I doubted that the governor and Babs carry on regularly like we had just witnessed — only when they want to impress others with their generosity and charm.
Then, while thoroughly engrossed in my own instant replay analysis of the evening, despite the persistent rattling of the late-summer storm, I must have once again fallen asleep.
In what I now know to be a dream, although so much of the scene’s detail hangs like a tapestry on the back wall of my memory, Colin was governor of Michigan in the late nineteenth century. His new home (the present day Freedom House) had been recently built on a generous piece of river frontage along the west bank of the Grand, near the home’s actual location. (Of course, in the midst of the dream, I did not have the luxury of analysis against present day reality; that came later, after I awoke.) But I nonetheless recall it being a cold, storm-darkened afternoon. Apparently, it had been raining for days without let up. Persistent, heavy downpours had flooded the plain and swollen the Grand beyond danger level. The biggest concern was for the dam, a mile up river. With the dam in tact, the city could possibly outlast the storm, but if it broke, all of Lansing would flood. So, while the heavens continued to pour down torrents unabated, an army of local citizens rushed to pile up sandbags on the riverbanks along the entire stretch of the Grand’s big bend, out as far as the woodsy tracts to the northwest. These patriots of the frontier toiled without sleep for days — businessmen working shoulder to shoulder with immigrant laborers. And yet the job was far from done.
I appear in the dream as the governor’s most trusted adviser, knowledgeable in the affairs of state, thanks in part to my previous years as an attorney, first in Detroit, then here in Lansing. By virtue of my own blue-blooded heritage — I hail from the family of a rich fur trader, prominent in Detroit politics — I have influence with the moneyed industrialists and bankers who are presiding over the city’s meteoric rise. My hands have never been callused by labor, yet, while the sand bag brigade grinds on with ever-wearying tedium, I am moronically but frantically hauling up buckets of river water to throw at the governor’s new home, shouting, “Remember the Detroit fire; you have to be ready for the fire. You’ll see. The fire will destroy the whole city if we aren’t prepared.”
Colin tries to talk sense into me, but I am not assuaged. Behaving irrationally, as dream characters generally do, I am oblivious to the logic of his argument. Though there is absolutely no cause for alarm regarding a fire, it is entirely likely that flooding will soon occur to the detriment and possible ruination of homes, businesses and public buildings. The amazing conundrum I face is that, deep down inside myself, just above the threshold of the subconscious mind, the dreaming me knows all of this. Yet I watch myself dump bucket after bucket of water from the muddy, raging Grand against the newly painted mansion of my employer — I cannot control my own stupid actions. So naturally, Colin fires me on the spot, saying, “You’ll never work in this town again. Pack up and get out!”
Hence, my awakening finds me in a state of nervous angst. It is, however, 5:45 in the morning, so I consider getting up. But I am strongly disconcerted from the weird dream and my clear recollection of it. I decide to remain in bed, pondering the cause for such a bewildering, subliminal refraction. Years ago, I believed that eating ice cream before retiring would bring on vivid and exotic dreams. But this episode more resembled a nightmare than a pleasant fantasy, and besides, I had opted for the blueberry cheesecake last evening. It is plausible, I think, that the impact of last night’s event pressed through my callused and well-worn thought patterns into new, uncharted gray matter, thereby setting off a chain of random, illogically connected brain synapses. Whatever the antecedent, though, I no longer doubt that a vacation is called for.
Maryanne sleeps on, appearing comfortable and no doubt unaffected by my alarming mental voyage. She has always been capable of rest, especially in the early hours. While I am being released from my nighttime moorings and cast off into the uncertain waters of a misty, new day, she remains solidly anchored along sleep’s sheltered shores. This being Saturday, I should be similarly harbored in a state of uninterrupted rest. We should together awake into a sunrise of interpersonal joy and oneness, basking in the radiance of loving synchronicity. This should be our time, free from the impingement of the incessant, tidal erosion that wears at us and strips us of our colorful and attractive adornment. Clearly, Maryanne appears prepared for such a fitting beginning to the weekend. I, on the other hand, am struggling to shrug off the dank remains of a tempestuous night.
If the sun does rise today, we may never see it, even though the night’s furious, pounding rain has calmed to a gentle prattle, now tinkling softly against the bedroom window glass. Predictions are that drizzle will continue all day under clouded skies. I resolve to put the startling dream behind me along with last evening’s tableau of Freedom House with its stereotypical cast of characters and its patrician, put-on airs.
My mind shifts to the day ahead. The fifth, annual “Line of Fire” rally will be staged on the capitol lawn at roughly the same place where the rhetoric of the first Republicans was aimed at the slaveholders of southern states as an opening salvo to the civil war. For good copy and political commentary, the gun-happy Line of Fire event cannot be topped. And, since crusty, middle-aged, white males in camouflage and combat boots crawling all over the steps of the statehouse also make for good TV news footage, it is guaranteed I won’t be the only reporter in attendance.
I remember that I promised Maryanne a dinner and a movie for tonight, so I make a mental note to set a reservation at her favorite Italian place for seven o’clock. Somewhere in between, I have to begin cranking out an article for the Ledger; I will need an uninterrupted three hours to make any progress at all. With luck I can finish it tomorrow, well before deadline. I turn over to my left side, hoping to slow the pace of my mental machinations. Maryanne hugs me from behind. Perhaps the weekend will start off on the right note after all.
“Chip… Chip Halick… Over here.”
The familiar voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Peter Gentry, my old high school buddy, dressed in desert camos and a wide-brimmed hat.
“Long time, no see, Chip. You too good for your old friends, now that you’re so famous?”
“Not really, Pete. I only avoid those who are being carefully watched by the Feds.” This little joke is not lost on Pete, I know, but it is also offered as a warm greeting.
“They haven’t caught me yet, and when they do, I’ll be ready.” He lets out a deep sarcastic rumble of a laugh. “What’re you really doing here, Chip? If you’re looking for a reliable weapon, check around today, but don’t buy. I can get you a better deal with my connections.”
The capitol grounds are littered with makeshift shops and booths, nearly all of which are covered with tarpaulins of some sort to keep out the drizzling rain. At a few of these you can actually arrange to purchase sophisticated weaponry once reserved only for government armed forces. At others you can get truckloads of propaganda, championing the cause.
“How do you guys get away with this stuff. Isn’t it illegal to sell automatic weapons?”
“Everything’s on the up and up here. Believe me, we know the laws better than the lawyers who write them.” Peter’s long gray hair curls out from under his Government Issue, all-weather fedora. He also sports a ragged growth of salt and pepper stubble, untrimmed along its edges.
“Did you grow that beard just for this occasion, or is it a new look you’re after?”
“Both. So what’s up in the world of politics, Chip?”
“Same old stuff: Everyone lies to counter the lies the other side is telling.”
“Makes me want to puke. What we need is another revolution, if you ask me. Republicans, Democrats, they’re all the same — all for them and nothing for us. Throw the bums out, I say.”
“Is that why you came here today, Pete, to overthrow the palace guard?”
“Shhh… Someone may be listening.” Pete laughs again. Deep down inside, he is the same Peter Gentry I knew as a teenager. His dad worked on the line at Pontiac Central. His mom stayed home to care for a family that included five other siblings. Pete was the eldest, always a practical jokester, but also somewhat of a daredevil and hell-raiser. For fun he would go out at night to knock over outhouses or to deliver flaming bags of doggie-doo to the doorsteps of our hard-working neighbors in predominantly blue collar Auburn Heights. Upon graduation in June of 1970, Pete drove down to the Army recruiting office in Pontiac and volunteered for Vietnam. He eventually got assigned as part of the Big Red One Infantry and, for 18 months, patrolled the jungles and rice paddies with an M-16 and a belt full of grenades, dodging bullets from the guns of V.C. snipers and participating in more than anyone’s proper share of general village mayhem. When he came back, he was certifiably nuts. He still is.
“What’s on the agenda today?” I ask. A check of my watch reveals that it is 10:50 A.M., and the podium is still vacant. Even so, the crowd of over 500 seems content to mill around, checking out the booths and talking among themselves. One of several pairs of mounted police in flak jackets clip-clops past, patrolling the perimeter.
“At eleven-hundred hours Commander Jim Jenkins from the Militia is going to speak, and then the gov’ner is gonna talk.”
“No kidding?” I had not heard that Colin planned to deliver an address here today, but it makes sense since the gun enthusiasts represent one of his most ardent constituency groups.
“Yeah, imagine that. We told him he wouldn’t have to worry about security. We’ve got that covered.”
“And he believed you?”
“If he did, he’s dumber than he looks.” Another laugh, this time broken up by Pete’s smoker’s hack.
The loosening of bits of his lungs must have subconsciously triggered a message to Pete’s brain. He reaches inside one of the oversize pockets of his fatigue jacket for his pack of Camels and his well-worn, brass lighter.
“Cigarette?” He shakes one partially out of the pack into my direction.
“No thanks, Pete. I don’t smoke.”
“Too bad. You’re missing out on one of life’s last remaining pleasures.” His ritual begins with a long inhale which he holds for two or three seconds and then expels downwind into the damp air.
“It’s a good thing they added filters to those things, or you’d be dead by now.”
“You know what they say, ‘If the cars don’t get you, the monoxide will.’” He takes another drag. “Life is short, Chip. You can’t worry about what’s gonna take you out. You’ll die soon enough anyway.”
Pete’s hardened cynicism has deepened since our last meeting, if that were possible. I wonder how many other people are running around the country with guns, sporting similar attitudes. Maybe I should up my insurance. “I don’t know about you, Pete, but I plan on being around a while longer. The way I figure it, the best of life is yet to come.”
My overly optimistic worldview lands on Pete like a bee on a Doberman’s backside. “Where you been lately, Chip, on Mars? This country’s going to hell in a hand basket. The government takes almost fifty percent of our money, and it’s still broke. Criminals get away with murder every day. The creeps who are convicted get out because there isn’t enough room in jail and decent, law-abiding citizens can’t even get a permit to carry a gun. For every person that votes, another moron gets into public office. Judges screw with our constitutional rights every day. I’m telling you, the whole thing is a joke. Survival ain’t easy, Chip. You gotta hunker down and arm yourself for what’s coming. If we don’t get control of things now, it’s not gonna be worth livin’ round here in the 21st century.”
“So when are you planning to check out, Pete?”
“Hell, they’re gonna have to take me out, and that won’t be easy. I’ve had combat training and experience. I’m ready for the festivities.” He flicks his cigarette butt into the wet grass. “You, on the other hand, are gonna have it rough if you don’t get with the program, Chip. I recommend you get some martial arts training for starters, and come to a militia meeting for survival pointers. And get yourself a good weapon, maybe an M16 or an AK. Don’t wait too long. Make your move now before the goons, patsies and pissants get you at a freakin’ disadvantage. You don’t want to see that happen, for sure.”
From about twenty yards away, in the direction of the capitol steps, a man taps on a microphone at the makeshift podium, set up under a stretched-out, white and orange parachute. Bonk, bonk, bonk. I glance around to see that the crowd has grown appreciably; there now seem to be nearly a thousand, mostly male and mostly white, rain-glistened spectators, floating about in the misty morning. One of several giant, old trees to my left, a catalpa I believe, shelters a large group of about fifty or sixty, its massive branches being supported by custom fitted, black iron posts. Here and there, blankets have been spread out on the rain-soaked grounds, but roughly half of this crowd is on its feet for the speeches that are about to begin.
“Pete, if you don’t mind, I would like to take some notes while the speakers are on the podium.”
“Sure, Chip. No problem. Like this is work for you, right?”
“You think I’d come down here for enjoyment?”
“Nah, I guess you wouldn’t.” He removes his hat, shakes off some of the excess water and then fiddles with the brim to get just the right shape before sliding it back over his head, front to back. “You listen good here today, Chip. Maybe you’ll understand why we drive over a hundred miles to come out in the rain on a day when we could be home watchin’ Michigan football in our easy chairs with a fridge full of beer in the next room. This ain’t no picnic; I’ll grant you that. But, without guys like you see here, standin’ up for your rights and freedoms, this country would have gone down the toilet long time ago.”
I don’t quite know how to respond, but I feel the need to let Pete know that, although I don’t see the world as he does, I nonetheless appreciate his stridency, and especially his vigilance over our liberties. “Pete, I am certain that all you guys believe you’re doing the right thing. Unfortunately, from my perspective, doomsday still seems a long way off. But you never know, maybe I’ll get inspired today to get on the bus.” I reach out to shake his hand. “It’s been great seeing you.”
He pumps my hand with great vigor. “Yeah, you, too.”
“Take care, Pete.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” I know he is sincere about this, but I hope the world stays safe for democracy without the help of Pete and his militia buddies.
Gazing about for a dry place to stand and jot notes, I head for temporary shelter under one of the old trees. A dense canopy of rain-soaked leaves, already copper-tinged and fading with the summer, has further darkened the world within the grove on this gloomy, cold day. As I approach, I both hear and see large drops of water falling freely onto the people below. Thanks to the nightlong rain, the weather within the grove is no better than out here in the misty drizzle, though curiously, many have sought comfort beneath the strong, spreading branches. These trees have seen history made here; they have weathered countless natural and political storms, seen ideas forged into laws while listening to the protests of many a disenfranchised group. They’ve seen the gay parades and the war protests, the suffragettes and the union rabble. I wonder, if it were winter, and the great, knurled branches had the wizened look of dormancy, would people still gather under them? Certainly they’d offer no protection from the elements. Yet the autumn leaves must fall. And all the splendor and glory of these great mastiffs of the natural world, along with the fruit they labored to produce, will vanish with the unstoppable clocking of time and the natural devolutional triumph of death over life. Then, beyond the spring equinox, when the sun predictably returns from its tropical wanderings, as the daylight hours lengthen and the nights diminish, out from the prolonged, painful grip of death, life will shoot forth again. And our world will be sustained.
“Mooorning glooryyy! Welcome to the fifth, annual Line of Fire rally. Let me, first of all, say thank you for coming out in such great numbers today — in spite of the weather. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Commander Jim Jenkins of the Michigan Militia. I’ll be your host for today’s history-making event. I’m proud to say that, for the first time in the five years we’ve held this rally here at the capitol, we’ll hear from the governor himself, Colin Rierdon.”
Applause breaks out spontaneously and Commander Jenkins claps loudly into the microphone. As the clamor dies down, he continues, “We’ve got a full schedule for you today, so without further ado, let’s lock and load!”
I listen and take notes as speaker after speaker, from both the legislature and private life, rises to the podium. They hold forth like preachers, passionately articulating the need for unrestricted, concealed weapons’ permits and the safety that will be our reward for better laws, stiffer sentences and armed self-protection. Quite honestly, I’ve always felt safer believing that every other guy on the street is not carrying a gun, but then, I have never been the victim of a violent crime. But finally, after a raft of warm-up pitchmen (and after I’ve visited the johnny on the spot and taken a trip over to Murphy’s Pub for a quick hamburger and some coffee), at about 1:15, Commander Jenkins gives a rousing introduction to the governor who steps up to the podium with a wide smile on his face.
“Thank you, thank you very much.” Colin waits for the crowd to settle down before continuing. “What a great honor and a privilege it is for me to stand before you today. You who have fought for freedom...and who are committed to keeping this state, and this nation, free from the meddling of foreign governments...from the corruption of career politicians...from the overarching power of the federal system...from criminals and anarchists...from the judicial activists...from greedy capitalists as well as all those in our society who refuse to help themselves when there is nothing on God’s earth preventing them from working but their own unwillingness to do so...”
More applause punctuates the scene. Nearly everyone is standing now, awaiting Colin’s next sortie.
“Today, I am here to say that the time has come for every law-abiding citizen of this state without a criminal record to have the opportunity to apply for, and receive, a concealed weapons’ permit…without discrimination.”
The spectators nearly go wild at this, whistling, shouting, waving American flags and punching at the air above their heads. Colin smiles broadly.
“As governor of the great State of Michigan, I aim to see that you will have to wait no longer for this right...a right which is guaranteed under the second amendment to our nation’s Constitution...the greatest document ever penned in the history of the world.”
There is near-ecstasy within the ranks.
“Criminals, on the other hand, had better beware. They’d better pack up and move now…because we, the good citizens of Michigan, will no longer wink at their misdeeds. They will do hard time here. With the help of the legislature, we are going to pass more mandatory sentencing laws to put away those who commit violent crimes…for life, if need be! And I’m also here to say that Michigan will not only be known as the birthplace of the New Freedom...but also, the end of the line for a train called justice. And every one of you out there today will be better off…I promise you that. You will be able to raise your families in peace and safety. Michigan will be the model for the rest of the country...a place where freedom and justice ring out loud and strong. That’s what we all want. Am I right?”
Affirmative whistles and chants of Col-in, Col-in, erupt from all over the east lawn of the capitol.
“Well it all begins right here my friends...with the commitment each and every one of us makes to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I am proud to call each of you my friend, my brother and my sister. Together we will fight for peace, freedom, truth, justice and the American way. Thank you very much for coming out today. May God bless each and every one of you.”
Colin descends the platform steps amid thunderous cheers, waving as he walks among several security guards back toward the capitol. Out here near the perimeter, the clapping, shouting and flag-waving reach a frenzied zenith from the enormous crowd of supporters that has spilled across the square onto Michigan Avenue. Grown men are carrying on like teenagers at a rock concert. I realize that the misty rain has stopped. A group of Lansing police rush by me, heading toward the sidewalk where three men in camouflage have set a blue, United Nations flag on fire and are watching it burn, their primary audience being a TV camera. A reporter can be heard adding color commentary for the benefit of viewers who tune in tonight over supper.
A single, golden maple leaf flutters down before me toward the ground, twisting, turning in the breeze. Watching it settle near my feet, I am inspired concerning what to write in my next article for the Ledger. In just four days the fall equinox will be upon us, that point of balance between light and darkness in the Northern Hemisphere. In autumn, however, it is the darkness that will be winning the battle of time.