When I didn’t feel like staying home, I wandered up to the bar to hang out and attempt to forget my petty frustrations. It never works – not really. But just because it never works doesn’t mean that it will never work; besides, there was little else to do. I’d already gone through all the books in the small and underappreciated public library that were worth reading. Muriel usually had the car, which put me on foot, and the walk to the bar was a reasonable one that also presented an excuse for exercise. The place was usually deserted – at least it was during the winter when everyone was busy hibernating and shoveling snow. As long as the wind chill wasn’t too low and there wasn’t too much ice on the streets – Mt. Arliss actually did a pretty good job of keeping the streets clear in town – I’d hoof it up to the bar for a few cocktails and to watch the television.
I hadn’t managed to pick up much in the way of work yet, though, so I had to limit my trips much more than I would normally. There is apparently not much call for a freelance writer and ex-college instructor; but I had hope that something would happen with the Spring thaw that seemed imminent. Muriel continued to hope that I’d wander back into teaching – something online so that I could stay home and do something useful while still being able to not wear pants – but I resisted. Not that there were a lot of options in education, anyway. Although my resume looks decently impressive, I was sure I’d managed to burn every bridge I had. Getting let go from ASU in the name of budget cuts was only an excuse; the Department Chair had been looking for a way to get rid of trouble makers – he referred to us as “boat rockers.” And my problems there were not new ones; I’d had the same problems almost everyplace else I ever worked.
I’m lousy at office politics. I don’t have the taste for them, nor do I have any interest in developing a taste. All I wanted to do was teach and be left alone; but then there’s my OTHER problem. I can’t keep my mouth shut. People who survive the institutional politics of higher education do so because they either learn to exploit the system or they keep their heads down to avoid having it cut off. I made the mistake of getting involved with some other instructors who wanted to start a union and improve our contracts. We weren’t asking for a lot; we weren’t even asking for a raise as much as we were asking for job security. But there were more peons and lackeys than there were people who understood the meaning of solidarity; so when the part-timers got axed – in the name of budget cuts -- and our course loads and class sizes went up, they put their heads down and took it like a barely legal virgin in an underfunded porno. And when the Powers That Be started cutting instructor positions, they started with us. Our ability and evaluations meant nothing; the Department Chair and his Dominatrix the College Dean wanted pack mules, not thoroughbreds.
When I went to the bar, it was to have someplace else to go; but in Mount Arliss, my options for distraction were extraordinarily limited. So mostly I kept to myself and only talked when there wasn’t anyone there but the bartender or when I had something to say. I listened a lot, though, and figured out pretty quickly that it was better to say very little. Mount. Arliss, like most small towns, can be charming, friendly, and endearing – especially if you’re the nostalgic sort trying to convince yourself there’s still something pristine and untouched and pure on the Earth … that somewhere, away from the crowded cities, there’s some idyllic Eden that harkens back to those television reruns of Andy Griffith and Leave it Beaver. But small towns can also be breeding grounds for xenophobia and misdirected anger. And in a place like this one, where the average age is 50 and diversity is defined as owning a Craftsman lawnmower instead of a John Deere, where the economy has been in a perpetual downturn since the 1970’s, somebody has to shoulder the blame. And generally, the blame is shifted to Blacks, Mexicans, Arabs, and liberals. Usually in that order.
Every bar has a group of dedicated regulars, and the Moose Head was no exception. Bill Watson was one of them, of course. He always had something to say about anything that was going on and he did his level best to leak the news before it came out in the paper just to annoy his older brother Bob, who owned the local newspaper. Bill and I had talked before, but rarely over anything more exciting than whatever was on the TV in the bar; mostly he gossiped about local people I didn’t know and drank his four or five beers and went home. Retired from one of the companies that pulled out and closed the plant several years before, he was a regular at the bar and was there most weekday afternoons.
That particular day was no exception; Muriel was working late again and I didn’t feel like sitting at home. The weather was decent – partly cloudy and in the mid 40’s – and the drinks were always cheap. When I got there, Bill was already there, along with the other members of what I would later be told was the Mount Arliss Round Table. The five old men named themselves the Round Table as a kind of joke that was never really funny to begin with. They got the name, not from Arthurian Legend – which they only became familiar with AFTER the name had settled in – but because they often came in for lunch and sat around a large round table near the center of the bar; the table was built around a structure supporting post that ran ceiling to floor and could seat up to eight.
“So where you from, young fella?” The unofficial leader, a guy named Don, asked me. I turned around on my stool at the bar to face him and told him we’d moved there recently.
“From where?”
“This time it was Phoenix.”
So we talked about Arizona… the weather, mostly, and life there after the real estate bubble finally burst. While we were talking, another member walked in. This one was another crusty old fucker named Jed. He was short, with cloud white hair that was mostly gone at the top, with a big bushy mustache and a thick pair of tri-focal glasses. When he sat down, Madge the owner, who was working the bar, got his usual beer for him without his having to ask. We were introduced and the conversation moved on to immigration.
“So what do you think about all a them pouring over the border and ruining the state?” Don asked.
“All of WHO?”
“Them MEXICANS,” Bill cut in.
“God damn illegal aliens,” Don said.
“Should fuckin’ kill ‘em all,” Jed said.
“I don’t know that I’d use that word,” I answered.
“What word?” Don asked.
“Ruin,” I answered. “I don’t know that it’s fair to say they’re ruining the state.”
“They’re taking OUR jobs,” Jed defended.
“They’re mostly CRIMINALS,” Bill added.
“And they’re coming over here, stealing and killing and raping women,” Don finished.
The three of them sat there looking at me, waiting for my response. From the expressions on their faces, I thought they were expecting me to recant.
“I’m not saying,” I chose my words carefully, “that something doesn’t need to be DONE about border policy…”
Bill cut me off. “Damn right!”
“… but it needs to make sense. And so far, it doesn’t.”
Now the expressions on their faces were a mixture of confusion and contempt. “And just how,” Don finally asked “how should it make sense?”
The bar was quieter than usual – which is saying something considering it’s deserted most of the time – and I again chose my words very carefully. I talked about Arizona Red State politics and how it’s extreme pro-corporate stance means that the tax base is mostly made up of the dwindling middle-class and the working poor; I talked about how construction companies during the real estate boom used undocumented workers because they could pay them a fraction of what an American worker would accept and far less than anybody can actually live on; I talked about Sheriff Arpiao and his random racial profiling raids; then I told them that border policy will never really change because that would eliminate a large and inexpensive work force that the pro-corporate structure needs to do the grunt work. When I was finished I noticed the tone of my voice from the last word that hung on the air in uncomfortable silence. Muriel hated it when I used that tone with her. She called it my teacher tone.
Don, Bill, and Jed stared at me a while longer. “You seem like a smart young fella,” Don said.
“I have my moments.”
“Then you’ve read the CONSTITUTION, I presume?”
“Yeah. The Bill of Rights, too.”
He ignored the last part of my comment, but I thought I saw Jed roll his doughy eyes. “And what does the Constitution say about the role of government?”
I knew where this was going. I can tolerate most idiots, but an unoriginal idiot is intolerable. “To protect and defend,” I said.
“EXACTLY!” Don sat back in his chair with a triumphant expression on his face.
“We need to NAIL DOWN that fuckin’ border,” Bill proclaimed.
“What about Canada?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“Well,” I said. “It’s a much bigger border. If a drug mule or a terrorist is gonna get through, they’ll have a much better chance of coming in through Canada. Or are you saying there aren’t any white drug dealers?”
“Now I wasn’t saying that AT ALL,” Don protested.
“Or what about port security?” I went on.
Bill started to look confused. “Huh?”
“Most cargo containers go through unchecked,” I said. “We don’t have any idea what’s in most of them. If all you’re worried about are criminals and terrorists, why don’t we do a better job with our ports.”
“You have a point,” Don said.
“And did you know that most of our ports aren’t even owned by US companies?” I asked.
“Huh?” That was Jed.
“It’s true,” I said. “Look it up.”
“But that’s not what we’re talkin’ about,” Don said.
“We just need to shoot all those fuckers,” Jed added.
“I know I’d like to be down on the border checkin’ green cards,” Don said. “No green card…” he held the thumb and forefinger of his right hand like a gun. “ ..BOOM!”
The three of them laughed.
“You don’t have a problem with guns, do you?” Don asked me.
“Guns? No. Idiots with guns? Yeah.”
“That’s alright, then,” Don said. “For a while there you were sounding a little liberal.”
And you were sounding a little retarded. “I use my brain,” I said.
“You’re a smart young fella,” Don repeated. I didn’t know whether he was paying me compliment or not; from his tone I suspected maybe he wasn’t. I knew better than to think that I’d change their minds, and that wasn’t really the point. No one changed their mind about anything. Not really. I looked at my empty scotch glass; I’d drank four or five in the midst of my exchange with three of the five and spent more than I had planned to. I didn’t feel drunk, but the conversation had ruined the relatively peaceful mood I’d been in. Sure, I was a little bored; but not bored enough to walk into a fight. I drained the last bit of scotch and tried to erase the homicidal fantasies that were fomenting in my mind.
I used to be able to tolerate dumbasses. Someone had told me once – my dad maybe – that people mellow as they age. And while I was certainly not old, I knew that I certainly wasn’t getting more mellow as time marched on and my hair turned grayer. It was the exact opposite; with each passing day I was less and less patient with the misguided, the confused, and the ignorant. No wonder I needed to get out of teaching. At least I was still sure it had nothing to do with the students.
I turned around and looked at Madge; she was trying not to look at me. I left a few dollars for a tip and left.
When I got home, the cats were hiding from one another: Che was under our bed and Nine was hiding under a pile of Muriel’s clothes in the unused bedroom. The sound of the door opening and closing drew each of them out into the open. Che took one look at me and growled. Nine started growling because Che growled, and then the eyeballed one another and prepared to pounce.
“Get!” I yelled. “I don’t feel like dealing with your bullshit today!”
Che snarled, but he turned tail and retreated back under the bed. Nine, with his usual punch drunk thickness, prepared to follow Che and finish the confrontation. I yelled at him again and he turned tail and scampered back under the pile of clothes.
“Too much disharmony,” I said aloud. Sometimes it was just too difficult; dealing with people, dealing with the cats, dealing with Muriel’s absence. That, at least, was better; used to be she’d come for the entire summer. Last summer I was left on my own and it was miserable. At least now I saw her every morning before she left and every night when she came home. At least I could feel her next to me in the bed at night. It was unfair; so unfair that hers was the only company I could handle for any length of time. So unfair for her.
I drank some water and then poured myself a scotch from the half bottle under the kitchen sink. It was almost five in the afternoon. Muriel wouldn’t be home for a few more hours, and I wasn’t hungry. So I turned on the radio, found the classical station, and sat back in my rocking chair – listening and drinking myself back into the harmonious and peaceful center found only in the absence of others.
