Chapter XXXIII: Brothers In Arms
Chapter Thirty-Three: Brothers In Arms
I received new brushes and paints for Christmas. My father gave me a Dali print book that was an exact replica of one he had given me when I was on the couch crippled by the Game Six syndrome back in 1989. I dodged many questions regarding my future and the rumors about a lawsuit. I broke my annual Christmas fast and ate some potatoes. My brother called from
I got dropped off on
I had been in
I passed homeless camps where ragged people in cardboard huts lived in the
I passed multiple museums that were closed to the public but open to my imagination. I pictured the backpack I wore eventually being on display along with my paintings. They would preserve my memory as a heroic pilgrim of self-reliance, touching the lonesome and unrecognized with my benevolent bearing. Maybe I would even have my own museum.
After all, I had invented the three-part plan to save the world during a delirious revelation in the trucker's cab as we crossed
1) The people of the world only need to hitchhike to conserve resources and better know each other as brothers.
2) Being naked will force the people to migrate south, have fewer children and appreciate our real appearances.
3) Walking on our hands and feet will prevent unnecessary injuries.
The credo was so simple and easily explained. The logic was flawless. My guidance counselor had it all wrong when he said I would be lucky if I got a job mopping floors. I had proven him wrong with this three-part plan. Sure, it would need to be refined and written out in a way that demonstrated both my ability to reach the lay person and the clarity of my vision.
Two blocks to the north was the White House where I assumed I would be invited as soon as word got out about my heroic cross-country journey and the development of my three-part plan. George Bush would shake my hand and ask how I had done it without polluting the planet.
“Well George, may I call you George? I simply put my thumb out like this and within five or six hours someone would pull over and let me sit in their car. The hardest problems often have the simplest solutions. What did I do while I waited? I drew pictures in the dirt with my walking stick and played harmonica. I know. I agree. The nation should return to the simple pleasures. That is where my plan comes in.”
I would protest good-naturedly when he presented me with the keys to the City. And I would clasp my hand to my forehead when he declared October 14th, the day I arrived in D.C., a National holiday. It was all too much. “Really. I'm just a simple American doing what anyone would. I'm just happy to contribute.”
I imagined going on the tonight show and being asked, “What is next for Ogden Bleacher?”
Signs pointed out the
“You got five dollars to prevent a crime?” he muttered. Then he tripped and sprawled out in the dirt giving me time to hobble away.
Then there was the Lincoln memorial. Old Abe sat in his stone throne guarding the nation's unity in silence. I had seen Abe twice before: Once on the trip with Kurt and once on a trip with my father and brother. This was the first time I noticed people smoking Crack under his chin.
I walked the length of
“No, I didn't think much of
I dialed the numbers in the dark jittery with excitement. For once he would be proud of me.
“What?”
“
“Oggy who?”
“Your brother. Guess what?”
“Great. What the fahk you want?”
“I need a ride to
“Are you still an idiot? I ain't giving you nothing. I haven't talked to you in three years and you call me wanting a ride. Call a taxi. The country is at War, if you haven't noticed.”
“I know. My life is in danger.”
“Can you stop being so stupid? Is that possible? Where are you really? Aren't you in
“Cristo is a fahk head. I'm in
“Dear God! You really are in
“I crossed the
“Like
“Spreading the word. I came up with a plan to save the world. I finally figured it out.”
I expected my brother to buckle under the weight of my confession. I had figured out how to save the world. That was worth buckling under, wasn't it?
“Fahk your plan. How did you get to the East Coast?”
“I hitchhiked, walked, suffered the cruelties of the highway. I deserve a medal. Wait until you hear about my plan.”
“You deserve a punch in the fahking mouth. If you think I'm going to let a beatnik into my car, you have erred greatly. Are you really that brain dead? I'm busy with an article. No time. Sorry. Too busy. Tough luck.”
For the benefit of the world, I was willing to be patient. Instead of introducing my three-part plan, I decided to attack Brooklyn's politics.
“What, too busy training to kill people?”
“If you shut your hippie mouth for once in your life then you might already know. I'm a journalist. I leave the killing in the hands of the grunts like you. I'm going to cover the Mother of all Wars.”
“You will be punished. Have you read Mark Twain's The War Prayer?
“Have you ever thought about not being an imbecile?”
“Come on, I am completely beaten. I just walked across the entire country. My feet are swollen up like the black plague. You owe me for making me miss my chance to record 'Xanadu'“
“Could you just stop being an cretin. Just for a minute. I mean, enough is enough. Could you? What can I do for you?”
“I need a fahking ride to Fairfax. Rose goes to school there.”
“Are you ready to stop being such a retard? What are you going to do, enroll in school?”
“No, I just want to say hi.”
“That is what phones are for, you idiot. Did you come from California to be an idiot? You hitchhiked all the way across the country so you could call me on the phone at midnight and talk like a crazy person about some three-part plan and going to see some chick from high school. Were you brain dead at birth or did you get in an accident during your hippie travels? I mean, I just want to know. I'm just curious. Were you, or were you not, an idiot your whole life?”
I ignored this line of questioning and told him again that I was tired and I was in Arlington and I wanted to go see Rose in Fairfax. It is very important to stick to the point with my brother.
“I don't know anything about Fairfax. Shit! Are you ready to stop flapping your gums for ten seconds? Can you stop being so stupid for maybe five seconds? I know it's hard, but can you try? Did you see the Performing Arts Center in D.C.?”
“Don't even talk about that den of vipers. I've never seen such misery. My three-part plan will make some big changes in this town, let me tell you. A man was camping underneath Lincoln's ass. I saw someone murdered in front of the White House. The Rich still get entertained by the Negro minstrels while the poor white man sleeps on cardboard. Nothing has changed in two hundred years. Is this the state of our nation? Is this what I suffered for? Is this what soldiers are dying to defend?”
“You're such an Iconoclast. Oooh. I'm so impressed with your original Anti-government rhetoric. I'll bet you believe the government is oppressive. I'll bet you think there is a conspiracy to cover up war crimes.”
“Actually, I do. But I've got a plan.”
“A plan? Ha.”
Brooklyn laughed with a disturbing tone of disbelief like I had just said I could levitate.
“I've got it all figured out. Everyone needs to hitchhike.”
I thought I would give him the three-part plan in tiny pieces. And just when he had realized the amazing potential of one part I would start with the next part.
“What?” he would say, “You mean there's more? Unbelievable. How did you come up with this,” he would shout. But he didn't shout now. Instead he said,
“Wow, you are really mature now. I'm amazed by your far-sighted philosophy. 'Everyone needs to Hitchhike.' Jesus. Did you come up with that all on your own or did some hippie acid head give you help?”
“I developed it alone. I had a vision,” I said proudly.
“Wow! It is so revolutionary. I mean, an entire generation of idiots like yourself didn't espouse the same total bullshit and then abandon it when the revolution collapsed in the mud and slime at Woodstock. No, you are the original idiot. At least you aren't talking about Ray Knight anymore.”
Clearly, he needed time to digest my plan.
“Speaking of revolution. I believe in a non-violent revolution starting right here in Washington DC.”
“Sure thing, Gandhi. You know, we already had one Martin Luther King and he was shot in the neck.”
“I'd be proud to be shot in the neck for an honorable cause.”
“Ogden, if you can stop being such a complete moron and go to the Performing Arts Center I might come and get you. That is, if you are ready to stop being an asshole. It's up to you.”
“Brooklyn, I just walked across the Potomac. The performing arts center is miles from here. Where are you?”
“I'm about half an hour away to the south.”
“Where is Fairfax?”
“A half hour to the west.”
“So its an hour. Come get me and bring me to Rose.”
“I guess you aren't ready to stop being an asshole. That is too bad you choose to be an asshole. Really too bad.”
“You are the asshole, Brooklyn. You. Not me. You!”
“Watch your hippie mouth or I'll hang up and then call the police on you.”
“Too late, they are already looking for me after I pissed on the White House lawn.”
“Why are you are such a punk? Tell me that. I'm going to kick your punk ass when I see you again.”
“When will that be?”
“In about an hour in front of the Performing Arts Center. I hate this. Isn't there a way you could just call Rose?”
“I don't know her number.”
“You don't know anything? Why do you have to be such a fahking idiot? Will you answer that? You cross the country and all you have is my phone number. How did you survive being so stupid? Why do you have to be such a fahking asshole, Ogden?”
I had gotten used to these leading questions of Brooklyn's. The trick was to just let them go unacknowledged, even when he added sarcasm.
“One hour in front of the Arts Center. I'll be waiting. Can you get there or are you going to remain an utter imbecile? Just give me a straight answer.”
“Yes.”
“Good. If I don't show go hit Bush up for a place to sleep.”
“I wouldn't piss on Bush with your dick.”
“Love it or leave it, hippie-boy.”
“I'm just going to hate and judge it,” I snapped back.
“One hour. Be ready. You can't stay here tonight. Bye.”
He hung up as I was about to say that if I couldn't stay with him then he had to drop me off in Fairfax. Why else was I calling him? For a friendly chat?
So I walked across the Potomac again and gritted my teeth with every step. Luxury Cars sped by me on the road and I threw pennies at them all. They didn't realize I had the three-part plan to save the planet tucked away in my brain. Soon they would learn to respect me. Finally, I arrived at the huge Performing Arts Center and sat near enough to the entrance to make everyone uncomfortable. I took my shoes off and aired my swollen, crippled feet. I sat and watched The Rich enter the Center to be entertained like Roman royalty. There was some sort of opera being performed for the enjoyment of the swine. Brooklyn showed up about two hours later. He was pissed off. We had not seen each other in three years.
“Jesus, you picked a shitty time to drag your ass here, Ogden. I don't have time to drive you to Fairfax. I don't have time to come here. Why are you so stupid? Get in, knucklehead.”
“But what the hell? You are useless to me if I can't stay with you and you won't bring me to Fairfax. You are dismissed.”
“If I have to tell you to get in one more time, I'm going to beat your ass in front of God and the World. Get the fahk in the car!”
The Rich looked down their slave owning, Indian killing noses at me. They probably thought I was a gay prostitute haggling over price. Brooklyn pointed his finger at me over the car. He had always been a little shorter than me because he was often hunched over from rage. He had the standard GI buzz cut accented by black GI issue glasses. His olive drab T-shirt dangled around his arms. Even when his arms weren't crossed, they looked like they were crossed in defiance, like he was waiting for me to throw a punch.
“Get in or do I have to beat you? Is that what you want? Do you want to get hit?”
“See, you prove my point. The military breeds violence.”
“Bet your ass it does. I'm about to demonstrate how much violence it breeds on your scrawny, hippie ass. Look at your feet! Jesus! You're as thin as a corn stalk. You look like a coolie. What the hell happened?”
I bathed in the attention and picked a flake of skin from my heel and threw it at the Opera people.
“Life happened. This is the price I paid for the three-part plan.”
“Well, don't expect me to do anything about it. Get your hippie shoes on and get in.”
“But what am I going to do if I can't sleep at your place?”
“You are going to a hotel. Maybe we can find one that takes idiots.”
“I just crossed the country without sleeping a hotel. You think I am going to get to the last stop and sleep in a hotel? I'll sleep in jail first. I'm going to sleep in the bushes with the rest of the homeless people. At least they will accept me and my plan.”
“I hope one of the parts of your plan involves getting a brain. They'll rob you, Ogden.”
“Hotels are where the police force people to sleep. They...”
“That's it!”
Brooklyn started to walk around the car with fury in is eyes and his fists clenched. The old-money opera patrons shook their heads. Even an elegant evening had to be ruined by perverts.
After a brief struggle, I got in the car. Brooklyn sped past the Nation's Capitol building in his sky blue Yugo. I looked at the crummy, foreign made interior.
“The Army is being real good to you, I see. They set you up in style. The President sleeps on a fahking velvet cushion every night and the people he gets to fight his war drive shitty Yugos made in the very country we're attacking. Chairman Mao was more fair, Brooklyn. Let me guess, the President drives a deluxe Yugo.”
“Mind your hippie mouth.”
“So you are really going to go to War. What has the Bleacher family come to? Paid Mercenaries?”
“Damn straight. I'm not a hippie peacenik like you. I believe in defending the country. If you were a man you'd enlist. But you aren't a man. You're a mouse.”
“Violence begets violence. An Eye for an eye only...”
“Big fahking surprise. Cowards always find a way to justify their cowardice. You go hide while I defend freedom. Go on, you little mouse.”
Brooklyn's rhetoric was thick enough to spread on toast. I had developed a few responses to this line of reasoning during my hour long arguments with the wackos who picked me up off the side of the road. Every other one had been a staunch Republican who had picked me up only to lash me with insults. Of course, I held my tongue because I needed the damn ride, but later, when I was crouched beneath a bridge, I would rebut all the arguments with delicious cleverness. I finally felt the time was right to unleash my hidden weapon.
“Defending Freedom? Is that what you call it? Defending the country's oil interests more like it. Defending my right to watch Nascar.”
“You can thank me for your right to publicly disagree with the government,” said Brooklyn mechanically.
“Really? Your name is Thomas Jefferson? Wow! You signed the Declaration of Independence? You fought in the Revolutionary War? Thanks, Brook. Now, did you fight at Bunker Hill or at Plumsooktown? No? Because unless the dates of your service include 1779, then the only person you're fighting for is Ali-Fahking-Baba over in Kuwait who couldn't give a shit about your heathen ass.”
The facts, as I understood them, were that Iraq had invaded Kuwait. Kuwait collapsed and the rape ensued. Meanwhile, President Bush said, “This aggression will not stand.” Battleships were deployed to the Persian Gulf. Troops packed their bags and flew to Saudi Arabia. My brother was just waiting his turn. Etc. My honest feeling was that Kuwait was just out of luck. Doubtless, they'd had a good run at the high life with the money earned from selling their oil reserves to the over-consumptive Americans. Hooray for them, but nothing lasts forever. If they were going to live in this world, I felt, they would need to learn to defend themselves and not use Joe Alabama from Montgomery to take one in the ass for them. If Canada invaded Vermont I wouldn't expect Kuwait to send troops to defend Lake Champlain. All right, it isn't the most developed or comprehensive strategy, but I figured it was worth a try. If it were up to Joe Alabama, I think he would agree. Anyway, this political position somehow placed me at a level equivalent to Benedict Arnold in terms of patriotism. Not one person on the trip had said, “You know, Ogden, I think you're right. If we can risk war, can't we risk peace?” Brooklyn was no different.
“Shut your hippie mouth. Why did I pick you up? Everything told me to leave you to the dogs, but I had to be the big brother. Now you piss peace in my face. Some thanks. Just shut up.”
“Oh, is that how freedom works in America? You don't like what I say so you tell me to shut up? Interesting. Now, when you were defending my freedom, did you fight for the Continental Army or the Revolutionary Army? Maybe we can visit Saratoga so you can fill me in on the details of your bravery. I'm curious about how my right to protest was really secured back in the eighteenth century. Thank you for adopting the Bill of Rights, Brooklyn. Which one are you responsible for? Let me guess. Number two. Thanks for defending the Constitution against those vicious Iraqis. The whole core of our Government is based in Kuwait City. Everyone knows that. If Kuwait City falls then you might was well lower the flags and surrender. America is finished!”
“You are an asshole, Ogden.”
I ignored him and plunged on, erupting in a flow of rhetoric that had been building up for a month by the side of the road. I was sure that all the world's problems had been solved by some hitchhiker somewhere, but the world wasn't listening. I was determined to find at least one pair of ears that could hear me.
“Hanoi and South Korea, why, those are like state capitals to good old America. What would America be without the Bay of Tonkin to call our own? Isn't the Constitution on display in Kuwait? Or is it Hanoi? I forget. Cause some fifteen year old girl in Hiroshima was such a god damn threat to my ability to protest. Ha! What we really need is an Army base in Cuba because those Commies are going to float their 1955 cars over and invade Miami. They...OH, wait a second...we already have an Army base in Cuba. Imagine that!
“I know. I was stationed there, hippie. Defending your freedom.”
“Let me explain something, Mr. Defender of Freedom. My right to protest was given to me by my mother when I popped out of her and started to cry. Alright? You and George fahking Bush can only take it away. So don't give me any of your patriotic bullshit about defending my freedoms unless your name is George Washington or unless the sissy bitch Canadians attack Detroit! My freedoms are not threatened now, they weren't threatened in 1968 Vietnam, they weren't threatened in 1950 Korea and they haven't been threatened since 1812! You are not shipping out with Andrew Jackson to fight the Battle of New Orleans, Brooklyn. You are going to Kuwait, a place that didn't exist when my freedom to protest, the First Amendment, was adopted in 1791. So unless Iraq threatens to repeal the First Amendment, and has the balls to back it up, then my freedoms are not in danger and you are not fighting to protect them. What do you have to say about that?”
“Love it or leave it. Freedom ain't free.”
I couldn't believe my speech, well-reasoned and passionately delivered, had been totally ignored. I figured I deserved an award for such a strong argument. Maybe I could be an ambassador to France one day like Thomas Jefferson.
“Love it or leave it? I don't like those choices. I think I'll stay and just try to change things like a couple hippies named George, Tom and Ben. If some rich congressman thinks I'm going to go protect his ill-gotten real estate he can kiss my puckered brown asshole. As for you, you bought the lie. You hope they'll cast a statue after you but look around; all you have is a Yugo. You give your life and they keep the riches. You know, you're right. Freedom isn't free. It is worth exactly the amount of lives poor people think should be sacrificed for the rich. You are one more life added to the pot. But I guess I'm just being subversive and anti-American. Look! There is old Abe Lincoln. I'm sure he would approve of this war. He should support our poor troops even when they fight their white trash counterparts in Iraq. Freedom isn't free? No, you're wrong. Actually, Freedom is Free. War is what isn't free. If we maintain freedom with war then freedom won't be free. If we maintain freedom with peace and selflessness and sacrifice and generosity then not only is freedom free, it is profitable.”
“Are you still flapping your hippie jaws? You know true Americans support this war. Only hippie freaks like you oppose it because you are all cowards. Cowardly little mice who hide behind philosophy and the bodies of the brave. You don't know the value of Freedom! This country gives you liberty and you repay it with hippie bullshit.”
“Ernesto said that Liberty can only be taken away. It can not be given or granted. Don't pretend a government can grant liberty. It isn't theirs to give.”
“Bullshit. Ernesto had his head up his ass. The Government gave you freedom and they can take it away from you. Are you too much of an idiot to realize that?”
“Freedom is just a word. You aren't free.”
“Oh, no? How do you figure, Mr. Political Philosopher, College Dropout, Motherfucker?”
Ernesto had made it sound so simple, but I couldn't remember how he had phrased it.
“'Cause some people think God is a Rapist and Freedom isn't the same for slaves and Missionaries.”
Brooklyn chuckled at my incoherence.
“You don't say? Well, that changes everything. In fact, now I think you are an even bigger idiot than before. What the hell have you been doing out in California? Are you a Goddamn communist?”
I couldn't explain myself like my old roommate, Ernesto. He was right, wisdom couldn't be taught. I had to lead by example.
“Listen, you can sell anything if you sandwich it between a car ad and a hamburger ad. Drape it in an American Flag and you could sell a 'Whopper' to Ronald McDonald. Never mind that if the armed forces of every nation sought to redistribute wealth in their own interests, instead of protecting the most wealthy 2% of the population like those heartless exploiters back at the Opera, then World Peace would be ensured, instead of threatened. But I'm just an ungrateful hippie communist, aren't I?”
“Yes. You really are an idiot.”
Brooklyn said this with mock amazement, as though my lack of intelligence had been the talk of the town and he could no longer deceive himself.
“Like I said, Love it or leave it.”
“That is such a trite and childish thing to say. I can't oppose it and stay?”
“No. You can't.”
“I can't do both in this 'free' country? It is one or the other?”
“Now you are making sense.”
“Oh, yeah? Well of the two of us, which one is leaving and which one is staying? Huh? If I can't love America and stay then why can you love America and leave? Huh, hypocrite? You are the one leaving. Not me.”
“That's different. Obviously.”
“How is it different? You tell me to love America or leave it but you are the one with a plane ticket to fahking Arabia and I'm the one going back to Bone Harbor, New Hampshire. Why are you all of the sudden the war hero? Why are you the patriot when you are leaving America and I'm staying? The way I see it I am the patriot because I don't want to leave and you are the traitor because you are leaving. Last I checked the Constitution is in Washington and not Kuwait City. You can't love America while shooting at towel heads from a sand dune in fahking Arabiastan. In fact, the moment you start fighting for the towel heads, you become one. You are the camel jockey. Not me. I'll be eating grilled cheese sandwiches at Gillies while you and your Sand-monkey brothers shoot at each other over in Sinbad land..”
“Where did you go to school? You sound completely insane.”
“Are you going to read a copy of the Koran too? You might as well pray to Allah since you're going to be fighting for your Ali-Baba friends. Cause you aren't fighting for me, that's for sure. You know why? Because I'm going to be back here eating a Moes sandwich in Prescott Park and you are going to be on the other side of the planet killing Ali-Baba and his friends. It sounds to me like you are the one leaving America to the dogs and I am the one who loves it enough to stay. It isn't like this is the Revolutionary War, Brook. You are fighting Ali-Baba so we can have daily flights from Boston to Las Vegas, so Business men can pay whores to have sex with them, so we can pay for our donuts from our cars. I hate to break it to you but you aren't defending the American way, Brook. While you and Ali-Baba are over there eating Arabian sand, the real Americans are going to be back here in the land called America. People who love America don't leave it; they defend it from their own front steps, not from the sand dunes of Ali-Baba land. The day the fahking Canadians attack Miami will be the day I grab a gun and hup-two-three-four up to Vermont to shoot Canadians. Until then, I'm not doing shit. I will defend American soil, not Arabian sand. I don't owe those Arabs one monkey nickel. They are on their own. Fahk them and the camel that Allah rode in on. You are leaving America, not me, but you claim to love it more than me. How do you justify that?”
Brooklyn's upper lip quivered as he struggled to rationalize his actions. I saw this hesitation as my opportunity to resume my attack.
“You are the one flying to Arabia and leaving America. Doesn't that mean, by your own logic, that you are the one who doesn't love America? Aren't you the only one in this car abandoning your country? It seems to me that I am the one who loves America more because I refuse to leave while you have been convinced by the Bush junta to fly on a fahking airplane fifty thousand miles away to kill people who haven't lifted a finger against America. How interesting. So by your own logic you are the one who is leaving America and I am the one who loves America. What a strange development. How curious. I've got truckers and Republicans and Marines telling me to Love America or leave it and yet they are the ones leaving America to defend Ali-Baba and the forty thieves while I am the one staying. How do you explain that Mr. Love It Or Leave It? Would you care to restate your little platitude of idiocy? No? For decades punks like you have been using that little line against intellectuals like myself but only today have I revealed the flaw. It only works if you also refuse to leave America. It only works if we are being attacked by an army from Canada or Mexico and American cities are being looted. It does not work as part of some weird domino theory that demands 23 year olds from Bone Harbor, New Hampshire must arm themselves and fly to Arabia to shoot at people who couldn't point to America on a map and who wipe their asses with their fingers! Your saying doesn't work because you are leaving the country you proclaim to love. Kant would say that not all Americans could leave America to defend it because then America would be abandoned. Thus the maxim of your action is a contradiction. You can't do both; you said so yourself. You either love America or leave it. One of us is a patriot and one of us is a traitor. I'm going back to Bone Harbor, New Hampshire in the U.S.A. Where are you going, Brother? Where goest thou?”
“You fahk! Get out of my lane!”
Brooklyn swore at the traffic merging from the right. He was totally untouched by my lecture. He might not have even heard most of it. How had Ernesto been so convincing? I could not believe that, of everyone on this road, I was the only one who understood the true nature and source of conflict. Was I the only one who saw the value of my three-part plan? I felt like the Messiah whose sermon is ignored because there was donkey racing going on at the same time. I might as well have not spoken. But I kept going anyway.
“If you would follow one of the parts of my Three-part plan then you wouldn't have to screw with drivers like that.”
“I get to shoot them according to your plan?”
“No. You hitchhike. See. If everyone hitchhikes then our troubles are over.”
I prepared myself for the dawning of a new moral era in Brooklyn's face but was concerned when I only saw the same scowl and clenched jaws.
“Why should I hitchhike? I'm not doing any such shit. Don't be stupid.”
“But we have to conserve resources. Think about the resources.”
“You asshole. We're the ones fighting for oil. We should be the ones who get to use it.”
“But what about kids?”
“Let them fight their own war. Let them die for it. If they aren't willing to put their asses on the line then maybe they will be the ones to start hitchhiking. Right now we are the top dog on the street and what we say is law. So put that in your hippie pipe and smoke it.”
“So, I don't know what I'm talking about? I'm just a bearded anti-nationalist?”
“Yes. If you want equality then go to Iraq. Be a camel jockey. You'll fit right in with your hippie beard. Just put a towel on your head. They'll really embrace your vision of equality right after they convert you to Islam and arrange a marriage for you to a woman who can be stoned to death for cheating on you. Go ahead. Hitch a hippie ride to the Persian Gulf.”
“Let me ask you something, baby-killer. How can they be peaceful when we consume all the resources on the planet?”
“Hey, they're towel heads and I'm gonna go kill 'em. Those sand-monkeys fahked with the wrong people this time.”
“They fahked with Kuwait. Not America!”
“Love it or get the fahk out!”
“You are not my brother. You are NOT! MY! BROTHER! I hate you.”
I pointed hysterically to the thousands of cars surrounding us, the acres of neon lights advertising meat and tacos and couches and televisions all destined for the Jones Ave. dump.
“Why do you think this exploitation of resources is unrelated? Why do you expect a nation like Iraq to watch America deplete the Planet's resources and establish military bases everywhere without a reaction? Why? Then you get mad when they try to get a piece of the pie. You are so ignorant.”
“No, brother. You are the ignorant one. You know nothing. Go back to California if you want to spout your socialist, hippie bullshit. America is the big dog on the street.”
He jabbed his finger onto the dashboard.
“This is my house! If you don't like it then Get! The fahk! Out!”
I shook my head and made a face like I'd just swallowed a beetle.
“If they put a statue on your grave I Will! Piss! On! It!”
The stress of driving and arguing at the same time on top of whatever petty responsibilities he had for his job proved to be too much.
“YOU'LL NOT DO ANYTHING BECAUSE I'M GOING TO PUNCH YOU IN THE FAHKING MOUTH YOU UNGRATEFUL TRAITOR I'LL KILL YOU IF YOU SAY ANOTHER WORD I'LL TEAR OUT YOUR TRAITOR TONGUE AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR TRAITOR ASS. SHUT! UP! JUST! SHUT! YOUR! HIPPIE! MOUTH!”
“Let me out. I'll just sleep in those hedges.”
“They'll arrest you, Ogden. They might shoot you. By God, I would.”
“They won't shoot me.”
“Yes, they will. This is a military base on high alert. For all they know, you are a fahking terrorist conspirator. They will shoot first and cover-up later. That is how nations survive.”
For the first time I realized we were entering an Army installation with lights and fences and armed twenty-year olds. Clearly, the world had gone crazy.
“What the fahk? Where are we? Haven't you been listening to me?”
“Welcome to
“But there are guns here and tanks and missiles.”
“And they're all aimed right at
“Motherfucker, how could you take me here?”
“Hey, hippie, I'm in the Army. Remember? Where did you think I lived? A kibbutz?”
“I can't believe you are making me sleep on a military base. This is the one place on earth I don't want to be. The. One. Place. I am a votary of peace. How can I be a votary of peace on a military base?”
“I don't know and I don't give a damn. You shouldn't have called me. You could have just gone to sleep on the side of the road like the other homeless traitor crackheads. You could have slept like a dog in the dirt like all the other cowards your age. I wouldn't have known anything about it. But when you called me I had to take responsibility for you. Since you were deprived of a brain by mom it is my curse to make sure you wipe your ass. Maybe you will stop being an asshole one day and then I will be free of this duty. But for now you are going to sleep in that hotel room. One night won't kill you.”
“I've betrayed everything I believe in.”
“So?”
“So take me off of here. You owe me for taking 'Xanadu' away from me.”
“Fahk you and fahk Xanadu. And what the hell are you talking about? Xanadu? Have you lost your mind?”
“Remember that time you beat me up in my room? I was trying to record 'Xanadu' off the radio and you stopped me. I never got a chance to record it.”
“When the hell was that?”
“1980. October, I think. The Sox had just gotten eliminated. And you ruined my plan.”
“Well, golly gee. Maybe I should tell the base commander to put the war on hold until I resolve this terrible wrong. How could I have been so inconsiderate? How heartless of me.”
“That is exactly what I thought.”
“Well, I was so inconsiderate because you are an asshole and have always been an asshole. I'm glad I denied you the pleasure of recording 'Xanadu'. I'm actually happy. I'll go to sleep tonight and laugh to myself that I caused you grief for ten years. All because of a stupid disco song. And I got to beat you up. It's perfect!”
“You are not my brother,” I said and then I looked at him directly in the eyes. “It wasn't disco either. It was pure pop magic!”
“Pure pop shit.”
I was exhausted and just shook my head.
“Why can't you give me an ounce of approval? First, you make me miss my chance to record 'Xanadu' and now you piss in my milk bowl. You've never accepted me. We are not brothers.”
Brooklyn returned my stare with a coldness that made me cringe. He spoke slowly and deliberately as though these were the final words to be spoken on this subject.
“If you want approval then go watch On Golden Pond. This is the real world, Ogden. You earn your approval out here by doing more than flipping backwards off a friggin' dock or walking your smelly hippie ass across the country. If you don't like that then Fahk. You. Because that is how the game is played. You've had your say tonight. You've pissed on my country enough. Now it's my turn to talk. You bring your pitiful three-part plan to the table? Fine. It isn't enough. You bring your hitchhiking stories to the table? Fine. They aren't enough. If that is all you have to offer then I am here to tell you it isn't enough. You have shit to deal and thus you can't play the game. You are no one. OK? Guns and bullets and bombs speak to these human ears. Your hippie speeches will die with you. If you don't get that through your head then we have nothing more to talk about.”
“I do not agree with what you say, Sir, but I will defend to the death your right to say it. Sir Walter Raleigh said that. He was a man.”
I recited these words with the same noble pride Ernesto had recited them with on countless occasions. Brooklyn's response was disappointing.
“Whatever, hippie. Until you go through Basic Training and earn a patch, then those words don't mean shit to me, Ogden. You couldn't defend a Twinkie from a pack of mice in your condition. Now get out of my car. I'm done with you.”
I was forced, basically at gunpoint, to spend my last twenty dollars to rent a sterile, dusty room on a military base that was, in the name of Nascar, actively preparing for an armed assault on one of the oldest cities in the world. One day I was sleeping on the side of the highway, a sovereign citizen of the planet, the next day I was an accomplice to nuclear warfare on the Arab world. A real revolutionary would have set himself on fire in the hotel room, but I was a coward, a mouse like Brooklyn had said. I almost went and slept in the hedges, but there were armed guards everywhere. The troops were positively thrilled to see some action and I didn't want to give them some live practice. Why, oh why, had I left the warm folds of the Red Sox nation? Ernesto had convinced me I could make a difference, but my own brother broke my shine box. I longed for a chance to view Marty Barrett drive in Wade Boggs in the top of the tenth. I lay in bed that night listening to the military machine grind toward the destruction of a peaceful desert people and there was nothing I could do about it.
In the morning, Brooklyn came back and drove me to Fairfax. On the way I bought some berries to eat with the last of my change. It was my gesture to a fruit farmer.
“No wonder you're so thin. What the hell kind of hippie breakfast is that?”
“I no longer eat animal products.”
This was a proud ethical importation from California. The uber-health of the rock climbers and hiking buffs was so infectious that I tried to emulate everything they did. This included banishing any form of animal product from my diet, getting regular exercise, conserving the all-important resource, and plotting the overthrow of the government. Sadly, this plan didn't get me laid, but I came very close a few times, and I did recycle just about everything.
“Flesh is for maggots,” I announced.
“On, no! Are you going to be an asshole all your life? You really are a Hindu sand-monkey. Am I going to have to hear your bullshit about the liberty of cows?”
“If you want. Vegetarianism is a by-product of my three-part plan. I somehow doubt it will make much difference with you, though.”
I picked up two double cheeseburger wrappers off the Yugo's floorboard. Brooklyn smiled with satisfaction as though his decadence and gluttony had been entirely to spite my beliefs.
“Yeah. You know what? I threw half of one of those out the window. I just wasn't hungry anymore. Hundreds of people starving in Washington Park and I was just too full. Ah well. Too bad for them. Too bad they're jobless street punk cowards and I have a cushy job wasting tax money. Couple thousand Iraqi kids die in Baghdad? Fahk 'em.”
We carried on this conversation like any two normal people in a car. Someone looking into our car might have thought we were discussing the weather or bird migration patterns instead of heaping insults on each other. Having never spent much time around brothers, I assumed this was how they all acted. The emotion of last night was gone. Now we were just saying our lines because we didn't want to reveal anything personal.
“I find myself hating you more and more every day, Brooklyn. That surprises me. I thought I hated you as much as I would ever hate you when you told the motel desk clerk to give me the “Hippie special” and he gave me a room without running water, but I was wrong. I hate you more today. Yesterday you were like a DEFCON 3 asshole. Today I think you are at DEFCON 4. Congratulations.”
“Save your breath for your hippie friends in California. I eat what I eat. It is like Terry Malloy said, 'Do it to him before he does it to you.'“
“Friend of yours?”
“No. Marlon Brando. On the Waterfront. Never mind. I'll bet you object to movies now too.”
“Actually, I watched a man die on the trip here. That was no movie. Movies corrupt reality. He was in Colorado. He was a veteran and he died like a dog. There will be no statues of him. No movie would show that because then you might not go get killed protecting Kuwait while people die in the streets of the capitol. Is that the America you want? This war is going to last ten years. It will cripple the economy and drive our generation into debt.”
“We aren't fighting Martians, Ogden. This War will be over faster than these monkey towel-heads can pray to Allah. Faster than you can hitchhike across the country.”
“But it is so wrong. Am I the only one who sees the faulty ethics?”
“There is no wrong and right. There is no philosophy. I told you that last night. Your ideas don't matter in this world. Ideas don't solve problems. Guns do. Guns and bullets and bombs speak to human ears better than your pitiful poetry and ideas. You make me sick. You are a fahking coward. You sit on freedom like a treasured egg waiting for it to hatch a Constitution. But you refuse to protect it. You are a pussy. A sissy bitch.”
“Ernesto called me a coward because I wouldn't stand up for free speech. Now I'm a coward because I am standing up for free speech. I can't win.”
It had taken a summer of arguing for Ernesto to convert me from a Red Sox obsessed maniac to a warrior for social change. Now I saw that I couldn't even convince my brother to leave the Army. My life was a waste.
“Ernesto was a hippie too. A hippie coward. Free Speech has brought this country to the brink of destruction. We've got hippies crying about peace. Lazy homeless cowards crying for handouts. Well, I don't see 'em fighting for what this nation stands for. We can't protect freedom if we stay in Virginia. That isn't the strategy that made us the most powerful nation on the planet. That isn't how we put the boot to Russian's red neck. We've got to defend freedom everywhere. What the fahk do you think the United Nations is? You ignorant hippie bastard. That is what it takes to keep the world free. Guns and bullets and bombs speak to human ears. Your ideas don't mean shit, you mouse.”
“I do not agree with what you say, Sir, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”
“Christ. Just what the Bleacher's need. A fahking Beatnik, Luddite convert. I should kick your petty ass out right here. You make me sick. Why do I have such a retard for a brother?”
“You may call me a dreamer but I'm not the only one,” I sang.
“I called you an asshole, Ogden, not a dreamer. You are an asshole and a coward along with the skeleton of that hippie John Lennon.”
We drove around George Mason University, but I all I had was a post office box number. Finally, I just got out and decided I would look for Rose on foot.
“Ogden, why do you have to be an idiot? There are 20,000 people who go to this school. You will never find her without a number. Never.”
“I'll find her.”
“Get back in the car or I'll beat you. Now I'm gonna have to drive your stinky ass around some more. Fahk! Now I'm gonna have to play the adult because you are too much of a child. When will you just grow up? Now I'm about to get REALLY. PISSED! OFF! Why can't you do one thing right?”
“Go away. Thanks for nothing. I'll find her. She runs track. I'll just find the track. Eventually she'll go there.”
“Great plan. What if she has an away meet? Huh? What then, Sherlock? What happens after your stupid plan fails? Do you call me and beg for another ride or will you hide in the bushes of a major University hoping Rose walks by? Are you going to be an asshole or will you just continue being an idiot? Huh?”
This last 'question' of Brooklyn's was an indication that our visit had come to an end. His rhetorical questions no longer had a good choice. We had spent about 80 minutes in each other's company in the last three years and he had just asked if I was going to be an asshole or an idiot. Clearly, our relationship had nowhere to go but down.
“Then I'll sleep until she shows up.”
“So you chose to be an asshole again. I can't believe you are my brother. Why are you being so stupid? Can you be more of an asshole? Is it possible? I won't come back here.”
“Fine. Go away.”
“Ogden, I don't care what happens to you. I will never come back here to help. Do you have any money?”
“I have my berries and I have my health.”
“Lord! Where did you leave your brain? Did you leave it on the side of the road with your raincoat? Did you pawn it off for some food? It's clear you have no brain. You are not my brother. Here is five dollars.”
“I don't want your blood money. You work for a killing machine. Go buy some ammunition to kill children. I would sooner starve to death and eat my own shit than take your mercenary money. After ten years of War, five dollars won't be enough to wipe my ass with. This war will cripple the nation's economy for five decades. You watch.”
“Are you going to be a complete idiot for your whole life? Take the money.”
HE waved the five dollar bill in front of me but I felt it was my duty as a revolutionary to refuse it.
“I don't want blood on my hands. I have something called political convictions. Ever heard of them? No? I didn't think so. Innocents are being slaughtered, Brooklyn.”
“You are a true idiot. Iraq invaded Kuwait and is looting it. We are going to kick righteous ass.”
“I predict disaster. A minimum of ten years of death and destruction. America will never recover.”
“I predict I'm going to punch you in the face.”
“You will kill children. War's only victims are children. I condemn it.”
“Real brave political statement, Ogden. Look at the people flock to you. Look! What are you, pacifist now too?”
“Gandhi was a pacifist.”
Brooklyn pretended to be amazed.
“Wow. Now I understand. I was so deluded before. I was so...unenlightened, but you have helped me learn the truth. Thank you, Ogden. I'm going to ask for a discharge as soon as I get back to the base. I'll be a conscientious objector like all you hippie cowards! Then I will follow you around and spread the message of your three-part plan while America is turned into a concentration camp!. I'm going to lead a better life thanks to your teachings. 'Gandhi was a Pacifist.' Why didn't I think of that? Of course! Peace is so simple. I was a fool to have missed it.”
“They mocked Gandhi too. I...”
“And they shot him in the fahking chest, you moron. Bullets speak to human ears. Not ideas. For god's sake, take my money. I won't be back. I'm already late.”
“Go back to your War machine. I refuse your blood money. You are dismissed.”
“I hate you. Never call me again. I hope you starve, you hippie.”
“Fine. I...”
He drove away before I could tell him I hate the sin and not the sinner. I also wanted to remind him that he owed me 'Xanadu'. It was October, 1990, and that was the last time I saw my brother before he went to Kuwait. I hadn't had a chance to reveal the full genius of the three-part plan. The next time I spoke to him, 14 months later, he had been and returned from Iraq, and I had lost confidence in my three-part plan. Such is life.
My Christmas conversation ended with Brooklyn saying, “You will never amount to anything. I'll always be better than you. Say it. Say I'll always be better than you.”
“You owe me 'Xanadu', Brooklyn. You still owe me.”
“Sure thing, Bro. I'll get right on that. Why don't you go enjoy some of the freedom I gave you?”
“Here's Dad. Merry Christmas. Bye.”
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 12:12 AM
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