20 Years

—Come here, you have to see this.
—What is it?
—This is…wowee, come here.
They’re in the kitchen, the two of them. He is sitting at the table watching the small black and white Sanyo. There are dozens of people sat on the wall. Dozens more are chipping at it with sledgehammers, regular hammers, one man throws a sickle at the concrete barrier.
—Look at this, my father says and points to the small screen.
It’s David Hasselhoff with some sort of bandanna singing some awful shit into a microphone on top of the wall. Below him people are giving the peace or freedom sign and smoking cigarettes.
—We’re next, my mum says from the sink. She’s washing cups and forks.
—Wait for me to wipe the grease off them first, my father says, eyes glued to the television.
He’s always had a practical, peasant sense about him despite the unpractical peasant that he is. He is a product made by a country of contradictions.
—Mmda, he says. We’re next.
Although I realize this is a momentous spot in history, I really don’t care. Empires are built. Empires crumble. Whether they’re taken down by financial pyramid schemes, coups, or sledgehammers, it’s the same thing to me.
—We’re next, eh?
—We gotta be, I say watching them all try to dismantle the wall. There’s a weird futility about all this. Little people with cigarettes hanging from their lips running around with little hammers trying to take down a concrete and steel ideological divider. We’re right. You’re wrong. I say something about that. I don’t remember how I phrase it, though.
—Pfft, eh.
And then:
—Let me wipe off the grease before you wash the dishes.
Mum doesn’t pay attention to him.
—It’s all because of Reagan.
Mum agrees.
—Gorby might’ve had something to do with it too, I say.
—Eh, pfft.
I hate when he makes that sound. The Condescending Cock sound. The You’re An Idiot Who Doesn’t Know What He’s Talking About sound.
—Look.
Hasselhoff again.
—That’s that guy from ah…that movie with the car, he says.
Mum looks over at the small screen for a few moments, then goes back to the dishes.
—The grease’ll clog the, uh…
He’s hooked to the images.
Perestroika.
Glasnost.
Гласность
And then there’s the giant graffiti on the abandoned water tower just off New York Avenue, as your train inches into the District of Columbia: Solidarność
Movements and counter-movements. It all seems so silly.
—This is something, eh? This is…wowee, it’s…I mean…just it’s…eh? He looks at me. He looks at my mum. I’ve never seen my father on the brink of tears.
It doesn’t matter to me. Any of this. It doesn’t matter if I am here, there, anywhere. We are stupid. I think this now, even at age twenty. We are all so stupid. So little. So petty.
—Eh?
Yes. Eh.
Within three months I’ll be able to buy chunks of the wall from vendors down on Canal Street in Manhattan. K-Street in D.C.
Capitalism will have eaten Communism.
Will have outspent it.
—The grease’ll clog up the pipes if you don’t wipe…
I leave them both there. The house smells like old people. Mildew or…something foul that only old people give off.

The Assassination of an Author (A Simple Mission)

—Make it like this.
—How? I can’t do it.
—Eh you can’t do it. Do it! And stop pissing about.
—But it’s not straight enough.
—Like this. Give me the pencil. Look. Steady your hand on the paper.
The man drew a line protruding out from the rectangle; out toward the sky, which the boy had colored cerulean blue with his pencil.
—See? Like that.
—I can’t do that, the boy said. —My hand’s trembling. It’s crooked.
—Eh you can’t. Concentrate. Just copy mine. Over and over, for the rest of the buildings. Each one gets an antenna on top. See?
—I need a ruler.
—Eh, a ruler. Just concentrate. Go slowly.
The man had helped his son draw a crowded cityscape with crudely manufactured concrete government housing. The apartment buildings had large enough windows (also suggested by the father) to reveal their occupants—rudimentary drawn figures of men and women, each with a listening apparatus or pair of headphones, in the process of surveilling one another.
—What is this for if it’s not part of schoolwork?
—It’s for something…for me. Just for me. Make sure you put one on every building, understand?
The boy tried to keep his hand straight.
—Understand?
—Yes.
The man walked out of the room, through the small hallway connecting the flat to the kitchen, and into the bathroom. He clapped loudly and listened for electronic feedback. The boy heard the waterpik motor go on.
—Dad.
The man turned on the water faucet.
—Dad?

–

—I want you to come straight home from school. Understand?
He was sewing the drawing into the boy’s school coat lining. He looked like an awkward giant the way he held the small needle pinched in between his thumb and forefinger. He maneuvered it along the edge, making thread loops and closing them.
—No football, understand?
—Yes dad.
—What did I say?
—Yes dad.
—Tell me what I said.
—Straight home. No playing with Lucian or any of the others.
—Good man.
He pulled the thread tightly and closed the gap in the fabric. And then he made a triple knot with the hanging piece of leftover thread.
—You’ll need to take this to the consulate this afternoon. Alone. I can’t go with you. They can’t see me otherwise they’ll stop me.
—But dad…
—In your jacket like this, all right? Just put it on and walk normally.
—Why?
—Eh why. Just do what I say, that’s why. Walk normally. And don’t look behind you. Don’t let anyone stop you, understand? This needs to get to the consulate. If anyone calls your name, run. They’re expecting you. All right? Run for the gate. For the barrier. They’re looking out for you. All right?
—Yes dad.
—When you get to the gate, the Marine will ask you who you want to see. You tell him one word: scissors. Understand?
—Yes dad.
—What did I say? Look at me.
—Scissors.
—Good man. That’s a good man right there.
He patted him on his head.
He said:
—When you get back, I’ll have schnitzels ready. And mashed potatoes.
The boy did not say anything.
—All right? Your favourite, hey? That’s my good man.

Endings, Beginnings

In the New York Times to-day, reading about the closing ceremonies in Beijing (since I will not watch them later on this evening), David Barbosa, author of “Olympics Close With a Bang and a Double Decker Bus” writes in the opening paragraph:

“With another dramatic fireworks display Sunday evening at the National Stadium here, the Beijing Olympics came to a dazzling close, ending two weeks of spectacular athletic performances during an Olympic competition that was surprising free of protests or the disruptions that some, including Beijing, had anticipated.”

Surprisingly free of protests? Really. Surprising? In my opinion this is about as irresponsible a sentence as you can write as a journalist on staff of the Times. Do we not understand that the Chinese government is a Communist, repressive, totalitarian government? Are we really surprised that protests and disruptions never materialized? That the Communist Party itself is pleasantly amazed? If we are, we deserve to get run over by Soviet/Russian tanks, Georgia-style. We have got to be the most naive, egocentric, internationally-inexperienced citizens on this globe, save those obscure tribes in the Amazon (which, I’m quite sure are being slaughtered or pushed out by deforestation). This is what the Central Committee of a Communist party does: makes issues go away. Erases problems. People disappear for merely whispering. Or gathering. Even octogenarians get sent to be re-educated. No one’s safe. We better wake up and stop using froo-froo, laudatory language and kid gloves on this country. Call it for what it is: repressive, reprehensive, a relentless abuser of human rights, totalitarian. I fully realize that, politically, we have a different game on our hands, but the media ought to go full steam ahead and cut into China. We have a free press and so it must do its job. Let the politicians pussyfoot around and draft accords and protocols (which will be violated anyway, given the Chinese track record). The few articles I have read on abuses and crackdown by the Chinese government are relegated to page 7 or 8, and they often take a bit of a condescending tone, portraying those who protest as disturbers of the peace or militants or liberal “bleeding hearts.”

Despite my disgust, I watched enough Olympic Games to be revolted at the way this Awakened Giant comported itself on the world stage, and at the way we let it get away with it in the press. From the age controversy of its female gymnasts, the ridiculous apology of Liu Xiang, China’s gold medal hope in hurdles, who was injured and unable to defend his title in the 110-meter hurdles, to its obsession with the medal count and its #1 standing in gold medals won. Imagine having to apologize to an entire country for a chance, unforeseen injury. Imagine having let down your motherland because you’ve twisted your ankle training, and being held responsible for somewhat shaming your country by not even competing. But that’s what the Chinese government demands. Expects.

The focus now moves to London, in 2012. During the closing, Jimmy Page made a special appearance cranking out “Whole Lotta Love,” and Beckham took a football from a little girl’s arms in a presumed “handing over of the games” metaphor. Even a red, double-decker bus made an appearance in the infield, escorted by a bizarre trio of cyclists. Can we trot out any more stereotypes, please? How about a mob of hooligans armed with two-by-fours who proceed to beat the living daylights out of the spectators? How about a Yeoman Warder (a Beefeater) with his furry hat marching down, exchanging keys with the mayor of Beijing. A British judge donning his oh-so-recognizable wig and holding tightly to his leather docket. Hell, bring out the Queen. But wait. The Queen Is Dead. Unfortunately, the Olympic flame lives on. And so it goes. The world sporting attention now moves to New York City and the U.S. Open Tennis Championships. I’m rooting for Federer, but something tells me Nadal will swipe it all. It’s all right by me. I love the Spaniards. I love this passionate (and compassionate) kid. And so for Nadal here it goes: Vamos, cabron!

Summer is un-officially over around these parts and frankly I’m happy. Although the unrelenting heat will not dissipate until late October, this at least signals a change coming. I’m happy daylight hours are shorter. I’m happy my daughter is going back to school, back to a more structured environment of learning than summer camp. I’m happy at one point the leaves will turn and the temps. will drop (last year trees went completely bald by late November!!). Momentofchoice and I swung a quick little trip to the beach this past weekend and re-charged the batteries. You can go over to her joint and see what we did. We worked really hard, believe us. This autumn, I promise to come back with more fiction and less personal stuff. I’m also working on putting together the book of shorts. There will be some familiar stories, but they’ll be re-tooled and more material will be added to round them out better. We will publish it ourselves and you’ll be able to either buy an extremely affordable finished product, or simply download the manuscript for free in a .pdf file. I’m excited at the prospect. There is another project after that in the works.

Like most people enduring summer in southern United States, I suffered through an intellectual malaise infused and fed by triple-digit temperatures and overall indolence (maybe genetic, but we’ll swiftly dispel that notion and blame it on the heat).

I’ll see you on the other side of summer.