Sunday School

So I’m sitting in the pew (I know, you’re saying: “Shut up you hypocrite! What business does an agnostic have sitting in a pew?”...I guess that’ll be the subject of a future blog entry) and the priest says to the congregation, “The other day I got a phone call about one of my sermons. In the sermon, I wondered that maybe, just maybe, the wealth of wealthy Americans sometimes comes at the expense of poor people in other countries. Well, the caller was outraged that I had said this. It’s getting so you’re not allowed to wonder about things like that! In our country, CEO’s are paid millions of dollars while their foreign workers make twenty-five cents an hour!”

I glance around, attempting to gauge the reaction of the congregants.

Later, as I escort my little family to our little family car, I notice a Hummer parked in the church lot. We wait to see who owns it. A man and two kids hop aboard. We follow them out of the lot. Two blocks later, they pull into their driveway. Round trip to and from church in their Hummer: four blocks in the tree-lined streets of flat suburbia.

I thought maybe I should make a big deal about this, however, in accordance with my Glass-Half-Empty philosophy, I imagined that the Hummer had been the vehicle manned by the man’s wife, who had been killed in Iraq, which is why the family had the Hummer brought back to the States, in memoriam. And then wouldn’t I feel stupid?

The Heart of My Quagmire

Since Saturday morning, I've been experiencing an odd sensation. Every few minutes, I feel a sort of mild pressure in my left-center chest. At first, I thought it had something to do with my body's reaction to all those years of leaning left-center with a bleeding heart. So I went to my doc's for an EKG. "It's perfect," he said. "What's perfect?" I replied, "the metaphor?" He shrugged and wrote a prescription for a stress echocardiogram, on which was written Diagnosis: chest pain. "I don't really have any pain, just an odd sensation," I said, but by then I was driving alone on my way to work. When I called to make an appointment for the stress echo, I was informed that nothing was available for two weeks. Usually, my next step would be to research my symptoms online, but I've been so busy at work that I haven't had time. Of course, any symptoms associated with whatever conclusions I'd draw from online research would surely present as well.

You may recall that I've been sounding the call to shore up our chemical plants. Well, last week, our ineffective Senate killed, 48-47, a bid to shift $70 million from a Department of Homeland Security administrative account to grants for securing chemical plants from terrorism. So at least Tom Ridge will have lots of nifty pencils with DHS logos and whatever else administrative accounts cover.

And another thing...in the September 27, 2004 issue of Time, Michael Elliot cites an energy policy analysis:

the U.S. between 1977 and 1985 increased efficiency and cut oil consumption 17% and net oil imports 50%) while the economy grew 27%. The key to that revolution was a huge increase in average miles-per-gallon of the U.S. automobile fleet. If we had continued to increase energy efficiency at the same rate, the stability of Iraq and Saudi Arabia would by now be of minor concern to U.S. policymakers. Instead, we bought SUVs and wasted two decades.

If only I had not been lost in the health care system quagmire, I might have been able to help change things for the better. Seriously, if I don't make it, keep fighting to wake up our sleepy citizens.

I've decided to dedicate this blog to Elizabeth Rollins, who may or may not finally be reading my blog.

Train Tract 0204 (Part One)

Train Tract 0204 (Part Two)

Train Tract 0204 (Part Two)

To read Part One, go to Train Tract 0204 (Part One)

Train Tract 0204 (Part Two)

The sun is directly ahead, so I look left and right. I drive conscientiously, with my chin up and my back straight. Whenever the horrified pedestrians flail their arms wildly, shaping Vs and Xs, I wave and smile. I follow the center line as we pass through a quiet part of town. Business owners are still ghosting about behind closed doors. On my left I admire the pink and white pansies crowding window boxes before the brick facade of an insurance agency. Next door, a woman peeks through curtains in a tastefully decorated pet grooming shop. I lose a stop light in the sun, and I suspect that I may have clipped a pedestrian, but it’s hard to see behind the train. On my right, there’s a small market with an OPEN sign. I pull over and consider picking up some orange juice, maybe a muffin. My passengers are looking up from their laps and newspapers. I see a few frowns, so I open the right side window and lean outside. A man is running up the street toward the train. I wonder if he is the person I hit. I’m not sure whether or not my insurance would cover the incident, so I bounce back into my seat and pass up the snack.

As we head away from the center of town, the bothersome sun bleaching the windshield, I notice a large brick building on which the words WHITE RUBBER CO. MECHANICAL RUBBER GOODS had been stenciled a hundred years ago. This is a well-known landmark. I have passed it many times while driving on the North-South Thruway which rolls along the top of the ridge before me. In shade at last, I turn south, following an access road that skirts the base of the ridge for a few miles. I know that high above us, families and college kids and truckers and terrorists are gliding on modified asphalt. Then minutes later, I see a tunnel in the ridge, and on a whim I maneuver inside.

I have taken the route to blackness. Unsure of the way, I release the lever and coast. In the dark, it is impossible to know if we are drifting or still. Even the light inside the train does not penetrate the dark outside. I am breathing rapidly. I listen for sounds beyond the windows, but hear only the air moving through a vent above my head. I wrench the lever away from my body, hoping to back out slowly, but the way seems blocked. The engines struggle against an immovable force, and I release the lever. In the mirror, I blink at the concerned faces. There is language in my right ear, a sort of percussive beating, the wings of an insect or air in the bottom of a beaten drum. I am reminded of the barometers we made in elementary school. We stretched rubber skins over mason jars, secured them with rubber bands, and taped straws to the skins. I never really knew what the contraptions were supposed to do. I blink again, and the language is the English of a South Asian native. It seems too close. I turn to find my door ajar. Except for the reflection of fluorescent light in his silver hair, the man is a flat shadow. Next to him stands a young blonde fellow. Both men wear gray sports coats. The blonde man straightens his yellow tie.

“We know a better way,” says the Indian gentleman. His forehead skips forward from the shadow and I see the sweat like diamonds. Beneath his sports coat, he wears a white cashmere sweater.

“If you continue this way, you’ll come to an intersection,” says the blonde man. “Then you turn right.”

I tell them that the headlights aren’t working.

“Not a problem,” says the Indian man. “I’ve got a flashlight.”

“We'll guide you,” says his companion.

The Indian steps back and smiles, waiting. It all seems a bit odd, and I consider dashing past these men to resume my passenger status in the seat I vacated half an hour earlier. But over their shoulders, I see expectant faces, as if the passengers look to us to put our train back on track. Realizing that my joy ride has ended, I nod. The Indian man turns and leaves. I stare at the windshield and in a moment I see his flashlight zigzagging in the glass. The blonde man leans over and sets his right hand on my seat back. “Okay, now ease ‘er forward,” he whispers in my ear and pats my shoulder. “We’ll be home for supper.”

Behavior 101

We’re raising a generation of spoiled pansy-asses.

Well, what do we expect? We’re no longer allowed to spank or smack our kids when they’re bad. We threaten to throw away their favorite stuffed toys, an empty threat in a room stocked with countless favorite stuffed toys. We walk into another room and displace our anger at our kids by slamming a door or throwing a dish. We return and reason with them or work it out or work together to come up with a plan that works for everyone. So much work! The process could take a half a day. Our parents were allowed to do it right. They were allowed to beat our asses.

I know my five year old was over-tired. But we had to be somewhere at 9 pm. I don’t owe you an explanation...we just had to be there at 9 pm. And she would not move any faster. My anger simmmered, I developed a facial tic, and a primal yell erupted from my trembling core. “Nowwwwww!” I screamed. “We have to move now!” Still she sat, crying, not moving nowwwww. I picked her up by the scruff of the neck and tossed her into the car. Locking the doors and windows, I ordered her to get into her car seat, as I sped out of the driveway. “You pull a stunt like this again and I will BEAT your ASS!” I shouted.

As she regained her composure, eventually cooing and rocking a bit, I remembered the news I’d heard the other day. A man in a nearby town had been driving with his six year old daughter. Another car had slammed into them, killing the man. The girl was not hurt, physically. However, according to the news anchor, “she was too shaken to attend her first day of school.” Note to news anchor: Her father was killed in front of her eyes two days earlier, you imbecilic mannequin! Anyway, I checked my speed. At the next stop light, I reached around to caress my little girl as I apologized for my behavior.

So much for all those ass-beatings I received as a child. I still don’t know how to behave.

Train Tract 0204 (Part One)

In shade I sit and watch.

The sun initiates segregation.

Seekers of warmth, women mostly, migrate to the east side of the train, while those of us who do not mind cool air gravitate left. The sun has risen to an annoying position, and I raise my hand to shade my eyes.

She sits across the aisle, one row forward. First, I am aware of her voice, an inappropriate vocalization that suggests desire beyond a motel wall. It is distant, an unintelligible whisper and brool, struggling through the falsetto barrier and fluttering near high C. I accept that my chamber of concentration has been breached for the remainder of the journey. She wears a black polyester dress that exposes one beige-white, puckered calf. The sun flashes behind the transluscent outline of her gray head, its brittle hair crackling in death.

When we stop at Palmyra Station, a transit police officer boards the train. She spies the officer. Raising her voice for our benefit, she asks, “Can we get some heat on this train?” The officer is well out of range of her unseemly plea. “I’m just speaking my mind,” she mumbles, presumably responding to the tut-tutting of an unseen companion. She states her plea twice more, and I resist the urge to wrap my fingers around her throat, choking back that voice, its lustful perversion a shimmering jewel tangled in sinews and blood and molluscan secretions. I turn away.

At that moment, there is some commotion in the front of the train as the door of the driver’s compartment is flung open. The driver rushes past us. He disappears through the back door.

I make my move.

When I stand, her upper body whirls in my direction and stops suddenly as if she is tethered to her companion. Apparently unable to raise her chin, she gazes at me with cow eyes lodged in a paste of aging flesh. The moment passes in less than a second, and I move away from her forever. Focusing every resource on reaching the empty driver’s compartment, I wonder why no one else has thought of this. Stepping inside, I close the door. I anticipate the reaction, perhaps the crash of door against my skull, burly arms cradling my head and pulling me back to the passengers and beyond. But the officer seems to have left the car, and the passengers stare through their windows and laps and shoes. The train is mine.

I reach under the seat and remove a large, rounded key. It fits neatly into the ignition, and I fire up the deisel engine. My right hand rests on a lever, which I pull toward my belly. Just like that, we’re off. For a while, I am happy to be ambling forward, but soon, I reach for a sort of half-wheel. I turn hard to port, and we veer off the track, steel wheels cracking through asphalt, an ice boat in the arctic. I see the shock of it on faces in the mirror. But as we glide down a side street, passengers adjust and are complacent once more.

Train Tract 0204 (Part Two)