The Fantasy Years

ON THE RADIO, RUSH DISPARAGED and his listeners denounced right back. He fumed and his listeners grumbled. He jeered and his listeners hissed. And two friends in a small town in Ohio agreed:

“Troopergate is another Watergate,” said a goateed young man. It felt good to him to have some focus in the world, to have some view of the vague disorder of American life, from the vantage of the parking lot by the Frog’s Road House where he stood.

“And socialized medicine is communism,” replied his friend, as the two set aside their talk of sports, of chicks, of what to do on a Saturday night in a small town. “People try to change the labels. But it’s the same.”

“Like apples to apples,” said the goateed one in the steady voice of knowing youth.
“Or oranges to oranges,”
“Like Dr. Pepper to Mr. Pibb.”
“They’re the same.”
“They’re almost identical.”
“Like Sprite to 7Up.”
“Or Seltzer to Soda Water.”
“Or Coke to Pepsi.”
“Did I just hear you say Coke was like Pepsi?”
“Well…”
“No way, dude. How can you say that?”
“Okay, there’s some difference.”
“There’s a big difference, dude.”
“Well, they’re in the same category?”
“But you really think they’re the same?”
“They’re on the same shelf, at least.”
“How can you say that? That’s like saying a Ford and a Chevy are the same.”
“Not really.”
“No, it’s worse. It’s like saying a Marlboro and a Camel are the same. Everyone knows they’re different. Way different.”

Jenny could curse at the cashier. She could insult her. She could berate her, she thought to herself as she stood in line at the Sam’s Club. But she wouldn’t. Jenny wouldn’t think of making the kind of scene here that her customers made with her. It wouldn’t even cross her mind that she could act so hurtful to a stranger. But that was the difference between herself and her customers. Jenny was well-behaved. She didn’t act up. She didn’t act like a child.

Jenny, Rick and the boys stood in line at the Sam’s Club. There were at least a dozen packed carts in front of theirs. Families clustered protectively around the carts lined up before them, beside them, as far as the eye could see. In every direction. An army of carts waiting for checkout. The goods and items teetered in towering stacks. The shoppers waited in quiet anticipation for the transaction ahead. For the moment when the store’s stuff became their own.

Jenny and Rick each had a restraining hand on Joshua and Jakob, who hung outward from them, refusing to stand up straight. They let their weight hang, as they reached for the piles of candy stacked nearby. Whole sets of chocolate. Of liqueur-filled candies. Their clammy hands reached, strained to touch the plastic wrapped boxes.

“No,” Jenny said.
Rick shook his head, holding Jakob back.
Kids with the family ahead, older than the twins, reached and pointed for the stacked boxes of chocolate, too.

Jenny could see now they’d be in line for half an hour till they got to the check out. Imagine if I acted here the way my customers acted towards me, she thought. And a kind simmering righteousness welled up in her as she waited to pay for her bulk paper towels and case of Irish spring.

“Look at that,” Rick said. “They’re smart, putting all the chocolate at the kids height by the register.”

Joshua yanked at Jenny’s hand. “Lemme go for a second.” he said.

“No, you have to stay here.”

The thought stuck in her mind, advancing as slowly as the line. She couldn’t get past it, watching the people wait. Watching how they acted.

“Look at everyone here. You don’t see these customers saying the things to the cashiers that they say to us at work.”

“Because they actually have to face them,” Rick said. “That’s why.”

“That’s right. They’d be ashamed to act that way in person.”

“Mom, I want that!” Joshua pointed.

“Chocolate!” Jakob said.

“Boys, no.” Rick said. “But you know, here at least,” he said turning back to Jenny, “Here you can see how long you’re in line for. Not like when you call someplace for customer service. You’re in a black hole waiting.”

“That’s still no excuse for the way they talk.”

“Of course it isn’t honey. No one has the right to speak to you the way your customers do.”

They grew quieter and held the boys closer as they neared the cash register. The cashier had a smiley face pinned to her vest. But she wasn’t smiling. She barely looked Rick or Jenny in the eye.

That says a lot about how you conduct your affairs, Jenny thought, remembering how she stayed focused on each customer from the moment they came on the line to the moment the call ended. Like she was trained. Like a professional. She educated them.

And this employee barely looks me in the eye?

“…And do I complain?” Jenny asked rhetorically, as they made their way out to the enormous parking lot fifteen minutes later.

“No. Because this is my stuff. This is what’s due to me. And I receive it generously. I receive it with manners,” she said to Rick.
“Chocolate!” Jakob called. (Or was it Joshua? She couldn’t see.)

“With dignity. This is me and I manage myself well. Not like those people who call into work. You’d think they didn’t order the magazines in the first place. You’d think the magazines were pushed on them!” Jenny shuddered thinking about going back there tomorrow.

With only one side of the argument ever heard or articulated, Rush had to outdo himself night after night coming up with more compelling monologues. It had to be as exciting as yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. It had to grab listeners by the ears, really pulling and twisting them. It had to be compelling. After all, Rush couldn’t put his energy into debating another voice on the radio. So, his work took all of his energy, all of his vitriol and imaginative abilities.

And it was reflected in conversations nationwide.

“Can you believe Clinton’s putting troops in Haiti?”
“I can’t believe he’s putting troops in harm’s way.”
“How dare he.”
“He’s shameless.”
“He’s gutless.”
“After dodging the draft?”
“After fleeing to England to avoid Vietnam?”
“Oh, it’s sure easy to spill other kids’ blood,” said a voice in Las Vegas.
“It’s like Somalia all over again.”
“And Somalia was like a mini-Vietnam.”
“And Vietnam was like a big Cambodia.”
“And Cambodia was like Laos.”
“And Laos was like Beirut.”
“And Beirut was like Libya.”
“And each one of these problems we inherited from the French.”
“It’s a pattern.”
“And now our soldiers are being dispatched as policemen.”
“Like crossing guards.”
“Like referees.”
“Like nannies.”
“For what?”
“For a problem the French created.”
“Our men are trained to kill, not to play nice,” called a voice in California.
“It’s like asking a boxer to pull his punches.”
“Like asking a football player to go easy on the tackling.”
“Like fighting with one hand tied behind your back.”
“Like soldiers marching with their shoelaces tied together.”
“Like them having their balls cut off.”
“Like asking some foreigner, some fucking Frog for permission to shoot.”
“It’s un-American.”
“It’s un-fair.”
“It’s unacceptable.”
“Especially when it’s happening in our own backyard.”