The Fantasy Years

FANS OF RUSH LIMBAUGH knew their world. They knew what was going on. They had only to remind themselves how much better grounded they were, how much more realistic their understanding of things were. From the gritty details of a debate; to its lofty, abstract heights of principle:

“Oh, you haven’t heard about postmodernism?” asked a voice. “It’s what the liberals are teaching our kids today at college. Postmodernism is like relativism.”
“And relativism says there are no absolutes.”
“Postmodernism says meanings change depending on how you look at things,” came a voice in Nevada.
“It’s like political correctness on crack.”
“Except instead of renaming things they’re re-interpreting things.”
“And instead of re-interpreting, they’re reinventing.”
“And instead of reinventing, they use it to justify anything.”

And on the radio, the voices commiserated in bombastic exaggeration:

“And now these liberals want to rewrite American history and say the fifties weren’t happy days just because of segregation.”
“What is it with these revisionists? The fifties were happy days even if there was segregation.”
“The fifties were the Good Old Days!” said a voice in New Jersey.
“If you ask anyone who lived then, they’ll tell you the fifties were the Good Old Days,” said another voice Arkansas.
“But not Hilary,” said another.
“Oh, no. Not the liberals.”
“Of course not. Hilary said the Fifties weren’t the good old days in her book.”
“Even if she did enjoy them!”
“Of course she enjoyed the Fifties! She just can’t admit it.”
“As if any of the white liberals didn’t enjoy the Fifties,” said a voice in Kansas.
“They all did. But white liberals can’t admit it. It wouldn’t be PC,” said another.
“They want us all to feel bad.”
“Because America went to sock hops!”
“And America had just saved the free world!”
“And drive-ins were popular!”
“And Elvis was big!”
“But to the liberals, this was somehow bad.”

Don knew all about the fifties. He knew all about how things used to be by law for people his skin color. And it amazed him how quickly white people went from lynching black people to appropriating their style. Starting with Elvis. No, starting with Chet Baker. No starting with all white jazz players in the 1930s…down to today. So Don didn’t trust white rappers. Don didn’t trust white actors. Don didn’t trust white women who liked to be seen with black men when it suited their public image. He didn’t even particularly like a lot of the white movie stars. Except Kim Basinger. He liked Kim Basinger okay, whatever happened to her.

The thoughts and suspicions uncoiled through Don’s mind as he drove along a highway, heading west out of Missouri, staring out over his steering wheel at the dark promise of the American night.
Don’s job delivering and installing parts for washing and dry-cleaning machines took him further and further from St. Louis. Not just to Illinois but also to Kentucky and Arkansas. He had the parts and toolbox in the back of his car. Like everything else in his life, it just kind of evolved this way.

One day he was running an errand for the owners of Stern Laundry Parts. Months later, he was making appointments with dry cleaning shops to come and fix their equipment.

At least, he got to drive a company car. A Taurus. And he got plenty of time on his own, which he liked. And he made decent money and didn’t have to worry about anything much, expect for possibly being pulled over.

Of course, being a young black man, the cops would probably be extra chickenshit with him. It made Don wonder briefly if he needed a license to cross a state line to do business. Didn’t intrastate commerce fall under the Federal Trade Commission?

Mike sneezed, sniffed, then wiped his nose with a handkerchief, and caught a glance of himself in the glass door before pulling it open handily. Not bad, he thought, then took the first step into the office building that could be the first step to his new life.

His yellow shirt was obviously starched and pressed. His jeans were clean. He wore polished boots and a Parker pen in his breast pocket- not a Bic like the chumps used at work. He glanced at the legend on the wall, with office locations. Pro-Work Solutions Suite 1-120. Mike ambled down the hall until he found the door.

Inside, after introducing himself to the college girl at the front desk, she asked him to fill out the form on the clipboard which she handed to him and to attach his resume to it.

“I don’t have a resume,” he said, fudging.
“That’s okay. Just fill out the forms. And we’ll need to see your driver’s license and your social security card.”

Mike took the clipboard and took a seat among the row of chairs surrounding the empty waiting area. One other person was waiting. A young girl. Pretty too. But she looked like she’d been captured and shoved into a business casual suit. A shame, thought Mike, flashing her the sheepish smile all job-seekers everywhere have.

She smiled and went back to shuffling the resumes in her binder.
Mike was taking the plunge. If he was going to get out of delivery driving all together, he’d have to get his foot in the door somewhere. His father-in-law suggested a temp-to-perm place. Twenty minutes later, after Mike filled out the forms and turned in his ID cards, the door opened and a young woman called for him.

“Hi Mike. I’m Vicky.”

As they passed in to the back of the office, she asked, “Oh, is there a resume with this?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t bring one,” he said and for the next ten minutes as he explained every class of truck he had ever driven all he could think were variations of the thought: resume? oh how could I have forgotten, I can’t believe I forgot one but I never knew to bring one until the interview ended and the woman, Vicky, said she’d keep an eye out for jobs for him and he knew that was a damn lie.

Vicky walked with him to the front office and handed his file back to the receptionist. There was a different receptionist now. More people waited for interviews now. And there was another person behind the receptionists’ desk. A young man. Mike instinctively pitied the guy. He had big, white teeth, red hair and a gawky expression to him. No doubt from college too.

“Can you file Mr. Hurtfield’s application?” Vicky asked the young man.

“Sure,” he said.

Vicky shook hands firmly with Mike, giving him a smile. Then she turned back to go inside. Mike headed toward the door.

“Oh, sir.” The young man said.

Mike stopped and turned around.

“I don’t see your resume here.”