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"Hurt"
by Claude Hall
Chapter Ten
The little old lady was there waiting for me when I
came home from the canyon. She’d cleaned the
apartment and even washed the dishes.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I told her in a firm
voice. “I gave you the key so you could get a good
night’s sleep.”
“Us older folks don’t need a lot of sleep,” she said.
“I slept well enough and long enough.”
She also had cooked a Mexican stew of some kind from a
package of hamburger meat in the refrigerator and
other odds and ends. It was quite good. Just spicy
enough and hot enough to make it interesting.
“That’s the best meal I’ve had in months and months,”
I said after we finished eating. I helped wash the
few dishes. It didn't take long.
"Beats what I've been eating, too," she said. "Most
of the time, I eat at St. Vincent's. They do the best
they can. And now and then I treat myself to some
cookies and a pint of milk. I'm always finding money
in some soda pop machine or I can sell a few aluminum
cans."
I thought I’d better introduce myself. She said the
name Chuck was okay, but didn’t like Southheim.
“That’s okay. I made it up anyway,” I told her.
I explained that I was an orphan and I didn’t know
what my real name was. Someone had asked me one time
and I’d said the first thing that popped into my mind,
but I’d thought they were asking what direction I’d
come from. I’d added the “heim” later when getting my
driver’s license because the word South didn't sound
all that good alone.
She said her name was Amanda Robinson and that at one
time her family had owned a great deal of the city.
“The old Mormons,” she said. “You belong to a
church?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, consider yourself an honorary Mormon,” she
said.
“Thanks,” I said. “That will do just fine.”
Secretly, I thought that honorary was just about as
religious as I would ever get.
We enjoyed the movie "Hopscotch." She laughed
several
times and I was pleased about that. Because I thought
those particular scenes were funny myself, but could
never be sure it wasn't just me.
When she left, pushing her cart, I went out to a
supermarket and bought a lot of food. Before I went
to bed, I tried to phone Doris, but all I got was her
answering machine and I hate talking to those things,
so I hung up without leaving a message.
I wondered what to do about Doris. I wanted to see
her again, but on the other hand I was rather
concerned about developing a relationship. In the
vernacular, to use an old cliché, I was caught between
a rock and a hard place.
I slept most of the day and went to work as usual that
evening. I thought maybe I'd talk to J.D. about
Doris, but we didn't have much time. There were
several shootings in North Las Vegas, a very strange
place because it's actually a separate town for one
reason or another and yet you can't tell where Las
Vegas ends and North Las Vegas begins. One day soon,
Las Vegas would swoop completely around the small city
and, more than likely, devour it. The casinos on the
Strip tried to keep killings down and those that
happened they tried to keep out of the general press
or at least keep the killings up in North Las Vegas.
But Las Vegas was, in reality, a very dangerous city.
A man from Ireland had been stabbed and killed by a
transcient just a few months back right on the Strip
in daylight. Killings went on inside the casinos,
too. That's why a cop, used up in the city he'd come
from, could find a job easily as a guard in a casino.
But all the guards in the world couldn't make Las
Vegas safe. The city attracted tourists, yes, but it
also attracted the scum of the world.
Amanda had a great meal the next morning waiting for
me with potatoes baked in the oven and steak and a
huge glass of milk. That morning, we watched the news
on television. Sometimes, the news can be just as
funny as any movie ever made.
I told her that I wished she would just park the cart.
"A girl I know gave me some of her good luck the other
day when she saw a shooting star. I figure you're my
good luck charm."
"I've never brought any luck to myself," she said.
"Not in a long, long time."
"Sometimes luck is for the other person. It just
works better that way."
"What's her name?"
"Doris," I said.
"That's probably the girl who called," she said.
"She called?"
"I forgot about it. I figured you got calls from
girls all of the time."
"No. Never."
"I wrote the number down."
It took her the longest time to find the slip of
paper. Turned out she'd placed it on the counter in
the kitchen when she was cooking.
"She say anything?"
"She wanted to know if I was some kind of girl in the
trees. I told her no...that I was a relative."
"That was a good answer," I said.
"Not really, because then she said, 'I thought he was
an orphan'. I tried to explain that away."
"I'm definitely in trouble," I said.
"What did she mean about a girl in a tree?"
"I was out of town for a couple of nights. She
thought I might be seeing another girl. I told her
that wasn't the case, but I'm not sure she believed
me."
"She sounds like a very nice person."
"She is," I said.
"You two kids going steady?"
"Not yet," I said and tried to explain to Amanda that
Doris' father was a big senator in the state.
"That may be true," she said. "I never was much
into
politics. My brother, he's a manipulator and a half
when it comes to that sort of thing. Not me. But I'd
like to remind you, however, that you're an honorary
relative of Amanda Robinson. That's more important
than being the daughter of a senator, believe me."
"Okay," I said. "I'll try to remember that."
She told me then about the old Mormons. They'd been
in and around the city of Las Vegas since it was just
a wagon stop on the old Mormon Trail that led from the
port at San Pedro down below Los Angeles up to Salt
Lake City.
Some of them had been farmers, some traders. Many had
developed very profitable farms out along the Muddy
River toward what is now Mesquite, Nevada.
"My family, especially my grandfather and some of his
brothers, settled over this direction. It was mostly
just a lot of catclaw, rabbits, and rattlesnakes in
those days."
"The good ol' days!" I said in jest.
"They probably weren't all that good," she said. "My
ancestors worked awfully hard and farming was a tough
way to make a living back then in the valley."
"Right. I apologize for trying to make a joke," I
said. "But at least they made a lot of money when
they sold all that land to people like Bugsy Siegel
and the Gaughns and the Boyds."
"Oh, the family sold some of the land. And, believe
you me, I fought against some of those sales. But a
lot of good it did. My brother saw to that. He
thought he could make more money in stocks and I
suppose he has. Me, I always believed that land, in
the long run, was more valuable. I would think,
anyway, that some of my relatives are doing okay. And
you can count on my brother being fairly wealthy.
He's the type."
"Hey! Maybe you're rich."
"Bah!" she said and gave me some more milk out of the
refrigerator.
Her brother, it turned out, was Elvin Robinson. That
didn't mean much to me, but when I mentioned the name
to J.D. he stared at me over his newspaper and said,
"One of the most influential men in the city. And not
just rich, but has the kind of power that goes with
old money. Probably rules half of the city, if not
more."
"Then why would he let his sister live out of a
pushcart?"
I had to explain first about Amanda Robinson living in
a pushcart.
"Some brothers are like that," J.D. said. "Some
people don't care about anyone except themselves. On
the other hand, maybe she likes the way she lives."
"I don't believe that old saw," I said, "about the
homeless could get jobs if they wanted them. I know
how tough it is to get any kind of a job these days.
Real tough. Especially if you don't have a college
education and even then it's tough."
"There's always McDonald's," J.D. said, his head
buried in his newspaper.
"Bull on McDonald's," I said.
I tried to phone Doris, but all I got was her
answering service again. I left a message about being
Johnny Weismuller sitting in a tree and wanting to
talk to Jane and hung up.
We made a few runs in the ambulance during the
evening. Nothing much happened, though. I looked for
the man with the pepper-gray hair, but I didn't see
him.
"You probably won't," said J.D. "With a scope on a
rifle, he could pot you from a mile away. The only
question is: what kind of bullet will he use?"
"Well, I'm not going to worry about it," I said.
"That's perfectly all right. I'm doing enough
worrying for the both of us," said J.D.
Later, he told me that I was wasting my time looking
out of the window. "She's not allowed to come here
anymore. In fact, she's out of town."
The news hit me pretty hard.
"I thought you said it was okay for someone like me to
date a senator's daughter."
"That has nothing to do with it. At least, I don't
think so. I think the senator's more concerned about
this hospital. Anyway, he and his wife went to Reno
on state business and they took Doris with them to
keep her out of trouble."
"She phoned the apartment last evening," I said.
"And you didn't talk to her?"
"I wasn't there," I said.
"How would you know something like that then? I
happen to know you don't have an answering device."
"So, you have been in my apartment!"
"No, puppy! I tried to phone you once and all the
phone did was ring. Thus, the assumption that you did
not have an answering device or you'd turned it off."
"Right. I don't have an answering device."
"So?"
"So?"
"How did you know Doris had phoned?"
"Amanda talked to her," I said.
Then I had to explain about Amanda now sharing my
apartment. I guess you could call it sharing. Some
of the time anyway.
"Oh, my god!" mumbled J.D. "You've got a normie
living with you? What happened to the pushcart?"
"I think she's adopted me," I said. "She says she's
the sister of Elvin Robinson. That's good enough for
me."
"Well, if she says she's his sister, she probably is.
No one would lie about something like that, believe
me."
"Is he a good guy or a bad guy?"
"Bad enough," said J.D.
I noticed the people then. They drove up in three
cars and parked over near the drug store. The cars
had been jammed; there were more than a dozen of the
people. From car trunks, they took out signs. If
they said anything as they milled about, I couldn't
hear it at this distance and I think I would have
heard them talking.
They all seemed to be about my age. Maybe a little
older.
Without very little fanfare and not even any
discussion about what to do--it appeared to be all
planned--they began to walk slowly in a line several
yards in front of the hospital. Because of the
streetlights out there, I could make out some of the
words on the signs.
"You want to see something interesting?" I asked J.D.
"No," he said and continued to read his newspaper.
"My stocks are down again."
"You ever think about getting different stocks?"
"Of course not," he snapped. "Then I wouldn't have
anything to complain about."
"Well, you'd better come look at this anyway," I said.
He finally unfolded himself from the end of the couch
and joined me at the window.
We watched as the people carrying cardboard signs
moved in a line past the hospital. They doubled back
near one of the streetlights in the parking lot to
pass in front of the hospital once again.
"Can they do that?" I asked. "I mean, picket like
that?"
"Without question," he said. “Individual rights
mean
little these days. But when you've got more than a
handful of people, it's literally a movement. They
can do anything they want to do. A single human being
out there would be arrested, beaten, thrown in
jail...or worse. A group is, on the other hand, an
undefeatable force when they want to be.”
“I don’t believe that about individuals,” I said.
“This is still America. The individual has rights.”
"That’s your opinion. An opinion you no doubt heard
in a B western. The reality is that you have to
organize today in order to be heard above the crowd of
others who have organized or been organized. And
you’ll probably need a lawyer to properly discern what
rights you may or may not have even then and a public
relations counsel to tell you how to go about
demanding whatever rights those are that you may have
actually got granted to you. And even then you'll be
competing with those people who think they should have
a share of those rights, whether they've earned them
or not."
"Wonder what they're protesting against."
"If you're really interested, you can go out there and
ask one of them."
"Okay," I said.
I'll bet his jawl dropped a mile and a half, but I
never turned to look back. I walked out the door of
the hospital and past the ambulance parked under the
overhang. Some black crows flew around in a frenzy to
the left of the hospital. They made a lot of noise.
More than the protesters.
No one really wanted to talk to me. But I got to read
the signs up close, standing there, watching the six
guys and eight girls walk slowly by.
One of the signs said: DEATH FACTORY. Another read:
DON'T DIE HERE!
They pretended I wasn't there. All of them.
So, I gave up after a while and went back to the
lounge, but J.D. was also pretending that I didn't
exist. I told him about the signs, but he didn't even
look up.
I went out into the hallway and wandered around.
Everyone I met was trying to pretend the people
outside picketing didn't exist. I told a nurse about
them, but she walked right on by.
I finally decided that I, at least, knew they existed
and the fact that they were out there bothered me.
The mystery about Nap also still bothered me.
What Nap had been doing down in no man's land of Las
Vegas, we never learned. I tried to find out from
Gertrude that evening, but she didn't know or maybe
she just wouldn't tell me.
She kept changing the subject.
"You like J.D., don't you?"
"Nice guy," I said.
"I wish he wouldn't make trouble," she said. Her
voice was pensive. I had the feeling that she was
seeking confirmation of her statement.
"He's not making trouble," I said. "Hasn't made any
that I know of."
She typed something into the computer on her desk
before looking up at me again. I had dropped into her
office out of a vague curiosity about Nap. I was
quickly beginning to wish I'd kept that curiosity to
myself.
"The boss thinks he's trying to make trouble," she
said.
"Not J.D. Nap must have been up to something, though.
You don't go on north Main unless you're up to
something."
She didn't respond to the bait. I had hoped she'd say
something about Nap.
Gertrude was a blonde. I don't like blondes, but I
guess she would have been considered fairly attractive
by those who did. She appeared to be about 35. She
could have been 45. Women can fool you on things like
that. I don't think she was less than 35, though.
Her hair, today, was fastened with a comb thing on the
side. It wasn't really a comb. Her hair came down
across one shoulder braided like a rope.
"How long have you known J.D.?" she asked. She leaned
over her computer my direction, but was obviously
trying not to appear too anxious.
"Since I first started work here," I told her. "I
think he'd just lost his usual ambulance driver. Some
kind of freak accident. He came over to me in the
personnel office as I was filling out an application
form and asked if I could drive. I said yes and he
told me that I had filled out enough forms."
"Human resources," she said.
"What?"
"Not personnel office. It's called the human
resources office."
"I don't care what they call it," I said. "I don't
like filling out all those forms. They always ask
where I worked last. And I always have to lie."
She smiled.
"You won't have to lie about this place," she said.
"It's legit."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," I said. And then
I immediately wished I hadn't said anything. Her face
changed. Like someone had taken off her mask. I
found it difficult to continue looking at her eyes; I
tried to focus on the point of her chin.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing," I said. "I was just making
conversation."
"No," was all she said, but it was the most ominous
word I think I've ever heard.
She continued staring at me. I quickly began to feel
uncomfortable under her gaze.
"It wasn't anything," I said.
"Are you sure? Very sure?"
"Just something I overheard," I said.
"From J.D.?"
"No. A normie."
Her face relaxed slightly. But the terrible tension
remained and I still didn't want to look into those
eyes. They were like a candle that has flared in a
burst of wind.
"I see," she said. "Do you remember which
one?"
"No," I lied. "Probably at that bar J.D. and I was
at
the other night. A Hell's Angel type. Yeah. I think
that was the one."
"Would you be able to recognize him again?"
"No. I guess not," I said.
"What a pity," she said and, once again, her voice
carried that pensive tone. But I wasn't fooled this
time. "It wouldn't have been the girl who said
something to you, I suppose?"
"What girl?" I asked, even though I knew precisely
which girl she was talking about.
"The one who phoned a day or two ago asking questions
about you. Some senator's daughter, I think."
"Not her, I said. "I hardly know her. Met her
through an accident we covered one night."
"And you took her to a play a night or two ago, I
understand."
"Yes," I said. "I guess I did. Almost
forgot."
I wasn't about to tell her that we'd also gone to a
concert by the Sierra Winds at UNLV during the week.
"Strange you'd almost forget something like that. I
heard she was quite pretty."
The way she'd emphasized the words "almost forgot"
caused the muscles in my jaw to began to ache.
"Yes. I suppose so," I said after a long pause.
She took even longer before talking again. The
silence in the room became oppressive.
"Tell me, is she still wearing that silly little gold
necklace?"
Her question was casual, but the tone of her voice
seemed to indicate that the information was vitally
important.
I tried to remember.
"I don't know. Why?"
"Just wondered," she said. "It's not
important."
I didn't like the direction the conversation was
taking and I tried to change all that.
"About Nap," I said.
"Forget Nap," she said. "Nap's gone."
"I just wondered if he had any relatives."
"Maybe some in Europe. I don't know. Personnel will
take care of all that. If he had any relatives.
Which I seriously doubt."
"Human resources," I said.
"What?"
"You said personnel."
"I did not," she said.
"Right," I said. "My mistake."
I beat a hasty retreat before she could talk anymore
about Doris O'Connor. I was very nervous that she
knew about Doris and me.
I suddenly decided that I liked blondes even less than
I'd thought. They may have more fun, like in that
movie with Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell, but that
doesn't mean men who know blondes have more fun. Of
course, Norma Jean hadn't really been a blonde until
she'd changed her name to Marilyn Monroe.
But probably red-haired women were more my type. One,
anyway.
Back in the employee lounge, I motioned J.D. out to
the ambulance and told him about the conversation with
Gertrude.
"Interesting," was all he said.
"Are you going to make trouble?"
"Me? Why should I make trouble?"
"Nap used to do that."
"Do what?"
"Answer a question with a question."
"Interesting," he said again.
"It was Doris," I said.
"She told you there might be an investigation?"
"Yes."
"Don't tell anyone else and don't even mention it
again. Not to me. Not to anyone."
"Okay," I said.
"Did she say when?"
I didn't say anything.
"Answer me, dammit!"
"You said...."
"Forget what I said. Or forget most of it."
"No. She didn't say."
"Her father?"
"Yes."
"I'm not surprised," said J.D.
"She says they might close this place down. She was
worried about you and me getting hurt."
"Good kid," he said.
"I said it might be a bit tough for us to find another
job."
"You didn't mention what kind of job?"
"No."
He leaned against the side of the ambulance, his arms
folded. He remained that way for the longest time.
Finally, I asked:
"You still alive?"
"That's debatable," he said.
Just then, we had another trouble call. The
picketeers were still out there. I guess they quit
sometime during the night because no television came
to show everyone what they were doing.
I couldn't help thinking, as I loaded another body
into the ambulance somewhere about 3 a.m., which
turned out to be the last, that the boss was probably
going to be very happy with the night's turnout.
That wasn't the case at all. Because just after 4
a.m. when we knocked off work, Gertrude called us as
we were having a last cup of coffee in the lounge and
J.D. was explaining precisely what I should do on my
next date with Doris.
(to be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
December 22, 2003
First, let me wish all of you the very best of
holidays. May they be accepted with grace, filled
with hope.
I know a couple of good friends that are suffering
this day--this Christmas week--and their Christmas Day
will be more in pain than not, and I lament their woes
and they are in my prayers and I'm so lucky, I feel,
that I have no major ailment at the moment. My mind
is clear, I can walk, I can still see. There will be
friends and relatives,including my three sons gathered
near. One, a son escaping now from the so-called drug
culture that damaged as well as murdered so many sons
and daughters as well, unfortunately, as many personal
friends. My wife and I have prayed long and hard for
this son and we are grateful he is finally turning his
life around. He has hope for a good life. My wife
Barbara and I have hope for him for the first time in
a long, long time. We are grateful for this and feel
blessed.
I know quite a few others--old friends and
strangers--with medical and physical plights. Some
with financial plights as well. Much too many without
jobs. Some plighted with loneliness. These, too, are
in my prayers. I especially pray for those without
hope this Christmas Day, for that is the real reason
for Christmas...hope. Our gift. Though I argue less
these days, I've argued oft and with great fervor
various and sundry aspects of religion. Once, studied
the Great Why with considerable passion. Had the
spiritual experience, finally, that is given as grace
to so very few. This, of course, does not signify
that I possess any special enlightenment or superior
information of any kind. Regardless, such spiritual
experience is extremely personal and quite humbling.
But I have also come to a certain spiritual
understanding and even though it applies only to me, I
think the ramifications are vast. I believe that to
kill in the name of religion is a fallacy of the worse
kind and I believe there is no greater sin...for all
religions--all spiritual endeavors--should have as
their ultimate goal the presentation and preservation
of hope. Murder is something I cannot condone and
whether it is conducted under the banner of "giving
grace" or "in pursuit of freedom" or "to
keep them
from killing us," I believe it is wrong both ethically
and morally.
The other day nine children were murdered (there is no
other term for it) in the Middle East (Rahi, Aijaz.
"Afghan Village Angry After Gunship Attack,"
Associated Press, 12.7.2003). This is not the first
such incident. We have never been told officially how
many women and children have been killed in this
ungodly, unapproved and extremely unpopular war that
George Bush is conducting and the major television
news channels are assisting; TV never voices anything
negative and if they do they paint it with a positive
"spin." Some general apologized for killing the
children. Said he regretted the incident; gave out
blankets as penance.
There was no trial. Not for the slaughtered
aforehand. Not for the general afterwards. Whatever
happened to justice? Is justice now passé?
On Friday, Dec. 5, six more children were murdered
(Graham, Stephen. "Six Afghan Children Killed in U.S.
Attack." Associated Press, Dec. 9, 2003). Lt. Col.
Bryan Hilferty stated, "we are not completely
responsible for the consequences." If not he, who?
The children?
Paying soldiers to kill children is not an efficient
use of my tax funds, in my opinion. And, of course,
such incidents have hard moral questions that seek
answers. Spirtually, there are no answers.
Regardless, no wonder we are hated. No wonder the
hate grows.
More and more we Americans have no friends except
those bought or flung against the wall and forced to
comply. A distant relative just left Algeria where he
worked under armed guard, lived under armed guard, ate
under armed guard. And such danger grows in many
parts of the world. Because of Bush, Americans
whether in uniform or not are now fair game. Quickly,
since Bush stole the presidency of the United States,
we have become the "hitler" of the world. Where
once
we had friends, now enemies reign. Attacks on our
soldiers in Iraq are increasing day by day. Bush said
the war was over. The people of Iraq and elsewhere
evidently believe otherwise.
On Dec. 13, 2003, 600 soldiers of the 4th Infantry
raided a small farmhouse near Tikrit and captured a
66-year-old man who said he was, indeed, Saddam
Hussein (CNN News). Bush Monday, Dec. 15 (CNN) called
them "brave soldiers." How brave do you
have to be,
600 against three? For this, we sacrificed how many
American soldiers, spent how much on bombs, killed how
many innocent citizens...all so that U.S. Vice
President Dick Cheney could earn his "bonus" of
$30-plus million and provide Halliburton an enormous
reward rebuilding? Germany, France, and Russia
thought they could bid on the rebuilding of Iraq? How
foolish! The deal had long been done with Halliburton
and paid for in front.
Regardless, the hounds of hell have been let loose and
the mere hog-tying of an old man will not tether them.
Yes, they may string up Hussein--figuratively and
perhaps even literally--for "war crimes"when it
was
Iraq that was invaded. This logic escapes me. It
smacks of John Wesley Hardin logic. Actually, this
entire situation was and is highly illogical. There
was no excuse for the invasion of Iraq by America
(there was never a "coalition" of forces, don't
let
the media sway you). It was strictly the United
States; our I should say: strictly Bush for he did not
ask my permission nor, I assume, the permission of
anyone else. Thus, we alone must suffer the blame and
the consequences of outrageous murder. The hounds of
hell.
For, how can we possibly survive without friends out
there? For there really is no "out there."
There is
only one Marshall McLuhan "here." Certainly
without
friends there can be no hope. I.e., all religion and
all spiritual programs and endeavors become robbed of
validity. Thus, Christmas, too, becomes ludicrous. A
tree at the White House? Best a toadstool.
Worse, Bush has created an almost irreversible
international alienation that will never be conquered
with a mere public relations "spin." It is
virtually
impossible to make friends of a person when you have
slaughtered their father, their son, their mother,
their daughter. Why should they ever forget? Or
forgive?
Now, suddenly, news of civilian deaths in Iraq is
coming forth. Medact, the British affiliate of
International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear
War operating out of London, concluded last month that
a total of between 5,700 and 7,356 Iraq civilians were
killed between March 20 and May 1 as a result of U.S.
hostilities. AP also reported Wednesday, Dec. 10, that
an effort to count the total number of casualties by
the Iraqi health ministry was suspended, allegedly on
orders from the U.S.-led Coalition Provisional
Authority (Lobe, Jim. "Cluster Bombs, Decapitation
Bombing Killed Hundreds, Says Human Rights Watch."
OneWorld US, Dec. 12, 2003)
The other day, U.S. forces attacked a home in Iraq
seeking a person who might have been involved as a
terrorist. He was not there. They captured his son.
This, in my opinion, is against every moral law ever
written and parallels the time the hated state police
couldn't find John Wesley Hardin in Corsicana, Texas,
and hung his brother instead. When U.S. forces
recently attacked a home in which they thought Saddam
Hussein might be, they did not knock on the door. No
accusation, no trial. They blew the house to shards
with round after round of ammunition, enough, in fact,
to wipe out an army. Hussein was not there. The U.S.
government, such as it is (and it is not much, I
assure you) patted themselves on the back because
Hussein's two sons were supposedly among the victims.
Who patted themselves on the back for the deaths of
the women and children also killed in that atrocious
and horrible slaughter? The attacking force might
have been American soldiers, but they are not among
the soldiers I knew or that I once was and, in fact, I
lament their soiling of the American uniform. Such
stains do not wash away. From the cloth, from the
soul.
Was I any better as an American soldier? Am I any
better now as merely a person who thinks that Bush
ought to be convicted for not only war crimes, but
crimes against humanity? If Hussein is guilty of
anything, it's merely that of leadership of a nation
the U.S. decided without provocation to invade. It is
Bush who is the killer; he has killed thousands upon
thousands and I sense no end of further murders.
Saudi Arabia, watch out! Every nation in the Middle
East, watch out! Bush probably has you on his list.
I am only a Texan. Hopefully, a humble Texan.
Hopefully, a Texan who is aware of the difference
between right and wrong. Yes, Texas, too, once
suffered the same kind of fate currently inflicted on
Iraq. And Texicans fought back. Many considered even
John Wesley Hardin a hero of sorts. My only saving
grace, as a Texan, is that Bush is not a Texan.
Certainly not by birthright. Certainly not a Texican,
as I believe myself to be. A humble Texican with a
sense of morality. And the overwhelming conviction
that what America is doing in the Middle East is
wrong.
With ever shred of information we receive about the
war in Iraq--the growing horror--I tell myself that
Bush can't be that crazy...for the blame, like
Truman's famous desk sign, lies with him. But he has
certainly acted throughout like a rabid dog, biting
all that might stumble in his way. No rhyme needed,
no reason offered except that feeble cry of
"terrorist" when sanity tells me these children are
not. The only assumption, thus, is that he must enjoy
killing children; otherwise he would stop.
Just what is Bush? You can't spread the illusion that
he is a hero since he once ran from true military
service. You can't spread the delusion that he knows
what he is doing. Iraq is proof positive that he does
not. He's not even a decent president. The growing
number of people without jobs is proof positive that
he does not know what he's doing. The growing number
of people without medical care, or even faint hope of
medical care, is proof that he does not even care (the
recent bill to "overhaul" of Medicare is a sham
and
was intended mostly to put more money in the hands of
the few; it literally robs the sick to give money to
the rich).
I believe Bush is naught but a fabrication thrown up
in front of us. That he is a man under someone else's
control. I believe that for the first time in
American history, we have a non-thinking puppet for a
president sans compassion, sans humanity, sans
intellect.
Regardless, I think he will not fare well in history.
Unless, of course, someone is writing that history now
in the same fashion that they have fabricated a puppet
for the American people. For never has America been
so deplete of hope. The number of sick not being
treated is astronomical, the number of aged skimping
by is higher than it has ever been and growing and
meanwhile they are being increasingly robbed of succor
and substance, the number of people without work and
without chance of meaningful work is enormous and
benefits have long been cut off on most (they thus
join the uncounted), the number of homeless is beyond
meaning and growing. All of these are without hope
this Christmas Day. My soft prayers become useless.
I, too, sadly grow without hope. Not just for me,
although, of course, me, too...but for the world.
(to be continued)
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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