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You are a proud member of Rush's flock of dittoheads and you are dreaming.
You are at the country club, a guest at an exclusive, black tie affair. You have cultivated the right contacts, contributed
to the right causes, and went along when necessary. Now you are inside the very gates of the castle. All around you are limos,
opened doors, fine clothes. These are your people, you tell yourself. And now you are included. How sweet it is.
You
are seated at a table in the grand ballroom. Women are dressed in finery and understated expensive jewelry. The elites converse
in subdued voices above the tinkle of silverware upon fine china.
You are served an aperitif. Looking to the head
of the long table you see him, our leader, Mr. George Bush. He looks as though he is wearing an invisible crown. At his side
is his mother, Barbara. They are conferring over something. It looks like a guest list. Barbra is pointing to a name over
George's shoulder. Over on the dance floor Dick Cheney is dancing with Hillary Clinton. He is surprisingly light on his feet
for a man with a bad heart. He is smiling enraptured with the Perry Como standards the band is playing. As he whirls Hillary
to the music, her face lights up in recognition as she spots David Rockefeller. At the next table are Rush Limbaugh and Alec
Baldwin. Smoking cigars, they commiserate over an age old dilemma- that good help is indeed difficult to find –
even when one is willing to pay even MORE than the minimum wage.
An elegant woman in her forties asks you if you have
tried the new wines from Carvone. Yes, you answer, the wines are slightly tart this year due to the rains, but I assure you
they are still a good value. (If these people only knew about your youthful drunken nights in Lawrence's old taverns- where
you smoked dope and drank Night Train from a paper cup- sometimes right out of the bottle and sleeping in the park.) No matter,
you have ascended above it. Nobody suspects.
Suddenly the room appears warm. You feel slightly, imperceptibly uneasy.
You become aware of a pair of eyes burning into the periphery of your consciousness. You are startled to see Barbra Bush at
the head of the table, assessing you. Is she looking at someone behind you? No, it is definitely you. She says something to
her son. You can just barely read her lips. "DO WE KNOW HIS FAMILY?" Her eyes are fixed on you, boring into you with a death
ray stare. She turns to George, their eyes meet. A silent understanding passes between them. Barbara disappears.
Now
the room seems strangely cold. Two tall men in suits approach your table. One addresses you. "A minor problem, Sir. Would
you please come with us?" Their manner indicates that you had better comply. Conversation at your table stops. You make a
joke as they escort you to the coat closet. One turns and says, "There was a mistake on the guest list. Another guest, John
Kerry, is due to arrive and the management regrets that your invitation has been downgraded to make room for him. The management
is aware of this inconvenience and has offered an alternative seating." You are shocked and embarrassed."John Kerry? This
is Republican affair. I am one of you guys for Christ sake." Of all the guests in the function hall, they had to bump YOU?
One of the men takes your arm and escorts you to the kitchen.
The kitchen is filled with domestic help: black people,
Hispanics and old hippies with bad teeth. They are sitting on folding chairs and boxes talking, smoking, passing around a
bottle. Motown music is blaring from a cheap radio. You are confused about what has just happened. A Mexican woman with a
gold front tooth approaches you with a bean tortilla in her hand. She hands it to you. Sensing your confusion she says, "Don't
worry, honey." You gonna have a better time here wit us." You sit down at the table amidst laughter and banter and the bottle
is passed to you. A few hours ago, you would have been disgusted. They don't bother with cups. The bottle has been on everybody's
lips. You notice the label. It's Night Train! You put it to your lips and take a long pull.
Then you awaken from your
dream. You are no longer at the country club, but back in Kansas. Were you dreaming you were really invited to their party?
That they accepted you inside the castle gates? That there is no difference between Democrats and Republicans? The dream has
shaken you. You decide to listen to Rush this afternoon. Perhaps equilibrium can be regained. Twenty million dittoheads can't
be wrong.
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