The Writers Forum
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From_: schneid#jomon.ne.jp
Date: 25 Jul 2003
Time: 05:40 AM
Brainstorm
Up at 6 am, Razor Sharp gazes in the mirror. No doubt he cuts a less than dashing figure. He looks no better, but will move more quickly, after taking his medicine, currently 5 different pills. The color-coded pills, though they don't solve every problem, have an additional benefit; they crank up the joke machine in Razor's brain. And they make him feel safer than what was on TV last night: the former Governor of Pennsylvania, reincarnated as "Homeland Security Czar," or some such thing. The guy had tried, and failed, to explain the government's new color-coded anti- terrorist warning system. The tap in Razor's head is starting to open. Well, he thinks, at least the meds offer some protection against rigidity.
Still wrestling with Czar biz, Razor noted he had no understanding of the man's official job title, his day-to-day job duties, or what the hot, new program was all about. Did the government really have to create a position of this sort? The post had already been filled by Jesse Jackson. Nobody could explain his employment designation, responsibilities or programs, either.
The tap is now fully open, leaving Razor with a rare, productive case of water on the brain. He moves on to consider the issue of domestic terrorism in more detail. "Everything Changed on September 11th." A difficult statement to argue against, and Razor had his own short list of seismic shifts. As the Czar had said, "One if by land, Two if by sea" was out, and color codes were in. The "One if by land, Two if by sea” anti-terrorist doctrine, revered in its time, had served the country well. After all, two centuries plus had passed before the system had been exposed as having a major loophole. A second change had caught the literary world by surprise. Razor guessed even the "New York Review of Books" had missed this one. There was now a companion term for the German coming of age novel. Henceforth, writers who wrote fiction on the interior lives of Islamic terrorists or the collapse of the Twin Towers would do so through the medium of the "Buildingsroman." And, Razor concluded, it had also become clear that the crack in that bell in Philadelphia was becoming wider more quickly than most people thought possible.
Razor proceeds to turn on a second tap and pours the red bubble stuff into the tub. He often starts the day with what he has come to think of as a "bloodbath.” Razor wondered why a certain famous film director had so obviously opened up the wrong vein - talk about a brain drain - by putting Janet Leigh in the shower. The hot, soapy water felt great. Still, on further reflection, perhaps the director had been right after all. If Razor switched to showers, maybe Janet in there would wake him up a little more quickly.
Washing, shaving, and brushing his teeth take Razor over an hour. Then comes fun with getting dressed. Razor manages to stay calm during the ten minutes he needs to deal with two of the banes of his existence: tucking in his shirt, and doing up buttons, especially the ones on the sleeves. He once got so aggravated with the buttons that he punched a wall, breaking three fingers in the process. When he posted an account of the episode on an Internet site, laboriously using his left hand, about twenty people responded, coming out of the closet to admit that they, too, had committed wall assault. The joke machine puts Razor into song lyric adaptation mode: "They fought the wall, and the wall won. "(Doctor to Razor: "That wasn't very bright." Razor: "Yeah, but you should have seen the wall." Doctor: "Okay, what happened to the wall?" Razor: "Nothing.")
Razor shuffles into the kitchen. Assembling a modest breakfast of fruit and cereal makes him feel like he's just completed one of the seven labors of Hercules. But at least he gets to eat after the exertion. He glances at the pile of mail on the table, two weeks’ worth, unopened. He pulls out a PD publication and skims through it. There's one story with an ungainly headline: "LAPD PD KO'D BY PD." Would anyone bother reading something with that title? It had the drawing power of a line on an eye test chart. Rather than go through the story, Razor guesses at the content. He decides it's about a detective who loses his job because, in the words of an anonymous source, "The criminals are the ones who are supposed to freeze, not our officers." He'll check later to see if he got it right. Maybe.
There's another story about most popular cities for PD retirees. Oddly, the top two turn out to be in Ohio. Razor can go along with Shaker Heights, probably a nice enough place. But he wasn't sure about Yellow Springs, unless it was favored by those suffering from nighttime incontinence. Well, it was tough to pull himself away from such gripping fare, but Razor had things to do.
The serious part of Razor's day, or at least as serious as it would get, loomed ahead. This was the one day a month he made a trip to the pharmacy to pick up his meds. Located at the intersection of Philadelphia and San Diego Streets, Balboa Drug was ordinarily a quick ten-minute drive from Razor's place. But halfway to his destination, Razor makes a lane change in his white Ford and cuts off the car behind him. The offended motorist leans on his horn and turns on his flashing lights. Razor pulls over, and the trailing black patrol car does the same. As the honkee in this instance, he knows he's at fault. Meanwhile, the cop is loudspeakering it up and blasting out a generic stay in your car message. Razor stays. When he opens the window, he looks up at officer Mike Bark, whose name Razor gets from the cop's eye level nametag. Bark, an obvious by the book type, conducts the interrogation like he learned the lines as a dialogue in an audio-lingual language class. Razor plays his required conversational part. A guy like Bark probably doesn't appreciate deviations from the script.
Bark tells him to get out of the car to take a few tests. Predictably, Razor fails all of them but the most important one. He can't walk in a straight line, stand on one leg, or tap fingers and feet at the same time. But he's clean on the breathalyzer. Luckily, there's no test for halitosis. That one, he'd have trouble with. It was just another in a large collection of side effects related to Razor's condition that were not quite a breath of fresh air.
Officer Bark, convinced Razor was drunk, but with no smoking gun for evidence -- though that could always change quickly for cops – looked annoyed. Razor, with a lull in the proceedings while the officer pondered his next move, wonders if the police ever "planted" beer in the cars of suspected drunks. Officer Bark appeared to have the pedigree to plant incriminating alcoholic evidence, though it probably made more sense to plant marijuana. But you never knew. Beer was, after all, bottled in a plant. Razor leaves the realm of speculation and attempts to tune back in. Amazingly, Bark was letting him off with a warning. Biting his tongue, he thanks the officer for his professional demeanor, and gets in the car. Razor looks in the mirror and sees officer Bark, his hat off, scratching his head. He won't be writing any letters of commendation, but admits to himself that for a guy with that last name, the cop wasn't a bad cat. Razor, not a strong proponent of the examined life, formulates his own incident report as the officer recedes in the distance: For a relatively young guy, Bark sure is losing his hair fast.
Traffic is moving slowly, so Razor turns on the radio. There’s a news report about the meteor shower that will be visible over North America that evening. Razor recalled the only past instance he’d observed this particular natural phenomenon. It had been way back in the mid-sixties, during the days when he still went to bars. He had tried to use the event in a pick-up line, as in, “This is a guaranteed hot date; why don’t you and me catch tonight’s meteor shower together?” The first girl he pitched it to hadn’t been impressed, answering, “Get lost. In space.” Those four words easily eclipsed Razor’s supposedly witty opener, but he chose to widen the scope of the matter. It wasn’t that the pick-up line was bad, he rationalized, it just hadn’t found the right audience. He noted that there were very few unattached women around that night. The thought that those among the missing might be out courting and shower viewing with guys with superior come-ons floated into his head, but that was a trial balloon he had no trouble popping. Still, the babe dearth, and the fact that the next peak meteor shower was some 33 years away, meant support for the “wrong audience theory” would be difficult to find. Or you could look at it from a different perspective, as Razor had. You could throw out the skimpy sample size of one and claim no empirical evidence the pick-up line was a weak one existed, either. In any case, back in the here and now, Razor has a rare chance to augment the database. It’s an easy decision; he’ll take a pass and stick with the status quo. Anyone who believed procrastinators eventually had a day of reckoning obviously didn’t know anything about enhanced display meteor showers, Razor thinks; he’d be dead, and none the worse for wear, by the time the next one came along.
Razor, a couple of blocks from Balboa’s, passes a Catholic church. He notes the usual signboard advertising the upcoming Sunday sermon has no message. Razor supposes the empty space is a good metaphor for how the Church has responded to the public outcry over the sexual trespasses of its hood priests. Nobody’s asking, but he is willing to try and fill in the blank. How about something like this for Sunday? “Oh, What a Difference an ‘A’ Makes: Let Us Bow Our Heads and Prey.” Somehow, he has the feeling that line might not go down too well with folks at the church. They were not, most likely, in the mood to take the bait.
Razor can’t park in his usual spot because the police have closed off the area around the pharmacy. He guesses this is his day to encounter cops, so he accepts his fate and asks an officer directing him around a corner what’s going on. The officer mumbles something about street repair and tells Razor to keep moving. He does, and eventually backs into a very narrow half parking slot that’s a ten-minute walk from the drugstore. When he opens the car door he barely grazes the side of the SUV Tyrannosaurus Rex parked next to him. This wanton act of vandalism does not go unnoticed. The driver, who has parked the EEE wide reptile head first, is sitting in his car and looking at Razor through a side mirror. And he’s upset. Very upset. He yells at Razor and tries to get out of the vehicle. But he’s a big guy, and with space at a premium, can’t open the door wide enough to squeeze out. Razor, in case there are any witnesses around, carefully walks away from the scene of the crime. He can still hear the guy yelling. If the aggrieved party wants to pursue the matter, he’ll have to maneuver T. Rex out of the tight spot. That could take some time. If T. Rex is low on gas, there’s the chance of engine extinction. Or one of those meteors could break ranks tonight and produce a similar result. But those are just theories, Razor tells himself. And theories are like cell phones in Japan; everybody has one.
As he starts the trek to the drugstore, Razor walks stiffly, with an uneven gait, and a shaky right arm. The cop stop, traffic, detour and parking non-confrontation have combined to knock him a bit out of equilibrium. Meanwhile, the joke machine has been on full throttle and could use some maintenance. It won’t be getting any on this street, which Razor has dubbed “Bone Yard Boulevard.” BYB is a rundown stretch that could be described, if you were looking for positives, as a unique market opportunity for those in the paint and windowpane business. The street had its share of drugs, drunks, crazies, and prostitutes, but there were other reasons so many businesses in the area had failed. Besides being simply terrible startup ideas, many had chosen, uh...unfortunate names. Take the abandoned storefront he was passing now. The owner had opened a game store that sold only board games, of the “Scrabble,” “ Monopoly,” and “Clue” variety. And then he had decided to name the place, “Walking the Plank.” If he’d shown as much imagination in his choice of sales items as he had with the store name, the business might have had a better chance to survive. But only a true visionary could guess what kids wanted to buy these days had something to do with computer and video games.
“Which Way to Nowhere?” while definitely in synch with the local street vibe, had turned out to be a bad name for a travel agency. Compounding the poor name choice, though also in tune with what was going on outside, was the decision to invest major time and money into promoting new tourist destinations. The push to send group tours to the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandles, however, had not been well received. As small consolation, the owners were able to leave their bankruptcy hearing secure in the knowledge that they had done nothing to undermine the concept of truth in advertising.
By now, Razor is walking better and his tremor is gone. He approaches what is virtually the only functioning building in the area. And this place is humming. A steady stream of visitors leaves and enters. There are posters of Osama and Saddam in the windows and advertisements for flight school training, quick cash, and one-way tickets to destinations around the globe. There’s also an announcement of the results of a poll on whether John Walker Lindh looks better as a bearded Taliban or a clean-shaven defendant in court docket. The actual ballot is on display along with the relevant before and after images. In addition to “bearded” and “clean shaven,” there’s a third category. This alternative has by far the most votes. Razor is convinced of the poll’s legitimacy, based on the fact choice three is so wordy only the most conscientious of voters would bother to read it: “My instincts are to vote for the beard, but he looks so dirty I’m afraid I’ll have to abstain. What’s the problem? Couldn’t you have found a better picture?”
Razor knows an organization called The Educational Enterprise for the Resurgence of an Islamic Empire (EERIE) runs the building and is headquartered inside. The issue is sensitive enough, Razor remembers, that the FBI has checked out the operation three different times. The TV news segment he had seen on one of the searches had not inspired confidence: Not a single agent had known enough about the group to bring along an extra jacket to counteract the lake effect. He also recalls a news conference where an agency spokesperson had made this statement, or a rough equivalent: “Though we have our suspicions, we have no evidence that this group represents any kind of threat. We’ve even had dogs in there looking for drugs. People who claim we have done sloppy work or overlooked obvious clues are egg sucking gutter trash who have no right to cheap shot and drag the reputations of patriotic Americans and their ideals through the mud. Let’s put aside our differences and, standing vigilant and united, we shall win our confrontation with evil.”
Razor ponders the statement. Based on what he’s seen today, by merely looking in the windows, there’s a strong possibility the FBI has used the wrong dogs.
Having negotiated BYB without incident, Razor crosses over a few blocks into more hospitable territory. He reaches the intersection near the drugstore and, sure enough, San Diego Street has a wide gash down the middle. A number of workers are inside the trench laboring on what looks like a sewage project. There’s one of those signs up that tells you your money is being well spent. Razor supposes it’s nice to see your tax dollars at work, but wonders why nothing ever seems to be quite finished. He wades through pedestrian traffic and enters Balboa’s. He heads for the soda fountain, where he throws himself heavily onto a stool. The joke machine has gone on brief sabbatical, producing nothing of note for the past ten minutes. A glass of water appears in front of him and Razor drinks down his pills. He orders a sandwich and a milkshake, eats, and starts to feel more like himself again. “More like himself.” He’s not sure what it means. Hmmmm… The joke machine is whirling back to life. The meds start to work and take Razor, a little roughly, from pre to post pill reverie. All to the good, as there’s business to take care of downstairs.
Razor always noted the incongruity between the piped in background music and the elevator trip to the depths. A Muzaky version of “Up, Up and Away,” was today’s offering for his subliminal listening pleasure. Some other, more appropriate choices? For gritty realism: “Workin’ in a coal mine, goin’ down, down, down…” Even “…Father, father, we don’t have to escalate ……” might work. Or maybe the theme from “Shaft.” Yeah, “Shaft” was pretty good, thought Razor. Two for the price of one. An elevator link, plus what they did to you when they took your money at the pharmacy. A flashlight with weak batteries goes on inside Razor’s head as he recalls reading somewhere that Richard Roundtree had worked as a druggist before branching out and getting into acting. It all made sense. The dots just hadn’t been connected, at least until now. Razor has a rare, epiphanous insight: The capacity of the human mind to make meaning out of chaos was truly astounding, assuming issues of quality control were minimized, or, optimally, dropped altogether.
Razor’s usual ability to view what came his way with ironic detachment was always put to the test when he arrived underground. He guessed it had something to do with the fact that each time he came down, he knew he’d be leaving with a lighter wallet. Make that a much lighter wallet, to the tune of about five hundred bucks a visit. And the bonus evil clunker: the cash was all out of pocket. He thought of himself as “functionally uninsured,” meaning he could afford the bills. For now. And, yet, he was one of the lucky ones in the overall scheme of things. It was enough to make him want to do a goddamn dance right where he stood. How about a variation on a craze from the 60s? “Come on baby, let’s twist slowly in the wind.” If you were looking for ways to fall into a black hole, getting financially stuck in the American healthcare system was certainly an attractive option. It was right up there with going to prison and waiting to talk to a real human being on a business phone call.
The pharmacy was located in a rather dimly lit, remote basement corner. Nice touches, Razor thinks, for maybe the 800th time. Well, it was hard not to notice: A dark, difficult to access drug counter for a large number of customers with poor or failing eyesight and limited mobility. Razor hoofs it over to the drug area and takes his spot at the end of the line. It looks like a fairly long wait. And he’s still thinking about the 500 bucks he has to fork over. To amuse himself, he formulates a question: What changes would really help the pharmacy get things right? For starters, they should make wearing masks and carrying guns mandatory for all employees working behind the counter. Then they could replace the “Pick Up” sign with the more accurate “Stick Up.” Razor looks around for a suggestion box, the kind that asks a question like, “How can we best serve you? Take the time to fill in this card and let us know how we’re doing. You might as well, since it’ll be ten minutes, at least, before one of our crack druggists bothers to deal with you”. Back on track, Razor wonders if they have, or ever had, suggestion boxes at drug stores. If they don’t now, perhaps they should. But that’s only a suggestion.
With no formal means to critique the quality of the experience, Razor has to settle for listening in on snatches of conversation around him.
Pharmacist #1: “I’m afraid this new medication is a little more expensive than what you’ve been taking.” Customer A: “Why am I not surprised?”
Pharmacist #2: “Did the doctor tell you about the potential side effects of Tetratoxinal? Customer B: “Only in general terms.” Pharmacist #2: “Well, in clinical trials, 89% of the folks who took it developed all body softball size infected boils. A bit like that scene in “Alien.” The one where the Alien pops out of the doctor’s chest. But the boils you’ll most likely get don’t pop, they just kind of fester.” Customer B: “Uh…would that be a 12 or 14-inch softball? Pharmacist #2: “I don’t play softball. But read about what you can look forward to in this pamphlet. I’d tell you to give us a call if you have any other questions, but when this stuff kicks in, I doubt you’ll be coherent enough to talk or have the strength to even pick up a phone. Customer B: “That’s okay. As long as I can drive.”
Customer D (to customer C, who is paying a relatively cheap bill): “Boy, I’d like to get out of here for that price.” Customer C (rather sarcastically): “Oh, yeah? Come back tomorrow when I pick up my other 5 prescriptions and tell me if you still feel the same way.”
Pharmacist #3: “And you continue to have no insurance coverage? Customer E: “Hey, doc, do I talk funny or somethin’? ‘Cause we don’t seem to be communicatin’ too well. I come in here, every time you ask me the same question. And guess what? Every time in here, I still got the same chronic disease. People with a chronic disease, they can’t get insurance. Got it? Now on, I’m operatin’ under the theory this little speech has ensured your assurance that I won’t hear no more about insurance. Hey, Vito, give this guy his pound of flesh and meet me back at the car. I gotta go buy my daughter a stuffed bunny rabbit for her birthday.” (A milestone of sorts here, Razor believes; possibly the first instance of a patient enrolling a doctor in a state high-risk pool).
Pharmacist #4 (to Customer F): “If you’re having trouble with payments, we have some exciting new programs that might be of help. Perhaps something can be worked out. To give you just one example, our ‘Indentured Servitude’ plan has generated quite a buzz. And I note from your file you have a young child. Would that be your first born?”
Razor’s head is spinning, but he’s not entirely surprised. The joke machine has been known to blow the odd gasket on pharmacy visits. Nonetheless, who or what is responsible for today’s production? It’s not quite “Fellini Roma.” Maybe more like “Fellini Roman?” When Polanski meets Fellini, perhaps coming away with a splitting headache is a small price to pay. Unlike the 500 bucks Razor has just left on the counter. With his meds in hand, he beats a hasty retreat back up to the light.
Razor finds himself once more at the soda fountain, drinking iced tea and water. He hears his name and, rather stiffly, turns around. A couple of buddies in another booth are waving him over to join them. It’s Norton North and Calvin Lee. Razor has known both of these guys for years. He sees them fairly regularly, but he’s not sure they’re his friends in the usual sense. More like “niche” pals; you have to be in the mood for them or they can be hard to take; and he already has a basement hangover. North is married to a hotshot doctor who apparently doesn’t mind having a deadbeat husband. Lee lives off some kind of inheritance or trust fund. The next time he gave a straight answer about his source of income would be the first time. North had worked as a lawyer 20 years ago, while Lee, as far as Razor knew, had never had a job. It might not be unreasonable to conclude neither had ever done an honest day’s work in his life. These were two guys with serious time on their hands. They were so good at getting through a day unscathed, they’d retired from hanging out; within the realm of leisure and recreation they had become higher beings.
Razor, against his better judgment, awkwardly slides into the booth. North is about ready to launch into one of his trademark rants, an oral form of non-interactive communication he has elevated to high art. “Hey, Razor,” North begins, “me and Lee are talking about telephones.” “Hey, North,” Razor responds, “people usually talk on telephones, not about telephones.” “A cogent point, but not a particularly germane one.” Razor gets ready for what he knows is coming. At least he won’t be required to say anything. “Now………I just don’t get why people think phones are so convenient. These cell phones, like the one Lee’s got here, they’re for morons. Figure it out. Take any random group of 10 incoming calls. How many are gonna be for your benefit, or even a little bit interesting? Throw 2 out off the top. Telemarketers, salesmen, whatever you wanna call em, 2 of 10 calls are gonna come from conmen tryin’ to separate you from your dough. Throw another one out for a wrong number. Then there’s always a chance you get a call from work. If you work, heh, heh. They want you to sub because somebody’s sick, they want you to come in early, they want you to check on something, they want you to change something, you get the idea. Then there’s family calls, usually from your wife. She calls because she wants you to pick up something from the store. So instead of sitting in an air-conditioned room somewhere havin’ a drink, you gotta hit the aisles on a 90-degree day and stand in a long line. Then your wife calls you back and tells you she forgot something. And it’s always something heavy, like a 12 pack of 64-ounce cokes. That’s 6 calls so far. Next, you get a couple a calls from friends who wanna do something boring like eat at a crummy restaurant or see a crummy movie. Then, for number 9, you might get something like a reminder call for a doctor’s or dental appointment. Pointless. If I got a raging toothache or a third degree burn on my leg, I’m not gonna need to be reminded to show up somewhere for treatment. One more. Even if it’s something good, like the phone company sayin’ your service has to be cut for a while for maintenance purposes, that makes 1 good call outta 10. Explain to me how that’s a good deal? And don’t talk to me about emergencies. Only idiots are in a hurry to hear bad news.”
Lee’s cell phone rings. “Yeah…yeah……okay.” “Who was it and what did they want?” asks North “My wife. She wants me to pick up half a dozen durians on the way home.” “ The fruit with the spikes that looks like it could double as a medieval torture implement? Hey, Lee, there’s a reason they call it a cell phone. There oughta be a federal law requiring outfits with horizontal stripes as a throw in with these things.”
Lee changes the subject. “Hey, Razor, which is the smartest Beatle? “Hey, Lee, are you talking bugs or people?” “Bugs are irritating, not smart.” “You don’t know any people like that?” “Let me try again. Insects aside, who’s the smartest Beatle?” Before Razor can answer, North cranks up. “No contest. It’s gotta be Ringo. Yeah, he’s usually considered the dimmest bulb Beatle, but figure it out. First off, John and George are dead, so how smart can they be? That leaves Paul …………… Hey, Razor, where ya goin’?” “Across the street to get my phone disconnected.” “A germane point, but not a particularly cogent one.”
As Razor gets to the exit, he can still hear North ranting on about Barbara Bach and candlelight dinners. Where was “Up, Up and Away” when you needed it?
Outside, Razor stops and takes a deep breath. The joke machine, having been put into neutral by the King of the Soda Fount Filibusterers, is now percolating on low. Razor, knowing excitement is an overrated commodity, especially once you hit 50, decides he’s had enough for one day. He slowly retraces his steps up BYB and back to the car. No sign of the T. Rex at the parking lot and his own vehicle looks undisturbed. Maybe he should check to see if the car is wired for explosives? He resists the urge, turns the key in the ignition without calamity, and heads home. On the way back, he has trouble keeping the car in a straight line, but completes the trip without any unwanted attention from law enforcement. He parks in the driveway. Razor has a garage, but it’s gotten so cluttered with “stuff” he can’t use it. He’ll have to clean it out one of these years.
Inside the house, Razor sees there are messages on the answering machine. He’ll listen later. He does a little housecleaning, and uses the computer to compose a couple of letters. It takes a long time because he’s among the world’s slowest typists. The typing program has an interesting quirk, at least to Razor: it types letters two sizes smaller than the font setting. A micrographic computer for an owner with his condition: Now that’s a personal computer, Razor thinks.
Razor cooks, eats, and does the dishes, all very slowly. He takes his meds. He’s tired. Once, he would have picked up a book under such circumstances, but he doesn’t concentrate well enough any more to do much reading. Razor turns on the TV. And there he is again, for the second straight night. It’s Czar Biz II; he’s back, still trying to explain the color-coded warning system, and still not connecting. It’s too much for Razor: Hey, Mr. Security, nobody knows who you are or what you do, so why should they care? Take a walk down Sesame Street and get Bert and Ernie to show you how it should really be done.
Razor turns off the TV, ready to go to bed. But he’s forgotten something: the answering machine. He hits the button and finds there are 5 messages. One is from a friend who wants to go to a crummy movie. Score one for North. One is from a con artist who wants to sell him a water conditioner. Score two for North. But the other three turn the tide in favor of the anti- rant forces. His ex wife says she hasn’t heard from him for a while and hopes he’s doing okay. His daughter wants to finalize plans for her upcoming visit. And the disability insurance people want him to come in for a second interview some time next week. He knows mental notes aren’t his strong suit these days, but thinks he can muddle though and remember to make the three calls tomorrow. That was one of the things about sharing a brain with a joke machine. The machine had charisma going for it, and tended to overpower the mental processes needed to get through ordinary, practical, day-to-day life. On the other hand, it ensured things were never boring, and that you were never alone.
That night, Razor would dream, vividly. He was at a train station, on a platform, with no one around. A train was leaving. He had to run to catch it. A conductor reached down a helping hand and said, “Come aboard.” He did. He went into the train car, which was full of passengers. It was nothing he could pin down, but the people looked, moved and seemed a lot like him. He found one of the few empty seats, and sat. He looked out the window. The train was headed up a steep incline, covered by thick forest. It was dark in the car. A voice piped up: “It’s awfully serious in here. Anyone know any jokes?” A second voice: “I don’t know any jokes, but here’s a category: Inappropriate Campaign Theme Songs for Presidential Candidates.” Razor honed in on the two usual suspects, Bill Clinton and Richard Nixon. Before he could take the thought any further, he was beaten to the punch lines:
“Bill Clinton: ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?’” someone said.
“Richard Nixon: ‘Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme’” said another.
The train wasn’t quite out of the woods, but it was getting brighter inside the car. Razor looked around at the other riders. A few were laughing, most had a kind of wry smile on their faces; they’d gotten the joke.
Razor caught the attention of the woman next to him, and winked. She smiled. And winked back.