Paul steered with his knees while he lit an Old
Gold. He rolled his window
down. The KZOO morning show, Mike & Ike,
went to commercial. Paul eased
in behind a purple mini-van and tried again.
He heard crackling. His arm ached.
Then he noticed a familiar tone. He backtracked
and fine-tuned.
"Good day, my friend," the deep female voice brought
the day's first smile.
Paul cranked the wheel, and on the green cut
off a Yellow Cab to park on the
curb. He put the car in gear, stopped the engine,
then turned the key and
sighed in relief at the return of the voice.
"This is Radio Free Siouxland, broadcasting the
underground seeds of the
revolution with legs astride the weather ball
in downtown, on top of the
Terre Center, Sioux City, Iowa."
Paul pulled the lever to recline his seat. He
tugged the emergency brake and
pushed the button locking the doors. He pried
each heel from his tennis shoes
and watched the road and foot traffic with narrowing
eyes. He strained to see
the weather ball on top of that one building
next to the cop shop.
"When the weather ball be red, we all be dead.
The weather ball be green,
Wall Street obscene. Weather ball be blue, they
come lookin' for you.
Weather ball be white, no brothers in sight.
Yes, the weather ball be black,
bad times ahead. But you know that rain is good
for the crops, don't they say?
"But today we play! We're going to send out some
Jackson Browne, Lou Reed
and Mr. John Prine for you this morning. This
is Elana at KFU."
Pretending to sleep, Paul watched a mail carrier
in shorts and knee socks
coming down the sidewalk with an antenna sticking
out of his mailbag.
"Remember, all next week I'll be on a live clandestine
remote from the
Southern Hills Mall. Bring your Walkman and we
be jammin'."
The mailman passed without incident. Paul swiveled
his head slowly and saw
two brown men on the corner, a line of sweat
down both of their white T-shirts.
Ahaa! thought Paul. Wetbacks. He turned up his
radio as a sheriff's car sped by.
Paul scrunched further down.
"You know, as I sit in my window and watch you
all hurrying to work I wonder
if we've used up all our tokens, you know? If
we're coming to the end of the
line. You been hearing about the Truth Commission
in South Africa? Why don't
we have a Truth Commission in the United States.
Who killed Bobby Kennedy?"
Paul shot up and worked the knob as she drowned
in static.
"You killed Martin King? Why? Excuse me, Mr. Haig,
Ms. Kirkpatrick,
Mr.Abrams, just how many people did we kill in
El Salvador? And did we
care that they had their heads cut off, their
organs stuffed into their mouths?
Not-a-problem?"
Paul stuck his right hand into his right front
pocket. He dug way down,
fishing for a cigarette. He pulled up a watermelon
Lifesaver. He picked
off what lint he could and stuck the candy in
his mouth.
"Yes, Mr. Clinton, why can't Leonard Peltier get
a fair trial?" Paul's lady
went on. "What is the FBI really up to around
here? Let's organize a Cub
Scouts tour of the Hoover building and that CIA
compound and that National
Security Agency. What's this all about?
"May we help you, citizen? Yes, I'd like to read
that file and that one over
there, too. And I'll take two of those chartreuse
folders with the burgundy
clips. Yeees. Honey, there, Mr. Director, come
sit on my lap and tell me
what you been up to today, now, chil'".
Paul felt motion. He felt as if he were slipping
off the planet, like Apollo
I in free-fall. Boom! His rear bumper hit the
front bumper of the yellow
taxi behind him. Paul jerked around and saw the
taxi was empty. He
started the car and pulled up a few feet.
"You know what I'm saying?" she said. "Poverty
is not the problem, but
the solution. We need to look for the lie, friends,
look for the lie. Listen.
Y'all. I got to be gone. I can hear the pitter-patter
of little jackboots on
my walk. Lou and John will have to stay the night
with me. Seems that
we're out of time. No more tokens to play today.
Here's that Jack
Browne I was promising. Lives In The Balance.
I've been waiting for
something to happen. Y'all be good. Until tomorrow,
stop obeying."
As Jackson Browne sang, Elana Usak swiveled the
chair to look out
her window. She tried to guess the vehicles that
had her show tuned in.
Maybe that pickup, that garbage truck, the El
Dorado in front of the
bakery with its motor running.
The station went to static before the song finished.
Paul opened his eyes and moved his seat up. He
flipped up the visors
and turned off the radio.
He released the park brake and started the car.
He looked in the mirror
and turned into traffic, causing a Budweiser
truck to slam on its brakes.
Paul checked his side mirror and moved to the
middle lane. He pushed up
the hill in jerks, stopping at each light, keeping
his right foot half on the
brake and half on the gas.
When he reached the top, the sun chimed nine o'clock,
the sidewalk people
sat down at computer terminals and the beer truck
lurched into a grocery
parking lot. Paul chugged over the crest of the
hill, past the Catholic high
school, and disappeared down, into a maw of white
houses.
Click to order