Reagan's Sorry legacy
Collective Amnesia or Collective Alzheimer's:America 'Remembers' Ronald Reagan by Paul Douglas Newman
Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact. George Eliot (1819 - 1880)
Cabot's degrees were in history. His passion was history, which he taught at the local state-supported junior college.
Cabot's Sunday mornings, for the last three years, had been devoted to delivering meals to those living with AIDS through the Meals on Wheels program. He'd been assigned ten stops where he'd sit with the clients and make sure the meals were consumed. His easy manner and gift for gab provided, for some of the clients, a tonic more potent than the cocktails they took to sustain their lives.
To be continued...
**
One of Cabot's most difficult stops was Miguel. Miguel was only forty and had been living with aids for almost twenty years. Miguel was often angry, frustrated, sometimes in pain, sometimes drunk, sometimes absolutely exhausted, but always, always up for an intellectual confrontation with Cabot or anybody else who he'd happen to encounter in his limited capacity to get around. But, he did get around ... often attending art shows and free concerts, lectures and public ceremonies. He'd climb on a bus at the curb right outside the building where he lived and travel the blocks or miles to wherever the event of the day called him, only to return completely drained, completely empty of whatever energy with which he had started the day.
Cabot's knock on Miguel's door last Sunday was met with the unmistakable angry Miguel who screamed, "It's fuckin' open."
Cabot walked into the small apartment and found Miguel on his bed with his back resting against the headboard and a book in his hands. "Good morning," Cabot said.
"Is it?" Miguel asked from behind the book.
"Indeed," Cabot said as he sat on the edge of the bed and opened the Styrofoam container. It was eggs and bacon; toast and a pear half. "Hungry?"
Miguel lowered the book and glanced at the food. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. But, we gotta talk, Cabot."
"Absolutely," Cabot said. "We always talk and you always get the best of me. Shoot."
"Well," Miguel said, as he placed the Styrofoam container on his lap and unwrapped the plastic utensils, "I went to see that fucker Mobley yesterday. You know, the guy you told me was gonna give that lecture at the library."
"On Sartre," Cabot said. "Yes, I remember."
"Well," Miguel said as he speared some scrambled egg with his fork, "that guy is so full of shit it runs outa' both sides of his mouth."
Cabot smiled. "I told you that you probably wouldn't enjoy it. He's a doctor of philosophy; an academic discipline that exists primarily of and for other academics."
"Tell me about it," Miguel said as he chewed the eggs.
Cabot handed him a cup of coffee. "So, what'd Dr. Mobley say that ..."
"Hey," Miguel raised his voice. "It's what that motherfucker didn't say that pissed me off. I don't fuckin' know how anybody can talk for an hour and ten minutes and not say a fuckin' thing. You know what I'm sayin', Cabot? You understand me?"
To be continued...
***
"Okay, okay, Miguel," Cabot said as he raised his hand, palm forward, to Miguel. "Settle down. What did you want him to say?"
"I wanted him to say..." Miguel said and then he paused and stared at something only he could see. "I wanted him to say something to me," he said as his voice lowered, softened.
"Miguel," Cabot said, "these philosophy guys, these academics don't really speak to the ... ah, to the common man. They speak to academics like themselves. I mean didn't you see that at the library? Didn't everybody there look like an academician?"
Miguel sipped his coffee and turned his stare to Cabot. "Now, herr professor, tell me how an academician looks? They prettier than the rest of us? They show their fuckin' superiority somehow in their hair or smiles or eyes or... Jesus, Cabot, you are some kind of stupid shit!"
"Thank you," Cabot said as he pulled the foil cover off the orange juice container which he handed to Miguel. "Actually, Mobley didn't really owe you anything. He was discussing his Sartre expertise. That was the point of the lecture. And, I told you that you probably wouldn't be interested."
"Yeah, well..." Miguel said as he took the orange juice. "You know what, Cabot?"
"No, what?"
"You're some kinda fuckin' tramp; some kinda hotsy-totsy, intellectual apologist. You know what I mean, Cabot? You know what I'm talkin' about, herr professor?"
Cabot looked into Miguel's eyes. He acknowledged that Miguel had an innate intelligence; that he was as sharp as a pin, even though he had never graduated from high school. "Yeah," Cabot said, "I'm a dumb shit. So, what did you want Mobely to say to you?"
Miguel again looked off into that space to which only he was privy.
To be continued...
****
"I guess," Miguel said as he raised the small orange juice container to his lips. He took a sip. "I guess," he said again, "I wanted him to tell me about the meaning of life. You know as well as me, Cabot, that's the eternal search, the eternal passion for these guys. Whether they're talkin' about Sartre or Foucault or fuckin' Kierkegaard; whether they're talkin' about anybody who calls himself a philospher or even a fuckin' teacher of philosophy, that's the whole point: The fuckin' meaning of life, Cabot. Here," he said as he moved the Styrofoam food tray from his lap to the side of the bed and reached over to his night stand. He placed his oranged juice on the small table and then grabbed a paperback book which he quickly opened to a page that he had creased at the edge. He began reading aloud, "'If you marry, you will regret it; if you do not marry, you will also regret it; if you marry or do not marry, you will regret both.'"
Yes, Cabot smiled. Miguel was reading from Kierkegaard's Either/Or . "Yes," he interrupted Miguel, "I know this well."
Miguel lowered the book slightly and stared intently into Cabot's eyes: "And, you're gonna know it a hell of a lot better, Cabot, 'cause you're gonna listen to this fuckin' thing. Got it?"
"Proceed," Cabot said as he raised his hand slightly in a it's your dime gesture.
Miguel raised the book and continued: "'Laugh at the world's follies, you will regret it; weep over them, you will also regret that; laught at the world's follies or weep over them, you will regreat both; whether you laugh a the world's follies or weep over them, you will regret both. Believe a woman, you will regret it, believe her not, you will also regret that; believe a woman, or believe her not, you will regret both: whether you believe a woman or believe her not, you will regreat both.'" Miguel paused for a moment. "I might add here," he said as he lowered the book again, "that nobody, ever should believe anybody that says they're clean; that they're negative. If you believe 'em and they ain't, boy oh fuckin' boy, are you gonna regret it. Anyway," he said as he raised the book again, "'Hang yourself, you will regret it; do not hang yourself, and you will also regret that; hang yourself or do not hang yourself you will regret both; whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both. This, gentlemen, is the sum and substance of all philosophy.'" Miguel gently closed the book and placed it back on the side table. He raised his head and stared at the ceiling.
"Well," Cabot said. "Thank you for reminding me of the content...
"Oh, fuck you, Cabot," Miguel said. "Did you hear what he said? He talked to me. He had something to say to me. Life is full of regrets; moments that, either way you go, you're gonna fuckin' regret it. That's philosphy, Cabot. That's, "'...the sum and substance of all philosophy.' And, I get it Cabot. Mobley doesn't get it. He can talk all day about Sartre and not say a fuckin' worthwhile thing to me. To me," Miguel repeated as he thumped his chest with his index finger. "That's who Mobley needed to talk to.
To be continued...