The School on Heart's Content Road (32 page)

But Gordon booms. “The original intent! The Enlightenment has been swallowed up by ambition and the friggin' American dream and complexity and—”

Rex cuts in, “There is nothing complex about the Constitution.”

With grim laughter, Jane says, “I don't believe this.”

Gordon says, “Oh, yeah, yeah, the Constitution might work if we were a tiny country full of nice people. But then again, not really, because our culture is set up for people who need a bunch of others doing all the shit-work for them. It's not set up for people who expect to empty their own chamber pots and pick their own turnips, it's set up for big commerce. And
growth. Cancerous
growth. And . . .
and . . . and . . .”—he stutters now, rushing on, fearing Rex will try to speak—“and even if we did touch the Constitution up a tad, try to make it less about masters and slaves, nothing's going to work 'cause this damn country is full of . . . of humans! Humans are such fuckups!”

Rex stares at Gordon. He's obviously not going to humor Gordon with this kind of foolishness.

But Gordon needs no humoring to work up a spiel. He rocks the chair so hard, Jane grips him to stay on board. He raves for ten minutes.

Rex waits it out.

Militias are BAD! Militias are SCARY!

There are
no
good citizens' militias because citizens should only be working toward excellence and nice scores and diplomas and voting and working at their jobs and shopping and relaxing. Getting entertainment and,
yes, consuming
. And only concerned with being attractive and clean. The rest will fall into place!

Trust us, it will fall into place. We are your strong leaders. We GIVE you defense. We GIVE you security. The Pentagon and CIA and FBI and police and others official enough to do it right; these are good.

Citizens must TRUST their defense providers. TRUST US!

Put your guns down. Guns are bad. Bad boys. Bad! Don't be like those screwball dangerous citizens' militias, which are a bunch of wacko macho racist sexist scary guys who bomb babies!

Fear them. Trust us!

Back on the farmhouse porch, Secret Agent Jane speaks to us.

When I tell the lady up the road, Ber-NEECE, and her guy about this, they will look at me with saaaad eyes. Gordie is very wrong to talk about inlegal stuff. Bernice's guy, who is really her son, says it is very urgent that I keep an eye on things here. They use a very good tape recorder for my words. They are both
real
schoolteachers, not weird like up at the Settlement. Gordie isn't a true crook. He just needs to shape up.

Almost gasping, Gordon continues.

“. . . and you
are
aware that in 1886, a corporate-pampered Mammonworshipping courtroom reporter of the California Supreme Court gave constitutional rights to the Pacific Railroad Corporation—a
corporation,
which is a piece of paper? Yes, a courtroom reporter! A little twist of wording and a lotta closed doors after that. The corporate citizen was hatched. It was inevitable. The shit was rising. Nothing can hold the shit down once it soaks a bit! . . .” Gordon is in full scream mode now. His right boot blonks the beer bottle he'd recently lowered to the floor. Oops! Over it goes, liquid snaking along the boards.

Again, Secret Agent Jane speaks to us.

Something about taking over the government. And something about murder. Some words are very real. Some words are like air. Even with these glasses, this job is harder than you think.

The candles flicker.

Quietly, Rex says, “I remember when you used to talk like this. I thought you'd gotten over it. All that commie college crap.”

Gordon gives a great hoot. “College! This was not talked about in college. This is—”

“Off the deep end,” says Rex.

“But
you
aren't off the deep end?”

“I am for the Constitution.”

“You like being defined as a consumer? You miss your old definition? You miss being called a citizen? Though it was an illusion all along, you liked it, huh?”

Rex sniffs to cast aside this vague line of thinking.

Jane swings one leg over the chair arm. The leg twitches and flicks like a really annoyed lion cub might work her long spotted tail.

Gordon grins unhappily. “And because it is inside us all, it has defined us all. We are too childlike to become a resistance.”

Rex squints, wiggles his lips around, the big mustache creaturish, his eyes pale and metallic in the near dark. He hears his old friend's voice going incredibly soft, the weird in-and-out tidal waves of his passion.

“It is beyond touch. Humans made it. But it can't be turned by our hand!”

Rex's eyes widen with a gotcha sort of twinkle. “I thought you said it
could
. You are always saying a bunch of your type of people could fix it: windmills, big gardens, cute little villages.”

Gordon is profoundly and thunderously silent.

Rex says, “So now you are saying you think it's completely hopeless. You had all the answers a minute ago: democracy and process and whatever. Now you've talked yourself into a hole.” He shakes his head, eyes smiling, and turns away. Goes to the screen door, facing out.

Jane's long bare golden-brown leg, dangling over the chair arm, has ceased motion. Gordon closes his hand around it and tucks her into her favorite curled-up sleep position against his chest. She's pretty sleepy, almost gone, even though her secret agent all-seeing glasses remain quite well situated on her face.

Rex turns back to face Gordon.

Gordon has an ugly flash. He sees the lie of his argument to Rex. Not that the words are lies, but talk is cheap, isn't it? In practice, Gordon St. Onge is nothing! Just hiding behind his windmills, solar collectors, and the new gate. He looks up at Rex's face, the thinning hair and heavy to-the-jaws mustache, Rex who has now folded his arms across his chest, looking like he knows Gordon's thoughts. But then he just says, “Democracy is chaos.”

Gordon snorts. “Richard, you'd frustrate a fieldstone.”

Rex chuckles. “Don't start throwing things. Be nice.” His eyes grow almost warm.

Gordon says, “Okay, I don't knock the citizens' armed militias. Your common-law stuff. Your stashing funny foods, guns, whatever. I'm just saying we need something in addition to that, we need—” Again he is stalling out. Again the philosopher has found the bricked-up end of the universe. In the cheery candlelit gloom, he grins. Stupidly.

Meanwhile, all across America, evening descends into the various time zones.

And good American children are studying hard for tests, achieving, succeeding, becoming . . . uh, becoming what?

And then it seems the two old friends are coming to some agreement on something close to the heart.

“My brother, I
understand
how i'tis! All this antigun hysteria pumped up by the media and the foundations. It's fucking scary, man, it
is;
I'll give you that. It's dividing our country like nothing has before, not recently. I am not laughing at you, brother!”

Rex says, “No. You're just talking without cease. Nothing new.”