You're not the only one.
Nonetheless, Larry Miller deserves a bump.
Posted on 07/15/2002 3:47:04 PM PDT by What Is Ain't
THE CAREER DIPLOMAT studied the two newspaper headlines with an intensity usually found only in safecrackers. Where average people have laugh lines, his 57-year-old patrician face had lines of earnestness--no, over-earnestness--crop circles that are mowed into human skin by a lifetime of nodding sagely across tables at others and saying, "I feel your pain." He sighed deeply and tossed the papers onto the long, mahogany table so that his subordinates could see for themselves, and the brilliant young men looked at both in perfect stillness.
First, there was the New York Times: "Officials Puzzled About Motive Of Airport Gunman Who Killed Two." And, slightly askew, the Los Angeles Times: "FBI Looks For Motive In LAX Attack." Just under that was a smaller headline: "With Few Leads, Officials Seek Public's Help." They absorbed the words and sighed, too, and it seemed they had one shared, sad voice. And they did.
"Gentlemen," said the older man, "As usual, the Times got it right, and we're the officials, and, yes, we are puzzled. The situation is grave. If anyone in government can solve this mystery, we here at the State Department will be the ones to do it, because we're people people, and we know that all men and all countries are the same. First, let me give you the facts so far. The gunman--I'm sorry, the gunperson. Forgive me again, I mean the alleged gunperson."
One of the others cleared his throat apologetically--a longstanding specialty at State--and held up a printed sheet. "Excuse me, Mr. Undersecretary, but our new guidelines have a list of preferred terms other than gunperson." The undersecretary brightened and even smiled. "Good, let's hear some." Now they were getting somewhere! "Yes, sir. 'Life-taker, death-enabler, activist, student, co-victim--'"
"That's the one! 'Co-victim.' Splendid. Thank you, Alger. Your grandfather would be proud. All right, let's continue. We know the alleged co-victim was a forty-one-year-old Egyptian, Hesham Mohamed Ali Hadayet." He pronounced it with the flourish of a Cairo cabby, and the others noted that with pleasure. "He'd been in the United States since 1992, and, in 1996 would have been sent back, yes deported"--the room shuddered at the thought--"had it not been for his wife's successful application to our Diversity Lottery Program. That's a State Department innovation, by the way." His blue eyes twinkled at the memory. "He overcame countless obstacles placed in his way by this bigoted country and got lucky enough to open a limousine business, which, through more astonishing luck, made him a very good living. He had a fine home, a Jaguar and a Mercedes, and two sons, and was apparently very religious. What religion was it, again?" Dozens of papers shuffled, and someone said, "Islam, sir." "Oh. Really? Hmm. Well, nothing there. Marvelous religion. One of the top twenty, I'm told. Anyway, after that, uh, incident in New York in the fall, one of his reactionary neighbors hung an American flag and a marine flag, and Mr. Hadayet took it as a personal insult. Quite right, too, if you ask me."
"Didn't Hadayet have a bumpersticker on his front door that said, 'Read The Koran?'" Everyone turned to the young voice down the table.
The undersecretary took a breath and calmed himself--another specialty at State--and smiled kindly. "Whether he did or not, it's not the same. His was an expression of freedom of religion. Hanging that flag was inflammatory.
"Now, let's jump to the present puzzle. Out of the clear blue sky, he goes to the airport and, uh, shoots someone. Let me check my notes. Two, right? Now, that's a big airport. And the international building has many airlines in it. Logic tells us he just picked the first one he saw. Correct?"
"Excuse me, sir." It was the same young voice. "It was El Al. That's the Israeli Airline. And the victims--Jacob Aminov, father of five, with one on the way, and Victoria Hen, single, were Jews. Isn't it funny, by the way? We always seem to know the names of killers, but never the names of the ones they slaughter." The room was silent. Some of the young men pretended to be reading something; others studied their nails.
"What's your point?" The voice had menace in it.
"Well, sir . . ." he looked around and giggled nervously. "I mean, come on, everyone, the guy's an Arab, he hates America, and he'd rather kill Jews than watch his kids grow up. What other news flashes are we looking for? The sun coming up in the East?"
The undersecretary smiled again, but this time the smile didn't reach his eyes. "What's your name, son?"
"Kirkpatrick, sir."
"A coincidence, I'm sure. Do me a favor, Mr. Kirkpatrick, won't you? We're going to be here late, I fear. Would you mind rounding up some take-out menus for us? There's a good fellow." The young man stood and left. But before he reached the door, his boss said, "And send Bobby in with them. That's his job anyway, eh? No need to trouble yourself. In fact, make an early night of it. I'll see you tomorrow." The door clicked shut. Have to remember that one. Not our kind.
"All right, everyone." This time his voice was weary. "Call home. We're going to stay here all night if we have to, but we'll crack this nut, I promise you." The young men took out their cell phones while he strolled to the window. No one for me to call. I remember when my wife walked out with the kids. Told me I was an idiot. Well, who's the idiot now, eh? He smiled to himself with satisfaction. I'm on guard, I'm on duty, I'm solving the problems of the world. And I'll solve this one, too.
The door opened and a thick-set man walked in with a limp and a stack of menus. The old man smiled and spoke loudly, enunciating every word. "Hello, Bobby. Just put them on the table. Thank you very much. Thank you very much, Bobby." Bobby was retarded, and they all loved him. Bobby nodded wordlessly, dropped the menus, and then saw Hadayet's picture on the front of the newspapers. He started to shake a little. "B-bad man," he said.
"What's that, Bobby?"
"Bad man. Murder people. Bad man." Now everyone smiled warmly and laughed a little. The undersecretary came back over and took him by the shoulders gently.
"There are no bad men, Bobby, I've told you that before. Just good friends we haven't met yet."
"No, bad man. He's a bad man. We have to stop all bad men. God says fight bad men."
This time the undersecretary grew very serious. "Now, Bobby, the man you say is bad would say God was on his side, too. How can we say he's wrong?"
"No. He . . . Blas- . . . Blas- . . ." He grew agitated, and the others grew concerned.
"Excuse me, sir, but I think he's trying to say 'blasphemy.'"
"Don't be silly, Carter. All right, Bobby, thank you, that will be all. Thank you very much. We'll get something for you too, all right? There's a good fellow." He led him to the door, and the limping man muttered something as he closed it.
"What was that? Did anyone hear it?"
"It sounded like he said . . . 'Idiots.'"
"Ridiculous. Anyway, gentlemen, the answer is here, somewhere in this file. It always is. Patience is the key, and we must learn to think not just in years but in centuries. My driver, Hussein, was telling me that. Wonderful fellow, Hussein. Syrian, been here about ten years. By the way, when you need new drivers, I want you to call him. Got his own limousine service and a stable of good men, mostly Saudi, but from all over--Yemen, Iraq, Jordan--been here quite a while, but more coming every day. Funny how you never notice them build up over the years. Great people, salt of the earth. Always reading those funny, little books. It's really for him I want to crack this case, you know. Find out why a fine man like this Egyptian fellow would do something so out of character. But first things first. I'm hungry. Anyone feel like falafel?"
“Six men was shot here,” an odd muffled voice close by said.The boy jumped.
A small white girl whose tongue was curled in the mouth of a Coca-Cola bottle was sitting in a patch of sand at his feet, watching him with a detached gaze. Her eyes were the same color as the bottle. She was barefooted and had straight white hair. She withdrew her tongue from the bottle with an explosive sound. “A bad man did it,” she said.
The boy felt the kind of frustration that accompanies contact with the certainty of children. “No,” he said, “he was not a bad man.”
The child put her tongue back in the bottle and withdrew it silently, her eyes on him.
“People were not good to him,” he explained. “They were mean to him. They were cruel. What would you do if someone were cruel to you?”
“Shoot them,” she said.
“Well, that’s what he did,” Calhoun said, frowning.
She continued to sit there and did not take her eyes off him. Her gaze might have been the depthless gaze of Partridge itself.
“You people persecuted him and finally drove him mad,” the boy said. “He wouldn’t buy a badge. Was that a crime? He was the Outsider here and you couldn’t stand that. One of the fundamental rights of man,” he said, glaring through the child’s transparent stare, “is the right not to behave like a fool. The right to be different,” he said hoarsely. “My God. The right to be yourself.”
Without taking her eyes off him, she lifted one of her feet and set it on her knee.
“He was a bad bad bad man,” she said.
-- Flannery O’Connor, The Partridge Festival.
Damn
You're not the only one.
Nonetheless, Larry Miller deserves a bump.
Much simpler days then.
You should order coucous. (Rhymes with cuckoos.)
EBUCK
EBUCK
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