I Believe

Joel K. Douglas
  • 4.4 (14)
  • Philosophy
  • Updated Weekly

Philosophy from the American Experiment | A Spotify Rising Star Podcast joelkdouglas.substack.com

  1. 1d ago

    The Night Shift | The Bottom 50% Own 2.5% of the Wealth of the Country

    Moths circle the streetlights in the mostly empty lot. Blacktop. White parking lines. Road noise. Pickup doors slam shut. They’re supposed to park at the back of the lot. Nobody who would care is here at eleven, and they’ll be gone before Beth gets in. She’s at the door, counting heads. Everyone calls her Lou. “I need you to go get Charlie,” she says. “He was supposed to be here an hour ago.” No problem. Charlie lives in a trailer park pretty close. Tires on gravel. Sideways glances. He bangs on the dark trailer door and waits. Quiet inside. Does it again. After a couple minutes Charlie opens the door, eyes bloodshot, smelling like too much of something. “I’ll be right behind you.” The kid leaves. When he gets back she’s still at the door. “He’ll be here,” she says. “He always comes.” Trucks back up to the dock. Boxes come down the rollers. Cardboard stacks up faster than anyone breaks it down. Most of the crew is new. Maybe they’ll last the week. Charlie comes in at midnight and works the line like a man paying something off. Nobody says anything. At the first break she’s smoking and eating a sandwich. Lettuce packed separate. Bread spread thin with dressing. John sleeps in the corner of the break room. Loud snores. He jerks awake, then nods off again. Above the time clock there’s a board with the stock price on it. Employee ownership plan. Somebody on day shift writes the new number in every day. “That’s not much mayonnaise,” the kid says. “Miracle Whip. If I could afford mayonnaise, I would spread it thick,” she says. He looks at his own sandwich. Eats the rest of it slower. At seven the doors open onto full daylight. The crew walks out squinting. Engines start across the lot, one after another. They pull out and head toward town and bed. He turns west, towards Midway, the sun in his mirrors. His shift at the dairy starts at seven thirty. Act I. Keys Lou’s ring of keys opens nearly every lock in the store. A key to the high valuables cage, the office, the cardboard compactor lockout. She carries them on a metal clip hung over her belt. When she walks the floor, you hear her coming. She keeps a copy of the schedule on a sheet folded in her back pocket. Not her schedule, because she has that one memorized. Everyone’s schedule. Her handwriting, all capitals, pencil. She schedules break times, teaches new workers how to unload trucks and run pallet jacks, moves people around based on who calls in. The store stays open until ten. Night shift starts at eleven. She arrived by nine, through the auto-open doors in pale jeans, shirt tucked in. She walked with highkneed purpose, denim falling straight to white sneakers. Pencil ready. The evening crew has their aisles faced and the dock swept before she comes through. Just before eleven o’clock, she’s at the door to let everyone in. Five tonight. Charlie, John, the kid, a new guy, and a woman who started Tuesday. The truck’s already backed in. She takes the paperwork from the driver and signs it on her leg. The night is orderly. Trailer, then the rollers, then her first Virginia Slim. Pallets to the floor, everyone split aisle by aisle, freight on the shelves, cardboard broken down flat and baled. Then the orders. She’s quick to jump in and fix a jam or rebuild a corner of a pallet herself so a new guy can watch. Then she hands him the next box. She explains to him, “A new truck every night. Nothing to stay in the stockroom, no back inventory. Six hundred boxes in, six hundred boxes onto shelves, cardboard baled, empty dock by seven, and another truck tomorrow.” This summer the kid is new to nights. He’s been with the store for a couple of years on evening shift, and he picked up a second job on the university dairy for the summer. When he got moved to nights she asked him about his schedule. Night shift, off at seven, dairy until five, sleep until ten, five days a week. “That’s not much sleep,” she says. She looks at him like he’s missing something obvious. Once every couple weeks the kid isn’t there at eleven. If the truck is full and the crew is short, she’ll call. If the truck is light she’ll let him sleep until one before she calls. When a truck pulls away she might sneak a puff outside the cone of the dock light. The moths shoot across the light in a streak. Around four the night gets long. Whoever’s dragging worst finds her coming down their aisle with a mini candy bar. She doesn’t say anything about it. The woman who started Tuesday asks her how long she’s been here. Nineteen years, she says. Nights for sixteen. A few nights later the woman asks about her hours. Lou takes the sheet out of her back pocket and looks at it. Thirty-two this week, she says. Forty next week. She folds it back up. Get a thousand hours in the year and you qualify for the profit sharing, she says. You still have to be here at the end of the year. The woman says okay and goes back to her aisle. One night she’s showing the kid how the order system works. He asks her why she doesn’t switch to days. Assistant manager, an office with a door and a chair. That job takes a degree, she says. She scans the barcode in front of an empty shelf to place an order. I’m fifty. Act II. The Crew Charlie arrives just after Lou most nights. He clocks in and heads straight to the dock to check out what the truck has brought him that night. He jokes with the college kids who are going home. The kid only has to go to his trailer once. Nobody brings it up. He works the west side of the store, toys and tools and home goods. He’s fast. Somewhere in the middle of the night he’ll say something the kid thinks about on the drive to Midway. One night, breaking down boxes: why would you worry about something that hasn’t happened yet? Then he tilts the bale of flattened cardboard on a pallet and gets the jack. Nights suit me, he says. John falls asleep whenever he sits down. Lou gives him jobs that keep him on his feet and moving. Clean and polish the floors, move pallets. When break time is up, they wake him up and tell him it’s time to go. That’s just John. Then one night in July, he’s different. Awake. Smiling when he comes through the door, talking during break. He tells everybody he got a machine that helps him breathe when he sleeps. Says he slept eight hours and can’t remember the last time he felt this good. He looks ten years younger. He eats his whole lunch without falling asleep. Along with Lou, they’re the regulars. The day shift is the lifers, evening for the college kids, nights for those caught in between. The crew turns over all summer. A guy who wanted a job with air conditioning. A lady who needed a paycheck, then she was headed to Springfield. They’re friendly and they work hard. Then Lou crosses their name off the schedule. The woman who started that first Tuesday lasts six weeks. One night she just stops coming in. She didn’t quit because she hated anybody. Nights are hard on your body. You work while you’re supposed to be sleeping and you sleep while you’re supposed to be working, and most people’s bodies can’t take it. Every so often a new person will ask: how long does it take your body to adjust? Opinions all around. Two weeks. A month. Six. The answer for some of them? Never. At three in the morning the store hums with noise from the fluorescent ballasts, John running the floor polisher, scrub pads turning circles on the tile, Charlie making the cardboard baler groan in the backroom. The whole town is dark, moths shooting across the parking lot lights, and they’re moving boxes in this lit-up one-hundred-thousand-square-foot metal box. Freight moving from a trailer to a shelf so a woman can buy diapers for her baby at seven a.m. One night a new guy asks about the sign by the time clock. Employee ownership. What’s the dollar sign written in marker? Lou explains. You sign up to buy company stock, they take money out of your check. For every dollar of stock you buy the company puts an extra fifteen cents into your account. Charlie says he thought about it, but he can’t eat stock. John says he signed up once and a doctor’s bill changed his mind. Nobody asks the kid. Lou puts her cigarette out and they go back to work. The stock price on the sign goes up just a little every week, all summer. By August, Lou, John, and Charlie are the only people who have been there longer than the kid. Act III. The Bobcat The sun is low on the horizon. Morning near Midway. He steps on the back of the bucket and into the cab. Safety restraint down, key on, and the diesel engine putters to life. Bucket up, tilt down to check the pins, everything checks out. Most of the day is in this Bobcat. Mixing feed in the auger, evening out the corn silage row, unloading alfalfa bales off semis, cleaning the freestall barn. Almost everyone who works on the dairy is a college kid, except for the manager and the guy who can fix everything. Throughout the day, the college kids talk. Did you hear Sean got a sweet job up in Minnesota? Then the milk parlor, clean the udders, mastitis check, milk machine, clean again. The Holsteins give more milk, the Jerseys more milk fat. The Food Science majors who work in the ice cream parlor on campus will use it to make Tiger Stripe, golden French vanilla with a dark Dutch chocolate ribbon. Gold and black. What do you think of the fall study abroad program in the Netherlands? In the afternoon somebody asks what he’s doing next year. After you graduate? I’m going to be a senior, but I’m not sure yet. I might go back to working with beef cattle. Or I might apply to vet school. Somebody says that’s cool. The talk moves back to Sean’s job. They hose and scrub the milk parlor down when they’re done milking. He drives east toward town, sleeps from five thirty to ten. At eleven, Lou is at the door, counting heads. Act IV. August Two weeks left in the sum

  2. Aug 11

    Dogwoods and Two Grand Lies

    The dogwoods are blooming along the edge of the great lawn, dark pink and brilliant white. Below the hill, Brush Creek runs slow and clear past the parkway that shares its name. Beyond, Spanish mission buildings catch the morning sun. Saturday in April. The collie comes loping back up the slope. She drops the ball at his feet and barks and backs up, ready. “What’s her name?” The girl from the diner stands at the edge of the grass in a light sweater, holding two coffees. She hands him one. “Penny.” “You said you bring her out here on weekends.” She sits down on the grass. “So I figured Saturday.” He throws the ball. Penny goes. She has brought a stack of index cards, rubber-banded, thick as a fist. Names of bones on one side, in her small neat writing. “You mentioned school.” he says. “What classes are you taking?” “Medical school. UMKC.” He looks at her. “Medical school?” “It’s a six-year program. High school straight in. No college in between.” She turns a coffee cup in her hands, keeping them warm. “They gave me a patient the first month. Mostly I just took his blood pressure and listened to him talk about Korea.” “So what’s the diner?” “Tuition.” “What about you?” “Business school. Rockhurst.” He throws the ball again. “Nights and weekends at my uncle’s shop. Tool and die.” “What’s a die?” “A tool that makes the same part every time, until they eventually wear out.” She does not look at the cards once. They stay until the coffee is gone and then longer. Her hair is up and she smells somehow better than the dogwoods. When she leaves she touches his arm. He has a four o’clock shift at his uncle’s shop. Act I. The Match North Kansas City. A machine shop a block off the tracks. Hydraulic presses shook the concrete. Screw machines never seemed to stop. Over the tool bay radio, “Show Me the Way” played for what felt like the hundredth time while his uncle studied another purchase agreement. The new Cincinnati machining center had arrived in July. Five years of payments sat beside it. The shop makes tooling for the overhaul base at the airport. Engine stands, fixtures, jigs. TWA is the main customer, and they order more every year. The uncle takes the orders. His brother has a desk by the window. Eight years older, married, Missouri Air Guard airlift mechanic. His unit gets called up in December to what his brother calls “the sandbox.” His uniforms still in the office closet because no one believed he’d be gone long. By now he’s twenty. Still in business school across town, nights and weekends in the shop. With his brother deployed, the nights get longer. The uncle might be the boss on paper, but his brother ran the place. In February, his mother calls the office phone. He yells into the phone, a finger in his other ear. A truck rolled on a road north of the border. His brother is alive. His back is broken in two places. The shop fires up again Monday morning. He signs payroll checks for the first time in March. He copies the way his brother wrote them in the green ledger. Six cents and change of every guy’s check comes out of every dollar for Social Security. The shop puts in the same amount. A match. It seems plain enough. The men put in their share, the shop puts in. Someday the government pays it back. Both halves go to the bank in one deposit and then to the government every quarter. He looks for something that says what the money buys. There isn’t one. Just a booklet of tax tables instead. He changes his schedule to night classes. Tuesdays and Thursdays at six. In April a shipment comes back out of tolerance, a die is worn and no one measured it. The rework takes the nights for three weeks. He makes it to one final. Sleeps through the other. In the fall he signs up for two classes and drops one. She calls the shop on Sundays now. He’s there catching up on paperwork when the machines are down. She is on rotations now. They meet at the lawn on Saturdays when she is off and he can get away. Penny is glad to see her. His brother comes home in June with a cane. The cane is not going away. Some mornings he is at the shop, others he doesn’t make it. The uncle drinks his coffee on the floor and tells him. Your brother needs time. When he is right you go back to days. A year later the shop takes on two more men for the TWA work. He is twenty-one. He runs payroll again, eighteen checks and the deposit. In early July he sends the government the largest check he has ever signed. Half came out of the men’s pay. Half from the shop. Act II. The Stub Match Day comes on a Thursday in March. Six years of school for one envelope, opened in a hotel ballroom with everyone else. The envelope isn’t an invitation. It’s orders. Hers says Houston. He drives her to the airport in June. Penny rides in the back with her head out the window. At the curb she holds the dog’s face in both hands for a while, and then his, and then she goes. The Tercel gets sold to a cousin. Everything else fits in two bags. The years in Houston are call nights and loan payments. A hundred hours some weeks. She sleeps in the hospital more than the apartment. The first paycheck comes at the end of July. She reads the stub in the parking garage, line by line. Federal. State. FICA. She asks the chief resident what FICA is. “Social Security,” he says. “Everybody pays it.” She does not read another stub. Her mother mails the Kansas City paper now and then. The airline is in it twice, and then again, and she calls the shop on a Sunday. “It is quieter here than it used to be,” he says. He does not say more and she does not ask. They trade cards at Christmas. In her fourth year, a boy comes in at two in the morning with a burst appendix. Before she takes him back, his mother asks what it will cost. Not whether he will live. What it will cost. She says she doesn’t know, and it’s the stone cold truth. The boy does fine. She never sees a copy of the bill and has no idea how much it costs. She stays two more years after residency to learn children’s surgery. She is thirty-one, and for the first time in her life there’s nothing she wants more. That fall, an envelope comes from the Social Security Administration. She’s curious. Inside is every year she has ever worked and what she earned. She didn’t know someone knew all the history. The diner is there at the top of the list even though she earned nearly nothing. Eleven hundred dollars. Below it is a number for what she will receive at sixty-seven. At the bottom, a paragraph says Congress can change the law at any time, and that by the time she retires, the taxes coming in will cover about three-quarters of what the program has promised to pay. She reads it. She reads it again. Puts it in the envelope where she keeps seven years of paper copies of her taxes. Children’s Mercy calls that spring to offer her a children’s surgeon position. She comes home. The dogwoods are blooming when she signs. Act III. The Letters The uncle signs the shop over to him in ninety-eight. He keeps a key and his coffee mug and comes in on Tuesdays to stand on the floor. His brother signs as the witness. A competitor buys the airline in the spring. They have overhaul shops and suppliers of their own in other states. Orders come in slower all summer and stop in October. Twenty years of tooling sit on the racks in the back. Engine stands, fixtures, jigs. All of it built to print, property of the airline. Good tool steel, and none of it his. He calls three numbers before someone on the other end of the line knows anything. “Scrap it or store it,” the man says. “Nobody is coming for it.” The accountant doesn’t sugarcoat it. He can keep what he has in savings, or he can pay the guys their last payrolls. He tells the men after the final shift, when the checks are ready. Fifteen men shake his hand. One doesn’t. “Should’ve told us months ago, so we could have found another shop.” The men get paid. He takes the deposit to the bank; the men’s share and the shop’s match both. Then, an auction one day in March. The Cincinnati sells to a shop in Wichita. He keeps the green ledger. Her Christmas cards are tucked inside the back cover. The years go by at Children’s Mercy. Operation by operation. She gets good, and then she gets known. Residents ask to train under her. She tells them never to call an operation routine where a family can hear it. When the hospital raises money for the new tower, she gives enough that they ask about putting her name on something. She says no. The fund she starts pays the bills insurance will not for the families who have to ask what it costs. The auction is in the paper that spring, two lines. She reads them. At Christmas she signs the card the same as every year. The uncle dies in November. A widower. No children. He handles the arrangements and calls the number on the government website. The check that came that month has to go back, the woman on the phone tells him. There is a death payment of two hundred fifty-five dollars, for a spouse or a child. He has neither. “Then there is no payment,” she says. She is polite. He thanks her before he hangs up. At the funeral his brother reads the eulogy leaning on the cane. The page begins to shake. He steps beside him and holds the bottom corner. The paper statements stop coming. A card in the mail says they are online now. She creates an account and types a password twice. There it is. A record of every year. Even the diner. Eleven hundred dollars. The paragraph at the bottom is still there. The year beside it is closer. She reads it once. She prints it and files it with the taxes. In the back of the drawer are cards children made for her after their surgery. He gets a job fixing machines at other shops. First, at twelve dollars an hour, then eighteen, then twenty-six. He gets a small house north of the ri

  3. Aug 4

    A Yoke Built for Two | A Dead Hog, a Shovel, and a Fifteen-Year-Old

    May in Missouri. Warm, not hot like it will be in July. Humidity in the air, mist at the bottom of the hill hiding the green grass. Bright white gravel under tires. He opens the passenger door. He is fifteen. His grandma drove him. The Oldsmobile idles behind him until the screen door opens and a man comes out. Then she pulls away. The man is the rancher’s son. Sixty years old, maybe more. His truck is running in the yard. “You eat breakfast?” he says. Then, “Dad’s in the hospital. Nursing home after that, probably. He won’t be coming back to this.” The house first. Old, white, small, on top of the hill. A garden plot on the side, a shotgun sitting by the door nearest the garden. Dogwoods and oaks, leaves out full now. One level. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a sitting room. Clean. The beds made tight with homemade quilts. Glass jugs on the floor by the kitchen door. “Dad’s corn whiskey,” the son says. The boy can eat lunch in here if he wants. Running water. The well is outside. A newspaper picture in a frame on the side table. Five generations. A new baby, and a great-great-grandmother still alive to hold him. “That’s my mom,” the son says. “Holding the baby. That picture is ten years old now.” Then the work. Build a cattle corral and an alley good enough to back a trailer in and load. Stay out of the old smokehouse. It’ll fall down any day now. One of those sheds needs knocked down before it falls down, you can use the tractor to help. The chicken coop needs cleaned out. Probably hasn’t been since Mom passed. Most of the perimeter fence needs checked. Water tanks sorted. The truck is still running. The son looks at his watch. Plenty to do. “But there’s a job that needs done before all that.” He points down past the pens, to a hog lot at the bottom of the slope. There’s a dead hog in it. “Drag it down the hill and bury it,” he says. “Shovels are in the shed. Twenty years ago I’d have dug it myself.” He shakes the boy’s hand. The truck backs around and goes down the drive and the sound of it fades and then it’s gone. Quiet after that. Wind in the oaks. A rooster somewhere below. Act I. The Hog Lot He doesn’t start with the hog. He walks the place first, down the hill and through all of it, to get eyes on everything. The corral isn’t started. The materials are already there, stacked and waiting. Old railroad ties. Cattle panels. Each tie has a mark on it, showing how deep to set it. The smokehouse is tall and narrow. He’s never seen one before. A fire pit dug in the dirt floor with a simple metal ring, chains hanging overhead. He doesn’t go in. The chicken coop is full of old bedding, gray with dust. Hornets have built above the door. He’ll have to take care of that. One of the water tanks is dry. Wolf spiders in the bottom, big ones. He throws a rock in and they scatter, but they can’t jump out of the tank. An old blue Ford tractor sits by the shed. Small. It doesn’t have a bucket to dig, and even if it did, he doesn’t know how to use it. He’ll have to learn. Shovels inside, and a manual post hole digger leaned in the corner. The pigs and chickens are closest to the house. Cattle beyond. The fields run out to meet wooded hills. Forty acres. A big pond on the far end you can barely see from the house, a smaller one tucked in by the woods. The cattle are moving through the field toward water, and he watches them go. He’s put it off as long as he could and another hour longer. He walks to the hog lot. A short metal hog house, small doors on each end. The hog is dead in the far corner. Big. On its side. The flies rise off it when he comes near and settle again. No mark on it that he can see. No telling what killed it. The son didn’t say how it died. He said drag it down the hill and bury it. He takes hold of a hind leg above the hoof and pulls. It moves about a foot across the metal grate floor, the hide loose over the bone in his grip. He lets go and stands there. The air in the hog house is close now. He takes hold again. It’s downhill. That’s the one thing going for him. He pulls and rests and pulls. The hog gathers grass and dirt ahead of itself. The flies come along. When he stops he can hear them. When he pulls he only hears his breath. He drags the hog under the wire fence. At the bottom of the hill he picks a spot away from the ponds, where the ground looks soft. Nobody said where. Nobody said how deep. The first foot is topsoil and goes easy. Then the shovel rings. Rock. He works around it, pries it, lifts it out. There’s another one under it. The afternoon goes like that. Ring, pry, lift. His hands blister. He walks up to the well, finds some gloves, has a drink and comes back down. He stands in the hole and thinks about how deep is deep enough. Shallow, and something digs it up. Coyotes, or dogs from the next place over. Then it’s all to do again, and worse. He keeps digging. The light goes long across the field. Whippoorwills call from the trees. Gravel at the top of the drive. Headlights swing across the field and stop. The Oldsmobile sits up by the house, lights on, pointed down the hill at him. She doesn’t honk. She waits. He drags the hog to the edge and tips it in. It lands heavy. Filling the hole goes faster than digging it. He mounds the dirt over and stands there a minute in what’s left of the light. Then he carries the shovel up the hill toward the headlights. That night there’s supper, and dishes, and then she asks. What were you doing out there tonight? He tells her. “Did you bury it deep enough to keep the coyotes off of it?” “I don’t know,” he says. They never talked about it again. Act II. Corral and Alley The next morning he starts on the corral. The railroad ties outweigh him. He can’t carry one, so he tips them end over end to where they need to go. The ground is the same ground he dug the grave in. Ring, pry, lift. Each tie has its mark. He digs until he thinks it’s deep enough, then tips each tie into the hole, lifts it out again, and digs some more until the mark disappears. He tamps the dirt back in layers, and pulls on the tie with his whole weight. It doesn’t move. He does the next one. Whoever marked the ties isn’t there to ask. His hands ache and cramp for ten days until they get used to the work. He learns the tractor in the yard. The throttle is steady, and his foot coming off the clutch is not. It lurches and rocks and then it doesn’t. He cleans the old bedding out of the chicken coop, swinging the spring door open and shut, and a hornet stings him in the ear. He buys hornet spray, empties it into the nest, knocks it off the coop with a fence post, and only gets stung the once. He cleans the coop down to the boards. The shed comes down easy. The tractor pushes and the frame lets go at once. He drags the boards clear and stacks what’s worth keeping. It’s good work and it goes fast. The son comes out one day and asks what happened. It was the wrong shed. He spends weeks walking the perimeter fence and fixes what needs fixed. At noon he takes his boots off and eats in the kitchen, standing up. The house stays clean. In late June he turns sixteen. He passes the test in town, and after that he drives himself out in the mornings. There’s a last morning she drives him. Neither of them marks it. After that the mornings are his. He drives the Oldsmobile out himself, plays Metallica too loud the whole way. His grandma hates Metallica. Some evenings he drives to the next town to see a girl he met. Alone, afternoons drift. He is sixteen. He daydreams. Some days he gets less done than he should, and nobody says anything about that either. The cattle get checked every day. By the end of July the corral stands, ties to the mark, panels hung, an alley wide enough to back a trailer in. He would be home for football camp in August. In the fall they sold the animals. The cattle went up the alley the boy built, into a trailer, and down the drive. They leased the ground to a neighbor. The boy went home, back to school. The old man never came home. Act III. Jennies Two summers later. Jerry and the boy ride in Jerry’s F-250 to the local college. Jerry is a rancher who needed another ranch hand. Jerry is more than a rancher. He teaches economics at the college full time, with summers mostly off, and he lays carpet and linoleum in his spare time. He hates the flooring work. He does it if the money’s good, or if he likes you. This job is at the college, and the money’s good. Industrial carpet in a dorm. Take out the old carpet, scrape and clean the floors, put in the new. They set up in the gym. Huge rolls of new carpet, and the boy carries them by himself. The boy brings in the radio. The college cheerleaders come in for practice. The Jennies. Three of them watch him carry a roll all the way across the gym. Then Garth Brooks comes on the radio, “Callin’ Baton Rouge,” and they start dancing, and they sing along. He’s seventeen. The old carpet comes out first. The boy cuts it loose and rolls it and carries the rolls out. Jerry tells him how the floors go: sweep, then sweep a second time. Every time you sweep again, you find something you missed. The boy sweeps a room and calls it clean. Jerry sweeps it behind him and holds out his hand. Two staples and a chip of tile. He doesn’t say anything. The boy sweeps the next one twice. The boy is fast and thorough, but Jerry works most jobs with him the first time he does one. After a few rooms they have a system. Jerry measures the cleaned rooms and marks the new carpet. The boy cuts on the marks, carries the carpet down the hall, and lays it out nearly finished. Jerry follows behind and makes the last cuts, and that room is done. The last cut at every doorway is Jerry’s. He kneels at the metal strip, sets the knife, and makes one pass. The edge lies flat. The boy watches how he holds it, where his weight is, what

  4. Jul 28

    Return Tomorrow | A Warehouse, a Granddaughter, and a Great Society

    Her eyes open at five twenty-eight. She lifts her head and switches the alarm off before it kicks on at five thirty. She’s up and moving. Chores to do. Coffee, dishwasher, shower, lunchbox. Their apartment is a one-bedroom in Lakewood, Colorado, on the west edge of Denver. Third floor. She starts the coffee maker and showers while it runs. On the refrigerator door, under a magnet, a printed listing for a two-bedroom on South Ammons Street. Four hundred ten thousand. Beneath the price, handwriting in blue ink: eighty-two thousand down. Below that a column of dates and smaller numbers, one for every month they’ve lived here. The paper has yellowed at one corner. She pours coffee into a steel travel mug, grabs her lunch, takes the stairs, and scrapes frost off the windshield with a plastic dustpan she keeps behind the seat. She drives west on Alameda with the defrost on high. At Kipling she turns north. On her right, Lakewood Park Tennis Center. On her left, a fence. Chain link, eight feet, three strands of barbed wire on top. It runs past the first stoplight. It runs past the second. There’s a gate with a guard shack and a yellow crossing arm, and a white sign that says United States Government Property. The fence keeps going. It takes her a full mile to run out of fence. She doesn’t look at it. It’s been there her whole life. At six twenty, she badges into the warehouse. The reader beeps. Inside the break room, on the long table by the time clock, somebody has laid out nine folders in three neat rows. New hires start today. She’s been here four years. She knows what’s in the folders. Act I. The Wage The safety video runs eleven minutes. She can hear it through the break room wall, the same narrator, the same music, while she tapes the first boxes of the morning. Nine new people in there with their folders open. At seven forty, the break room door opens, and the trainer walks in. His name is Dave. He’s holding his own copy of the folder, open to the tabs. Tab one is the handbook, he says. Tab two is your direct deposit. Tab three is your benefits election. Health kicks in at ninety days, dental at one eighty. Don’t wait on the paperwork, it doesn’t backdate. Tab four, he says, is community resources. Food assistance, Medicaid, child care assistance, help on the winter heat bill. The applications are in there, filled out down to the signature line. Plenty of folks use them the first year. Nothing to be embarrassed about. He says it the way he said the part about the fire exits. She takes one of the nine, a young woman named Reyna, out to the floor and trains her on the scanner. Point, squeeze, wait for the beep. The screen above the aisle shows a number; that number is the building’s rate. Green means the shift is on pace to meet their quota. She’s never seen it red for a whole shift. Somewhere around ten, the number turns green and stays that way. At lunch she eats what she packed at five fifty. Reyna sits across from her with a vending machine sandwich and asks if the insurance is any good. It’s insurance, she says. The deductible is four thousand. You’ll want the paycheck to clear before you pick a plan. Reyna nods and writes something in her folder. At the end of the table, one of the other new hires has his folder open to tab four. He’s copying numbers off a pay stub that isn’t his yet, from the sample page, doing the eligibility math with the folder’s own pencil. First shift. He hasn’t clocked a full day. The horn ends lunch at twelve thirty. Everybody stands at once. Act II. The Plant The afternoon starts out like the morning. Point, squeeze, beep. The screen stays green. Nothing in the building gets made in the building. It comes in full and goes out full. They work on line three. By last break, Reyna runs two under her rate. First day. The belt on line four goes down midshift. Nobody in the building can fix it. The tech comes Thursday, from Phoenix. Nothing to be done, that entire line goes home early. The horn releases the shift at four thirty. In the parking lot her phone buzzes. A text from the storage place on West Colfax. Your autopay of eighty-nine dollars was successful. Thank you for being a valued customer. She was headed there anyway. Two plastic totes in the trunk. Christmas decorations, going back until December. Unit two fourteen. She rolls the door up and the cold air inside smells like cardboard. The totes go on the shelf her husband built from scrap the first winter. Behind them, the rest of it. Her mother’s cedar chest. A kitchen table on its side, six chairs zip-tied to the legs. A crib in pieces, wrapped in a moving blanket, that was her mother’s before it was hers. In the back corner, under a second blanket, the lathe. It’s a South Bend, cast iron, older than everyone she knows. It took four grown men and a rented dolly to get it in here. She pulls the blanket square where it’s slipped off the tailstock, and under her hand there’s a small brass plate, screwed to the base, stamped with three words. War Production Board. She doesn’t know how to run it. Nobody living in the family does. She rolls the door down and clicks the padlock. Her grandmother calls while she’s still in the lot. She puts her on speaker and pulls out into traffic. You eat yet? Her grandmother says. I’m driving home to eat. You’re still paying for that unit. I’m still paying for it. You ought to sell that machine. You’d get something for it. Nobody’s run it in ten years. I’m not selling the lathe, Grandma. Her grandmother is quiet for a second. Then she says, your grandfather ran that lathe thirty-one years at Gates. Nights, at the end. They were going to throw it away, so he took it for his woodworking. Gates got the machine from the ammo plant, surplus sale. My mother made bullets out by you, on Kipling, the whole war. Rode the bus from Tenth Avenue, three shifts going around the clock, twenty thousand people out there. Half of them were women. I know, Grandma. It’s all offices now, her grandmother says. Anyway. You two are coming Sunday. We’re coming Sunday. Bring some folding chairs if you can. They’re in the unit, she says. I was just looking at them. Good, her grandmother says. Then you know right where they are. Act III. The Ledger Friday, twelve oh five. Reyna sets the folder next to her lunch and asks if she has a minute. The application is filled out down to the signature line, like Dave said. What’s left is the list on the back page. Proof of who you are. Proof of where you live. Proof of what you make, thirty days of it. I don’t have thirty days, Reyna says. I have four. There’s a line for that. Employer statement. HR prints it, you ask at the window. Reyna writes that on the folder. Then they schedule you an interview, she says. It’s a phone call. Keep your phone on you at break, and if you miss it, call back the same day. Don’t wait. Did you do all this, Reyna asks. She folds the wax paper over the half of her sandwich that’s left. My first year here, she says. Yeah. She takes her phone, puts it speaker up on the table, and calls the number. It starts with a recording: Last year we proudly served more than one hundred thousand Colorado families. The horn goes. Everybody stands at once. Sunday, her grandmother’s house smells like a roast that went in at seven. A brick ranch off Garrison, two bedrooms, one bath, a furnace that runs loud. Her grandmother has lived in it fifty-eight years. Her husband carries the folding chairs in from the trunk and sets them up at the long side of the table. The game is on low in the front room. Broncos Chargers. A small group watching it. Any luck on a house, her grandmother says, passing the potatoes. There’s a two-bedroom on Ammons we like. What are they asking? Four hundred ten. Her grandmother sets the potatoes down. Your grandfather paid seventeen thousand five hundred for this house, she says. Nineteen sixty-eight. Back then he made nine thousand a year. We lived on one paycheck, pinched every penny, but I didn’t work until your mother was in school. Nobody says anything. In the front room a whistle blows and the crowd complains. After the pie her grandmother stands and favors the new knee, and waves off help before anyone offers it. The knee’s fine, she says. Better than the old one. Four hundred dollars, that’s what the whole thing cost me. Medicare and the supplement took the rest. Four hundred, for a knee. Her grandmother brings out an old photo of her mother in a heavy machinery apron. Dirty. She brought out an old picture or two every time they ate Sunday dinner. This is my mother, your great-grandmother. She rode a bus to a three-shift line and came home tired. She went to work sick or tired or hurt, didn’t matter. They weren’t supposed to, but she got married the day before your great-grandpa left on the ship, and she told me she felt like she was making ammunition for him, and she wouldn’t let him run out. The work was hot and she was on food rations. Everybody was. Almost no meat, no butter. Then, when her husband came home, they wanted to get their own place right away, but there were no homes for sale anywhere. They lived in a shack for a year until houses started popping up. She likes the story every time she hears it. You need anything before we go, she asks her grandmother at the door. Groceries this week, anything. I’m fine, her grandmother says. Check comes next Wednesday, the house is paid, what do I need. She hands them the leftovers in a grocery bag, roast and potatoes in butter tubs, and tells her husband to take the chairs back to the unit. Then she looks at her granddaughter for a second longer than usual. When I’m gone this house is yours, she says. You know that. Grandma. I’m saying it so you know it. Act IV. Payday Friday is payday. The deposit lands at six in the morning while she’s scraping the windshield. That night after

  5. Jul 21

    What Counts | A Rancher, a Charging Station, and a Twelve-Million-Dollar Letter

    A family, driving north out of Denver. They left before light. Mom’s driving. Yellowstone tomorrow. Lamar Valley and the bison and wolves and trout. Tonight, the Sheridan Inn. The car planned this stop in Buffalo before they crossed the Platte. It planned every stop. Dad has the atlas open on his knees, the paper kind. Nobody’s looking at it. Two kids in the back. A yellow dog between them with his chin on the armrest. Somewhere past Kaycee the little one got carsick. Mom keeps empty cups up front for it, and she passed one back without looking. The windows are down now, summer heat and wind noise, and nobody’s saying why. In one mile, exit right. Charging stop. Buffalo, Wyoming. The chargers sit at the Miller Travel Center across the street from the Best Western. Eight stalls, white posts, painted lines. Mom backs in on the first try. Dad’s out of the car before it stops rocking. He takes a deep breath and clicks the cable home. The screen says thirty-five minutes. The kids step out slow. The dog tows the boy toward the grass strip at the edge of the lot, nose down, working. A good stop. Restrooms, coffee, a rack of postcards with bears on them. Everything works, and everything worked the whole way up, and it’ll work the whole way to the park. Somebody built all of it so that it would. A pickup comes down Sixteen pulling a stock trailer. You hear it before you see it. Nobody in the lot looks up except the dog. Leave the family at the charger. They’re fine. Go with the truck. Act I. The Bearing The same morning begins in the dark at both ends of the road. Four thirty, and the kitchen light’s the only one on for eleven miles. Coffee going. She’s up. She always is. The talk is the day’s work, not the letter that’s sitting on the table. Pairs come off the north lease today. The grass up there is done, and the section east of town has been resting since May. Move them today, or watch them walk it to dirt by Friday. The letter’s been on the table since Tuesday. It came certified, from a company out of Denver with a name that doesn’t say what it does. They want to buy the place. All of it, deeded ground and leases and water, and the letter names the number they’d pay. He read it once, standing up, and set it down, and neither of them has touched it since except to move it off the spot where the coffee goes. In a good year, this place clears a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. The number in the letter is not that kind of number. He takes the letter off the table on his way out. Not to do anything with it. It just doesn’t seem like something you leave lying around, the way you wouldn’t leave a loaded rifle on the porch. It rides on the dash. Jesse’s already at the truck. Red heeler, ears up, been waiting in the dark by the left rear tire since the kitchen light came on. Chores first, then town, because the baler’s down and the hay is nearly ready. The parts counter at six forty five smells like oil and popcorn from yesterday. The bearing he needs is backordered ten days. The counter man is a good man. He offers the other way out: the whole assembly, in stock, four hundred and change, upgraded, better than the old one ever was. He stands there maybe a minute. It’s not four hundred dollars against zero. It’s four hundred dollars against ten days of July, against what a rebuilt bearing costs, against how many seasons the old assembly has left anyway. He’s done this math his whole life, standing at this counter, in about this light. The old assembly has two good years in it. The bearing wins. So. Order the bearing. Borrow the neighbor’s baler in the meantime, which will cost him a favor, and favors get paid back in this county at par. Nobody calls it anything. There’s no form for it. But that minute at the counter is an audit, and everything that comes onto the ranch passes one just like it or it doesn’t come. The truck passed one. The trailer passed one. The dog passed one years ago. Out of the lot, up through town, and onto Sixteen with the empty gooseneck rattling behind. The chargers go by on the right. Eight stalls, white posts, painted lines, two cars on them with plates from somewhere else. His eyes do what a cattleman’s eyes do with any pen, any chute, any gate: measure it. The approach, the spacing, the turnaround. Thirty two feet of truck and trailer, and stalls drawn for sixteen. There’s nothing to think about, so he doesn’t think about it. North out of town the pavement gives out to gravel, and the gravel to two-track, and the two-track climbs to where the pairs are scattered across the last of the lease grass, heads coming up one by one at the sound of the diesel they know. Two hundred and fifty miles south, a family out of Denver is passing Chugwater, and their car is already counting on one of those stalls in Buffalo. Act II. The Measure The north lease is forty minutes of gravel and another ten on two-track, a section and change of short grass running up against the timber. The grass is done, time to move on. The pairs know the truck and start drifting toward the corrals before he’s got the gate. As soon as the driver’s door is open, Jesse is out and running. Before he’s in the saddle, she’ll be out of sight, bring in any pairs not with the main group, and come back loping, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. Ray’s flatbed is already at the pens. Ray runs the neighboring lease and they work it together every year, no money in it, just the arithmetic of neighbors kept square. Ray’s cows wear collars now. He put them on two years ago when the math got undeniable, what the collars cost against what three miles of cross-fence was going to cost, and the fence never got built and never will. Nobody from any government office asked him to do it. Nobody sends him a form about it. The collars either paid for themselves and held his cows off the creek bottoms or they didn’t. They did, and that was the whole conversation. They work the pairs quiet. Hooves in the dust. Cows calling calves. Not much else. Jesse does most of the work. She’ll get the fat off his ribeye at supper. First load on. Ray talks for a minute about the sale barn and goes back to his flatbed. While Ray’s talking, without exactly deciding to, he takes the letter off the dash and puts it in the glovebox. Town is twenty-five minutes with a load on. Through Buffalo, Wyoming Public Radio comes over the speakers. The state’s federal charging program has yet to break ground. Twenty-six point eight million allocated, the announcer says, while the chargers already running, including Buffalo’s, were built by private companies. With zero chargers built, the state asked Washington to call the corridors complete. Then the weather, hot, and cattle prices, high. He’s watching his mirrors as he approaches the interstate by the travel center. Eight stalls, a car from Colorado on the cable, a yellow dog working the grass strip with a boy on the other end of the leash. The trailer rattles and the stalls go by at thirty. Small town. When the chargers went in, they got talked about at church for a month, same as everything else. Now they’re just the thing across from the Best Western. His eyes do what a cattleman’s eyes do. Measure. Every stall drawn for a car. You can’t back up to a charger pulling a cattle trailer. There’s nothing to think about, so he doesn’t. The east section is six miles on the other side of town, deeded ground, and it’s been resting since May, which is the only reason today works at all. Grass is there. Water is the problem. The section has one good well at the north end and nothing at the south, so the south half grazes short or doesn’t graze, and every dry August he hauls water to it in a tank on the flatbed, four hundred gallons at a trip. There’s a fix for that, and it’s not a mystery; it’s pipe. He heard about a grant and applied for it in the spring. Cost share, water development. There’s a conservation plan on file with his name on it, and the woman at the office says the money should be obligated when the government’s new year starts in October. Then the engineer. Then, if there’s a backhoe left in the county, dirt. If you asked the program today, it would say truthfully that the dollars are on track to be obligated. The way it works is he fronts the money and gets paid back after the work passes inspection, which is fair enough if you have the money to front. Fronting it means this fall’s steer money is spoken for until the government pays him back. He thinks maybe he’ll be able to break ground in November. The grass needs water in July. So the tank he’ll use again this August is the four hundred-gallon one on the flatbed, and the pipe exists in a plan, in a filing cabinet, in town. He unloads the first load through the north gate, and while the pairs sort themselves out and go to grass, he checks the well. The pump kicks on. On the pole above it there’s a meter with the co-op’s name on the tag, and the co-op’s name has been on this place longer than he has. Nineteen thirty six, a grange hall not far from here, and a man from the power company stood up in front of a room of ranchers and told them what everybody with credentials knew. Two thousand dollars a mile to string line to country like this, and no way it ever pays it back. He wasn’t lying. It was his honest math. The ranchers formed a cooperative, borrowed the money from the government at cost, hired their own crews and set their own poles, and built it for eight hundred and twenty five dollars a mile. They paid the loans back over decades, at a default rate under one percent. Nobody measured the program by how many meetings it held. The measure was whether the lights came on and whether the loan got paid. The lights came on. The loan got paid. The pump runs. He pays that outfit every month, ninety some years later. Two more loads before supp

  6. Jul 14

    Item Six

    The agenda is one page. Somebody ran it through the copier this afternoon and the toner is going, so item six is fainter than item five. You can read it anyway. Outside the county annex, there are nine pickups, a sheriff’s Tahoe, and a Buick that belongs to a woman named Arlene who has kept the minutes of this commission for thirty-one years. It is a Tuesday in March on the high plains of Nebraska. The wind is doing what the wind does. Inside, the fluorescent lights hum over four rows of folding chairs. Usually there are three people in them. Tonight there are twenty-six. There is a coffee urn on a card table by the door. It is older than some of the commissioners. Nobody has touched it. Item one is a culvert. Item two, a road easement. Item three is the ambulance service contract, and it runs long, because everything about the ambulance runs long in a county with one of them. Item four is approved without discussion. Item five is the fairgrounds. The grandstand roof failed inspection in October, and the bid to fix it came back at one hundred ninety thousand dollars, and the room takes this news the way you take news about a roof. Somebody says the fair is in July. Somebody else says everyone knows that. Then the chairman squares his papers and reads item six. Item six is a line in the county budget. One hundred twelve thousand dollars. It covers an office in the basement of this building: two salaries, a truck, a phone that gets answered. The line has been in the budget for one hundred and nine years. Tonight the commission decides whether it stays. Act I. Scene One. Nebraska The chairman reads item six the way he read item five, like reading a phone number. County appropriation, University of Nebraska Extension, interlocal agreement, one-hundred-twelve thousand dollars. He asks for a motion for discussion. It comes from his left. Then, a second. He does what the law of Nebraska requires him to do and opens the floor. Twenty-six people shift in their brown metal folding chairs. The extension educator goes first, because it is her office, and she has done this every March for nine years. Her name is Dana Fruehling. The university pays her salary. The county pays for everything that she needs to do her job: the truck, the basement office, the two women who run it, the phone. She has a photocopied annual report. She opens with the sentence that’s the cornerpost of the argument. You can hear that she likes it. The law says the work exists to aid in diffusing among the people of the United States useful and practical information on subjects relating to agriculture and home economics, and to encourage the application of the same. Land-grant university extension. Teaching people practical information they would otherwise never know. She gives the year. Two hundred forty soil samples. Thirty-one pesticide applicators certified. A hundred and six kids in 4-H. Somewhere north of nine hundred phone calls, logged by hand because the county never bought the software. Commissioner Ben Hollis waits until she sits down. Hollis sold crop insurance out of the same storefront for thirty-one years, which means he has read more balance sheets than anyone else in the room, including the bank. He is going to make the best argument anyone makes all night, and he is going to make it quietly. He says he has voted for this line eleven times. He says Dana does the work and everybody knows it. Instead of raising his voice he takes off his glasses. The whispers stop. I can tell you what we spent, he says. Eleven budgets, add it up, it’s north of a million dollars. What I can’t tell you is what we bought. Samples got tested. Kids showed their steers. The phone got answered. And in those same eleven years this county lost four hundred people, the school consolidated with Ainsworth, and there are six buildings on Main Street you could buy for back taxes. So show me. I’m asking honestly. Show me the line where the county changed because we kept that office open in the basement. Nobody answers him right away. It’s a fair question, and the room knows it. The woman with the binder stands up. She has been waiting since item one. Name, Carol Ann Vasek. Her binder has a green clover on the front. Eleven years of papers she doesn’t need to read. She says her oldest showed hogs in that program, and judged livestock, and stood up at contests in Lincoln and talked to strangers with his hat off, and he is twenty-six now and he came back. He works cattle and he does the books for three neighbors and he coaches the judging team on Tuesdays. She says: you all keep asking what brings our kids back. I am standing here telling you the one thing that brought mine home: 4-H. A rancher named Albers takes the floor after her and talks for ninety seconds about the drought year, the hay that came off the Petersen place, the call he made at seven in the morning because something told him not to feed it. Nitrates. Dana sent a sample for a test that afternoon. He runs a hundred and forty pairs. He says: you want to know what the office does, it answered the phone, and I still have a herd. Hollis puts his glasses back on. He says gently that he is glad about the herd. That nobody is arguing Dana doesn’t answer the phone. He is asking a different question, and he’d like somebody to answer the one he asked. And then old man Rasmussen, who has been coming to these meetings since before Arlene kept the minutes, cuts through all of it. A hundred and nine years, he says. This county has paid for that office for a hundred and nine years, my dad paid it and his dad paid it, and I would bet anyone in this room a dollar that nobody can say why we started. Act I. Scene Two. Boll Weevils Nineteen oh three. Terrell, Texas. The boll weevil is eating the South. It crossed the Rio Grande a decade ago and it takes the cotton, farm by farm, county by county. Nothing anybody knows will stop it. The federal government has a man named Seaman Knapp who knows something nobody in Washington believes: farmers distrust everything Washington knows. And he has an idea. Knapp doesn’t mail out a pamphlet. He finds one farmer, Walter Porter, with seventy acres. He asks Porter to work part of his land a new way. Weevil-resistant practice, Porter’s own tools, Porter’s own hands, Porter’s own risk. The neighbors can watch or not watch as they please. They watch. The field pays. And the neighbors believe it, because it didn’t happen in a college or in a pamphlet. It happened in the real world, across the fence, to a man they shared Sunday supper with. Knapp says: what a man hears, he may doubt. What he sees, he may possibly doubt. But what he does himself, he cannot doubt. That is the whole invention. County extension. That is the office in the basement. Because the knowledge was real, and it was locked up. In nineteen fourteen, colleges know how to double crop yields, and the average farm has never heard of any of it. Yields are flat. Soil is failing. Young people are leaving rural America in numbers that frighten the government enough that a presidential commission studies the countryside and comes back warning that the movement toward the towns, left alone, will sterilize the open country. So Congress makes a bargain, and the bargain has three parties. Washington pays a share. The state college pays a share. And the county pays a share, because the men who wrote it wanted the knowledge to live where the farmers live, in the courthouse, down the hall from the assessor, behind a door you could walk to. A person, not a pamphlet. The work is one tool, instruction and demonstration, the Porter farm written into federal law. The gap between what was known and what was done was the whole problem. Close the gap and the country lives. For a long time, that was true. In the annex, Carol Ann Vasek is halfway through a sentence about the fair. Act II. Scene Three. The Annex …the fair, which her family has worked every July since her oldest was nine. The fair doesn’t die if the office closes, she says. But somebody at this table explain to me who teaches the kids how to show. What happens to the fair if the kids stop, she asks. She sits down. The commissioner on the chairman’s left, the one who made the motion, asks Dana about the field day in August. The soil health one, out at the research plot. Dana says four people came. She says it’s on page six. She reports everything: the nine hundred phone calls and the folding chairs and the field days, it all goes in the report. Somewhere in the minutes Arlene is keeping, this same item appears in March of nineteen eighty-six, and March of nineteen sixty-one, and every March back to when the minutes were kept in ink that no one has looked at for years. The chairman asks Dana if she wants to respond to Commissioner Hollis before the board moves on. Eleven years. North of a million dollars of the county people’s money. What did we buy. What difference did it make. She closes the annual report and stands with it. She says she can’t point to a line in the budget that says, because of this office, that family stayed, or that herd lived, or that kid came home. What she can hand him is a list of what stops on April first. Thirty-one applicator cards. That card is federal law. There’s an online course now, sixty dollars, if you’ve got broadband and the patience for it, and half the men holding those cards have neither. Without this office, the in-person clinic is three counties away. The 4-H clubs can’t hold a bank account or sign the fairgrounds contract or insure a livestock show without the university standing behind them, so you don’t end 4-H with a speech, you end it with paperwork. And the phone. She looks at Albers when she says the phone. Then she opens the report again, to the front page, and reads the sentence a second time. To aid in diffusing among the people of the United States useful and practical informa

  7. Jun 23

    The Art of the Deal

    The shouts pass over the water to Lincoln. He sits there, silent. The man who, more than any other, overstepped his authority in a time of war. Habeas corpus suspended. A nation half at arms. And the question underneath all of it, whether any nation so conceived and dedicated could long endure. He broke the limit. But he never pretended he was above it. He answered to the Congress, to the ballot, to the cost, and he paid that cost in the open for the only stake that could justify it. The Republic. Real power accepts its limits. Performed power breaks them, and breaks the one thing we can’t rebuild: Our power to say no. Humidity on the night air. The statues of Washington and Jefferson and Lincoln and Roosevelt look down on the South Lawn of the White House. There, a cage. A hulking structure of steel and chain link named The Claw. Seven fights tonight. Men punching and kicking and choking each other on the grass where children roll Easter eggs in the spring, steps from the Oval Office. A million-dollar restoration commitment waited for the grass. Ruined by morning. The president comes out of the Oval and down the colonnade beside the man who runs the fights. Dana White is smiling. Behind them, four thousand people. Cabinet secretaries. Generals. The Secretary of Defense. The Vice President. Mark Zuckerberg. Active duty troops in the seats. The Zac Brown Band sings the national anthem. The Blue Angels and Thunderbirds come over the house low and loud, and the president raises his hand and salutes. A chant starts somewhere in the dark. U-S-A. U-S-A. The broadcast goes out on Paramount. Closed captioning brought to you by TrumpCoins dot com. Limited quantities available now. It is the fourteenth of June. The Republic is two hundred and fifty years old this year. The president is eighty years old today. He wrote a book about power called The Art of the Deal. In that book, the deal is the close. The handshake, the signing, the moment in the room with the cameras running. The deal is the thing they watch you win. The spectacle. The theater. The entertainment. There is an older book about real power. The loudest move on the board is the weakest one, and a man who has to show you strength has already lost it. The statues keep looking down. They knew the difference between the two books. It is why we carved them in stone. Act I. Two Books He saw his name on everything. On the towers. On the steaks. On the water bottles and the ties. On the airplane that brought him in. Gold letters. His letters. Big enough to catch the light. A thing was not his until his name was on it. Then it was his. Then all men knew it. That was the book he had written. The Art of the Deal. A deal was a hand coming out. A flash. Men leaning in so they would be in the picture. Hold it. There. That was the one. They hung the picture on a wall. But a picture on a wall is quiet. A quiet thing dies. So there had to be another one. Another hand. Another flash. Another tower. Another name in gold. A man was only as strong as the last picture. The last picture was already fading. So the man was always late. Always running. Always losing the thing he had just won. It was a loud way to live. Loud and bright and over. And it had to be seen. A handshake in private never happened. A name in the dark was no name. He knew this as other men know weather. He had never done a thing that did not need a witness. The other book had no gold on it. It did not shine. It was old and plain and small enough to put in a coat pocket. Another book of Art. Of War. It did not ask to be looked at. He did not like that about it. He opened it and read a little. The words were old. They had crossed too much time to be in a hurry. They spoke of ground and water and waiting. They spoke of the fight won before the fighting. They spoke of not striking when the shape of things was already moving for you. He shut the book. Outside, the river moved below the house. He went down and stood on the bank. The water moved without hurry. It didn’t strike the bank. It took the low places. It went around stone. It slid under the willow roots and carried leaves and silt and small sticks and the cold of the mountains. It was going the way he needed it to go. He could have let it go. There was no one there to see that. There was no flash. No hand to shake. No wall to hang the picture. The river made no speech. It did not say his name. He watched it and felt nothing happen. That was the trouble. Nothing happening looked like losing. Long later than any man could live, the water would have the rock. It would not take it in one morning. There would be no sound of surrender. No one would know the hour. The rock would simply be smaller. Then smooth. Then the canyon would be there, and men would stand at the edge and call it beautiful. The river would not have signed it. He looked back at the house. The two books were still on the table. One had his name on it, the other did not. He knelt and put his hand in the water. It was colder than he thought. He closed his fist hard and stood. The water ran out between his fingers. Act II. The Siege There was a real river, and it was running his way. By the winter of that year, Iran was coming apart from the inside. The money was worthless. A man’s wages on Monday would not buy his bread on Friday. The women walked bareheaded into the street. They had cut their hair and burned the cloth the state put between them and the world. Girls had done it too, in schoolyards, with the cameras watching and the men with guns close enough to come for them. The people went into the streets in numbers the country had not seen since the revolution that made it, in every province, and the regime answered the only way it knew, and still they came back the next night, and the next. A government that must shoot its own people is a failing one. No one had to push it. It was going down on its own, and all we had to do was wait on the bank and watch. The night before the strikes, a man went on television and said the word peace. The talks had been running for weeks, led by Oman. A deal was within reach. On the table: Iran would never stockpile the material for a bomb. Inspectors would have the run of the place. The enriched uranium already in the country would be blended down and turned to fuel and made irreversible. It was not signed. It was a hand, extended. The thing his own book is built on. A hand coming out, across the table, in the room. We did not take it. He reached into the water and he closed his fist. It came the next night, all at once. The supreme leader, killed in his house. His family with him. While the smoke was still going up, a message went out to the Iranian people, telling them the hour of freedom was at hand, telling them to rise up and finish it. Regime change, announced from a podium, as a thing we had come to do. The regime that was falling on its own, for free, we now had to knock down ourselves, in front of everyone, so that everyone could see who knocked it down. And then the water did to him what he could not see coming. Iran had cards left to play, and one was made of water. The Strait of Hormuz, a narrow throat, a fifth of the world’s oil moving through it. They closed it. We ran a blockade. We sent the Navy to walk the ships through by force and called it Project Freedom, and the oil did not move, and the price of everything climbed, and week after week we spent another show of force to hold a thing that yielded nothing. The man who could not believe that power was water was being beaten, now, by water. By a current he could not strike and could not reopen and could not sign. So he went to the table after all. Versailles. Iran set the terms. They handed us the plan in April. The nuclear question, the only one we ever said mattered, unanswered. The toughest question set aside for later. We released billions of dollars for them. We agreed to help rebuild what we had spent the spring destroying. In exchange they opened the strait they had closed, the strait that was only ever closed because we refused to wait on the bank. We had a better deal in February. We tore it up to get a worse one in June. And the man went out and told the crowd it was a big day for world peace. He held up his fist, dripping, to show them how much of the river he had caught. Act III. Curtain It cost a great deal and bought almost nothing. Iran is far away. They were never coming for us. The strait will open and the oil will move and the price of gas will fall and you will forget the name of the war by autumn. You’ll not lose any sleep. Here is the thing to keep you up. There is a room where they decide whether the country goes to war. The men who built it had just finished a war against a king, and they put the power to start the next one in the hands of the many, not the one, because they had seen what the one does with it. The room was empty. No one came to it before the bombs fell. No one stood in it and made the case to the people, the way you are supposed to make the case before you spend their sons. The president did not come. And the men and women who keep the room, whose whole job is to keep the room, let him go around it, and said nothing, and watched the water drain from his fist. Later, when it was safe, they voted. The war was already lost. The thing was already done. They didn’t vote on whether to do it. That vote would have had their names on it. They voted on whether to make him stop, a vote they had counted beforehand and knew would lose, and they cast it into the air where it could not land on anyone, and they went home and told their districts they had tried. So now the room stays empty. The next man knows the way around it. He watched. Once we asked a man to be king. He had won the war. The crowd was his. He could have kept it. He gave it back, and went home to his farm, and that is the only reason there is a country here to write about. He made h

  8. Jun 16

    Man Eaters

    The mess. Mid rats. He came in a couple minutes early. He ate fast, at a table that became a hospital bed for the wounded, and then he cleared his tray and dishes and moved into the narrow passage with the pipes running low overhead, ducking his head around them. Up the metal stairs to starboard. A couple of minutes with the sea before the watch. The deck was nearly empty. In a few minutes the others would join him, shadowed faces moving through the dark. He stood at the rail to watch the sea under the dark sky. Clouds. Stars. The wake ran out like a long trail behind the ship, two glittering edges. In the morning he would commune with the sea again, and the wake would have a bright spine where the sun shone along it, further and further until the sea stopped being water and became sky. Forward of him a younger sailor stood the rail, eyes on the water, a phone cord running from his chest into the dark. The boy would relieve him. Then the watch. Below him the ship hummed, scopes and gauges and green light on men’s faces. Up here there was only his eyes and the water. He watched for the thing that would come out of the trail in the dark that the machines could not catch, and when he saw it he would call it down the wire to a man he could not see. He knew the man would answer. Nothing came for hour after hour. You stood there for a thousand nights so that you would be there on the one night it did. No thanks for the thousand. No one would know about the one. The wind crossed the swell and laid whitecaps on water. He smelled salt in the air. Act One. Brasada The brush did not care that he had left, or that he had come home. It just was, gray and low and thick, mesquite and blackbrush and cenizo that flowered purple after the rain but was not purple now. The ground under it, white dust that stayed on his boots. Nothing in the country was soft. The catclaw reached out and took his sleeve. He stopped and worked the thorn loose and then went on. By midmorning the heat had settled in. A caracara sat the fence post and watched him. To the south the river and past the river more of the same. He had stood the watch a long way from here. He had thought about this ground and what it would mean to come back. Now he was on it, hot and full of hooks, and he was glad to be here. His father was at the pens. He never asked the boy to help him do a job he could do himself, which was nearly everything. He did not ask how long the boy was home. He did not look up from the gate he was wiring shut. A plane flew overhead, low. “Cow’s calf is off in the tasajillo,” the old man said. “She’s bawling for it.” They found it in thick brush, in the only shade for a quarter mile, lying down. It was small and it did not get up. The son went down on one knee in the white dust and saw the navel and the wound. Wet and dark and moving. He knew. The wound was full of them, packed in tight and working deeper, head down, feeding, and the smell came up off it sweet and wrong and turned his stomach. He did not pull back. He looked at the small animal and the small mouths in it. He held the phone over the navel of the calf and took the picture and did not look at it. “Screwworm,” the old man said. Then he said, “We’ll doctor it,” and went for the truck. He cleaned it and picked them out and dressed it. The rider came up the road in the heat of the afternoon while they were still at it. Horses could go where you could not take a truck, and the rider wore leather to the knee against the thorns. He came this way every week, working the river and the ranches along it, looking at what crossed and what strayed. The watch. He looked down at the calf and at the navel they had cleaned, and his face changed, and he asked to see the picture, and the son gave him the phone. The rider looked at it a long moment. Then he made his calls, quiet, off to the side. He had hoped he would not have to. “Got word last week to watch the river hard,” he said. “Somebody south of here saw something.” He took some larvae from the dust. After that it moved fast. The sample went somewhere far north the old man had never seen. And then more planes. They came over low in the early morning, day after day, working a pattern above the brush, and the son stood out in the white dust and watched. He knew what they were carrying. Flies. Sterile. They would drop them out over the country by the millions so that the ones already here would breed to nothing and burn out. The cure and the sickness were the same bug, one barren and dropped from the sky onto the other. The son went back to the calf. It lived. First they fed it with bottles and then it got up on the fourth day and went to the cow. The wound dried and began to close. By the end of the week it ran from him along the fence and the old man watched it and was satisfied. “All that,” the old man said that evening on the porch. “Government flying airplanes around. Dropping bugs out of an airplane. Over one calf.” He drank his coffee. “And the calf’s fine. Hell, I doctored a hundred calves in my life and never needed the government to help me do it.” “You never saw one before,” the son said. “Never had to.” He finished the pot into his cup. “Man depends on a thing he can’t see and can’t fix, he’s not a free man anymore. He’s just waiting on somebody else to keep doing him a favor.” He drank. “I never wanted to be that man.” “You’re not wrong,” the son said. “The day they quit, we’re in trouble.” He watched the calf along the fence. “But the day they quit isn’t this day. This day the calf’s alive because a man in Panama didn’t quit. And a pilot you’ll never meet didn’t. The most you and I could do tonight was clean a wound. The rest of it we can’t do.” The old man thought about that and judged it foolish. “Hell of a thing,” he said. “Spend a man’s taxes on something that don’t happen.” He finished his coffee and went in to bed. The son stayed out on the porch. He had stood a great many watches full of things that did not happen. He knew what they cost and who paid for them. The cost wasn’t money. It was that a man who never stood the watch got to believe, his whole life, that there had never been anything out there in the dark at all. Act One and a Quarter. The Line Moscow. February. The cold came through the wall behind him. Someone in Washington had cabled a small question. Why do the men across the way behave as they do? He sat down to answer it. He filled one page and started another. The thing across the way did not hate them over this quarrel or that. Not the kind of quarrel men settle and forget. It hunted an enemy because it needed one. Take the enemy away and it would find another, because without an enemy it could not explain itself to its own people. He saw. Wrote it down. The answer ran too long for the wire. He broke it into five parts and sent them through one after another. The clerk worked the key deep into the night. Moscow to Washington. Piece by piece. He did not know if anyone would read it the way he meant it. He sent it anyway and went to bed. He said we could not beat the thing head-on. The trying would break us. He said we should stand at every place it tried to widen. Hold there. Wait. Let it spend itself against its own nature. The thing carried the seed of its own ruin and would rot from the inside if we only denied it room. Men on the far side had to hold too. They needed roads and radios and law. They needed officers who would answer when called, and clerks who would send the message, and pilots who would fly the route. They needed men who could see the thing when it came. We could not be their backbone forever, but we could bring tools and money and time, and we could leave them able to hold their own ground. He could not prove it and that was the trouble. Hold and wait looked like weakness to good men, and good men told him so. He could read the enemy one way and they could read it another, and no one could open the thing up and see who was right. He held it on faith and argued it the rest of his life and never got to be sure. Far south, another man chased an insect, and the insect gave him the proof the other man never got. He could not poison the screwworm off the land. It bred faster than he could kill it. It bore him no malice. It was hungry, and it would never stop being hungry. So he stopped trying to kill the ones in front of him. He took hold of one thread, even though other men laughed at it. The female mates only once in her life. He reared the flies by the thousand. Fed them gamma rays until they could not breed. Turned them loose to find the wild ones. The wild female spent her one mating on a barren male. Her young never came. The next brood came fewer. The one after that thinner still. The thing emptied itself out of a country without a shot, not from a blow of force, but from its own breeding turned against it. He tried it first on a small island two miles off Florida. He dropped the barren flies by the thousand and watched the count fall. Then the count quit falling. The island sat two miles out, and the mated females flew back across the water faster than the barren males could empty them. So close. It didn’t take. The line had a far side he did not hold, and the fly walked back across it from the country next door. So he looked for ground with no country next door. He found it forty miles out in the warm sea. He flew the same barren flies down from Orlando, packed in paper bags, and ran the same lines a mile wide over the brush, week after week. This time the count fell and kept falling. Four generations of it. Then one morning he read the trap and nothing answered. He read it again before he believed it. Here was the proof the other man died wanting. Hold the line, deny the thing room, and it ruins itself from the inside. Neither man knew the other. Neither knew their idea was

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About

Philosophy from the American Experiment | A Spotify Rising Star Podcast joelkdouglas.substack.com

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  • Creator
    Joel K. Douglas
  • Years Active
    2023 - 2026
  • Episodes
    147
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Joel K. Douglas
  • Show Website
    I Believe

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