(no subject)
1
My father had been dead three weeks, so naturally I was surprised when he walked into his study. He looked the same as ever, far better than that caked-on makeup look the have at funerals. I must have turned three shades of green because he looked over and said, “Hey, boy, what’s wrong? You’re looking like someone stepped on your grave.”
“Uh…Dad? You’re dead.”
He half-smiled in that way that classroom way he had. Dad had been a high school teacher before the heart attack.
“Yep, dead as a doornail.” He made his way over to the file cabinet and started thumbing through papers.
I opened my mouth to respond, but closed it again. Time passed in silence, except for his thumbing through paperwork. After a moment he came over and slapped something down on the desk in front of me.
“That’s for you,” he said.
“What is this?”
“Take a look.”
I opened the manila folder and there was a copy of the Bill of Rights. Just that.
“Seriously? You rose from the grave to give me a lesson in government?!”
“I wasn’t born in this country, but I died here,” he said,” I wanted you to have a life better than I had.”
“I have had a good life, Pop.”
“How’s work?” he asked, it was so deliberately offhand. He knew I have a love/hate relationship with being a cop. I was on suspension because I had to use my weapon.
“Fine,” I said.
“Son, why don’t you tell me what happened? I already heard the other side of it.”
“How’s that?”
“I spoke to the man you killed.” He said, sitting down on the chair across from me.
“Really?”
“Sure. You’d be amazed how many people you meet when you die,” he said, “This man you shot says he was high. He had a gun?”
“Yeah, he had a gun to his wife’s head,” I said.
“And then you shot him?”
“And then I shot him.”
“So now you’re on suspension,” he said.
“That’s what happens whenever a cop uses his weapon; it’s just a routine thing.”
“Still believe in being a cop?”
“Sure.” I said.
He looked at me like I had just thrown a baseball through a window and started moving toward the door.
“I’ve made some arrangements for you,” he said, “Look around. There are some people you need to meet.”
“Dad, you don’t have to go…”
“I’m already gone, boy. ”
The door closed behind him, and the house was quiet.
2
I met the American Dream at Flo’s diner on Interstate 10. He was flipping burgers in the kitchen, but came out to sit and talk with me when I finished up the number 12; Old Fashioned Hamburger.
“Call me Dream,” he said as he took off the greasy brown apron. He was tall, thin and gangly with day- old stubble. There were old track marks in his arms, just beneath the sleeves of his faded rock n’ roll t-shirt. I almost wanted to search him for drugs.
“Nice to meet you, “I said.
“Nice to be met.” He had a smile like summer.
“So,” I said,” Your name is Dream?”
“Part of it,” he said, sitting down like his back hurt. His eyes were a piercing gray, his hair fading dirty-blond; tousled, “It’s a big dream.”
“How do you mean?”
“Our Dream,” he said, “It’s big, man. It’s world-changing Big.”
“You mean the American Dream?”
“Yeah. That’s it,” he said.
“Well, can’t say that’s going well.”
“I’d say we are struggling.” he said, “Lot of folks at each others throats about the way we’re gonna steer the ship. It’s too bad, too, because since the Towers went down a lot of us realize that we’re one people under G-d.”
“People say there is no G-d.”
“Lot of folks came here because they wanted to worship Him in their own way. Seems silly to deny His role. Whether He exists or not, just as an idea or a benevolent, omnipresent spirit- He’s part of what makes the United States unique and special. A lot of what we are isn’t inherited; it’s agreed upon.”
“You’re saying it doesn’t matter if there is a G-d?”
“The Christian G-d is in the DNA of this country- the Being or the Idea, makes no difference.”
A tired waitress came over and poured us coffee, we both drank. He looked up and said thank you with his eyes and she smiled.
“You must have opinions on issues, though? Something you agree with and stand for?”
“Course,” He said.
“Well…what do you think?”
“I tell you what, man… I believe in the Constitution of the United States of America. I believe in the words from the preamble to the amendments and all in-between. My principles ain’t a secret to be whispered- they’re paid in blood and lots of it.”
“But the Founders didn’t see things coming like the internet, stem cell research, cloning, drug cartels, crack babies, methamphetamines, Al Quaeda, Nuclear Holocaust, Communism, Assault Rifles. How can a 200 year old document really tell us about those issues?”
He just looked at me. His gray eyes were sad.
“Son,” he said after a long pause,” follow me.”
We walked outside with his cowboy boots crunching loud on the gravel of the parking lot and looking up at the stars he said, “All the stars you can see tonight aint even close to all the stars there are.”
I looked up, and even in the parking lot with the sodium lamp streetlight I could make out thousands. The desert highway was mostly dark, and after a few moments of looking up I heard him say, “Everybody has a right to breathe free air.”
“It can’t be that simple. These issues are complex.”
He just smiled and shook his head, pulled out a small flask and took a pull, then offered some to me. It smelled like whiskey and tasted like Tennessee.
“I’m talking ‘bout the idea that people can come to this country and work hard to make themselves into whatever they wish to be. If there are people that hate that idea, then it’s not hard to see what side of the fence they stand on.”
“They come illegally.”
“The law should make allowances for people who are trying to escape poverty and make it easier to come here- people who are hungry for a better life and are willing to work for it should be given the chance. The law should be changed. That doesn’t excuse people who are abusing the system, it’s just to say there are people who deserve a fair shake and they are getting bureaucratic hassles instead of a chance to become Americans in a reasonably timely fashion; one that doesn’t mean they have to life under the rule of drug cartels or bad men until someone stamps their form.” He took another pull of whiskey.
Headlights threw strange shadows across the parking lot, and as the car flew past and on down the highway into the night Dream looked over with hungry eyes.
“I do love me a fast car,” he said, grinning,” I’ll tell you what…you get on the road. Head East until you find another piece of American Dream. You won’t know it till you find it, won’t know where it’ll find you, but the answers are written on faces. Those are the answers you’re lookin’ for, boy. Those are the answers you need.”
I left him lighting up a lucky strike in the parking lot of Flo’s Diner on Interstate 10. I drove East in a Cadillac until I hit sunrise, thinking about the American Dream.