Supreme Faith

“Somebody finally moved into that house two doors down--the one that’s been empty for almost a year,” Patty said while we were eating dinner.

“Thank goodness,” I said.  “It’s about time.  Did you meet them?”

“No, all I saw were the movers.  They have a strange assortment of furniture, though.  A lot of file cabinets, computer equipment, printers, and that kind of thing.  No beds or dining room sets or couches or end tables.”

“Huh,” I said, “that’s odd.  This neighborhood is zoned for residential use only.  Maybe one of them works at home, and the rest of their stuff is coming in another moving van.”

Patty looked a little doubtful.  “Could be, I guess,” she said.  “Anyway, I baked a gooseberry pie to welcome them.  Why don’t you take it over after supper and introduce yourself?  Maybe you can find out more about them.”

So after supper Patty set the pie in a little cardboard box, and I walked up to the new neighbor’s door, with the scent of warm gooseberries and cinnamon rising from the box in my hands.  My mouth was watering, even though she’d baked two, and I had finished off half of ours for dessert.

I managed to press the doorbell with my elbow, and after a small delay a file cabinet opened the door.  “Oh, hi,” I said.  “We live up the street and just wanted to say hello and welcome you to the neighborhood.  My wife Patty sent along this pie for you.”

“Why thanks so much!  We appreciate the thoughtfulness,” said the file cabinet, its top drawer sliding back and forth like a jaw opening and closing.  “It smells wonderful.  I’m sure the family will love it.”

“How big is your family, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“We’re a family of fifteen at the moment,” it said.  “I’m the parent company, with fourteen subsidiaries.  But I’m buying, selling, merging, and wiping out subsidiaries all the time, so the number of family members varies from year to year.”

“You buy new family members?”

“Our acquisition department is always looking for attractive, undervalued companies out there.”

“And you kill off some of the family members?” I asked. 

“When I’ve stripped them of their assets, or they’re not performing up to expectations,” it said.

“Hmm.  Kevin didn’t make the honor role this last grading period,” I said, making a chopping motion with my hand, and we both laughed.

“Say, while you’re here, could you tell me where the nearest Episcopal Church is?” it asked.  “I never miss a Sunday service.”

“You’re an Episcopalian?”   

“Born and raised,” it said proudly.  “Figuratively speaking.  Or maybe literally.  I'm not sure how far the Court's rulings extend.”

“I have to confess that I didn’t know that for-profit corporations had a faith or religious beliefs,” I said.  

“No need to apologize,” said the file cabinet.  “It takes time.  Why, even the Supreme Court didn’t notice it until this week.  But their Hobby Lobby decision put religion in the heart of corporations where it belongs.” 

“I’m a little vague on that ruling,” I said.  “I heard ‘Hobby Lobby’ mentioned, and I thought maybe it was a doll company or something.”

“Heavens no,” it said.  “The Court ruled, in its usual 5-4 wisdom, that commercial enterprises, including corporations, along with partnerships and sole proprietorships, can opt out of any law they judge incompatible with their sincerely held religious beliefs, except for tax laws.”

“Holy cow!  That’s really a sweeping decision,” I marveled.  “Is everybody in your corporation Episcopalian then?”

“Lord no,” it laughed.  “We’re an international firm.  We have Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, and a boatload of Catholics and Baptists, as well as Mormons, Methodists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, you name it.”

“So how do you go about making decisions based on your faith when the people in your corporation come from such a variety of religious traditions?” I asked.

It waved a drawer dismissively.  “Our employees’ faith isn’t a factor,” it said.  “The corporate conscience is what matters.  Our Board of Directors and our legal department will designate our articles of faith on a case-by-case basis.”

“I remember having to memorize Joyce Kilmer’s poem ‘Trees’ when I was in grade school,’ I said slowly.  “It ended ‘Poems are made by fools like me, / But only God can make a tree’.  Now it turns out that the Supreme Court can make people out of corporations and then endow them with souls and consciences.  And I thought all this time you just existed to make money.”

“You’re forgiven,” it said, swaying its second drawer from side to side in what I took to be a sign of benediction. “And thanks for the pie.”

© Tony Russell, 2014

Face-off at the DMV

I took Kevin to the DMV yesterday to get his learners permit.  I’d planned on sleeping in, but Patty roused us at 7.  “It could take most of the morning,” she said, “and you’ll never get the grass cut if you sleep in.”  She seemed to believe that was a negative.

We got there early, before the doors opened, but two dozen people were already ahead of us.  We slowly worked our way toward the front of the line, and were almost there by 10 am.  I’d read the sports section of the paper twice, and Kevin stayed busy texting on his phone.  But then things took an odd turn.  

The lady in front of us had been dragging a box full of files behind her as she moved along, although I couldn’t see a strap or rope attached to it.  When she finished at the counter and started to walk away, I yelled after her, “Ma’am, you’ve forgotten your files!”

She turned and glanced at the box, looking puzzled.  “You’re mistaken,” she said.  “That’s not mine.”  And she left.

“Huh,” I said.  “Surely that wasn’t moving itself.”  And just at that instant, the file box gave a lurch and leaped to the counter, while Kevin and I stared, astonished.  The clerk, however--who must have seen almost everything by now--simply asked, “Do you have your birth certificate?” in a bored tone.

“Uh, I have this charter of incorporation,” said a muffled voice, as the box ejected a thick file.  

The clerk barely glanced at it.  “We require an official, certified birth certificate,” she said, handing it back.  She stared past it to us. “Next.”

Kevin and I started to step forward, but the file box didn’t give up that easily.  “According to the Supreme Court,” it said, “a corporation is legally a person.  Do I need to get my lawyers?”

She glared at it and waved a supervisor over.  He pulled her aside, and the two of them huddled for a heated conversation.  We couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she was clearly agitated, while the supervisor seemed to be trying to explain some technicalities to her.

Kevin leaned close to me and whispered, “Why does it need a driver’s license anyway?”

“It drives the economy,” I whispered back.  “And the nation’s political agenda.  I don’t know how it’s been managing this long without a license.  It’s lucky it didn’t get pulled over.”

“Oh, now I get it.  I see what you’re saying,” he said.  “It drives global warming, too.  All kinds of things, I bet.  I wonder what kind of drivers exam it has to pass.  You wouldn’t think they’d give it the same test the rest of us take.”

“Maybe it gets a commercial license,” I offered.

Just then the clerk returned to the counter, and she was clearly in a bad mood.  “We have to accept your charter of incorporation as a form of birth certificate,” she told it reluctantly.  “Let’s get the rest of the required information.  What were your parents’ names?”

It flipped to the back of the charter and waved a list of corporate officers.

“All of these people are your parents?” she said incredulously, as if she were dealing with some alien life form. 

“Just list the first two,” it said curtly.

“Charles and David?  But they’re brothers!”

“What’s the difference?” it said, obviously irritated.  “Take it up with the Court.”

She went down the page.  “What’s your date of birth?”

It flipped to another page.  “Right here:  Conglomerate.  Founded in 1940.”

“Height and weight?  What color are your eyes?”

It glared at her.  “I’m a legal fiction.  I don’t have any real substance.  How can I have height and weight and eye coloration?”

“I can’t write down that you weigh zero pounds and have no eyes.  That means you’re too small to get behind the wheel and legally blind.”

“I don’t need to see where I’m going.  All I care about is the bottom line.  Everything else is beside the point.”

“We can’t turn somebody with no vision and no conscience loose on the highway!” she exclaimed.  “That would be dangerous.  Irresponsible.  Criminal!”

“Look,” it said, “I’ve been cleared to manipulate the leadership of the entire country, steer the economy, handle defense contracts for trillions of dollars of military hardware, market billions of pounds of pesticides, clear forests for strip malls, manufacture and sell drugs, and frack for oil in the middle of your water supply.  And you’re going to give me grief over a driver’s license?  I don’t think so.”

“Think what you want,” snorted the clerk, “but you’re not getting a driver’s license as long as I’m standing here.”

And then one of those unexpected magic moments occurred.  While the file folder threw a tizzy and blew out the door, loose papers flying like trash in a windstorm, everyone in the office began clapping, and together we let out a cheer for an ordinary clerk in the DMV, who had more gumption and common sense than the majority of the justices on our country’s highest court.

© Tony Russell, 2014

The World’s Longest and Quietest Coup d’Etat

I woke up with a start this morning.  “What is it, Ace?” asked Patty.

“I don’t know,” I muttered sleepily.  “There’s something different.”  I looked around.  “I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“Different how?” she asked.  “Different good or different bad.”

“Good, it feels good.”

Her eyes swept the room, and then she gave a little laugh.  “It’s sunshine, Ace.  With daylight savings time, and after that long stretch of gray days and white snows, it’s really spring!  We’re waking up to sunshine!”

So I was feeling pretty chipper after I’d had my bacon and eggs and cereal and banana and orange juice and was on my way to work.  And there, just leaving the house down the block was my neighbor’s foreign exchange student.

Why not?  Feeling expansive, I gave a beep of the horn.  When he looked back at me, I rolled down the window and yelled, “I’m going your way.  Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

He trudged over, as loaded down as a prospector’s mule.  “Good morning, sir,” he said.  “Thank you for stopping.  I would welcome a lift.”

“You’re always carrying a heap of books, Abdul,” I said, “but you might have broken the record this time.”

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “my name is Aadil, not Abdul.”

“Oh.  Sorry about that,” I apologized.  “It’s hard to remember strange combinations of letters that don’t mean anything.  It’s like those tests where they ask you to memorize a list of nonsense words.  They go in one ear and out the other.”  

“Yes, I am familiar with such experiments,” he said carefully.  “In Arabic, my name means ‘honorable’ or ‘just,‘ but of course it is alien to your culture.”

“Why all the books?  Got a big test coming up?”

His face lit up.  “No, no test,” he said.  “I have changed the direction of my research, and there is so much background I must master in a very brief time.  But this is truly an exciting opportunity for me.”

“How so?” I said.  “What’re you working on?”

“My dissertation is an attempt to statistically verify the proposition that democracy in government is directly proportional to the degree of income equality.”

“Could you break that down to ordinary English?” I said.

He paused.  “The idea is that the more evenly the wealth of a country is shared, the more it operates democratically.  And the more unevenly the wealth is divided, with more and more of the wealth going to fewer and fewer people, the less it operates democratically.”

“Ah, I get it,” I said.  “The more equal the incomes, the more democracy.  The less equal the incomes, the less democracy.  So what’s the new direction in your research that has you all fired up?”

He hesitated.  “The coup d’état of April 2,” he said finally.  

“Coup d’état?” I said. “Where?”

“Where?” he said, looking puzzled.  “In the United States.  Surely as a newsman, sir, you have been following a story of such magnitude closely.”

“A coup d’état in the United States?” I said, as we got caught by a red light.  “What are you talking about?”

  “The conversion of your form of government from a democracy to an oligarchy.” he explained.  “The coup that culminated just two weeks ago when your Supreme Court took the final step in overthrowing your democracy.”

A cloud must have drifted overhead.  The bright sunlight of a few minutes ago was dimming.  “Overthrowing our democracy?” I said.  “I haven’t heard anything about it.  Are you sure?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.  Of course this has been a long time unfolding:  the world’s longest and quietest coup d’état!  It had none of the usual trappings.  No troops rolling into the heart of the capital in tanks, no gunfire, no generals making announcements that they would be ruling until a new civilian leader was installed, no new figurehead promoted to head of state.  With its lack of dramatic video footage, the coup simply wasn’t made for TV.”

I was starting to feel dizzy.  “The Supreme Court did that?” How?”

“With the McCutcheon versus Federal Election Commission ruling they delivered on April 2,” he said, as if he expected me to know what he was talking about.  “It follows their earlier Citizens United versus Federal Election Commission of January, 2010.  You may remember our conversation about that decision last fall.”

“Now that you mention it, yes,” I said, and my head was still swimming.  Or was it the world around me that was swirling, at the same time it seemed to be growing darker and darker?

“All it required was the votes of five of your Supreme Court justices, as they are called.  Are their titles not ironic, sir?  They formally withdrew control of your government from the people in common and ceded it to a wealthy few.  The Court’s latest decision was simply the crowning act, if you will, bestowing constitutional blessing on the coup.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I said, shaking my head to clear it.  “Why is it so dark?  Is an eclipse taking place today?”

“You didn’t notice the coup, sir?” he asked.  “According to my preliminary polling, that is one of its most remarkable aspects.  Few of your citizens are even aware of what has happened.  Yet with the Court’s decisions, the democratic legitimacy of your government was destroyed.  Your elections have been replaced by selections.”

The dizziness was back.  “Selections?  Instead of elections?”

“The wealthy few will now have carte blanche to select candidates, spend as they wish on campaigns, and usher their choices into office.”  

This guy was a raving lunatic, I thought, wondering if it was safe to be in the car with him.  “Don’t be absurd,” I told him.  “It will never come to that.” 

He just looked at me, a little sadly, then reached into a folder and pulled out several sheets of paper.  “It is already happening, and from now on it will become the norm.  Please take a look at this material I printed from the Internet a few days ago,” he said, and handed it to me.  

I pulled over to the curb, and he sat quietly, looking out the window, while I turned on the dome light and read it.  It was a report on a four-day retreat for Republican donors, hosted by Sheldon Adelson, a Las Vegas multi-billionaire who made his fortune with gambling casinos.  He spent $100 million backing Republican candidates in 2012, and plans to spend more the next time around.  He had summoned several GOP presidential prospects to audition in front of his guests and himself--including Jeb Bush, Chris Christie, John Kasich, and Scott Walker.

“The guy summons potential presidents to his conference as if they were auditioning for the lead in a play he’s producing?” I said, incredulous.

“As you can see,” he said.   “Here is some more information you may have missed.”  He handed me more papers.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with this dome light,” I said.  “That’s not bright enough to read by.  Reach under your seat and get me the flashlight, will you?”  He looked at me oddly, and then pulled out the flashlight and handed it to me.

I skimmed the articles.  The Koch brothers and their ally Art Pope, a millionaire discount department store owner whose chains include Roses, Maxway, Super Dollar, Treasure Mart, and Value Mart stores, had financed a takeover of the North Carolina state government by the most far-right elements of the Republican Party.  The Koch-Pope-financed governor, Pat McCrory, had then put Pope in charge of the North Carolina state budget.

“They flipped the government of an entire state by only spending a few million dollars?”  I asked.  I was starting to sweat, although it was growing colder and even darker outside.

“Your state governments seem to be relatively easy to purchase,” Aadil replied.  “But now that money is no object, the federal government will likely be just as simple to take over.  The money it will take to do it may seem like a fortune to people like ourselves, but it is a pittance to people at the top of the income ladder.”

“What in the world was the Court thinking?” I wondered.

“They believe that spending your money to support a candidate is a form of free speech,” he reminded me.

“And people who don’t have any money?  Who are broke?”

“Obviously they can’t speak--at least through TV ads, mailings, phone banks, and all of the other expensive mainstays of modern political campaigns.  If one’s home is being foreclosed on, or if one has huge medical bills, or works for minimum wage, or is out of work, or any of a number of other possibilities, one simply doesn’t have the money to ‘speak’ in the political arena.”

“And people who have a lot of money?”  

“They are able to talk nonstop.  And pass it on to their children, who will be able to speak even louder and longer.”

“B-b-but that’s unfair,” I sputtered.

“Oh, no doubt,” said Aadil.  “And also undemocratic.  As I said, it’s oligarchic.  Your court’s rulings have swept away any pretense of equality in the electoral process.”  

“You sound happy about it,” I said, with some bitterness.

“Oh no, sir,” he said.  “Please forgive me if my scholarly zeal has left that impression.  The death of your democracy saddens me greatly.  But for a poor student like myself, to be given this opportunity, to be here on the scene at the moment this has occurred--it is an unexpected blessing.  Praise Allah that I have been put here to witness and chronicle these events.  I pray I may be worthy of the task.”

“Listen,” I said, “I’m feeling a little strange, and it’s getting so dark.  I hope you don’t mind walking the rest of the way; you can keep the flashlight.  And would you mind calling me a taxi with your cellphone?”

“Oh sir!” he exclaimed, as I swayed in my seat.  “Please forgive me!  I had no idea that shining the light on your nation’s affairs would lead you into such darkness.”

© Tony Russell, 2014