There has been a torturous amount of road construction in the state of Michigan this summer, as I’m sure there has been in other parts of the country. People are out of work and states are dipping into federal stimulus money to bolster road projects where they can.
One particular evening, I was detoured off the highway for such a repair project and was forced to drive along a stretch of road in a very “seedy” part of town.
There were a number of scantily-clad women sashaying back-and-forth on either side of the street and needless to say, I don’t think they were with the Red Hats.
I couldn’t help but notice among the buxom and the big-booty’ed, that there was a silver-bearded, elder man, dressed rather garish—almost costumed, who was strutting and signaling to passerby’s along with the other working girls.
Now I admit, at a young age and pressured by both my mother and sister, I watched more MacMillan and Wife than I care to admit to but this is no way some middle-aged “closetus exodus”–if that’s what you’re thinking.
Nonetheless, it’s not very often that you see a male streetwalker resembling Wild Bill Hickok in candy-striped shorts working the strip; the intrigue was simply too much. I just had to stop to talk to him.
I discreetly pulled my car up alongside the curb next to him and rolled-down the window.
“Are you a cop?” He barked, looking to force me into a confession.
“No, sir,” I humbly muttered.
“What you looking for, mister?” He queried with his long white goatee spilling over the tinted glass.
“I just thought you looked familiar,” I replied. “Is your name, Sam?”
He reeled backward, clearly caught off-guard. “How did you know that?” He pleaded.
“I don’t typically do this,” I said. “But I’m not one to ever forget a face—especially one a sweet as yours,” I continued. “You’re Uncle Sam, aren’t you?”
The man nervously braided his goatee searching for the proper response. Then he finally replied:
“Yes, son. I am.”
“But what are you doing here, Uncle Sam? Why are you prancing around in the worst part of town, whoring yourself for money?” I demanded.
Uncle Sam sparked an extra-long Eve cigarette and deeply inhaled.
“It never used to be like this,” he began. “I was the leader of the Free World. I was both feared and adored, projecting the message of America over every square inch of the earth,” he puffed a series of smoke rings.
“I called for the enlistment of millions of young men to fight the Kaiser and the Fuhrer and free the world from the shackles of tyranny!” He exclaimed.
“I helped rebuild Europe and steer it toward a path to freedom, and then went about spreading the message to other parts of the globe with the Peace Corps and United Nations and billions upon billions in humanitarian aid.”
“So, what happened to you then?” I asked. “How did you fall so far from grace?”
Uncle Sam wet his fingers and extinguished the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, placing the butt in his shirt pocket.
“I spent money I didn’t have,” he confessed. “It’s a balancing act trying to give the public what it wants, what with two wars, home foreclosures, Social Security facing a short-fall, the Health Care debate, public schools underperforming—not to mention buying all the toxic debt from the banks. It’s dag-blum hard trying to tax those who are already taxed so much,” he explained.
“It was too easy just to say ‘yes’ to everyone” he continued, “if only to postpone reality for a moment while I figured out a better plan.”
“Then who did you borrow the money from?” I insisted.
“Well,” Sam paused, hiking-up his stocking. “The Free World has plum run out-of-money with trying to clean-up the environment, keep the peace, champion human rights, sustainably harvest resources, promote free trade and protect intellectual property. I had to find another source of cabbage.”
“And who would that be?” I said, clearly growing impatient.
“The Tyrants,“ Sam solemnly confessed.
In that instant, my anger completely boiled over and I reached through the car window and grabbed Uncle Sam, shaking him by the lapels of his blue satin jacket.
“You know, what the hell you’ve done!” I screamed. “You’ve saddled future generations with trillions of dollars of debt and interest payments! America will never be able to dig its way out of a hole unless you stop spending money you don’t have! Look at you man,” I said with disgust. “You’re turning tricks for Tyrants!”
I let go of Sam’s jacket and he fluffed-out the wrinkles with his weathered hands.
Just then, a Pimp with a wiry Confucian-like beard grabbed Uncle Sam by the wrist and twisted it firmly.
“Sam,” the Pimp crowed. “You turning away business? Remember who you work for?” The Pimp grinned evilly.
Uncle Sam batted away the Pimp’s hand and stood tall exclaiming:
“I’m not gonna work that track no more. I ain’t gonna be China’s bitch!”
No comments:
Post a Comment