Politixworks (Liberal Edition)

Johnson...

1.

The Grey Lady

Before I became consumed with this business of saving democracy I was like any average 12 year old boy. I was brave. I was noble. I was honest. More importantly, I trusted my friends and they trusted me. I was innocent. We were all innocent. I want the world to know that things were much different once; there was a time when I was a regular kid.

What changed me, I know, was the teachers. They taught me and the rest of the 6th grade some things they shouldn’t have. My Father had tried in his own way to teach me these things but I was much younger then and I didn’t care to hear what he was trying to tell me. That was before he became disillusioned.

Anyways I’m going to lay it all out now and I will take responsibility for my actions but the teachers did us dirty, no doubt about it. The teachers were orchestrating this bad business from the background. They let the elementary school become an unlivable place. Now because I don’t want to prejudice nobody, I won’t blame the teachers for poisoning my mind. I just want everybody to know I never intended to harm the elementary school. And lastly let me say this, I want to get my side out so that the world knows the truth, but people can make whatever judgments they want. The facts are the facts.

I do want to point out for the record however that the teachers did lie, on purpose, many times, to me and other kids like me, about the meaning of democracy. That’s what this story is truly about I would argue, although I admit there are people who rather believe my friends and I destroyed the elementary school only because we were bad kids. I don’t think we were bad kids at all. We believed in democracy and we thought we were rescuing it. History will prove, I’m sure, that we were manipulated. Of course for the time being that is only my opinion and I know some people will disagree.

It is ironic that I was already slightly prepared before the teachers got hold to me; I do regret being so naïve and I know now that I should have paid closer attention to what the Father had tried to tell me. But I think I’d rather not start with the story of the Father or the story of the teachers or on all the things that transpired and happened last year. The events of this story take place entirely in the 6th grade, and I don’t want any confusion about that. There’s another thing too; and I shouldn’t leave any kind of false impression. This is my story, make no mistake about it. It’s about me and not the teachers. The teachers had their role and I’ll go into detail later about all my allegations; however, this particular story is about me.

It is also as much about my crew of friends, there is no doubt. I cannot tell the story of the elementary school or what happened to it without also dishing on my fights with the Turk. And Clayburn. And H.I. So I really should begin over the summer, the summer right before the start of the new school year, during the first week of August…

I was standing by the desk in my room and looking out the window for squirrels. It was a windy afternoon for this time of year; just after 2 PM as I waited for my crew to arrive. I was gearing up to challenge the Turk, watching the wind blowing on the trees and flipping through the Father’s CD collection so I could find a rap song that could stump the Turk. I finally decided on EPMD, a song called Get the Bozack.

I was feeling quite anxious. Last year had been rough at the school house, particularly for my crew, but I was trying not to think about it. It wasn’t hard to focus my mind on other things. These were the good times, when my mind was more concerned with becoming a leader and building remote controlled airplanes than with anything else. I had built a plane for such a purpose. I wanted to be the leader of my crew and I knew I had to win over the Turk to do it. I knew I had to win over the rest of the crew also, but I wasn’t as worried about them as I was young Turk.

They arrived one by one, Eeck, H.I. Turk and Clayburn, the Terrible. Everything was well prepared but I was nervous. Mainly I was worried that they wouldn’t like my house or that they wouldn’t like being here. Or that they’d get bored with me. As it turned out however, when they all finally arrived, I didn’t pick up on any displeasure whatever. It wasn’t awkward at all. But I didn’t want to waste too much time showing them the backyard and the attic and every single room or whatever. It was getting late.

I got on the phone and told Jean to come over.

Jean Louise was my next door neighbor. She was a freshman in college, home for the summer. The Mother hired Jean last year to take care of me when I’d be home alone. Within 15 minutes of getting my call, Jean was at my front door and turning up the stairs, with Diggler, her boy friend.

They brought with them our next big adventure. Jean and I had been building it, I mean, her, all summer. After many trials and errors, she was finally completed. She was ready to fly and she was ready for a crew. Like I said, these were the good times, the simple times, when I built planes that I considered ships, when I had hopes of becoming a captain over the course of one afternoon, and when my biggest rival was the Turk.

The Turk reached out to touch the propellers.

Those are not called propellers; they’re called proprotors, I offered.

With his hand on his heart, the Turk declared, It is the most beautifullest thing I have ever seen. I told the boys that the airplane’s basic origins were entirely secret; however, I assured each one of them that our possession was lawful and none of us would get into any trouble.

Jean, Diggler, and I stood there, but the boys had dropped to their knees. Theirs was a loving, curious affection I suppose, content to gawk at the plane cautiously.

From wing to wing the length was comparable to Turk’s measurement in height. Made mostly of high-grade aluminum, the body, including wings, was metallic, but I had painted the nose bright red. "She’s an airplane and a helicopter, I clarified. She can hover like a helicopter or fly on her wings."

She wasn’t very big at all. She had a wingspan of 36, the length of the body was about the same, and she was only 24 in height off the ground. But she could fly, that much was certain.

The body was originally from a V-22 Osprey helicopter, but Jean and I refitted the system so it could fly faster; we kept the proprotor system of the V-22, to give the ship lift and added thrust, but the rotors expended a lot of power and were limited in range so to get more power for longer flights, we replaced the main shaft of the V-22 with a model F86 Sabre airplane body we got from the Hobby Shop. Jean handled the actual building really, but it was all my idea.

Once it was finished, the whole thing was quite impressive. The wing rotors ran off solar panel reflectors, and the body was basically a funnel with fan blades inside, powered by gas. Anyways, with those and some other modifications, she can go really far and fast.

From now on, I insisted, "we will all use the same language. We will not call this a plane but rather, it is more of a ship. It is more a she, and she should be called Grey Lady."

I saw H.I. wrinkle his eyebrows. Figuratively, H.I., you’ll get it in a minute, don’t worry. But understand this one point: As you begin to think on this as a ship, you can think on yourselves as the crew. Her crew. So treat this ship as you would a lady.

But it’s an airplane not a ship, H.I. blurted.

I consider it an airship, OK? But there was really one reason I wanted to use the word ship. Planes need pilots and nothing else, H.I. But ships need captains and a crew. I mentioned then that our crew would need structure and a clear chain of command. So I made myself the skipper, and Turk, my second-in-command. After that, I placed Jean Louise in charge, then Diggler, then Clayburn, then H.I., and if all else fails, Eeck.

Of course the Turk did not like the sound of all that. I think the Turk approved of everything I said except for the part about him being second in command. I don’t get what you’re talking about, Turk said.

In order to fly the airship, I need a crew, I told them. I need somebody to steer—I mean, pilot. And I need somebody else for the other things, like controlling the engine and making sure—

Well what was this about second-in-command? Turk said. I’m the captain.

"No, you can’t be captain, Turk. It’s my airship." The meeting almost got out of hand before it could even really start. I had to contend with the Turk. As usual. I told Turk that as my second-in-command, I had intended for him to have special authority over H.I., and Turk liked that idea well enough, except he didn’t want H.I. Turk was smart. He wanted Clayburn the Terrible on his side.

Once I refused to allow this to happen, Turk basically threatened to leave. So I offered a compromise. We would battle to be captain, I said. But then we argued about what would constitute victory and defeat, so Jean came up with a solution: One of us would become captain temporarily and then the other would take over.

Does that sound square with you, Turk? I asked him.

The Turk was satisfied, and although we didn’t figure out who would go first, we defused a bomb and the Turk stayed. So I felt relieved.

Both H.I. and Eeck seemed slightly confused, so I had to slow down a bit. I tried to give them the bigger picture, the larger idea. So I continued on talking in grandiose terms referring to past and recent discoveries, and speaking of the more famous adventures of history.

But I still don’t understand, H.I. confessed.

Lookit, H.I., I said, "we can use this here Grey Lady in a variety of ways. We can use her to go places and see things we could never arrive at on our own. I know it’s hard to see the promise of it now, but just wait, OK? Just calm down, H.I. You’ll get it in a minute. But the boy still seemed dissatisfied. What is it, H.I.?"

My friends call me Hi, he said. Everyone else calls me the two letters. I notice you like to address me proper sometimes…like we ain’t friends…

I sighed. We been over this before, H.I.

So why can’t you get it right, Lyndon? H.I. snapped. If you want me to call you ‘Skipper’ then you should address me correctly.

I sighed again, then turned. Turk?

Yes? Turk answered.

What do you prefer to be called?

I am the Turk.

"Is it the Turk or just Turk?"

Both.

I turned again. Clayburn, I said, what do you prefer—

I am the Terrible, he said. Clayburn the Terrible.

Very well. I threw up my palms. Hi, I said, scolding him, I heard everything you just said, but if I prefer to call you H.I., or if I just want to call you ‘stupid,’ you just remember, I’m your skipper and always respond when I call you.

H.I. threw up his nose, so I pressed. You understand me, boy?

I ain’t your boy. I ain’t anybody’s boy. I’m the oldest one here.

You always got something smart to say, H.I…but I don’t want to fight you now, OK? I can whip you later, but for right now you should shut up because you might learn something, boy.

After that, H.I. called me mean. Then I said he was whiny. Then he said he wasn’t just saying I was mean to him, I was mean to everybody. That I wasn’t fair. And lastly, H.I. said the only reason I needed to be captain was because I didn’t have democratic values. Then the boy poked out his lips, but I paid him no mind. After that, I turned the meeting over to Jean Louise, and Jean explained that the ship should not be confused with some child’s toy.

Why so?

She could fly high and far, Jean reiterated. Not only that, wherever she goes, we can see what she can see. There’s a small camera underneath the body, Jean said, pointing, so the ship can send video images over the Internet. Lyndon—

I held up the television remote, then turned on the power. Toward the front of the room, the TV screen flickered. An image quickly appeared. Blurry at first, the view began to focus automatically. The image was of furniture and the back wall, as well as Clayburn’s head.

What you’re seeing right now is the forward view. Jean paused, appreciating the view, then added, It’s a pretty clear picture. I think I can put more cameras on the starboard, port, and on the bottom, and we’ll be able to fly her and navigate without ever leaving this room. The boys were astonished.

I should say now that while her reasoning was wrong, the Mother did a good thing hiring Jean Louise. Jean and I didn’t really get along at first, but we had bonded while building the ship. Incidentally, Jean took quite an interest in the whole project, although I’m not sure why. In some places, she kind of took over. Jean, tell them what else she can do.

Well, I already said she can fly on her rotors like an airplane or a helicopter. What else is there? Oh, Jean remembered, she can fly on solar power or gas power.

We can travel anywhere...

Lastly, Jean presented, ...the joystick.

Is that the remote control for it?

Before I introduced them all, I had told Jean and Diggler some basic facts about my crew. I had told them to beware of Clayburn the Terrible because he was the meanest and toughest of us all, and he could sometimes be controlled by myself or the Turk. Turk will be the one who seems most like the leader. He’s got a scar across his left eyebrow from a bicycle accident that he always lies about. He’ll probably be wearing a bright red shirt.

About H.I., I only let them know that he had a good heart and that they should try to be patient with him. And there’s not much to say about Eeck really. He’s as quiet as his name.

I think Diggler was especially curious because Diggler really only saw me as a white kid and he thought it was kind of strange that I had the friends I had. I am different from the rest of the boys. My skin is white, but I’m really half black. Although my hair is straight, my grandmother says I have my father’s freckles. But I probably take after my mother in every other way. Anyways, I think it kind of spooked Diggler to think that he and Jean could have a kid, and the kid could come out looking like me.

My school is all black. I’m the only white kid, although like I said, I’m not really white. I just look white. I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not a big deal at my school, but sometimes I’ve thought about it, and I’ve wondered what would happen if some other white kid showed up one day. I dunno. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t really matter with my crew.

OK. I should rephrase that. It kind of mattered. They bagged on me and everything, but that wasn’t a big deal. We bagged on each other all the time. And we were always putting each other down for the color of our skin or whatever. Turk and Eeck got bagged on for being darkest. And of course Clayburn was always calling H.I. High Yellow.

It didn’t matter.

I would have gone on about the Turk, but Jean interrupted me. She wanted to know more basic facts than what I was providing, so I expounded. Eeck was the smallest, I told her. He wore thick-rimmed eyeglasses, which kind of made him look like an egghead since he had no hair. Among the five of us, I had known Eeck the longest, I explained. Although he was a Jehovah’s Witness, we were a lot alike. We were both skinny. We had the same color brown eyes. We both had dimples, and so did the Turk. We were also both pretty good at drawing, and we both liked being alone. I used to be a lot like Eeck, actually. Quiet. And weird. I’m not like that anymore though. Eeck is, but I changed in the 2nd grade.

It wasn’t until the 2nd grade that I became friends with Clayburn and H.I. We called Clayburn Clayburn the Terrible because that was the nickname he gave himself—and because it was entirely appropriate. Clayburn was the biggest boy in our entire grade, and he seemed to be made mostly of bone. He could beat up anybody in a fight, although he wasn’t really much of a bully, since he hated interacting with other kids. It’s kind of hard to describe the way he looks except to say that he looked like a Clayburn. Like the Turk, H.I. and Eeck, he gets his haircuts fairly close. Aside from that Clayburn had a thick, meaty face, and hands the size of bear paws. He didn’t have wrists, from what I could tell; it was like his big paw hands were just screwed onto his arms.

Other than all that, Clayburn was spoiled by divorced parents who were always buying him crap, which, among other things, yielded ridiculous contributions to his physical appearance. So Clayburn was dressed very preppie (half the time) even though he really didn’t have the face of a preppie kid. Sweaters. Polo shirts. Corduroy pants. I think his mother expected him to become President of the United States. I dunno. Clayburn can be real sensitive, just keep that in mind, I said. He don’t like it when people touch his things.

Clayburn was by any accounts a brute, but I discovered that he shared my and Eeck’s interest in horror movies and some other things, and in that way we came to be friends. (Incidentally, Clayburn tried to draw like Eeck and me, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have the art skills, I think, because his paw hands was so big.) But more than all that, I discovered that Clayburn the Terrible was definitely someone I wanted on my side. Since the day I met him, I have always felt that I understood Clayburn. The Turk and I used him like a bodyguard.

H.I. is the chubby, whiny one in the shabby clothes.

Around the time that I met Clayburn, I made friends with H.I., too. H.I. had no interest in drawing, and he wasn’t particularly fond of horror movies either. But he had a lot of comics, so he fit right in. Also, I felt I could talk to H.I., and even when we argued I usually felt better off listening to him. I do admit that this was my personal faith. In truth, there wasn’t much about H.I.’s appearance to lend itself to confidence. He had long fingernails, kind of like a girl, and he was always picking at some orifice like his ears or nose. And he was a germaphobe, always inspecting his food for dirt and bugs, but then again he was sloppy and awkward, and kind of, well, H.I. wasn’t terribly athletic. That was H.I.

We were already a small crew when the Turk came. I don’t know what else to say to describe him other than the Turk is my best friend. There’s no one I’d rather fight with or against more than Turk.

Jean asked, He’s from Turkey?

I had to explain that Turk was just another nickname. The Turk’s real name was Tremaine. Tremaine Dunne. Eeck’s real name was Jason Fredieu.

What is Clayburn’s real name?

"That is his real name. Clayburn Peters. Anyways—"

Of course, Jean Louise didn’t care to hear about comic books and horror movies and whatever else I wanted to tell her about our shared interests. But when I began to share some of our more adventurous exploits, she became quite sullen and apprehensive. Why, you sound like a bunch of tyrants.

At that, I gave up my story telling and my introduction.

Well you can at least meet them, I insisted, then decide whether you want to hang out with us or not.

I did not tell them about the last member of our crew. Dion. Dion Baptiste. Up until last year, he was our leader in fact. Also, Dion was my best friend before I met the Turk. He got expelled from school last year. And he kind of wasn’t in the crew anymore. It wasn’t anything I cared to talk about really. I didn’t want to think about it either. And he wasn’t coming over anyway.

Where should we go? We needed open air and space to test fly the ship but before we could leave the house or do anything else, the Mother had to be clear of her obligation to feed us. Since Jean and Diggler were there, they helped make the food. It was satisfactory enough. For dinner we had tacos. Chips. Salsa. Beans. Rice. Cantaloupe and tapioca pudding for desert. Then we set out.

We left the house and walked into warm summer evening air. We had orange and grape bubble gum, and we were trading lyrics from really old rap songs. EPMD had been a hit with the boys. Get the Bozack became our theme song right then. We all knew the lyrics by heart. Heading to lower Ladera, we shouted out verses in unison, yelling out our theme song for all the squirrels and raccoons in the neighborhood to hear.

I suggested we walk to Ladera Park, and no one objected. It had been more than a year since I had last been there; I used to go with the Father quite a bit. We walked for all of twenty minutes until finally we arrived on the south side of the 16 acre park, heading up the walkway next to the baseball field. The place looked no different, no worse for wear, and even the people seemed strangely familiar.

We passed by the outdoor theater; this was where the Father spent most of his time, and the same crazy idgets seemed to be occupying their usual spots. The Father called them idgets but really they weren’t, they were the neighbors actually, and like the Father, they gathered here to talk about politics. As usual there were about a dozen of them, arguing with each other.

Over the next hour, the park lights and the street lights replaced the fleeting sun. Night arrived. And as the sky turned the color of poison blueberry, the bunch of us took our turns on the joystick pilot controls. We were trying to determine who best should pilot the ship but it was tough going. As always, there was fierce competition between me and the Turk, but this time our competition was being played out in belly rolls and long spirals along the north sky. We were both too erratic on the joystick, and though we practiced long and hard, neither I nor the Turk proved that we possessed any natural ability. I had a slight advantage because I had built Grey Lady, but all of our engineering additions really made the controls hard to handle.

In fact, we all soon discovered that in the hands of an unskilled pilot, the aircraft reacted violently in the sky, crashing each time. We did not do any great damage however, as she was a resilient bird. The flying and the crashing were