Goodby to the America I Loved

The Stature of Liberty’s furnace has blown out

I’d worked in my study — I like to call it work — finishing my twenty-sixth novel, which is a tad misleading in that the earlier twenty-five are unfinished. Anyway, with Jenny away visiting our grandchild overnight, I joined a couple of entirely worthless characters at the local bar. One close enough that I could walk home, three blocks, you know if drink should get the better of me.

Jenny doesn’t encourage me to drink at bars in Missouri, well, not anywhere, but especially in Misery, as the locals pronounce it. However, we reached an agreement that I could go if I walked with a cane. Don’t ask. It’s a woman’s thinking.

The bar was heaving. I slotted into a small gap between a wall and a couple of guys, trying to catch the bar person’s attention.

The taller one, leaning with his forearm on the bar, the one with the upper lip that overhung his lower, which on a woman looks sexy, gave a glance that told me in no uncertain manner that I had invaded his space. If you’ve ever done it, you know the look. If you haven’t, if you’ve never done it, it means you’re polite or not thirsty.

I rested the hook of my cane on the bar and seeing the cane, the stranger turned away, continuing his discussion about a rubbish pitcher and something called the Cardinals, which I understand is a bird. His partner in the debate, just as worthless, was a different shape altogether and wore a red baseball cap. I’m not going to go into a detailed description; one word will conjure up what you need to know. Trump.

I was having difficulty drawing breath. The gap in which I stood squeezed tighter as the tall guy erupted in laughter. A woman joined the two men, whom I can only describe as one insurmountable problem.

I was so hidden that any chance of a beer would take a degree of courage, pushing back against the guy to raise my hand enough to draw the attention of the person serving behind the bar.

I tried to turn with my hips, a subtle movement, one not to seem rude but a reminder to the worthless sod that a man with a cane is standing behind him. The guy whipped around in a flash, his hand going to his side.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shove,” I lied, “I’m trying to draw the attention of the server,” I said, holding my cane a little higher under my chin.

“No problem. I felt a movement against my gun,” the stranger said. “We are off-duty police officers.” Then he turned his attention behind the bar, and called out the name of Akisha, “can we get this old guy a beer, please?”

Akisha flat laid a beer mat in front of me. “What can I get you?”

“A draught Guinness, thank you.”

“Coming up.”

The bar person turned away. I looked down to see the gun in its holster on the man’s hip. Seeing a weapon at close quarters, I was suddenly absorbed by its power, not that it could kill so quickly, but how it sat on the man’s hip, giving him enormous responsibility. I then became aware that all three were wearing guns. The woman’s gun was not visible but clearly outlined under her blouse.

The server returned with my beer. I tapped the guy on the shoulder and asked if I might buy them all a drink as a thank you for their service to the community. All three graciously accepted.

“You’re either Australian or British, right?”

“British.”

“London?” the female officer asked.

“Born there but lived in Scotland most of my life.”

“I love your accent.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re all local police officers?” I asked.

“Yes, St. Louis County.”

“From what I hear, it’s not an easy area to police,” I said, interested in engaging them in conversation.

The guy farthest away, wearing the cowboy hat, spoke first. “It’s a city, and all cities have their problems. Some more than others, but I wouldn’t say St. Louis is the worst or best of them. It’s a typical metropole. We need someone like Trump to stand behind us,” he said, matter of fact. “What’s London like?”

I paused, stung. “I’m in agreement. London has a lot of issues, many around immigrants and immigration, homelessness, drugs, gangs, but most noticeable is police do not carry arms. I mean, sure, the police at the airports carry openly, some with sub-machine guns, as do some transport police, but if I’m being stopped for speeding in London, or I have a taillight out, the police officer stopping me won’t be carrying a firearm.”

The bar person returned with their drinks. The tall guy picks up his glass. “Very kind of you, cheers.”

“A pleasure. I’ll let you enjoy. Thanks again.”

I turned away and went looking to find a table and thinking that my opinion of worthless people ended up being people who do things worthy of mine and everyone’s appreciation. Good is among us.

America is not a sane place. It behaves insanely. It is capitalism run amok. How else can I explain that one of the most advanced countries globally, by far the richest, refuses to invest in its future with a free college education, free medical care for all, paid parental leave, etc? Talk about such matters, and the word socialism comes up. As if America and its citizens know nothing good about modern socialism. This is ridiculous, especially when America avails itself in times of need with socialistic tendencies.

The news on my iPhone informs me that six people have been shot dead in Sacramento. The information won’t make such huge headlines with the genocide happening in Ukraine, inflicted on the world by Russian forces. Instead, local dignitaries offer prayers, citizens pile flower upon flower, and some pasty-faced bastard is hunted down. The police will hold a press conference, suggest gang-related or a person fired from work, and we will watch and listen.

We are not shocked. It is mass murder. Two or three mothers will scream horribly, finding out their children are among the dead. The press will ask for details. It will once again raise the question of owning guns. It will die in a week, two at most.

The bar person comes to the table. She is carrying a pint of draught Guinness. “This is from the group at the bar,” she says.

I look up, and all three worthless characters have their glasses held high. I respond the same way.

America is like a wedding cake; all the grand icing is on the outside. The fruit is in the middle. The division is too broad, deep, and dark for anyone to change it through words. We are entering ominous long midnights.

The country has lost its opportunity to be great. It is not steadfast in its desire to show how democracy works for all. I tell a simple straight story. In the twenty years I have lived in America, the losses are striking. It is a country of betrayal. It wants solitude. The citizens no longer have a desire to be warm toward each other. Loud laughter is always at someone else’s expense. Faith is not a teaching; it is whatever one can use. We are steadily moving history backward — white supremacy, gender issues, a time when people’s aim in life is quantity.

This country has afforded me so much. I am deeply grateful. When I came here, I still had the heart and mind of a child. I’ve grown weary in body, mind, and spirit. To remain in a country for which I had only the greatest expectations for raising my grandchildren, I am depressed with the realization that their lives won’t know a child’s wonder.

I have been very tired of writing lately. There is nothing in the world that refreshes or renews this spirit. Everything that is happening is not for the sake of liberty; it is for a country’s self-preservation.

I want gay food, gay fires, gay friends, gay lights. But, instead, I find monstrous evil. I grew up damned by the rainbow, such a spirit a boy was proud to own, his loves majestic, his friends without equal. Such a boy, I was.

As I finished my beer, tears streaming down my face, I left with these notes written on paper.

It seemed hopeless. It is hopeless.

The blast of a siren and the flashing blue lights pulled up behind me. I raised my hands, fearful, not sure what to expect.

“Put your hands down, sir. You left your cane behind.” It was the female police officer.

I felt a sudden release of panic. “Thank you; indeed, I’m grateful.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for the drink. Have a good night,” she said.

When I got home, I felt very lonely. How would I explain to Jenny I’ve reached a time in my life when hope is extinguished? A man who believes hope never dies.

I’m going to pour myself a ridiculous size McCallan and hope I feel different in the morning.