The 4th revisited

This is from an old blog that I wrote a couple of years ago. I've cleaned it up a bit and sent it off to my writer's group. Some of you may not have read it before.



AN INDEPENDENCE DAY CAROL
By Doc Walton


Last Fourth of July, after a long day of burgers, beer, beans, salad and enough Chilean wine that that country’s trade minister was seen facing France and saying “in your face,” at precisely 2 a.m., I was visited by The Ghost of 4th of July Past.

He was dressed exactly like the guy in the Samuel Adams beer commercials, but he wasn’t smiling insanely like the idiots in all beer commercials because this ghost’s pewter mug was flat empty. I took him downstairs to the fridge, got him a refill and poured myself a bracer as well. It’s not everyday you see a ghost.

“Sam,” I said to him, because what the heck I had to call him something, “what seems to be the problem?” He looked at me for a few seconds, threw back a long swig of suds and then pulled a small thirteen starred colonial flag from…somewhere; thin air comes to mind. He waved it about a couple of times like a kid at a parade and ZAP, I was transported to a room full of serious faced guys all wearing wigs. “Toto” I said to no one in particular, “I don’t think we’re in Panama anymore.”

It was pretty clear that none of the wig wearers could see or hear us, but when I started to say something to Sam, he gave me the shush sign so I did exactly that and just listened. Some of the guys in the room looked vaguely familiar and as they talked to each other, I got their drift. These were my home country’s fathers sitting around founding. They were at that moment trying to compose some kind of document to send King George that would give him a hint about what they thought of him and also be an outline for a new country they were proposing to start. One of the guys whose name, not coincidentally I suppose, was Walton and who would later be a signee on the finished product said, “Why don’t we just tell him to go eff himself?” Most of the others agreed this was a good idea, but the guy named Jefferson, who was taking the notes, softened that a bit when he wrote it down. After awhile they got around to the crux of the matter and started talking about freedom and the inalienable rights of man. I wasn’t sure what inalienable meant, but I think it had something to do with Signourney Weaver. Mostly they seemed to be talking about freedom from intrusive government. Things like no wiretapping phones, no stealing elections, no invading foreign countries without Congress’ permission, and also finding a way to make sure everyone could see a doctor and get reasonably priced leeches whenever they were needed. There was something else about the right to wear wigs whether you were bald or not but I seemed to be slipping away and didn’t get all of that. They seemed like a well meaning bunch of guys.

After a couple of time travel units had passed which were much less in real time, Sam did an encore of his flag waving thing and we were back in my kitchen. “So,” he says to me, “you see how it was.” I nodded and poof, well not really poof, more like the gradual disintegration of Star Trek… he was gone.

I stood there in the kitchen with my empty beer mug thinking I should either refill it or give it up forever. I decided to sleep on it. No sense being hasty about the beer thing, this might all be a dream.

Sometime later – again I’m not sure about the time thing, I’ve got to give Steve Hawkings a call – I was awakened by The Ghost of 4th of July Present. This guy looked nothing like a beer commercial. He was dressed in a nice suit, could have been Armani, but how would I know, wore wing-tipped shoes and carried a bible so pristine it looked like it was rarely opened. “Come with me” he said and Zappo! We were transported to a place that – I’ve never really been there so I’m only guessing – could have been The White House.

Again a group of guys were sitting around drafting a document. I couldn’t actually see what they had written so far, but the title of the manuscript was “The Declaration of Oil Dependence.” Everyone in the room seemed in agreement that this was a good idea, including King George who was present this time. They all thought they could sell this document to the public with the aid of another document which they were going to call either the “NeoConstitution” or “Neoconning-the-Institution, they hadn’t decided yet. This work had some interesting chapter headings like “Who Needs the Environment?”, “God Is On Our Side Or We Wouldn’t Be Rich”, “Up With The Corporation Because We Won’t Always Be In Office” and near the end a chapter called “Overpopulation” with the subtitle, “The Poor May Be Edible.” These were all earnest young men who thought they were doing the right thing because they had all personally met Jerry Falwell and he had given them a hearty thumbs up.

“Yo Ghost” I said to my spirit guide, “whaddya say we move along.” And we did, right to the Future.

Somewhere along the way, I was passed off to another ghost whose attire changed eerily from one minute to the next. First it was a kind of space suit, all shiny and sleek, then it was cave man furs and skins, then something from a Madonna video, I liked the cone shaped boob holders, and then, well, on and on. The way people dressed in the Future seemed to be either a matter of choice or - it dawned on me quite suddenly – entirely uncertain. That’s what came to me as the ghost and I watched the human race being wiped out by natural disasters, invaded by bugs, saved at the last moment, beamed to home planets, living underground, living in bubbles, being eaten by the rich, and, in one hazy instance, living happily ever after. The Future was clearly uncertain, up in the air, a matter of choice. It depends on what we do now. I vowed to the ghost to vote for people who were more like the old boys in the Past and less like, you know, those other guys.

As for all those Future scenarios, I personally liked the insect invasion, but when I mentioned this to my ghost buddy, he morphed into a giant tomato bug and I quickly changed my mind. I hate tomato bugs. Shortly after that I was mysteriously plopped back into my bed, all ghosts gone, hopefully never to return.

I lay there awhile thinking what was the point, what was the point and why visit me, a guy not all that bright about politics. I mean, c’mon, I once voted for Nixon. The answer continues to elude me these many months later, but I did come up with a simple course of action based on a subject I do know a little about, literature.

I would find a crippled kid named Tim and buy him a turkey.