CHAPTER III

 

 

The radical differences in stations of the night before burned in John’s brain as he walked to the White House. The empty storefronts and boarded-up buildings made him think of all the lives that had once been lived successfully inside of their crumbling walls. Collateral damage from the friendly fire of class warfare, with its millions of casualties walking the streets, asking themselves, "Why?" Where is the opportunity? Working for a chain store? How many people can become the chairman of McDonalds? What choices do the kids in these neighborhoods have? Work for minimum wage, do right and do without, or sell drugs and at least make a living until they get busted? Neither choice is very appealing, but there they are, either A or B.

John kept telling himself, "That’s why you’re out here walking; that’s why you’re living in a homeless shelter." He stopped and shuddered as the cold reality came down on him like the sword of Damocles: they are going to kill me, and they will grind me up for sausage. But then he thought, "It is not the courage of one soldier that wins the war, for many fall and they all have courage. It is the courage of the one who leads the charge, knowing that many will fall." Safe in the knowledge that he was doing his duty, "It's better for me," he thought, "to be a martyr for freedom than a slave to fear." He looked up to the sky, then shook his head and cursed under his breath.

As he approached the White House, he noticed a slightly larger crowd than usual across the street. He stood back for a moment, to see if he could determine what was going on, but he couldn’t tell from a distance. So he waited at the crosswalk for the lights to change. He crossed the street and waved to the security office and took up his post. From behind him he heard applause and turned around to see a crowd of maybe twenty, applauding and waving to him. He thought to himself, "It must be a good article."

Agent Henderson came out of the office, walking towards him at a brisk pace, and the crowd started to boo. John turned around and raised both arms to make the crowd stop.

"Morning, Bill," John said.

"Are you happy now, John?" Bill asked. "I told you, you were a fly in the room. Well, now you’ve landed in their corn flakes and it's all business from here on out. John, you’re a nice guy," Henderson explained, "but if I don’t dot every I and cross every T then I’ll be living at that shelter with you. From now on you may only speak to one person at a time on this sidewalk. Any more than one will be considered a demonstration. You are to ignore the crowd; any signals to the crowd will be considered a demonstration."

"But, Bill," he protested, "I just didn’t want them to boo you."

"I appreciate that," he told him. "But these are the rules and they come from the top and they are not negotiable. Do you understand these rules, Sir?"

"Sure, Bill," he said.

"One more thing, Sir," Bill added candidly, "I’ve never seen them with their panties in a bunch like this before." With a quick smile Bill did a military turn and headed back for the office, and the crowd cheered as he departed.

 

John noticed that the crowd across the street would ebb and flow, and people began to approach him on the sidewalk. Some would speak to him or want to shake his hand. The novelty of it lasted about an hour or so, when two teenage girls wanted an autograph. As he signed they giggled and ran away. Around noon, with the lunch crowd, the number had grown to about fifty. He was relieved when Margaret arrived, as he was glad to see a familiar face.

"Isn’t it wonderful? We're on our way," she told him.

"I guess so," he said.

"Look, I’ve got two more reporters that want to do interviews. They were referred by Elaine’s office," she explained.

"Now it’s Elaine?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, but you said she’s an important person. If you’re on a first-name basis with important people then you must be important too, right?"

"Thanks, John, you’re sweet, but I really don’t think it’s like that. Thank you anyway, but we really don’t have the time. We have to get across the street and try to find them."

As he turned towards the crosswalk the crowd began to applaud. They met him on the other side of the street, shaking his hand and patting him on the back as he was besieged with well-wishers. A man asked if he could get his picture taken with him and John answered, "Sure." Margaret wandered off, looking for the reporters, and soon returned towing one by the sleeve. "John, this is Brian Chambers with Mother Jones magazine."

"Hi," John said. Brian returned the greeting but it was obvious that it was going to be too difficult to do an interview in the middle of this crowd.

Brian asked, "What do you think of the article about you in The Post?"

"I haven’t read it," he explained. From the crowd, a copy immediately appeared. It was already turned to the editorial page. The headline read: A Patriots Post. John read about his duty to country and love of country, and the reasons he wanted the administration to leave. It quoted him on, "Here I stand and here I stay," and said that he was one man who has just had enough. The article ended by saying that John wanted nothing for himself, he only wanted to return the country to what is was supposed to be, and isn’t that what true patriotism is all about.

He looked at Brian and answered, "I like it."

John handed the paper back to its owner when the owner asked him, "Could you autograph it for me, John?"

"Sure." He signed it, then passed it back to him.

"Look," Brian asked, "let's do this later. How about over dinner?"

"Okay, we eat at eight, after Mass," John answered.

"Where?"

"The Sacred Heart of Jesus Homeless Shelter, and it's your lucky day, it's Wednesday. That’s chicken patty night. But don’t wear your good clothes, we’ll have to do dishes when we're finished." Margaret had returned with the other reporter and John explained that they couldn’t do the interviews now, with the crowd around. He agreed to meet them both for supper at the shelter.

Margaret explained that she had to get back to work anyway and asked John if he would be able to handle it. He looked towards the White House and said, "I can handle it if they can."

As they talked, John had several more requests for autographs. Margaret shook her head and told him, "You know they are going to sell those on eBay, right?"

"Really?" he asked.

"Probably," she answered.

"What do you think they’ll get for them?"

"Who knows? Fifty, maybe a hundred bucks. The sky’s the limit."

As he returned to his post he had the idea that with each request for an autograph he would ask for a ten-dollar donation for the shelter.

He was later than usual getting back to the shelter. He went straight into Father Dave’s office, but he wasn’t there. He went back to the kitchen and found the priest hovering over a large pan. "Watering the soup again, Father?" he asked.

"I might have to," he answered.

"Maybe not," he responded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of crumpled bills. "It should be about two hundred, Father."

"Where did you get it, John?"

"They wrote a favorable article about me in The Post, Father, and everyone was wanting autographs so I figured this was a way I could help you, with a ten-dollar donation to the shelter for each autograph."

"Thank you, John, for thinking about us," he answered.

"Well, don’t thank me yet, we have two or three freebies coming to dinner tonight."

"That’s fine," the priest answered. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine." John grabbed a full can of garbage and took it out to the alley to dump in his steel alarm clock and then went upstairs to get cleaned up for supper.

 

Margaret was on her way to the shelter when her cell phone rang. "Margaret Farmer speaking."

The voice on the other end was nearly hysterical. "This is Gabe Lebowitz, Elaine Keever's assistant."

"Sure, Gabe, what is it?"

"Your guy’s selling autographs!"

"What?" she asked. "John?"

"He’s selling his autograph to people in the crowd!"

"That doesn’t sound like John. I’m on my way over to the shelter now. I’ll find out what’s going on and call you back," she explained.

"Please do, Margaret," he said. "Whatever he’s doing, make him stop. Make him understand that he is being watched, and everything he does, except standing in line, is giving ammunition to our enemies." She assured him that she would call him back.

As she pulled up behind the shelter she could feel the heat generating in her face. When she entered the building the voices rang up, "John, your girlfriend is here!" As he came downstairs Margaret, without hesitation, demanded, "What the hell are you doing?"

He was taken aback, having never seen her temper before. "What are you talking about?"

"Were you selling autographs to the crowd today?" she demanded.

"No," he replied calmly.

"Gabe Lebowitz just called me, frantic, saying that you were selling your autograph. Where did he get that from?"

"I was soliciting donations," he answered quietly, "for the shelter."

"What?" she exploded. "They could have arrested you for panhandling! How would that look, John? You were worried that they would try to destroy you, but they don’t have to, you’ll destroy yourself!"

John explained defensively, "I did it because these people need it. The priest is out there begging for change and people are wanting to give me folding money, just for signing my name."

"John, you told Elaine to join you on the sidewalk and she told you she could do that, but she could do more behind the scenes. Now she’s doing that, and the world has changed for you; now you’re doing more than just standing on the sidewalk. You have to think about everything you do or you’ll blow this for everyone who’s trying so hard to help you. I took this job to be your assistant, not your babysitter."

"I’m sorry, Margaret," he said apologetically. "I just wasn’t thinking about the big picture."

"John," she explained, "you lead with your heart and that’s admirable. That’s why people are willing to follow you. But if you don’t use your head, or trust to those who will, you’re going to get sucker punched."

"You’re right, Margaret, I just wanted to help the shelter."

Her anger had faded now, and as usual, she began to feel guilty for going ballistic. She thought to herself that John could be a snarling dog, but when he tucked in his tail, he looked more like a whipped puppy.

Brian Chambers was right on time as he walked in, Lance Murray from The San Francisco Examiner following closely behind him. John motioned them over to a seat and put his finger to his lips, whispering, "Father is almost finished with Mass."

They finished the hymn and the dinner crowd started to file in. Lance introduced himself and asked, "Are you religious, John?"

"It doesn’t matter if I am or not, it's a matter of respect."

As the priest closed the Mass, John asked, "You guys hungry?"

Brian looked at Lance apprehensively and said, "Well, not really."

"It's good, really guys, I’ll even ask Father Dave to say a blessing over it." John walked through the line as Lance and Brian waited at the table.

He sat down and began to eat as the reporters got out their tape recorders and note pads. Brian asked, "How do you think the media attention will change your life?"

"It already has. Everything I do or say is under a microscope, not to evaluate the truth, or the value of my message, but to try and use it to destroy me because they can’t destroy the message."

"John, why have you chosen to live in a homeless shelter?"

"It came highly recommended by a well-placed government agency."

"Really, who?"

"The police," he answered.

Lance asked the question, "John, tell me, why are you doing this?"

"I’m doing this because somebody has to and I got tired of waiting for that somebody to show up. There are millions who would do it if they could, but they can’t, because of kids or jobs or fear."

"Fear, John? What kind of fear? Fear of what?" Brian asked.

"This government rules by fear. I stood on a sidewalk and they told me to leave out of fear of going to jail. They tell you, we must fight a war, a war that we started out of fear, or else they will bring the war over here, if we don’t fight over there. That’s a fear tactic. They tell you all about threat levels, it’s all about fear."

"You don’t think we have anything to be afraid of, John?"

"I know who I’m afraid of, Lance. They only check twenty percent of the containers at ports and none of the air cargo on airliners. But they make children and the elderly take their shoes off to get on an airplane. It’s shadow puppets, and they project the idea that we should be afraid of each other."

"But, John," Brian asked, "What about nine eleven?"

"What about nine eleven indeed, Brian? All rivers flow from nine eleven, all reasoning is based on nine eleven. But what do we know for sure? That buildings fell down and people died. The people who investigated the crime are the same people who would have or could have benefited from the crime. During World War Two, a B-25 bomber crashed into the Empire State Building and it didn’t fall down. It's a jigsaw puzzle, but when you put it all together to see the complete picture, you’re left with extra puzzle pieces. That leaves only one possibility, that we are not being told the truth. And if you’re not being told the truth, then you’re being deceived. And then you must ask yourself why.

"What are the good reasons they could have for lying to us? How much of a stretch is it to believe that those who you already know are deceiving you, those who not only have the most to gain from the crime but also had the ability to commit it, as well as the ability to cover it up, aren't behind it? What’s that called?" John asked. "Occam’s razor? The most obvious solution is probably correct."

"John," Lance asked, "how far do you think you’ll get dabbling in conspiracy theories? You can’t go around accusing the administration of organizing nine eleven without proof."

"I’m not," John replied. "You asked about nine eleven and all I’m saying is that the story the government told you doesn’t fit the facts on the ground. So, you take the leap of faith that you’re being lied to for a good reason. Both possibilities are conspiracy theories, it just depends on which conspiracy theory you choose to believe. You have to ask, 'why would they do that?' You have to ask yourself, 'could these people be so cold and calculating that they could murder their own people?' It’s been done before, you know," adding, "I’ll say one more thing about this, then lets move on. In all the years of this administration, name one thing, just any one thing, no matter how small or insignificant, any detail you can think of to show me, that this administration has done which was driven out of care or compassion or concern for the American people. Then you go ask yourself the other questions again."

"Okay," Lance asked, "let’s say you get your meeting with the President and convince him and the Vice President to step down. What would your next step be, John?"

"I guess I would walk over to the Supreme Court and stand there until they stepped down as well."

"What about Congress, John?" he asked.

"I live in D.C., I don’t really have a Congressman right now."

"John, do you want all the members of the Court to step down?

"No offense, but that’s like asking if the guy who grounded the Exxon Valdez should really lose his job. If they had any character they would resign by themselves, just from embarrassment. If it weren’t for Dred Scott they would be unprecedented for the worst decisions ever. Yes, I think at this point a clean slate would be best. After the 2000 election case, I think they have pretty much soiled their robes and the court."

"But wouldn’t they just appoint more just like them, John?"

"Yes, they would and if left alone we would get another administration just like this one, as well. That’s why I’m doing this! Brian, we the people have to poke our collective finger in the chest of the body politic and say, 'listen here, bob, we've had enough!' If just thirty million Americans stood up and cried, 'Enough, no more!', we could get everything the people of this country need and want, tomorrow! If one million people joined me at the White House gates and cried, 'Enough, no more!', the President and Vice President would flee like thieves into the night. Do you doubt there are a million people who agree with me, Lance?

"But, because they rule by fear, most of the people know in their hearts that no matter how nonviolent the demonstration might be, sooner or later they will start shooting us. I’m almost fifty years old, Brian, I’ve seen and done most everything in life and I know it's downhill from here. I think it’s time for me to do something to save my country. I'd rather die standing up than live on my knees. That’s where I have the advantage over you."

"How’s that, John?" Brian inquired.

"I’ve got nothing they can take but my life, and most of that’s over with now anyway."

"You do sound a little paranoid, John. Do you think they plan to kill you?"

"Only if necessary. I don’t think that’s their first choice but it’s an option, and if they thought it was their best option, they wouldn’t hesitate to take it."

"You know, John," Lance added, "I agree with what you are doing, but you are sounding a little paranoid."

"Paranoid, Lance? Paranoid is an unreasonable belief that you are being followed or persecuted. And they are tapping your phones and checking your Internet activity; they can check to see what books you're taking out of the library or what magazines you subscribe to, or how much money you make or have in the bank, what prescriptions the doctor gives you. They even have a computer in your car that records whether you use your seat belt or not. Look in your owner’s manual, you’ll find out that your car can be used in court as a witness against you! So, am I paranoid, Lance, or is it the government that’s paranoid?"

"John," Brian asked, "I think we are almost finished here, but what about Congress; where do they fit into your plans?"

"Congress could best be described as a modern Tower of Babble, built entirely of Jell-O. They pontificate and think they are the tools of God when, in fact, they are the fools of men. They are a cross between Arnold Schwarzenegger and Pee Wee Herman; they try to appear strong and powerful with bulging muscles when they’re actually weak and puny and always looking for a dark corner to jerk off in." This comment brought raucous laughter from all within earshot.

It also brought Margaret from the back of the room where she had been talking to Father Dave. "What are you saying to these guys, John?" she asked with motherly attention.

"I’m being good!" he told her.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"It’s going to cost you fifty cents to find out, Margaret."

"I’m just afraid of what it might really cost," she added.

"John," Brian inquired, "I think we’ve got a lot of good stuff to write, but it brings up even more questions. Could we continue this at a later time?"

"We'll see. You never know, by tomorrow I might be old news."

After the reporters left, John apologized to Margaret. "You were right about the autographs, but I can handle my own message, and you're right about being my assistant, not my babysitter. I’m just afraid of what they might do to you, and I don’t want to make it any harder on you. I want to thank you again for being my assistant."

"Look, John, I’m sorry I went off on you but when Gabe Lebowitz went ballistic on me, I overreacted. I’ve talked to Father McGrath and he told me how hard things had been for them here and that you were just thinking of others, not yourself. I called Gabe Lebowitz and I explained the situation to him and guess what he told me."

"What?" he asked.

"He had talked to Mrs. Keever and she told him it was all her fault and that she would correct it. What do you make of that? Any idea what she was talking about?"

"Not a clue, Margaret, not a clue."

"I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. Look, it’s getting late, I need to go."

"And I need to go help Michael with the dishes. Margaret, I meant to tell you the other night, treat the traffic lights as four-way stops until you get out of this neighborhood."

"But, John, I thought you loved all these people?"

"I do, Margaret, but the people looking for a safe place to sleep are in here and those who are looking for trouble are out there. Besides, you have enough trouble in here with me. You don’t need to look for more out there." As the back door closed, John walked back into the kitchen. Father Dave and Michael were putting away pans and finishing up.

"Need some help?" he asked.

"Sure," Michael said.

"John," Dave asked, "If you can help in here, I can get some work done in my office."

"Glad to, Father. What do you need me to do first, Michael?"

"Well," Michael questioned, "since you’re becoming such a celebrity now, I’m not sure what I can ask."

"Anything you need done, Brother. I’m not a celebrity, I’m just doing what needs to be done, day or night."

"In that case, can you sweep the dining room?" After finishing, John went back to the kitchen.

"Michael, how come you hang out here so much; don’t you have a girlfriend?"

"No, I don’t, and I’m not looking for one, either. I have enough on my plate, thank you, without having someone else to worry about. I’m in the middle of seven kids. I got a brother in prison, I got a brother and sister in Iraq, one in the Navy, one in the Marines. I can’t find a job and I’m trying to help my mom with the three kids still in school--a schoolyard, John, that’s as tough as a prison yard. I need a girlfriend like a gunshot wound."

"How long have you been out of school, Michael?"

"I graduated four years ago. I want to go to college, but how? I don’t have any money and can’t leave my mom alone with them kids."

"What about your dad?"

"I don’t even remember him, John."

"Then why do you spend so much time here?"

"The same reason as you. When you live here in this neighborhood, twenty-four seven, you reach the point where you've got to choose a side, John, or a side will choose you. After you’ve seen enough death and suffering, you’ve got to either do something to make it better or you become a part of it. Those kids at home, they look up to me. If I don’t do right, why should they? Just the same as you."

"Does Father McGrath pay you at all?"

"No, and I wouldn’t let him if he offered. He ain’t got any money; it would be like taking food from the hungry. He helps me out with food, when there's extra, and he’s trying to get me a scholarship at Catholic University here in town."

"That would be great. What do you want to study, Michael?"

"I’m thinking about going into the priesthood."

"Wow! I bet that would make your mom proud."

"Not really, John, see, she’s a Baptist. Look, I gotta go finish up."

"Good night then, Michael."

"Good night, John."