He was sitting on a stool at a bar barely not drooling into his drink.
Something about the way it looked like he was trying to make his eyes think made me curious, so I sat one stool away and waited for the moment to butt into his head and ask what was going on. Sorry, I'm naturally curious.
Finally his gaze wobbled in my direction, whereupon I jumped in to ask, "Hey, ever notice how the process of demoting Pluto from planetary status to that of our first observation of a Kuiper-belt member has opened up a whole new batch of mini-planets for astrologers to ponder the meaning-and-influence of?"
His gaze leveled.
He turned face-forward, taking a calm, curiously relaxing swallow, and said:
"What's a real American?"
I said, "Huh?"
He said, "What defines - what is the line between - someone born in the USA versus the reel thing, and by reel I don't mean real, I mean reel as in that Celtic style of dance. I mean a reel American."
I was confused, yet I could tell he was not drunk in an ordinary way. He was stoned or trying to be confusing, or both, therefore I did the natural thing, which was bite and asked for elaboration.
He took another swig, and I saw his face level. He began.
"My great great grandfather was born on a plantation in Louisiana, the fifth of eight kids. He was "different."
*sipp*
"At the age of eighteen, he was told to change or leave. He chose to leave, so they sent him away with a bag of money, telling him to never come back.
"The first thing he did was go to the New Orleans slave market, whereupon he bought four of the cutest slave-boys attainable within his price range.
"He organized things into a traveling Jack-of-all-Trades team. They would pull up outside a town and find a discrete place to camp. Then he would put on his suit, go into town, introduce himself around town, probably mostly in a bar, and make deals.
"He would ask if they needed anything special done. Anything from digging a trench to painting city hall to running someone bad out of town.
"After sealing the deal, he would go back to camp, change into supervisor cloths, and the five would march into town and do the job. Payment was cash on the barrel."
He took a sip, so I took a sip, and he carried on.
"Nobody knows what they did around their campfire at night, and nobody wants to know. All anybody knows is that he was happy and his guys didn't revolt. He had clear eyes, and they got the job done, no matter what, even if it meant running a turd out of town tared-and-feathered on a rail.
"Then the Civil War started".
He took a sip, and I took a sip.
"That complicated business, yet turned out to have a niche. They'd traveled the country and knew the roads. They didn't have Google Maps, so it was important information in those days. They knew how to camp discrete, and they knew how to get things done, such that Southern interests turned to hiring them for special ops into Northern territory. Things like crossing the line to blow up ammo-depos.
"It went curiously well. They were frankly impressed with how much a civilization was willing to pay to keep itself going.
"Still, came the day they saw said proverbial writing-on-the-wall. Gut-sense told them who was going to loose."
I asked if he would be there and if he would continue if I took a bathroom break. He nodded, so I did, and I was happy to see him still there when I got back.
We both took a sip, and he continued.
"One day, with the clench screwing in too tight to ignore, he signed their freedom papers. Family legend says that one went to Chicago, another to Washington, one to New York, and the final to Atlanta, but nobody knows.
"What we do know is that they were so good that the North wanted to hang him for war crimes. He was on a list, and they put up posters."
He took a sip. I did too.
"They didn't want the Africans. They didn't care. They wanted him because he was in charge, and they were going to hang him slow."
"At that time, the only neutral white state was Utah, grassland of the early Mormons, who defended their neutrality, such that one had to prove one's conviction to the restored Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints to be let in.
"It was a time of war, so it wasn't good enough to show up with a copy of the Book of Mormon and say you'd read it and that you believed. Rather, something more tangible was expected, and the most tangible way was to face Danites with more than one wife standing behind.
"Something about his nature-and-ways had led him to become friendly with more than a few ladies-of-the-night, a large number of which were lesbian. They could sell sex to men because it didn't mean anything, so he went to some establishment or another and asked if any women would like to move west with their "sister" to settle some land to grow all the food they could eat, under circumstances where he wasn't going to ask any questions about what they did in their own home, for he was going to have his own.
"They got through Danite security, but that wasn't enough. Once there, Bishops wanted to see proof of adding to the Kingdom, so - well, use your imagination - kids got spawned.
"One was my great grandfather, which led to my grandmother, which led to my father, which led to me."
He took a sip. I took a sip and I said, "Aren't Mormons not supposed to drink?" He rolled his eyes and said something about Porter Rockwell.
So... was I hearing a Real American, or was that an American Reel?
Something about the way it looked like he was trying to make his eyes think made me curious, so I sat one stool away and waited for the moment to butt into his head and ask what was going on. Sorry, I'm naturally curious.
Finally his gaze wobbled in my direction, whereupon I jumped in to ask, "Hey, ever notice how the process of demoting Pluto from planetary status to that of our first observation of a Kuiper-belt member has opened up a whole new batch of mini-planets for astrologers to ponder the meaning-and-influence of?"
His gaze leveled.
He turned face-forward, taking a calm, curiously relaxing swallow, and said:
"What's a real American?"
I said, "Huh?"
He said, "What defines - what is the line between - someone born in the USA versus the reel thing, and by reel I don't mean real, I mean reel as in that Celtic style of dance. I mean a reel American."
I was confused, yet I could tell he was not drunk in an ordinary way. He was stoned or trying to be confusing, or both, therefore I did the natural thing, which was bite and asked for elaboration.
He took another swig, and I saw his face level. He began.
"My great great grandfather was born on a plantation in Louisiana, the fifth of eight kids. He was "different."
*sipp*
"At the age of eighteen, he was told to change or leave. He chose to leave, so they sent him away with a bag of money, telling him to never come back.
"The first thing he did was go to the New Orleans slave market, whereupon he bought four of the cutest slave-boys attainable within his price range.
"He organized things into a traveling Jack-of-all-Trades team. They would pull up outside a town and find a discrete place to camp. Then he would put on his suit, go into town, introduce himself around town, probably mostly in a bar, and make deals.
"He would ask if they needed anything special done. Anything from digging a trench to painting city hall to running someone bad out of town.
"After sealing the deal, he would go back to camp, change into supervisor cloths, and the five would march into town and do the job. Payment was cash on the barrel."
He took a sip, so I took a sip, and he carried on.
"Nobody knows what they did around their campfire at night, and nobody wants to know. All anybody knows is that he was happy and his guys didn't revolt. He had clear eyes, and they got the job done, no matter what, even if it meant running a turd out of town tared-and-feathered on a rail.
"Then the Civil War started".
He took a sip, and I took a sip.
"That complicated business, yet turned out to have a niche. They'd traveled the country and knew the roads. They didn't have Google Maps, so it was important information in those days. They knew how to camp discrete, and they knew how to get things done, such that Southern interests turned to hiring them for special ops into Northern territory. Things like crossing the line to blow up ammo-depos.
"It went curiously well. They were frankly impressed with how much a civilization was willing to pay to keep itself going.
"Still, came the day they saw said proverbial writing-on-the-wall. Gut-sense told them who was going to loose."
I asked if he would be there and if he would continue if I took a bathroom break. He nodded, so I did, and I was happy to see him still there when I got back.
We both took a sip, and he continued.
"One day, with the clench screwing in too tight to ignore, he signed their freedom papers. Family legend says that one went to Chicago, another to Washington, one to New York, and the final to Atlanta, but nobody knows.
"What we do know is that they were so good that the North wanted to hang him for war crimes. He was on a list, and they put up posters."
He took a sip. I did too.
"They didn't want the Africans. They didn't care. They wanted him because he was in charge, and they were going to hang him slow."
"At that time, the only neutral white state was Utah, grassland of the early Mormons, who defended their neutrality, such that one had to prove one's conviction to the restored Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints to be let in.
"It was a time of war, so it wasn't good enough to show up with a copy of the Book of Mormon and say you'd read it and that you believed. Rather, something more tangible was expected, and the most tangible way was to face Danites with more than one wife standing behind.
"Something about his nature-and-ways had led him to become friendly with more than a few ladies-of-the-night, a large number of which were lesbian. They could sell sex to men because it didn't mean anything, so he went to some establishment or another and asked if any women would like to move west with their "sister" to settle some land to grow all the food they could eat, under circumstances where he wasn't going to ask any questions about what they did in their own home, for he was going to have his own.
"They got through Danite security, but that wasn't enough. Once there, Bishops wanted to see proof of adding to the Kingdom, so - well, use your imagination - kids got spawned.
"One was my great grandfather, which led to my grandmother, which led to my father, which led to me."
He took a sip. I took a sip and I said, "Aren't Mormons not supposed to drink?" He rolled his eyes and said something about Porter Rockwell.
So... was I hearing a Real American, or was that an American Reel?
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