Politics as usual

 Politics as usual 

Nils Sundstrøm came by Saturday morning. He does from time to time. (See here.) He doesn’t phone to say he’s coming; he doesn’t email, he doesn’t text. There’s a knock on the front door: Nils with something in his hand. It doesn’t matter that you’re trying to watch Chelsea lose to Bournemouth (a good result).

     What he has in his hand is a piece of paper. He’s taking it out of his jacket pocket as he steps through the door. He unfolds it. He hands it to you. “Read this,” he says.

     “Sit down,” I say. He does. 
     He watches my face as I read. If he could be in two places at once, he would stand behind me, too, and read over my shoulder. It’s a letter to the editor. It makes a case for being as mean to the president and his allies as the president is mean to everyone else. Because he’s a bully. Bullies are cowards. The only way to fight bullies is by . . . bullying them. This is all in the letter. Let's get back to the playground, it suggests. Call names. They don't have to be true, they don't have to make sense, they shouldn't be subtle; they should be angry, they should be cruel, they should belittle. For example:

Dumbledon

Prevaricator in Chief
Fatty McFathead

Pencianna

Kellyandlestick
Loony-tunes Lindsay
Sticky-fingered Steve
Boo Boo Barr
Micky Mouse Mulvaney
Elaine Mitchwife
Snake McConnell

“Snake?” I ask.

     “Because I couldn't think of anything lower,” Nils says. “They wouldn’t publish it,” he adds.

Pencianna by mel ball

     I arch my eyebrows, pretending surprise.

     “You should,” he says.

     I shake my head. I’m not saying “no”; I’m wondering what the point is: What’s Nils’ point? “No one will read it,” I do say.

     “I would,” Nils says.

     “And six others. Tops. So what?”

“So what" is, according to Nils, that I am always writing about religion, which “means nothing these days. Nothing!” Nils says. 
     And I never write about politics, “which defines us,” Nils says. “He is practically shouting at this point, but he’s always practically shouting.

Roz comes down the stairs, dressed for work. “Hi, Nils,” she says. “I thought it must be you.” She is trying not to laugh. To her credit, she’s successful.

     “I think there’s still coffee,” she says to me, as she pulls on her long coat. “I’m afraid I have to run in for an hour or so.” She buttons the coat, turns up the collar.

     “There may be some stale doughnuts, too,” she says: “Not bad though if you put them in the microwave.”

     Somewhere in there, Nils barks, “Hi, Roz,” but he’s paying no attention, he doesn’t look up from the paper I’m still holding in my hand. And she’s glad she’s just passing through. I wish I were passing through though I also want to see what Nils is going to say next. I want to see: I’d like to be a fly on the ceiling able to see the words with my thousand eyes, not have to listen to them with my one good ear.

Roz leaves. “Ta, ta, boys,” she says at the door and closes it behind her.

    Still not looking up, Nils waves at the closed door. Then, he does look up, at me. “Politics!” he says. It’s an imperative.

     “But I don’t know anything about politics,” I say.

     He opens his mouth - he’s going to say I don’t know anything about religion either, but that doesn’t stop me. But he doesn’t say it. He raises both his hands, waving me off. He points to the letter.

     “Just do me a favor,” he says. He wants it out there where people can see it. “I’ll let them know,” he says.

“What the hell,” I think. Then I say it: “What the hell,” meaning something like, “Okay, you win.”

     “Get your friend to draw a picture,” he says.

     I nod.

He says, shortly: “Thanks!” Then, after a moment, he says, “No. I mean it: Thanks!” And he gets up, zips his windbreaker. It doesn’t seem much against the cold.

     “You can’t be warm enough,” I say.

     “Fine,” he says. “Get back to your game.” He gets up. I walk with him to the door. “But you’ll get on this soon, right?”

     I nod. Shut the door.

Today I finally get around to it.

12.17.19

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 * More on Nils, see here.