The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

The Pilot House Lounge was packed. You’d’ve thought the Super Bowl was coming on with half the South End turned out to watch it on the bar’s big screen, the 52 incher Fat Fred had installed at one end of the lounge just for such sporting occasions. Trouble was, this wasn’t the Super Bowl or even a playoff game, it was Trump’s Inauguration. And it was way too early to be drinking heavily, which the unruly mob clearly was.

The South End, like the rest of these not-so-United States, is more than a little divided on most issues, but with the Donald, we’re like Serbs and Bosnians. So far without the genocide, although … Fat Fred wasn’t too sure Rwanda wasn’t on its way by the time Clarence Thomas swore in the Vice President, Pence. Jimmy the Geek, not a habitual drinker, was sudsed to the gills, drinking doubles of straight Jack with a beer for a chaser.

“You’re swearing on a Bible, you liar!” he shouted, hammering his bottle in a staccato drumbeat. The big screen TV looked like a drive-by shooting when someone tossed a crumpled wad at Jimmy. “Sit down, Jim!” Terry hollered from behind him. “And be quiet. Have a little respect for the moment.”

“Are you serious?” Phil shouted back. “These guys never showed anybody any respect. Why should we?”

A table full of Viet Nam Vets where Wild Billy held court, their flag patches bristling on their black Harley vests, began to holler, answered by the tree huggers at Two Toke Tom’s rowdy table. Trump was on the screen now, his hand on the Bible Lincoln used, his wife — “an ‘illegal immigrant’ Jerry shouted from the back — holding it while Chief Justice Roberts administered the oath of office.

“So help me God,” Trump stated, then the Lounge went crazy. Fred tried turning off the TV but that suicidal move pissed everyone off so eventually he relented to cheers and a few boos. An hour later most of the surly mob had skulked off to face the music at home, a mere few moments of matrimonial hell compared to the next four of who knows what.

Two Toke said, “I was pretty worried there for awhile.” “About violence from that crowd?” I asked. “Naw, the inauguration,” T.T. answered. “That was CNN we watched. Trump already told us they were liars. Fake news. I’m gonna take him at his word. That guy isn’t president. Not if CNN says he is.” Tom waved a hand in farewell. I guess he has a point. What a few days later we call Alternative Facts. Me, I’m planning to watch the Super Bowl somewhere other than the Pilot House. Hopefully alone.

They came one by one at first, then a few pairs but soon carloads arrived and by noon the highway was jammed, throngs of protesters cramming their way down the highway from Elger Bay Grocery to the South End Diner, chanting everything from ‘He’s Not My President’ to ‘Keep Your Hands Off My Pussy Hat’. The so-called Women’s March here was pretty much men too, a lot of them clad in their pink ‘pussy hats’.

The mizzus hated those hats. Well, not the hats, the name. Obscene, she said, and of course, that was the point. The new Prez used the term to describe how he could grab a woman victim there and she’d do anything he wanted. He says he’s tired of political correctness, now he’s got a few million marchers mocking him. Welcome to the New Politics.

Me, I’m a big fan of hats. I’m a big fan of protest rallies too ever since the Viet Nam anti-war riots at my college, the Univ. of Wisconsin-Madison, back in the late ‘60’s. Tear gas, National Guard troops, flowers in gun barrels, student sit-ins, student strikes, a world away from now but maybe coming back. We sat still for the Iraq Wars, we stayed quiet as the rich got richer and the rest of us could eat cake, we watched the money boyz drag down the economy with their greed ten years ago and then blamed Obama for the Recession lasting so long. Now we voted in a billionaire playboy, thinking what, he’ll create a level playing field?

Okay by me if it’s the women who take charge. Okay too if they wear those cat-eared pussy hats. Although, I may stick with my own headwear. The President, standing in front of the CIA’s memorial to its fallen, ranted that the press had underestimated the immensity of the crowd who came to his Inauguration, not a word about those folks who had given their lives, just a grievance that the press had shortchanged his Victory Lap. The man wants to end political correctness. A few million walked the streets yesterday who agree. I may just have to get myself one of those hats. Or just stick little cat ears on the one I got.

I was chatting it up over the fence with a couple of my neighbors when one of their cellphones set off in a cute and personalized ringtone, actually the same one my brother has, sounds like a flying saucer landing in a 1950’s sci-fi movie. Of course he took the call, I guess figuring the answering machine voicemail function might not work. My guess: it never gets used. The call was from his mizzus wondering where he had got off to now.

“Right here in the backyard with Skeeter and Ralph,” I heard him say. Ralph, both of us waiting for Barry to finish up, pulled out his own cell and fiddled with it, maybe checking to see what our weather was. “I-phone 7,” he said proudly, like I’d done research on what phones are what. “Yours?” he asked.

“My what?” I answered and Barry joined back in now that his whereabouts were no longer the mizzus’ concern.

“Cellphone,” Ralph said. I told him I didn’t have one. “Seriously?” he asked, fairly new to the neighborhood, not yet tuned into the Time Warp across the highway where I lived in the early 20th Century. “How do you talk to anyone?”

“Like we’re doing now,” I told him. He looked at me mistrustfully, the way an urbanite might look at a hayseed, not certain his leg wasn’t being pulled by the local yokel. It’s ten years now since Apple introduced the I-phone. Ten short years and now I’m a hopeless anachronism, a cave man in New York. “When I first came here we had a party line,” I informed Ralph and Barry too.

“My god,” Barry said, “how long have you been here?”

I wanted to say 1915, phones just invented, but I worried they might believe me. Or that I might shock them with tales of outhouses and no TV, horror stories of shack life circa 1977 when I left civilization to come out to this backwash cul-de-sac of the American Dream. But now it was Ralph’s phone ringing. “I gotta take this,” he explained unapologetically, answering it on the first ring.

“And I gotta go,” I replied and drifted back across the highway that separates us into a now distant past, a small figure moving into the fogbanks of a history soon to be forgotten completely, far far from cell range.

Eight guys. Count em. Eight. Eight men own more wealth on this planet than 3.6 billion of the bottom half of Earth’s population. Think about that for more than a few seconds. I don’t know about you, but I find it sort of staggering. Even though we have Bill Gates in the area. And Paul Allen. And Jeff Bezos. And more than just a few dot.com millionaires dotting the landscape. So it’s not a surprise that we have wealth inequity in this country. We drive by the ragged tents under Seattle’s freeway and see the folks on the other end of the scale. Probably just lazier than those eight Captains of Industry. Or dumber. Or more interested in drugs. Some good reason so no point in trying to figure out a more equitable system.

Down at the Diner the other day, Lotto Larry was telling us what he planned to do with his winnings if he ever won the Big One. Sure wasn’t going to give it to the poor or the hungry, you can bet. No, he plans for a house in Hawaii, swimming pool, housecleaners, BMW sports car, a fully stocked bar in the lanai, hot tubs … hell, he could — and did — go on for half an hour and three refills of coffee from Brenda. “Going to hire a high price accountant to cut down on the upper bracket taxes I’d probably owe. Figure out some shelters.”

“What did Trump say,” Brenda asked, pouring another round in between the cruises to the Bahamas and the condo in San Francisco, “only the stupid pay their taxes?”

Larry couldn’t have agreed more. “That’s why, sweetheart, the rich get richer,” he intoned, slopping cream into his cup and four packs of sugar. Brenda shook her head sadly. “Can’t wait to see what kind of tips you’ll give then,” she muttered, walking off. Larry was the worst tipper among us and that says a lot. Sometimes, if he didn’t have spare change in his pocket, he’d leave the lint.

Bobby across the table pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and shook his head too. Bobby lived in the same neighborhood as Larry, two doors down, 4000 square foot houses, travel trailers in the high garage, vacation lots down in Green Valley, Arizona where they both spent part of the winters. Neither knew where Brenda lived, down in the trailer court past Tyee Store, trying to support two kids after her divorce. “Jeez, Larry,” Bobby said, “you don’t have to rub it in, buddy.”

Larry, ever the charitable one, chuckled and added, “And the poor get poorer.” Bobby groaned and the rest of us 1 %’ers shook our heads. I did notice, though, we all left a little larger tip than usual. Well, except for Larry.