A couple of Bernistes are making their way through the various security perimeters reminiscent of the Green Zone in Baghdad, having left the DNC in disgust and are discussing what to do next.
Well? Any thoughts?
Yeah. For starters, I’m gonna get rid of this! (He takes off his back pack and begins ripping off his “Bernie or Bust” sticker, stuffing the pieces into one of its many small pockets). And then I’m gonna turn this thing off. (He pulls out his superphone). I’m gonna quit Twitter and Facebook, change my email address, and probably quit my job and …
Whoa! Hold on a minute! Quit your job? Just because Bernie didn’t …
Bernie didn’t do shit! He’s just like all the others: He talks a great game, but when push comes to shove, he backs down, he goes along to get along so the DNC won’t support someone else more compliant. He’s an opportunistic coward, a charlatan. Whoever called him a Judas Goat got it right. He betrayed us, man! He totally fucked us! He sold us a bridge to nowhere.
Yeah. Okay. But he got something going, didn’t he? I mean it’s not like we’re the only ones walking out …
Right. But look at all those idiots, those recycled Obamabots still in there cheering the psychopaths who want more war. This whole thing is so fucking unreal, total bread and circus for the brain dead, I can’t believe I fell for this whole charade again! Again!
Look. Bernie got people talking, got his “kids” involved …
Yeah, right. He gave his “kids” a political allowance, then cut it off the minute the DNC threatened to cut his off. He didn’t say, “Fine. Take my allowance and shove it. I’ll go out and earn it myself!” No, he caved to DNC finger wagging. Independent my ass. He’s just a shill for the Machine. He doesn’t want to change anything, really. If he did want to change anything, he wouldn’t have said, right at the beginning, that he’d support the eventual nominee. Those were weasel words. People thought he was talking about himself. Or rather hoped he was talking about himself, in some sort of strange logic. We’re no better than all those poor fuckers in prison!
Whoa! You’re going a little too far with …
Am I? Am I? (He turns around, spreads his arms, taking in the arena and its parking lot). Look at this shit! It’s a goddamned sports arena! Named after a rip-off loan outfit! Sure, we’re out here, walking around, “Free as the birds” as they say, but are we? You have any debt?
Well, yeah, sure. But I pay the minimum every month …
There you go! You pay the minimum. Think you’ll ever pay the principle? Think you’ll ever be out of debt? Think you’ll …
Yeah. For sure. One of these days. As soon as I …
As soon as what? You win the lottery? Or get that big promotion? Dream on, rookie! Admit it. You’re a wage slave, but as long as you have your job, you can kick your debt can down the road. Just like in Greece. So am I, except that I’m freelance, and don’t have that luxury, except it’s not a luxury, it’s a trap. That’s why I’m not in debt. Sure, I made great money last year, but there’s no guarantee that that’s going to continue. In fact … (He stops, looks around, a hint of a grin). … I could just walk away from all this right now …
What do you mean, “walk away”?
I mean really walk away. I don’t need any of this, not really. Don’t need it, don’t want it.
Don’t want what?
This! (He stops again, spreads his arms and does a slow circle). This! All of this. Look around, man. You want to spend the rest of your life in this shit hole? Or any of the other anonymous shit holes spread out all over the country?
What do you mean? I’ve got a pretty nice place. Yeah, it’s a little far from work, but …
Just my point. You’ve got to commute. Car, train, whatever. You don’t live where you work because you don’t want to. It’s the suburban mind fuck. You’ve got no connection with either place. You just go back and forth. Earn your money here, spend it there, or spend it, and your time, in transit. Does that really make make any sense?
Wait a minute! I like where I live. And I drive a Prius, so …
So what? How many miles do you walk, or run, a week? Do you stroll around your neighborhood? Do you walk to get your groceries? To have a drink?
Well, I …
Right. You mow your lawn.
Actually, we have a service that does …
Okay. I get it. You just made my point.
What point? I don’t have the time to do all that stuff …
Again, you just made my point. You don’t have the time because you commute and have to drive here and there to do this and that. Look, I live downtown, everything I need is within walking distance. Everything. Food, bars, cultural stuff (if you can call it that), entertainment. My home is my office. I don’t even have a car anymore. And if I need one, I rent. It’s not paradise, but it’s simple. But there’s a hitch. (He stops again, thoughtful).
A hitch?
Yeah, a hitch. Or call it an itch. Or call it a growing sense of dissatisfaction with the whole thing. I mean a good portion of my income comes from people I don’t really like, wouldn’t like to hang out with. Like a lot of those people back there. (He thumbs back to the arena). This whole thing has kind of brought things into focus for me. It’s all just make-believe, a charade, a dog and pony show. It’s just entertainment … and manipulation. In fact, it’s disgusting. I hate to admit it, but Sarah Palin got one thing right when she asked, “How’s that Hopey Changey thing going for you now?” (He shakes his head and laughs, takes out his superphone and stares at it for a moment, before letting it drop to the pavement, then heels it into little pieces which he dutifully gathers up and slips into the same backpack pocket holding the remains of his Bernie sticker).
Whoa! Easy there!
(Grinning, staring into the distance) Best thing I’ve done in a long, long time. I think I’m going to close all my accounts, quit Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and move to Sicily.
Sicily?
Yeah. I’m Sicilian, not Italian. I think I’m going to go home. For better or worse. I think I’ve had enough of this homogenized spectacle.
Sicily?
Yeah. Call it cowardice, escapism, whatever. But I’ve had enough. I want out of this nightmare. We just saw the proof of how things are here. I can’t be part of this any longer. I no longer want to feel as if I’m being played like a trout, all respect to Norman Maclean and Richard Brautigan.
Sicily?
Yeah. I’ve still got family there. My mother would be proud of me.
Sicily? That’s Mafia country!
Mafia. Raffia. What do you think we have here, right behind us? The PTA?* It’s a super Mafia with nuclear bombs! No way! (He turns around again, gazes at the arena, and gives it the finger. A security persons runs up).
Do we have a problem here, sir? Can I see some identification?
Sure. (He hands over his delegate ID). You can keep it. It’s totally worthless.
* For those of you too young to remember, the PTA was the Parent-Teacher Association, when parents and teachers actually talked to one another.
Once. Again. 