But something happened yesterday that leads me to believe I've drifted a wee bit to the right.
I was in the living room trying to figure out the digital recorder in my computer when I looked out the window and saw the kid from the neighborhood hop the fence into my backyard. I went out to investigate and spent a few minutes chatting with young Freddie. I was standing right outside the living room window, which I'd cracked open for some fresh air, and when I came back in the house, I discovered I'd left the recorder on.
It picked up everything. I think of myself as a progressive, almost radical member of the Left, yet listening to the playback reveals an undertone that is decidedly--I hate to use the word "conservative," but--well, I transcribed the recording so you can decide for yourself.
Hey you! Yeah, you, goddammit! What are you doing in my yard? Your ball flew over the fence? Oh, you must mean my ball. Yes, you heard me; my ball. It's on my property, so I own it now. Why? Because I said so. My property, my rules.
You know what I'm going to do with my new rubber ball? I'm going to write "Bite Me" on it with a Magic Marker, slash it with my Swiss Army Knife until I've got a handful of rubber bands, and then flush the whole mess down the toilet. Why? Why not? It's mine, so I can do what I want with it. This is the Yard of the Free.
What do you mean, it's not fair? You want fair, move to Canada. They'll take your ball, your coin collection and your Tinkertoys, too, and then tell every kid in the country to stand in a circle with their hands out while your toys get divided up; an Indian head penny for you, Jacques, a ball for you, Henri, and, oh, here's a handful of crappy broken Tinkertoys, let's give them to Freddie; we want to be fair, don't we?
Well, here on Mullen soil, you work hard for your rewards. For instance, I gave up a lot to earn this ball, and--what? What's so hard to understand? It's like this: I saved for years to afford a house in a the kind of neighborhood where a ball might fly into my yard. No guarantee I'd ever get a nice rubber ball like this, you understand, just the opportunity, a fair chance. And I worked two, sometimes three shifts to keep this place, praying that someday my ball would arrive. And now, when my lifetime dream finally comes true, you've got the nerve to sashay over here with some song and dance about it being your ball because you used to own it. Well, I used to own a classic 1969 Corvette. Maybe I can find the guy who owns it and tell him it used to be mine. He'll say, "Well, then, it's really yours, sir, isn't it? Here are the keys–how much do I owe you?"
What's that? You're gonna yell for help if I don't give you the ball? Well, nobody's going to hear you, pal, not where I'm taking you. We're going down in my basement. It's sort of like Abu Ghraib, except the mattresses are harder and the staff isn't as friendly.
Nine? Whaddaya mean, you're only nine years old? So? We don't have special rights for elementary school children in this backyard, Frederick Jonathan, so let's just–what? How do I know your full name? I read your mail, that's how. I steam it open while you're at school and your parents are at work. Of course I'm allowed to! We're at war! I'm a war neighbor, and you're either with me or you're against me. I hereby sentence you to death. Want a last cigarette? I'll sell you a Marlboro for fifty cents.
Damn, that's my phone. Probably Father Ryan asking me to teach Sunday school again. You wait here until I get back. And stop that crying, unless those are tears of gratitude for these free lessons in character-building.
Whooeey. Just reading this makes me realize that I'm not just getting conservative:
I'm getting old.
Copyright 2005 Frank Mullen III
Originally published by Suite101.com.
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