They found me huddled at a bus station, tired, broke, scared. They gave me warm food, a bed to sleep in, but then my life turned into a nightmare. I was a street walker for Bernie Sanders.
Call me Jimbo; Ishmael was taken. I arrived in San Diego after spending years somewhere else, hell, I don’t remember where. Does it matter? We all come from somewhere else, then wind up here.
His name was Nick, or so he said. Been “berning” across the countryside for months in his old Ford Explorer, which he’d converted to windmill power or something, plus solar. He still went to gas stations…why?
Nick brought me to a Bernie safe house somewhere near Ocean Beach. The place was practically invisible save for a couple six-foot BERNIE signs, guarded by two enormous hounds, black as coal and armed with razor sharp fangs, flecked with rabid foam. Later I found out they loved being scratched behind the ears. We got past them with a secret wave and entered the sanction lair, where acolytes were practicing communist wand rituals and socialist magical rites of passage. I thought I heard “Freeskul, freemedical,” something like that, it was a strange, unsettling language somewhat reminiscent of Norwegian.
They sat me down at a table and fed me socialist gruel, a bland gray paste with a bit of sand added for spice. Then they showed me their cruel propaganda literature, a litany of lies and distortions that sent me into a tizzy of capitalist objections. Where’s the fun in making everything fair and equal, I asked. Where’s the sense in making corporations pay for things? How can people become billionaires if they let other people have money?
I was browbeaten and dazed into submission by a combination of logic, evidence, common sense, and herbal tea. Before I knew it, they had loaded me up with Bernie bling, a clipboard, and a funny hat. They made me download a strange app for my groovy smartphone, then dropped me off somewhere near the ocean.
After I stopped rolling, I got up and dusted myself off. Then I looked around. Ocean Beach is a forbidding place, strewn with castoffs from all corners of the world. Along with the constant din of the ocean, there is an incessant sound of strange music and the bong of bongos, doubtless the natives driving and cornering new prey. Carefully I skirted these traps, consulting my little map for my first “voter.”
The app showed a name and a house number, but the house numbers were almost impossible to find. Doubtless this goes back to early history, where confusing streets can stop an invading army. I crept carefully between a couple carnivorous plants to approach the first door, which had two enormous knockers. Which should I grab? Is it a trap? I grabbed the first knocker and banged the old oak door.
“Hallooo, is anybody home?” I tried to sound innocuous, imparting a neighborly twang. “Halloooooo!”
I heard a shuffle and backed away, hoping it was a pet bear or something. Slowly the door creaked open. Behind a whoosh of stale dust, I beheld an ancient creature, possibly several hundred years old. She had on her head the tattered remains of a straw hat with the word “McGovern” on it.
“Oh, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” she said. “The Bernie’s get you?”
Double takes were insufficient for this level of grok, her obvious hepsense. Weakly I held out a door hanger, stuttering a few pre-fab lines. She waved them aside with a Forceful gesture.
“These are not the liberals you were looking for,” she said. “Long ago there lived the Real Ones, a race of political activists with vision and plans and the wide support of the public.”
She looked down, wistful.
“But then there came the Murdoch, a dark force of fear and falsehoods. He filled the minds of Americans with lies and distortions, casting a spell of aspersions upon the Real Ones. Over time, the public became as mindless as Dallas Cowboys fans.” [That’s not really what she said, but I hate the Cowboys]
I was overcome by a sense of cosmic loss.
“So, what’s the big deal?” I said.
“It was a pretty big deal,” she replied, crushing my attempt at profundity. “People used to have a sense of community. They used to know the actual name of their local representatives. They used to go to precinct meetings, even to the dreaded caucuses. Those days are gone. Now everybody sits and festers away in front of giant big screen televisions, or types madly on their phones, ignoring disasters right before them.”
I looked at my phone.
“Yeah, but this one’s pretty cool,” I said. For this month, anyway…
“Balderdash!” She erupted. “Piffle and pshaw! Puffery and garbage!”
She seemed upset.
“Your generation thinks it is more connected with your little gadgets,” she said, “but you are more disconnected than any generation in history! You don’t know how your own government works, you don’t know what government projects cost, you don’t even know how to tell if a presidential candidate is completely full of shit!”
I was fidgeting. This was taking too long.
“Um, I’m just here to remind you that Tuesday is the big day,” I said. “Oh, and if you’re a No Party Preference voter, you have to swap your ballot for a Democratic one if you want to vote for Bernie in the primary.”
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh, really? I didn’t know that. Thanks, sonny!”
She took the door hanger from me, waved me away, then closed the door.
Well, that was one house off my list. Forty more to go...
