Bellyachin’1
A lotta’ bickering is heard these days. This is somewhat strange insomuch as we’re being bombarded with a constant barrage of government propaganda , these sources reminding us day and night just how lucky we are to be living under their unfaltering, far-sighted leadership: “You birdbrains are extremely fortunate we’re here each morning to assist you in tying your shoelaces. No way could y’all perform that complicated task all by yer lonesome.” With that kind of help one would expect to hear absolutely no complaining. Mighty, mighty strange and it begs a question: ( With “far-sighted leadership” so prevalent, how come we have a national debt totaling 10 trillion dollars? ) Huh? I’ve done my share of bellyachin’, but then so has everyone else. Nothing abnormal about this practice, griping is a natural part of the human –psyche, much like breathing air or drinking a tall glass of clear cool water on a blistering hot August day. And griping is legal…nothing in the Constitution forbids it. Insofar as I’ve been able to determine there’s no existing statue in the federal codes So then, to the bottom line…if you have somethin’ to say, don’t hesitate. Step right up to the nearest podium and spill ‘er out for all the world to hear (stop short of advocating a violent overthrow of the government though. They can throw yer butt in jail fer that ). If anyone even looks like hitting you with a gag-order…begin your lawsuit at 40 million, and work up from there. Actually. speaking out is a vent, a safety-valve for releasing pent-up emotions. Be advised, don’t allow that stuff to build up inside for an extended period of time. Follow that route and ya’ might find yerself facing a major health problem…how to keep from bustin’ wide open like a over-inflated balloon! No person is deserving of such a terrible demise. If you’d like to enjoy exhilarating health and well-being, then by all means follow the advice of yer family doctor and other medical experts : “Take 2 pounds of aspirins each day, and let nothing fester inside. Open up boy, tell the whole world about it! Complain and gripe at least 4 hours daily. It’s surprising how much better you’ll feel.” Being a cynic in this “enlightened age of gurus” is easy as fallin’ off’n a log, or eating a huge dish of blueberry cobbler. Because neighbor, never in the history of humanity has a “complainer” been afforded so many opportunities. There’s just an immense storehouse of stuff goin’ on to make one gripe his cotton-pickin’ head off. Ya’ might say the hunting grounds are bountiful. As a rule and generally speaking, my bellyachin’ is directed toward the establishment. But oddly enough, this story is in defense of the “powers that be”.About a month ago I happened upon a quartet of peoplewho, at least to my way of thinking, went far beyond the boundaries of common decency in “bellyachin.’”
2
It was a day best described as “cold enough to freeze the horns off a brass monkey.” Chill and snow filled the air to an extent an Eskimo would’ve disdained. As a matter of fact, on that particular day the thermometer read 10 degrees colder than was registered in Nome, Alaska. A buddy and I decided to combat the harsh elements by seeking refuge inside the warm confines of the Narrows Truckstop, now called Texaco Food Mart. But hear this, a habit of 40 years duration is extremely hard to break. Anyhow, weary truckers still wheel the big rigs in there to take a brief respite from the rigors and monotony of endless highway miles. So, hearing no objections I’ll just keep callin’ it a Truckstop. We each poured ourselves a quart of coffee in a styrofoam cup, ordered biscuits and gravy ( a staple food among poor folks ), paid a talkative waitress who happened to be very attractive, then took a seat in a booth neath hanging baskets of beautiful green ferns. Looking out a row of windows made one fact quite obvious. The weather had worsened and rapidly deteriorating into a blizzard of white. Visibility was reduced to nearly zero, thus other eighteen-wheelers were fast pulling off the macadam to fill the parking lot. The Narz Truckstop was taking on the flavor of New York City, a “melting pot of humanity.” Seated in a booth next to ours were a foursome of folks I judged to be in their late 20’s. This quartet had been sitting there for a considerable length of time, that is if a booth-top can be used as an indicator. Four ashtrays were filled to overflowing and the pile of empty dishes told me these people had possessed ravenous appetites. Downing their fifth coffee each, they peered frequently out the window to make disparaging remarks about the weather. But their conversation didn’t dwell exclusively on what was happening outside. Not by a longshot! My pal and I don’t stop in at eating establishments to engage in gab. We enter therein to eat! Biscuits and gravy were slidin’ down gullets ala youngsters on a greasy sliding-board. I’ve always thought an individual is a better listener when his big mouth ain’t workin’ overtime. Neighbor, I don’t want accusations of eavesdropping to come my way. So let’s reset the scene here. Two groups of people are seated in back-to-back booths. One bunch is talkin,’ the other ain’t. There’s just no way the one-sided yappin’ can remain private. Just because a fella’ is blessed with good hearing doesn’t mean he’ll use his advantage to become an eavesdropper. What we heard was very interesting…puzzling too. The two young couples were “moanin’ and groanin.” And they were experts in that department…good as I’ve ever heard. Through the years I’ve watched “bellyachers” fly into fits of rage, froth at the mouth, pull their own hair, stomp the ground, display an uncontrollable gnashing of teeth, kick everything in sight, use the Good Lord’s name in vain, even grab candy from the hands of little children passing by. Those four strangers in the next booth were without doubt the “champion gripers in all of recorded history.” They were coming down hard, cussin’ President Reagan and hollerin’ HARD TIMES…
3
Because President Reagan is defended herein most political analysts will assume I’m a Republican ( aw shucks ). Why heavens to Betsy, this here ain’t even a political story. Actually I wear neither donkey nor elephant lapel pin. I’ve joined the rejuvenated Whig Party. Their sense of timing is perfect, certainly the Whigs have chosen an opportune moment to stage a comeback. No, nothing political here. This story concerns we “ungratefuls” who bellyache. I listened as an unbelievable outpouring of invectives, cussin’ and moanin’ spewed forth from the next booth. Pure poison was escaping the mouths of two guys and a pair of dolls seated there. It was very easy to ascertain that here were the rarest forms of life on earth…someone actually poorer than I!! Evidently these wretched souls were penniless, and I assumed they’d had to scrape, scrounge, beg and borrow to pay the breakfast tab. From the drift of conversation my buddy and I quickly determined the only clothing these folks owned was the wearing apparel in which they were attired. Pangs of pity tugged at my heartstrings… it must be awful plodding through life without even one worldly possession. They were blaming our Prez for all their woes: “That movie-star oughta’ stayed in Hollywood.” After listening 5 minutes I had a whole new outlook on life. My long-held assumption that I was one of the more needier people on this third planet from the sun vanished completely. Why hellsfire, that foursome seated in a booth at the Narz Truckstop made me feel just one level below Donald Trump on the financial ladder! “Man, we don’t know how the other half lives,” I said , my friend nodding agreement. “Reagan sure has made things rough on the working-class,” one of the young ladies uttered. Looking at her delicate features, smooth complexion and callus-free hands, I somehow got the notion she wasn’t too well acquainted with anyone connected to the “working class.” This should have been a clue, but being totally absorbed by their pitiful tales of hardship, her remarks were lost in the shuffle. “The situation is intolerable. What in the world are people gonna’ do?” One of the males chimed in with that observation. Maybe it was her husband, maybe not. Looking over at my buddy, I detected the first faint traces of wetness beginning to appear in his eyes. Lachrymal drops were forming there, and soon became two streams of liquid pouring down his cheeks. “Care for a facial tissue?”, I inquired. My pal is a macho-man, doesn’t like anyone seeing his eyes flooded with tears. “I’ll use my handkerchief,” he replied, turning his head to the wall in red-faced embarrasment. “No need tryin’ to hide your emotions,” I said, by this time dabbing at my own moistened orbs of vision. Tears were flowing like cool water gushing from a mountain spring. A waitress looked over and inquired if we had a problem. “Oh nothing,” I answered. “Just a little atmospheric dust in here.” “No one else is crying,” she said. Damn, this waitress was much too attenative. “Is the gravy too thin?,” she further asked. “The gravy’s consistency is just fine,” I assured her. “As for these dry-eyed folks in here, guess they ain’t allergic to atmospheric dust.” The quartet in the next booth came to their feet, still layin’ a heavy cussin’ on President Reagan and hollerin’ HARD TIMES. I had no way of knowing, but as they reached the door and prepared to depart, an astonishing development was just mere seconds away…
4 On reaching the door of the Narrows Truckstop to make their exit the pessimistic strangers were using language that would make a fleet of United States sailors seem closely related to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Their negativityknew no boundaries: “Damned B-grade cowboy!People can’t have nuthin.’” More of the same as coats were buttoned and caps adjusted tightly: “It’s a sin how he’s lowered our living standards. California has ninety percent of all known crazies in the world, and it’s a pity Reagan escaped and made his way to Washington. Our country is far poorer since he claimed 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as his home.” The doorknob turned and I was dead certain of one thing. They’d make a sharp left face, walk to the shoulder of route 460, hoist thumbs high and hope Lady Luck would shine favorably on them. People who are “up against it”, as these 4 miserable souls apparently were, can’t afford motor cars…even a Mo-ped seemed beyond their financial reach. Surely these “unfortunates”were hitch-hiking through Narz! The very thought of lonely wayfarers standing in that blizzard, exposing their frail bodies to Arctic blasts gusting to 60 mph, brought a new deluge of liquid streaming from tear ducts. My friend was beside himself, completely out of control and sobbing a mournful wail audible 12 city blocks away. None of my self-composure remained either. I was bawlin’ like a 6 months baby denied it’s bottle 4 days and nights. Tears of compassion they were, shed by the gallon. New thoughts, horrible to contemplate, arose in my mind. The potential for disaster loomed heavily that morning along route 460. A fella’ couldn’t see his hand in front of his face outside…the snow was piling up 4 inches per hour! What if a runaway18-wheeler came barrelin’ down the highway, a “snow-blinded” driver at the controls? He surely wouldn’t see those “complainers” standing there tryin’ to catch a ride…wouldn’t miss rollin’ ‘em out like flattened pancakes either! It’s strictly no contest when tractor-trailers make contact with hitch-hikers! Equally awful were the sub-zero temperatures of that morning not so long ago. Within minutes those two couples would freeze and be transformed into 4 statues of ice, immobile and permanent reminders of man’s inadequacies when pitted against the awesome forces of nature gone wild. But friend, those and even worse thoughts came to a sudden screeching halt. That foursome didn’t execute a sharp left-face. They execute4d a sharp right-face and headed for the street behind Narrows Truckstop. At first I thought they’d become disoriented. But my pal and I were about to learn a painful truth. You see, There was nothing wrong with their sense of direction…we were the disoriented!! This present day world is a crazy mixed-up place. Proof of t5hat would shortly come, leaving us staring in disbelief and utter shock!!..
5
At first I thought the four strangers had gotten “turned around”, perhaps befuddled by the busy sights and sounds of the huge metropolis where they’d stopped for vittles. No doubt, being paupers, all their energy had been expended in endless wanderings round about the country. The typical fate of poor people…meandering, despairing, searching, but always retaining a faint glimmer of hope that better days are just a short distance down the road. The four “complainers” would quickly realize they couldn’t hitch a ride outta’ Narrows from BEHIND the Truckstop. I felt quite certain the two couples would come hoofin’ it from behind there in mere seconds. Surely the paupers would make their way out to route 460 where all accomplished hitch-hikers rightfully belong. I’ve did some “bummin’ around” in mytime, thus am highly-qualified to pass along valuable bits of information in matters such as this…keep always on the main drag. Still, a few minutes elapsed and no sign of the moaning group. The interval gave time for added thought…destitute people , such as these being discussed, are so miserable they seldom know where they’re at ( personally, I’ve reached that lower level of poverty where folks don’t even care where they might be ). My friend broke the silence with : “I’ll do a lotta’ bellyachin’ today, but I’m not gonna’ cuss President Reagan and blame him for all my woes. The bunch that just vacated the adjacent booth laid enough on him to last the poor man a lifetime.” “Yeah,” I responded. “Every President back to George of Mount Vernon has been cussed somethin’ awful. I’ll bet the disgruntled ones we met today are out-of-work coal miners or furloughed automotive assembly-line workers.” Looking out the window where my pickup truck ( age 22 years ) was parked, I added: “Me and you just don’t know how lucky we are. At least we haven’t lost everything, reduced to the lowly status of being a hitch-hiker.” “I am slightly grateful,” my buddy stated between gulps of biscuits and gravy. “ Each night before retiring I thank my lucky stars.” “That’s nice to hear. But a minute ago you said somethin’ that sounds mighty unusual in this day and age, and I’m not certain I fully understand. Is it true you’re not blaming the President for all your problems? Are you actually saying he’s not responsible for all the hard knocks in your life?” He had said as much, and that was a peculiar statement. I mean, one is supposed to blame someone in government for his deprivation, preferably the President ( whoever he might be. Party affiliation doesn’t matter one iota ). It’s ridiculous to think that we as individuals could, in some mysterious way, be responsible for our own limitations and shortage of material goods. It worried me deeply that my friend could reason along these absurd lines. “Let me get this straight,” I remarked. “You’re saying the fact that you’re poor is partly your fault.” “Well, maybe a little bit,” he answered. At that point my concerns took on added dimensions, grew ever deeper. Good Lord above! My pal was admitting that he himself might exercise some measure of control over his own destiny. The slim hopes I’d had for him were shattered. He wouldn’t last long in this modern-day scheme of things…my companion said no to being a robot, nixed playing the robot role. “Old buddy, you’re supposed to leap on command, squat when ordered,”I reminded him. Throughout this chat I kept wondering what had happened to that quartet out behind the Narrows Truckstop…
6
Someone yelled “It’s getting dark in here.” And indeed it was. Quite suddenly the interior of the business place where feeding truck-drivers is a priority had dimmed considerably, bathed in an eerie glow like a crypt at midnight. The scene prompted a wise-guy to put forth this observation: “It’s a brownout! Our Glen Lyn facility is experiencing a power shortage.” But hear me pal, and listen well. There wuzn’t no doggone shortage of electric juice that morning. Everything was hunky-dory down at AEP, big turbines whined smoothly as Singer sewing machines. To no one in particular I said: “Out yonder on the driveway is yer problem. “Hey, look at the operator of that luxurious home-on-wheels,” I remarked to my friend, who by now was sopping the last vestiges of gravy from a glistening plate. “Ain’t that one of them malcontents who departed the adjacent booth a few moments ago.” “Holy Mabel, it sure enough is!,” exclaimed my colleague in poverty, a look of incredulity registered on his ugly face. “The other discontented ones are passengers too, lounging around in plush luxury. “Great, great,” I shot back. “It’s only proper to be surrounded by comfort when cussin’ President Reagan and hollerin’ HARD TIMES!” I felt great discomfort and agony at that moment. My gullibility had been exposed, a glaring weakness laid bare. The pain came slowly, gradually rising to a crescendo much like a sudden stab to the ribcage with a newly-honed stilleto. “Don’t tell anyone about our crying-jag,” I begged. “I’ll bribe that waitress to keep her quiet.” Just 10 minutes previously I’d actually thought about reimbursing those 4 strangers for their breakfast fare…now they were departing in a palatial vehicle that carries a price tag of 175,000 dollars! Grandeur and splendor…the only missing ingredient was a band playing a farewell “Pomp and Circumstance.” Gullible, gullible…the whole world is eat up with the stuff! The rear of the Winnebago finally eased past the door, allowing natural light to come back inside the Truckstop. I always carry a stop-watch on my person, am deeply convinced every living man, woman and child should tote one of these useful gadgets ( you might happen upon a slimy slug beginning it’s tedious journey across a sidewalk. Stop,take out yer timing device, jot down how long it takes that cumbersome creature to negotiate the slab of concrete. Valuable data such as this can be stored away in places for future generations to reference. Perhaps the memory-banks of a computer would suffice. No tellin’ when this information will come in handy ). Yeah boy, I had a stop-watch that morning. Ladies and gentlemen, the monstrous vehicle owned by those “Reagan cussers,” moving along at 15mph, required 4 minutes and 52 seconds to pass a “given point”…
7
The Winnebago had Florida license plates, a clue to the probability of what had happened here. Undoubtedly those “poor”citizens of the Sunshine State had grown weary of lollin’ around on sandy beaches during the winter months. Residents of torrid tropical zones must endure a lotta’ hardship activities. Playin’ golf and tennis, collectin’ sea-shells and funny shaped driftwood, scuba diving, watchin’ the greyhounds run, stretchin’ under the palms. Year in and year out the same old agonizing routine…it gets old. It’s Reagan’s fault! Apparently they’d put their heads together down there to ponder this thing over. No doubt a warm southerly breeze had aided them in making their brilliant decision: “Lets go north to Yankeeland this winter, look around and see what natives of snowy areas do for recreation in February” (that notion eventually led to the Narrows Truckstop where they indulged in biscuits and gravy and chimed in with mountains of verbal abuse heaped on President Reagan ). I learned not one among them there Floridians had ever THROWED a snowball! All motorists, when traveling our nation’s superslabs, play games to while away the endless, monotonous miles. Some take great delight in counting Studebaker trucks. Others count the sheep in pasture fields, many prefer cattle countin’. Morbid people like to remember the number of gruesome head-on collisions they witness, while the leery stay on constant alert for UFO’s swooping down from above , perhaps with “alien abduction” in mind ( automobiles, especially those on sparsely traveled highways at night, are a magnet for flying saucers. I certainly hope this harrowing situation doesn’t happen to you out in rural areas. You might risk facing that most traumatic experience, a “CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF THE THIRD KIND” ). My personal favorite pastime when motoring down our nation’s highways and byways is keeping a sharp eye peeled for “Burma shave” signs. These messages are placed in groups of four along the highway, spaced at half-mile intervals. One good example: “Here is something.” A half-mile down the road a second sign reads: “About which you can rave.” Further along a third: “For a smoother face.” And then finally: “Switch to Burma Shave.” During the 1930’s, 1940’s, and 1950’s that company had 47,000 different rhymes placed along America’s highways telling about the goodness of their product. Our world needs less drugs, AIDS, missiles and bombs. Planet Earth is in desperate need of more signs proclaiming the amazing qualities of Burma Shave!! But friend, those gadabout Floridians played none of those childish games. Studebaker trucks, ewes and rams, bulls and cows, carnage on the highway, interstellar “visitors” from an alien realm ( they’d never even heard of Burma Shave )…none of that stuff interested those beautifully tanned gurus. All the way north through Georgia, South carolina, the Tarhell State and our own Old Dominion, and Lord only knows where else, that frolicking foursome of fun lovers kept up an incessant tirade, cussin’ President Reagan and hollerin’ HARD TIMES! (wish they’d brought me a crate of good juicy oranges ). Rollin’up the Eastern Seaboard in a luxurious Winnebago…heading for an elegant ski-resort to zoom down the slopes. Shabby living standards that no person should hafta’ endure. All caused by that man who made some movies, emceed “Death Valley Days” on television and now works in the Oval Office. They cussed him every mile from Florida to Narz, Virginia! And to think I’d been on the verge of buyin’ their gravy. Only in America folks. Only in America…
8
Funny thing about that blizzard. One automatically assumes such weather conditions, which were absolutely appalling, would drastically reduce the traffic-count. But such wasn’t the case on route 460, icy roads just slowed ‘em down a little. America was on the move early that morning, beginning a new day of tedium during HARD TIMES. Many eager motorists slid dangerously here, yet others slipped haphazardly there, and twice that number skidded precariously yonder. At least a dozen idiots with new front-wheel drive vehicles were displaying their driving skills by cutting figure 8’s in the middle of the highway. I doubt those daredevils were breaking any laws. They were merely exercising their individual freedoms as guaranteed by t5he Constitution ( those old fella’s who wrote it are spinning in their graves like whirly-gigs ). Keep in mind, we live in an “anything goes” society. This has caused American storeowners to close at dusk. Business people are afraid to keep their doors open late…bright lights are a tempting invitation for big, big trouble. You can thank the Senator from Massachusetts and his cohorts for stores closing early. These “bleeding-heart do-gooders” have turned the streets of America over to goons, thugs and thieves. The liberals have did their job well. Let’s face it, America is on a “recreational binge.” The major reason why Japan is widening the trade-gap with each passing day. Hell man, we ain’t got time fer work!! We’re too busy playing! Rome and Greece had the same problem…just before their coliseums began crumbling. Situated comfortably inside the Narrows Truckstop, mine was a ringside seat for a circus unfolding along route 460. Had P.T. Barnum been alive and well he would’ve put ‘em all under contract and formed a new traveling show ( It wuz bound to happen. One of them thar front-wheel drive monsters doin’ figure 8’s smashed thru a guardrail, flipped over 4 times on it’s bumpy journey down a steep incline. No doubt that “stuntman will, on emerging from the hospital, blame President Reagan. A word of advice concerning this. Should you crash thru a guardrail tomorrow, don’t blame the Vice-president. He can neither cause, nor prevent accidents. Go right to the top and the number one honcho…the President! ) The tops of every car headed north, mostly sleek sports cars and a goodly number of customized vans, were adorned with 6 pairs of expensive skis. These glamorous “homes on wheels”cost a mere 30 thousand grand, a skimpy amount of cash to scrape together during HARD TIMES! Headin’ south was a never-ending caravan of mobile campers, Silverstream trailers, private buses selling for 300,000 dollars, Winnebagos and a varied assortment of equally luxurious motor-homes. All of ‘em were towing 45 ft. boats, Cadillacs and Italian sports cars. Rollin’ down to Florida and other points in the sunbelt. It’s a terrible situation! I can read lips,even from a considerable distance. The jaws of route 460 motorists were workin’ like pistons inside a cylinder wall. Every doggone one of ‘em wuz cussin’ President Reagan and hollerin’ HARD TIMES! My buddy and I watched it all from inside the Narrows Truckstop. And tears began flowing anew.
The End
M. L. Wilkinson April, 1985 |
