Townhouse Terror

I turn off the TV and peruse the NY Times . There’s a reassuring article about “Spartan,” a decorated war veteran, Buddhist (?), lover of books, and member of the Minutemen, who are “dedicated to fighting illegal immigration on the Mexican border.” I order his video interview Meeting a Minuteman . Some call him a vigilante, but to me, sitting in my townhouse waiting in fear for immigrant scum to pillage my Persian carpets and bric-a-brac, this Spartan fellow is a 12-gauge, 9-millimeter carrying concerned citizen/freedom fighter. I feel reassured enough to order a noon cocktail with my cracked crab and Waldorf salad. 

But I am not reassured for long. Another Times article writes how the “Partisan Divide on Iraq Exceeds Split on Vietnam.” It’s all about how my beloved Republicans are trying to preserve our freedoms and weed out bad people while the Democrats are criticizing them for doing just that, thereby laying us open to more 9/11 type of horrors. “‘The present divisions are quite without precedent,’ said Ole R. Holsit, a professor of political science at Duke University….” 

Says the Times , “The White House’s top political advisors are advancing a strategy [pre-election] built around national security, arguing that Iraq is a central front in the battle against global terrorism and that opposition to the war is tantamount to ‘cutting and running’ in a broader struggle to keep America safe.” 

“Noooooooo,” I scream, “Cancel the elections. Democrats should be declared illegal under the PATRIOT Act. All this dissension and discussion is destroying our democracy.” 

I continue in a state of fear until my husband Geoffrey comes home. I ask him about his day. He tells me he just came from a chat with Governor Romney. Apparently, the usual pinkos are accusing Romney of racism because he referred to the Civil War as the “war of Northern aggression,” while speaking in Charleston, South Carolina. 

I sympathize with that nice Romney (he’s so good looking), but can't really concentrate, due to my anxiety over an imminent terrorist attack on our exclusive townhouse neighborhood. I spout stridently, grabbing at Geoffrey’s ascot. “What’s to become of us? I can’t even carry-on my favorite perfume, at $2,000 an ounce, when we fly to our plantation in the Dominican Republic where we had to relocate because of that nasty Castro person.” 

“Smurf?” asks Geoffrey, smacking me affectionately on the cheek. “Geoffrey,” I gurgle. “The homeless are bumfighting whilst no doubt plotting to steal our Mercedes; the Democrats would have us cut and run; immigrants are sneaking across the border to steal our children and jewels whilst terrorist bombing plots are interfering with our investment portfolios.” 

“Nosens,” says Geoffrey, spitting a bit. “What?” I twitter. “Nonsense,” Geoffrey barks, clearly annoyed at having to repeat himself. “But Geoffrey,” I sputter, veins popping. “The country is more divided than during the Vietnam thingie. And you remember what that did to our stock options.” I  hyperventilate. 

Geoffrey tells me to get a grip. He says that regarding our investments, nothing can really make a dent in the amount of wealth we’ve been able to accumulate since the Reagan/Bush (the elder) 1980s. As company CEO he says we are earning twice the GNP of Central and South America. 

“Blurp,” I reply, somewhat cheered. He tells me that our beloved Bush has made moves to prevent unpatriotic attempts to bring charges against government officials and others for “committing war crimes,” thereby adding to the aforemention divisiveness. It seems the Bush administration has “drafted amendments to the War Crimes Act that would retroactively protect policy makers from possible criminal charges for authorizing humiliating and degrading treatment of detainees.” 

“Oh, how lovely,” I mince. “How could anyone find fault with the Bush administration for waterpicking these middle eastern types?” 

“How indeed,” slurps Geoffrey. He continues, saying that—regardless of attempts by rabid divisiveness of peace and justice activists during the Vietnam War that prevented the U.S. from annexing that country and teaching it a thing or two about democracy—investments in Vietnam have now, finally, opened up and there’s millions to be made. 

He shows me an article in the “Business” section of the Boston Globe all about how rising costs in India and China mean, according to Than Trong Phue, manager of Intel Corp, that “Vietnam is where the action is now—it’s like a gold rush.” Geoffrey points out that it costs around $125 a month to hire a factory worker in China, $750 to hire a moderately skilled engineer in India, but in Ho Chi Minh City, the minimum monthly wage for factory workers is $65. 

“Bleep,” I sigh, somewhat reassured by the possible pillaging of— oops, I mean investment opportunities in—Vietnam. “But, Geoffrey, what of these terrorists posing as nice young men?” I show him the article about the foiled plot. “Phooey,” opines Geoffrey. 

For once Geoffrey’s "phooey” doesn’t convince me. I ask him how I’m going to purchase the lovely $2 million beach house in the Hamptons we’ve had our eye on if I can’t leave the townhouse for fear of terrorist bumfighters behind every bush. Geoffrey tells me that I don’t need to worry my pretty little head about any of this. I ask him “Why, Geoffrey, why?” and order cocktails to bolster my spirits. 

Geoffrey calls me “silly,” his pet name for me and opens my present—a lovely Glock 9 mm pistol and a Walther P22. “Geoffrey,” I gasp, my loins beginning to quiver at all that firepower. “What inspired this?” Geoffrey reads me an article he read in the Globe, titled “Annie, get your Glock,” all about women becoming “at home on the range.” The article describes how “Devon Chester, a petite 24-year-old in a pink sweater and designer jeans, plants her white Puma sneakers a little more than shoulder-width apart, squares her body, leans back slightly, aims her targeting laser, and empties the magazine of her Glock 9 mm pistol— bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang— into the paper target 10 yards away…. It’s Sunday evening, Ladies Night at the Manchester Firing Line....” 

Geoffrey tells me that if I don’t like the Glock 9 or the Walther 22, I can trade it in for an Uzi, as one couple in the Globe article did. “As Ladies Night draws to an end, the crowd at the Firing Line starts to thin out, but the Somerville couple who had never tried a gun before are still in their lane, having traded out their medium-weight Smith & Wesson revolver for an Uzi—an Israeli submachine gun that was illegal in the United States from 1994 to 2003, when President Clinton’s assault weapons ban…quietly expired. When working properly, the Uzi fires 650 rounds per minute.” 

I mutter something about that nasty commie Clinton preventing decent citizens from getting their hands on 650 rounds per minute. Geoffrey concurs and promises to take me to our country estate for target practice. “Oh, Geoffrey, I feel safe now.” I move to the window, Glock in one hand, wine spritzer in the other, and take aim on the homeless welfare cheater still loitering outside. I tell Geoffrey about Spartan and ask if we can join him for target practice along the Mexican border. 

Geoffrey slurps his scotch/rocks and adds that there’s no need to worry about war or divisiveness or the wrong kind of immigrants sneaking over borders. He says nothing can interfere with our god-given right to investment opportunities. He points out that no matter what the resistance, what the terrorist bombing plots, in the end, the world will be like our own personal country estate, country by country, continent by continent, as per Vietnam. 

I chirp happily. Geoffrey finishes his scotch and lights a cigar—Cuban, his favorite brand. He says he feels inspired by the photo of Israeli paratroopers returning from bombing the crap out of Lebanon, singing happily as they carry a wounded comrade. Geoffrey can be so crass at times, but I love him—although I could do without the chewed up cigar that so often drips ashes down his starched shirts. 

I roll back the expensive rug we had shipped from apparently terrorist-free Pakistan (since we haven’t bombed/invaded them, have we) and we do our favorite dance. You can do it too, just act out the words and sing along. Ready? All together now.  

( we pause in the dance )