“The common sense gun regulation bill got buffaloed in the senate.”
“You mean the gun control bill?”
“No. I mean the common sense gun regulation bill. ‘Gun control’ doesn’t sound right to me. I don’t use the term.”
“All the people I’ve talked to around here say Obama wants to disarm them of their firearms.”
“That’s the NRA lying to the gullibles. Our Commander In Chief doesn’t like little Americans in their elementary school getting their brains splattered all over the walls by an over-armed maniac.”
“What do you propose?”
“Well, with the gun bill defeated in the senate, I propose intelligent voting by American citizens in 2014.”
“Hey, if the American people refuse to be buffaloed,” I say, “This gun legislation can still get through!”
Submissivania laughs again ~ bitterly ~ and shrugs.
The Earth’s aura is thick with mystery and so is my head. The town is a mother lode of human spirit. The American motorist rules. Benches are prevalent downtown, never the less, for weary pedestrians ~ a generous gesture by the city mothers and fathers to the tourists, and to people like me. A chilly wind is knocking about. But the sun is arising. And Thumb Butte keeps winking at the White House’s two favorite secret agents perched on a third-floor balcony above Cortez Street in Prescott, Arizona.
By n’ by a feller come outta the hall door behind us & lean on the rail to the other side of alluring Submissivania. It doesn’t take long for her to divert her attention in his direction. He is younger, more outgoing, more stupid than me. I cannot comprehend why Submissivania’s alarming shoulder is bumping him now instead of yours truly ~ except I suppose he’s one of the boys that has been in & out of her room in the wee hours of the night since my secret-agent partner & myself have been rooming here. That’s how it’s been at the Downtown Prescott Inn.
I don’t know what they’re talking about. It doesn’t make sense to me. They’re yammering on & on about balance & awareness & loping & rearing up & eating grass along the trail. His hand fondles her knee and that too submissively swings in his direction. In fact, my fair lady eventually swirls around, leans her back against the balcony. Pretty soon they might as well be slow dancing & I might as well be Perry Como singing Moon River specially for them to enhance their romantic inclinations.
My happy face has faded entirely away. My new mood is becoming pretty transparent. But they don’t notice. Or care. I might just as well be a ghost.
As I’m deciding how to sneak away from there, my favorite duet leaves instead. I think they say something about riding horses before they go. They’re gone without any good-byes to the old grey ghost who has been fading away on the balcony.
So now what? Am I going to go to the gym across the street or the public library up the hill? Will I hit the church for free grub or the ornery mother goddess for free coffee? How ’bout the community college library? I could go there. Or I could visit a friend. I happen to have had at least 3 years of familiarity with this place, Prescott, before I returned two months ago accompanied by Submissivania ~ and the day is actually becoming more and more beautiful.
I’m about to turn & head out when something catches my attention on the sidewalk across the street. What’s a clown doing down there? A man in a colorful Bozo costume just handed a little kid a small gift-wrapped package. The clown just handed another kid another one. That’s nice. The little boy and girl run down the sidewalk tearing open their free whatevers. There’s a loud bang. And the boy drops ~ drops dead?
I turn, run down the hall, tumble down the stairs, to investigate…
~ by Rawclyde!
Artwork by Quintero: