The Sacred Elders, IV

A Short Story
By Hilding Lindquist
Copyright © 2004 by Hilding Lindquist

Halloween 2004 in Maplewood was a gorgeous fall Sunday. The evening before Fred and I had gone over to Nick’s Gourmet Deli in Times Square and then wandered down to the Village, returning via the Path under the Hudson River before 8 o’clock to where we had parked the car in Hoboken, west across the river.

Sitting in the lounging chairs facing the TV in my small one bedroom apartment, we sipped coffee and continued reminiscing about our experiences together over the years as we melded the past into the present with an eye on how the future would play out. Last night we had been reminded of our days during the building of the TransAlaska pipeline in the 70’s when we had drank and whored our way around Fairbanks.

When you come out of Nick’s front door and head south on Seventh Avenue, you walk in front of the Lace Cabaret, a topless bar for “gentlemen”. At our age—I’m 66 and Fred is 73—we’re a little past lap dances and didn’t go in. Stolling past, Fred caught my eye and winked. “Been there, done that,” I responded.

Fred asked me, “Remember when I had to teach you how to pay for them dances?”

“Don’t remind me. You think pushing 40 I’d have known better than give ‘em all my money up front.”

Fred laughed and slapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Yup, keep ‘em thinking they can get one more outta ya. That’s the trick. They work harder.”

We walked slowly down Seventh gawking at the gaudy multi-story neon and video displays on the building faces. The sidewalks were crowded with a diverse mass of people pressing forward, many with uplifted faces and cameras, those snapping digital photos would then lower their camera staring intently at the screen to see if they had taken a picture they would keep.

It was a foggy night. The tops of the tall buildings dissolved in the mist. The moist air was cool and damp against my face, but without any wind, and dressed comfortably for the weather, I was thoroughly into the moment, enjoying it with a good friend.

The ticker-tape news displays informed us of the conflicted world beyond—the war in Iraq and the coming election at home. Arafat had been flown to France in ailing health. The crowds pressed on, uninterrupted by the deepening crises on these several fronts. There were other things on theirs and our minds. We were in Times Square. There were no bombs or polling booths here.

At the Times Square Subway Station at West 42nd Street, Fred and I caught the 1 Train to West 14th Street in the Village. A middle aged South American Indian sang a ballad in Spanish between the 42nd and 34th Street stations accompanying himself on his guitar. He had a rich, melodious baritone voice, but garnered no applause and didn’t collect very much when he passed his hat. You have to be superbly talented to get rewarded by New Yorkers for a public performance. One of the first things I noticed when I arrived was that street performers on Manhattan were often better than the club professionals I had paid to watch and listen to in the Pacific Northwest and Alaska. I mentioned that to Fred after the balladeer exited. He smiled and nodded. “You could be right,” he replied. He had yet to be convinced.

We emerged from the subway at 14th Street and Seventh Avenue and started our trip through Greenwich Village which would end at the 9th Street Path Station for the trip back to Hoboken. We had caught and ridden the wave of our excitement in coming to Manhattan. For me the crest was Nick’s and then sliding down the barrel through Times Square, leveling off in the Village.

As the adrenalin ebbed, our discussion turned to the more mundane. Walking along Seventh to Greenwich Avenue, and Greenwich to Sixth, we passed the Barnes & Noble Bookstore on the southeast corner of the intersection and went to the Starbuck’s down the block on Sixth. I don’t like Starbuck’s primary coffees as well as some other roasts, but they know how to provide good service and create a congenial environment for the casual public.

We sat down with our coffee at a table with a view of the sidewalk and street. The calm, subdued atmosphere inside and the unexceptional activity outside provided a good mental transition to normalcy from the sensory onslaught while getting there.

With duplicate sighs of relaxation, our minds refocused again. “So who’s going to win the election?” Fred asked.

I opened my eyes, tilted my head forward into an upright position, and looked him straight on. “I don’t know. Is the outcome going to affect me personally, in my lifetime? Probably not. On the other hand, this Cheney gang can lead us into the big bang battle, and whoosh, it’s all over but the dissipation of the residual energy.”

“Goddammit, you sure do make things sound complicated.”

“Do not. What I said was very, very simple. Cheney and his gang may get us all blown up, and that would be in my lifetime. How simple is that?”

“What’s all this dissipating residual energy crap?”

“Oh that’s the sound and fury dying down, the dust settling, and the flash of light disappearing. You know, after the explosion it all kind of poops out. Did you know that guy in charge of the Gallup Poll is a born-again Evangelical Christian?”

“No, but it fits.” Fred paused. “Isn’t Bush always ahead in the Gallup Poll?” he asked. “Think there’s a connection?”

“You shitting me? Of course, there’s a connection.”

“But they wouldn’t purposely cheat would they?”

“Of course not. They’re smarter than fudging the results of their polling. They simply choose the method of polling that gives them results they don’t have to fudge.”

“You believe that?”

“Yes.”

The next day, Halloween, we were at it again. Fred had gotten up before me and read the New York Times. The Times Magazine gets delivered the day before with the supplements to ease the strain on the delivery service for the Sunday edition, but neither of us got around to reading it Saturday. He made coffee and had a steaming cup sitting on the table waiting for me when I finally got up.

“Good morning,” Fred greeted me as I entered the large room that served as a dining and living room with the kitchen alcove off to one side.

It was a little after 9 o’clock on the wall clock above the kitchen sink, but 8:07 on the cablevision box. Fall back to Standard Time from Daylight Savings had occurred overnight.

“Good morning,” I responded and looked at the pile of strewn newspapers on the dining table, asked, “Anything exciting in today’s news?,” before sitting down in the vacant lounge chair next to Fred's who was facing the muted TV, reading part of the Times.

“Well, there’s an interesting article on Evangelical Christianity in the workplace in the Times Magazine.”

“Oh, really? What does it say?”

“That born-again Christians are becoming active where they work. Gallup is mentioned.”

“And?”

“There’s this one guy who literally talks with God. In fact, there’s a bunch of them that do that.”

“And?”

“You can kiss the Enlightenment goodbye if Bush gets re-elected.”