Dick Cheney On The Street Of Broken Dreams
I am an honest man, straight, no chaser. I know that the common public perception of me is that of a square, but I am really a man of complex currents of emotion. I keep them buried, for the good of the nation.
I am a man of music and poetry who is also a prisoner of his own office and Mount Rushmore responsibility. On dusky summer nights the music calls me as the walls press closer, gripping me like an accordion in Lawrence Welk's television band. I think of Bonnie, who I knew in Nebraska, how her auburn locks cascaded past her bosom. Summer nights remind me of her. Bonnie is dead now, I think. The music stops, and I want a cigarette.
Down from my mansion is a hidden street that's often rain-soaked and trampled by the shoes of countless welfare recipients. It is on nights like this that I walk there, in search of... in search of my past? I don't know. Hell. I'm not a philosopher.
The rain has stopped, and a sort of fog rises up to the streetlamps. I walk a bit further tonight, until I hear a jazz trio echoing down an alley. It sounds like the music that I heard in the Negro juke joints of Lincoln. I never went to those places, but some of my friends did.
Regrets. Would I be Vice President if I had, just once, stepped into one of those places? My enemies would have known. It's a tossup. The fact is, I never went to those places, and now I have the weight of the Western world on me. If I had just once, slipped, yielded, Saddam would still be in Baghdad right now, and Osama would probably be dead.
I can't dwell on the past. My cigarette smoke trails past me. (Note to self: Wash my hands so that Lynne doesn't smell it.) I step inside the dive that lured me with the music. The place is filthy, dark. Greasy dollar bills are taped on the mirror behind the bar. Nice touch. The music almost drowns my thoughts, but it's also strangely exhilarating. I haven't been in a bar since, since... I can't remember. I haven't been free my whole goddam life.
I sit down at the bar. I'm wearing the jogging suit that I bought twenty years ago, and it's a bit tight. No one recognizes me. Good....
The bartender raises his eyebrows in a silent query, and I whisper, "Scotch." My doctor would have a heart attack if he knew what I was doing. The thought strikes me as funny. My doctor having a heart attack. And then I think--Why not? Life is meant to be fun, and funny. To hell with the doctor.
At the end of the bar, a woman is making eyes at me. We exchange glances, strangers in the night. She reminds me of Bonnie, only her hair is straighter and her makeup is, quite frankly, vulgar. But that's okay. I'm open-minded.
She moves over. "What's your name?" she asks. I'm perplexed. No one has ever asked me for my name. I look at her quizzically, and then mumble, "Richard." We make small-talk at first, as I order a second scotch.
There's something hypnotic in her eyes, and after a while I am practically reading her mind without hearing her words. I feel a nostalgic stirring from within me. I feel the armor of my Vice-Commander-In-Chief falling away. This woman makes me feel like a human being. A real man.
As she taps a finger on my hand, she asks me if I'm married, and then interjects, "It's okay if you are." I remember Ralph Reed saying something about being married to God, and I mutter, "Yeah, but it's okay." We smile.
We talked, and we talked. She was wearing some sort of sleeveless thing, and she looked... so... good. The music, the drinks... I trace the contours of her face with my eyes, notice the shadows cast by her long locks. I feel like I'm in a '40s movie, sepiatoned, but she is a voodoo woman. Satanic.
(to be continued)
I am a man of music and poetry who is also a prisoner of his own office and Mount Rushmore responsibility. On dusky summer nights the music calls me as the walls press closer, gripping me like an accordion in Lawrence Welk's television band. I think of Bonnie, who I knew in Nebraska, how her auburn locks cascaded past her bosom. Summer nights remind me of her. Bonnie is dead now, I think. The music stops, and I want a cigarette.
Down from my mansion is a hidden street that's often rain-soaked and trampled by the shoes of countless welfare recipients. It is on nights like this that I walk there, in search of... in search of my past? I don't know. Hell. I'm not a philosopher.
The rain has stopped, and a sort of fog rises up to the streetlamps. I walk a bit further tonight, until I hear a jazz trio echoing down an alley. It sounds like the music that I heard in the Negro juke joints of Lincoln. I never went to those places, but some of my friends did.
Regrets. Would I be Vice President if I had, just once, stepped into one of those places? My enemies would have known. It's a tossup. The fact is, I never went to those places, and now I have the weight of the Western world on me. If I had just once, slipped, yielded, Saddam would still be in Baghdad right now, and Osama would probably be dead.
I can't dwell on the past. My cigarette smoke trails past me. (Note to self: Wash my hands so that Lynne doesn't smell it.) I step inside the dive that lured me with the music. The place is filthy, dark. Greasy dollar bills are taped on the mirror behind the bar. Nice touch. The music almost drowns my thoughts, but it's also strangely exhilarating. I haven't been in a bar since, since... I can't remember. I haven't been free my whole goddam life.
I sit down at the bar. I'm wearing the jogging suit that I bought twenty years ago, and it's a bit tight. No one recognizes me. Good....
The bartender raises his eyebrows in a silent query, and I whisper, "Scotch." My doctor would have a heart attack if he knew what I was doing. The thought strikes me as funny. My doctor having a heart attack. And then I think--Why not? Life is meant to be fun, and funny. To hell with the doctor.
At the end of the bar, a woman is making eyes at me. We exchange glances, strangers in the night. She reminds me of Bonnie, only her hair is straighter and her makeup is, quite frankly, vulgar. But that's okay. I'm open-minded.
She moves over. "What's your name?" she asks. I'm perplexed. No one has ever asked me for my name. I look at her quizzically, and then mumble, "Richard." We make small-talk at first, as I order a second scotch.
There's something hypnotic in her eyes, and after a while I am practically reading her mind without hearing her words. I feel a nostalgic stirring from within me. I feel the armor of my Vice-Commander-In-Chief falling away. This woman makes me feel like a human being. A real man.
As she taps a finger on my hand, she asks me if I'm married, and then interjects, "It's okay if you are." I remember Ralph Reed saying something about being married to God, and I mutter, "Yeah, but it's okay." We smile.
We talked, and we talked. She was wearing some sort of sleeveless thing, and she looked... so... good. The music, the drinks... I trace the contours of her face with my eyes, notice the shadows cast by her long locks. I feel like I'm in a '40s movie, sepiatoned, but she is a voodoo woman. Satanic.
(to be continued)
posted by The Reluctant Muse at 6:56 PM
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