I’m leaving the post office, because I finally i-dotted and t-crossed and signed-sealed-delivered my grad school application–and paid a university that will not accept me into its elite program $60 to tell me as much in a couple of months. I sent the goddamned packages, or bundles, or whatever, and I can finally just go to sleep and end the stress-induced insomnia that resulted from flying across the country yesterday, having a panic attack of epic proportions in Phoenix during my layover, and generally working myself into a lather about things that are, in general, beyond my control. After 27 hours of no sleep–and not even a meth binge to excuse it–I am ready to collapse, and I’m looking forward to it.
But of course it’s Arctic windy winter in Boston today, and of course as I’m wrapping my scarf around my face in the lobby, I look out the swinging glass doors to the already depressing sight of barren chalky asphalt and naked gross trees, and what do I see? What the fuck do I see? I see a sign that says “LaRouche.” It is leaning against a fold-up table. There are two young people manning that table, dancing around in the cold, harassing passers-by like a couple of common idiots, which they are.
But I’ve got those head phones that are kind of big, and they’ve been doing an okay job as little ear muffs, too, over the hat. I decide for obvious reasons to put them on before I leave the lobby. I walk out the door and make an elaborate show of bopping my head to the music, but I have to walk past the LaRouche people. I just have to: there’s no way around them. There is one girl and one boy. She is white and he is black. They are “boy” and “girl” not because they are actually young, but because they have the political disposition of thirteen year-old emo kids. They are “white” and “black” because of genetic happenstance.
White girl: Mouthing something at me, walking alongside. I try to walk past, but I dunno… I used to get a kick out of arguing with those LaRouche boys and girls, and I’m kind of a glutton for punishment (no more so than when extremely sleep-deprived), and I haven’t seen them in a while. The LaRouche people: I’ve missed them. They were so charmingly batshit and completely ineffectual. Maybe I have a soft spot for people who tilt at windmills. Or break Godwin’s Law a thousand times an hour.
Anyway she’s mouthing shit at me, trying to convey that there is a Failure To Communicate at hand.
So I do it, you know. I pull off my headphones.
“You know who’s going to be hanging from the Christmas tree this year?” she says, a bit too triumphantly.
And I sort of stand there for a second, puzzled, and then say to the white girl, “I thought ornaments hung from Christmas trees, not people.”
And she seems stunned for a second–like she had genuinely never thought about the stupidity of her pitch–but regains her composure and soldiers on. Because that’s what LaRouche people do, you know. They soldier the fuck on.
“No, man. It’s the system who’s going to be hanging from the tree. The whole system’s coming crashing down.”
But I’m tired, and this girl is clearly an idiot. I decide I don’t want to do this, after all. As I turn around to walk away, I say, “It’s a little cold to listen to people proselytize about politics.” I give a cheery wave. “Thanks anyway!”
That is all.
(No, it is not. Other possible responses to the question: “You know who’s going to be hanging from the Christmas tree this year?” include:
“You know who’s got two thumbs and doesn’t give a flying fuck? This guy!”
“No, but I do know that your hero is a cult leader and that you’re a fanatic?”