CHAPTER 2: EPIPHANY (RESUMPTUS)
Having digressed at some considerable length for the benefit of the reader's edification, the author resumes his chronicle of the mysterious roles played by a nude blonde, a pink Cadillac convertible and a trafficlight in the writing of this novel.
WHEN MY PROGRESS UP VINE STREET was halted by the red trafficlight at Hollywood Blvd on that balmy2 late September night in LA there wasn't any shortage of good reasons why I was on the verge of admitting defeat and raising the white flag of unconditional surrender. The seemingly most insurmountable of my problems was the fact that, at the ripe old age of 75, I was trying to write not only my first novel, but one I fully intended to be a #1 Bestseller, an Artistic Masterpiece, and a Revolutionary Manifesto that would Reverse the Decline of Western Civilization! But after nearly 5 years of diligently chewing that oversized chunk I'd bitten so innocently from the forbidden fruit of messianic grandeur, authoring the Great American Novel seemed to be anything but the piece of literary cake it promised to be when I had just turned 70. In my defense it should be mentioned I wasn't a total stranger to the pitfalls of authorship when I embarked on such a Herculean task. Throughout my 50year career as the American Ambassador to Moronia dozens of my monographs, articles, dissertations, exegeses and treatises had been published in a variety of erudite journals and reviews. And, although it has yet to appear in print3 there is, of course, my 16 volume History Of The Morons—a monumental work of scholarship that will one day establish my academic credentials as being, (at the very least) comparable to those of Toynbee, Gibbons and Thucydides.
Additionally, in the normal course of my ambassadorial duties I drafted hundreds of diplomatic reports, communiques and memoranda; many of which were praised by my superiors for both their analytical and their literary merits. Such unsolicited accolades are a rarity in the cannibalistic milieu of the diplomatic corps, and are of no small consequence when one realizes that throughout my halfcentury of government service I was generally regarded as a pariah4 by the Washington establishment. As it turned out, however, no amount of scholarly scribbling or bureaucratic penpushing could prepare me for an enterprise as grandiose (and perilous!) as the one I'd undertaken in setting out to tell what was, potentially, The Greatest Story anyone had ever told. Added to the daunting technical difficulties associated with such an unprecedented feat of novelistic virtuosity, there were powerful people in the highest possible places who actively conspired to prevent me from putting down on paper the incredible (but absolutely true) exposé you are about to read. To my principal persecutor—Jedgar Ballbraker, Chief of Moronia's Federal Investigation Bureau—I represented nothing less than "a menace of apocalyptic proportions to not only the domestic tranquillity of Moronia, but the survival of every other civilized society on the face of the planet!"5 As a result of the worldwide concern over my role in the explosive Klutz Affair (codenamed Case Pandora6) my name rocketed to the top of The Most Wanted List in every law enforcement and state security agency in the (socalled) Free World. I was Public Enemy Number One to such hitherto mutuallysuspicious bedfellows as the CIA, KGB, MI-5, Mossad and Interpol—not to mention the super secret manhunting entities of police states like North Korea, Cuba, Iran and Libya! However, since shortly after my arrival on the eve of WWII Moronia suddenly acquired a geopolitical importance that continued throughout most of the Cold War, I had myself gained considerable expertise in the machinations of espionage and counterespionage.
Accordingly I had no doubt that by
virtue of my having been "contaminated" by the facts Ballbraker himself so
foolishly revealed to me concerning the Klutz Affair, I was targeted for
liquidation by more than one governmental hit squad. Besides which, it didn't
take a cloak&dagger freak to appreciate the fact that while, like the
inhabitants of all
microstates,7 Ballbraker tended to magnify the
significance8 of everything that happened—or didn't happen—in
Moronia, he wasn't exaggerating when he described the perils of my revealing
the truth about the Klutz Affair in "apocalyptic" terms. So it was
that several months before my retirement, and while still enjoying the full
panoply of ambassadorial perks, I took the precaution of obtaining a full
set of official documents with which I could establish the false identity
that would enable me to elude the Case Pandora man hunt long enough to finish
my exposé and thereby reveal to the people of Moronia (and humanity
in general) the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about the
amazing life, death and transfiguration of Jack F. Klutz. And there
were many other precautionary measures I took in the months before escaping
from Moronia to completely obliterate every vestige of my own persona so
that I might pass myself off as an ordinary American citizen. To begin
with I went on a long overdue weight loss program. While it would be an
exaggeration to describe me as someone who had lost a lifelong struggle with
obesity, it is fair to say that since childhood I've had a fondness for food
(in combination with a lazy metabolism) that resulted in a certain Sidney
Greenstreetlike corpulence that helped me promote the largerthanlife (and
not unsinister) image I've found useful when intimidating those who would
otherwise seek to exploit my "97pound weakling" status as a "brainy Jewboy."
In addition to providing my future pursuers with a physical profile that
was too easily recognizable, my excess poundage was a luxurious encumbrance
that could no longer be afforded by a man who was about to spend his next
few years continuously (and literally) on the run. Besides, with my
70th birthday on the horizon it was probably about time I began paying some
attention to a body whose welfare I had ignored for so long in my struggle
against those simpleminded brutes to whom a man's sheer bulk was sufficient
to deflect their persecutory desires. For a man with my strength of
character, intellectual discipline and philosophical stoicism losing 60 pounds
in 3 months wasn't that difficult. What did prove to be a problem
I hadn't anticipated was concealing my weight loss from those whose suspicions
would be aroused by such a radical change in my normally Falstaffian appearance.
My principal concern in this regard was, of course, Jedgar Ballbraker. While
I was able to fool most of the Morons who were familiar with me by simply
padding my underclothes to compensate for my diminishing mass, because of
the intimate physical nature of our relationship it was extremely difficult
for me to keep him in the dark about the shrinkage of my anatomy. Nevertheless
I managed to do so with reasonable success by concocting a series of excuses
for not attending his weekly orgies of crossdressing, grabassing, trainpulling,
sleevejobbing, whistleblowing and the other perversities he orchestrated
with such relish in his privileged capacity as the selfappointed "watchdog
of Moronia's moral junkyard." Toward the very end, when my creativity
in devising novel pretexts to avoid his obscene designs on my body was allbut
exhausted, Ballbraker finally confronted me with his "growing skepticism"
about the systematic way in which I seemed to be avoiding him for the past
several months.
"My darling Mordecai, what is happening to us? It seems
as if, for some inexplicable reason, all the passion has suddenly evaporated
from the chainlinked fraternity you and I forged on the anvil of our mutual
peccadilloes."
"Dearest Jedgar, there is a grain of truth in what you're
saying," I hastily conceded. "Recently I haven't been completely honest with
you. But my reasons for doing so were not motivated by any cooling of my
fondness for you. Quite the contrary. I've simply been trying to wean myself
from our relationship as diplomatically as I could to ease the pain of what
would otherwise be our sudden and wrenching separation with my impending
repatriation from Moronia."
Wiping away the tears my brilliantly improvised lie brought
to his piggish eyes, Ballbraker repeated his often expressed plans for me
to spend my retirement in Moronia. "After all, darling, Moronia has been
your home for the past 50 years. And as we Morons say: It's easier to sow
a turnip in the Moronic soil than it is to harvest
it."9
"While there are many things about Moronia I will
undoubtedly miss, not the least of which is a sexlife blessedly free from
the prejudicial inhibitions of societies supposedly more 'civilized,' there
are protocols in these matters which can't be ignored.. The State Department
has made it plain to me my residual celebrity status would seriously compromise
the effectiveness of whoever succeeds me as the American ambassador to Moronia.
I would be happy to show you the confidential documents proving what I've
just told you is official United States government policy—"
"That won't be necessary, sweetheart. There is no point
in resisting the inevitable. We will both just have to accept the fact that
after all these wonderful years, for whatever reason, our affair must come
to an end. So let us accept our fate like the legionnaires we are with a
final embrace and farewell kiss!"
For the sake of saving the human race I was willing to allay Ballbraker's suspicions by yielding him the French kiss to which he had so shrewdly alluded by calling us "legionnaires" (although our actual farewell was still a week away) but the embrace associated with that act was fraught with the danger that in reaching for what were once my rather substantial love handles he might discover they were now made from foam rubber.
"Knowing how carried away you can
get in these passionate clinches of ours—and considering the fact we
could be compromised at any time in this public parking lot—I think
it would be more prudent to do one or the other, my dearest Jedgar. Either
the hug or the kiss."
"Of course you're right, darling. After being so discreet
all these years it would be silly for us to take a chance on being discovered
en flagrante at the tail end of our affair. So, I'll be a good boy
and settle for one of your superwet smackie smoochies!"
[Contrary to what you might be thinking, I haven't reported the foregoing episode down to its last disgustingly prurient detail merely to titillate those readers who might still be dubious about the "hidden educational agenda" of the novel they may have been tricked into reading. My purpose is only to illustrate the kind of sacrifices I routinely made throughout my diplomatic career for the sake of America's national security; and which I have since endured in the writing of this novel for the even nobler cause of saving Western Civilization from its disastrous decline. It goes without saying that someone with my inherent sense of humility would never brag about such feats of unsung heroism—especially when they involve the unspeakable acts of sexual depravity a swine like Ballbraker forced me to commit—but, since the issue of my own character is woven into the very fabric of this novel, what choice do I have but to occasionally "blow my own trumpet?"]
ALONG WITH SHEDDING ALL THAT EXCESS flab I supplemented my Spartan diet with a thricedaily dose of vitamins, minerals and herbal extracts that were "unconditionally guaranteed to make any man feel and act at least 20 years younger"—which they did! I also put myself through a rigorous program of exercise and muscle building intended to provide me with the stamina I would need to survive what promised to be the grueling experience of eluding the most extensive manhunt conducted in the history of American law enforcement since John Dillinger became a nationwide target for extermination. These efforts to completely overhaul in 3 months a physique which had been ravaged by nearly 70 years of abuse and neglect succeeded beyond my most optimistic expectations! I could bench press 350 pounds, put a shot 43 yards, high jump 6 feet 10 inches, run a quarter mile in 1 minute flat and do the marathon in just under 2&ahalf hours. Naturally, when engaging in such public displays of my newlyacquired athletic prowess I did so in disguise; usually as an American tourist or businessman—the sight of whom jogging along a bank of the Main Stream or through downtown Moronville in a designer tracksuit had become a familiar one to the citizens (and Tranquillity Police) of that micrometropolis. Disguising what had been for almost 50 years the instantly recognizable massiveness of the American Ambassador's anatomy was, of course, a relatively straightforward matter of simply not girdling myself with the elaborate assortment of pads and pillows I otherwise wore under my old tentlike clothing to conceal the fact of my evershrinking dimensions.
Falsifying my famous face required a bit more ingenuity. Fortunately, even as a young man, I had worn a full beard and mustache. And, since the display of such hirsute ornamentation has always been something of a taboo among male Morons because of its "Bohemian" appearance and connotations of intellectual elitism, my "facial foliage" became a trade mark for what was generally viewed as my unMoronic lifestyle; one whose eccentricities were nevertheless tolerated, and to some extent even admired (especially by female Morons), owing to my reputation as "the living symbol of America's Special Relationship with Moronia." One of the first steps I took after realizing my entanglement in the Klutz Affair would inexorably cause me to live the life of a fugitive was to secretly acquire a false beard and mustache from a discreet theatrical supplier in Zurich that would exactly duplicate my natural ones. When the time finally arrived for me to test the results of my total metamorphosis by actually revealing myself in public I did so with a face that was cleanshaven. Thereafter I would rehide myself behind the set of fake whiskers whenever I was impersonating my former self.
It was 2 weeks before my retirement and scheduled departure from Moronia when I made my debut as "Arthur B. Long" in broad daylight on Moronville's Main Street. Arthur Long was a fictitious character I brought to life with the assistance of my private State Department mole, longtime pen pal and (it was our fervent hope) future bride, Miss Victoria Truelove.10 What Vicky and I had in mind when we mutually conceived Art Long11 was to fabricate nothing less than the prototypically average American—or, in other words; a redblooded, beerdrinking, gumchewing, semiliterate, hardhatted and bluecollared solidcitizen whom no one would ever suspect was harboring a renegade Jewishintellectual within his weatherbeaten Norman Rockwell facade. Impersonating a character who epitomized the exact opposite of everything I had always tried to be was, of course, easier said than done. It meant I would have to completely re- (or de)educate myself in order to play the role of someone whose ethos (while it was something of an enigma to me) I was convinced would turn out to be diametrically opposed to the one I had so meticulously cultivated throughout my life. But, having swallowed my aesthetic scruples and mustered every last ounce of my evangelical fortitude, I spent several months matriculating a crash course on the latest trends in popmusic, movies, television shows, talkradio, tabloid journalism, fast food, sports and all of those other trashy aspects of the contemporary zeitgeistG that would comprise the mental inventory of a hardhatted, rednecked, garden variety, grass roots American like Arthur B. Long. In this regard my task was made that much easier because the pop culture of Moronia is, for all practical purposes, a carbon copy of America's. For that reason most of my remedial educational efforts consisted of watching Moronic:television, viewing the latest blockbusting extravaganzas from Hollywood in the Moronville Odeon, familiarizing myself with the top 40 rock hits broadcast on Radio Moron and browsing through the local supermarket rack of domestic & imported tabloids.
SO IT WAS THAT ONE BRIGHT AFTERNOON in early May, having finished my cramcourse in Contemporary Americana , and wearing my Art Long disguise,12 I took to the streets of Moronville to find some visiting compatriots with whom I could put my impersonation of a retired 55yearold Detroit auto worker to the acid test. The result of my debut was extremely gratifying. After a few false starts—attributable to my stage fright and the reluctance of Americans to fraternize with a fellow countryman whose questions about their reason for being in Moronia might be hard to evade, I managed to strike up a conversation with a couple named John and Mary Smith from Muncie, Indiana. Not unexpectedly the Smiths claimed they were in Moronia "strictly by mistake" but found it to be "a fascinating country" they had managed to thoroughly explore in less than a day and were now of a mind not to make a fuss with the travel agent in Muncie over having missed their scheduled visit to Dracula's castle in nearby Transylvania.
"Of course," said Mr Smith, "Dracula's
castle is a historical landmark everyone touring Europe should see, but being
able to tell the folks back home you spent 24 hours in the world's smallest
country—and one of Europe's best kept secrets—is nothing to sneeze
at."
"That's certainly true," said Mrs Smith, "and I'm sure
Dracula's castle and Transylvania will still be there when we take our next
vacation. Whereas, from what we've been told about the ups and downs of Moronia's
shaky claims to geographic fame one never knows from one tourist season to
the next whether it will be erased from the map of Europe."
For my part I explained to the Smiths that, like them,
I too had stumbled into Moronia quite by accident while on my way to see
Dracula's castle in Transylvania, but found it to be a detour not without
its pleasant surprises. One of them being the similarities between the Moronic
way of life and that of the good old US of A itself. "From what I've seen
of the place so far," I told them, "Moronia seems like a kind of miniature
America where, smack in the middle of old Europe, a fellow like me can feel
pretty much right at home."
"Their hamburgers and fries are certainly every bit as
good as those we get in Muncie," enthused Mr Smith. "And if there is a difference
between their TV programs and ours I certainly don't know what it is."
"Neither do I," said Mrs Smith, "last night, for instance,
we were able to watch nearly every one of our Tuesday favorites."
"Including," Mr Smith hastened to add, "the Tigers/Indians
doubleheader live by satellite!"
With Smith being an avid Cleveland fan and my cap leaving no doubt about where my baseball loyalties lay our conversation quickly turned to what was developing into a rare and red hot pennant race between the Detroit Tigers and the Cleveland Indians. Thereafter we discussed the latest Arnold Schwarzenegger film, Roseanne Barr's recently tabloided romantic links to a 14yearold rapper named Hot Shit, our mutual membership in the American Association of Retired People, the Smiths' most recent pilgrimage to Graceland (and my definite plan to someday do the same), Ross Perot's unlikely prospects for reversing the decline of America's fiscal and social values, and the quality gap between domestic and Japanese automobiles. "Like most Americans," Smith confided reluctantly, "we've been driving Toyotas since 1973—and while we certainly have no complaints about the workmanship, price and/or reliability of Japanese cars, the fact that Mrs Smith's father was killed during the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor has always caused us to feel a certain amount of—uneasiness?—is that the right word, Mary?"
"I think that's as good a word as any other, John."
"And, seeing as we're going to be in the market for a new vehicle when we get back to Muncie, and also seeing that you've spent your life grinding crankshafts in the Motor City, well; maybe you could give us some expert advice on whether the time has finally come for people like us to put our patriotism on the line and buy American?"
"Not," interjected Mrs Smith—no doubt on behalf of her martyred father's memory—"that shopping for the best automotive value isn't one of those basic American virtues many brave men have died to preserve."
"Yes, sir: getting your money's worth ranks right up there with apple pie and motherhood," Smith interjected cheerfully to prevent his wife from sinking any further into the moral quicksand of the dubious economic theory she was propounding.
This was the turn in our conversation I had been hoping for—and one I couldn't have scripted any better to provide me with a chance for putting my newlyacquired theoretical expertise concerning automotive matters to a practical test. Before climbing into Arthur Long's industrial mentality (and his grimy coveralls) my knowledge of such things was limited to the rear seats of the chauffeurdriven limousines I used when traveling beyond Moronia's borders on official business—or the odd taxi when my itinerary was of a private nature. As for my "travels" within a city the size of Moronville, since they seldom involved a distance of more than a city block or two, it was far more practical to simply walk or catch a ride on the Main Street;Main Street trolley if one happened to be passing by. Similarly, on those occasions when I ventured into the Moronic countryside to research my History of the Morons (or some related archeoanthropological matter) there always seemed to be a turnip truck or wagon going my way whose rustic driver was more than willing to share his (or her) journey with a man of my legendary reputation as a raconteur.G
Book One Chapter 2 Part 2 Return to Index
Footnotes
2 The Santa Anas were blowing.
3 For what it has always claimed are "national security considerations of the highest magnitude and gravest consequences" the State Department has refused to permit the publication of my trailblazing exploration of the microcosmicity of Moronic history. While it's undeniably true many of the lessons that can be learned from the study of Moronia's history are acutely (if not embarrassingly) relevant to the present plight of this planet's more conventional nationstates—including of course, America—the State Department's censorship rationale is clearly motivated by its longstanding policy of doing anything within its power to sabotage my career. Nevertheless, with the public support that is sure to be generated by the success of Morons Awake! even the United States government will eventually have to yield to the worldwide pressure for the publication of this invaluable addition to human knowledge.
4 Hence my initial posting to Moronia in 1938; a country so small and insignificant it rarely appeared on the maps of Europe in those days; and whose American Embassy provided the State Department with a convenient way to circumvent the Civil Service regulations against persecuting employees of my ethnic origin (Polish) and religious persuasion (not that I was ever a practicing Jew) by entombing them in the "consulates and embassies" of "countries" that were created solely for that purpose. In 1938 the American Embassy in Moronville consisted of a rented store front situated several blocks from Main Street! And even after Moronia was reluctantly conceded to be of some strategic importance in the cold war, by the time of my retirement I had succeeded in moving the embassy into a location (a suite of offices formerly occupied by a chiropractor) that was only slightly more prestigious and marginally closer to the hub of Moronia's capital city (the intersection of Main and A Streets).
5 Speech delivered by J. Ballbraker to Special Emergency Session of XXXVII Conference of International Law Enforcement Agencies, Zurich, Switzerland, 14 February 1999. As a microstate Moronia wasn't entitled to regular membership in such a prestigious organization. But because of the "earthshaking consequences" arising from the Klutz Affair (whose epicenter fell within the borders of Moronia) Ballbraker was temporarily credentialed as a "guest" speaker.
6 Despite my careerlong persona non grata status at the State Department I always managed to have at least one of my own personal "moles" within the corridors of power supplying me with intelligence they thought useful to someone in my disadvantaged position. Thus was I able to obtain the classified information about Case Pandora that at least partially tilted the playing field in my favor during the onesided game of hide&seek I would be playing for 5 years against a consortium of the world's most fanatical (and adroit) law & order enforcers.
7 See Chapter 12, Volume VII, History Of The Morons for a detailed discussion of the inferiority complex chronically afflicting Morons and the citizens of other similarly diminutive geopolitical and ethnic enclaves.
8 I myself have, of course, been accused of doing same thing—-using Moronia as a microcosmic harbinger of the trends and problems that will eventually determine the fate of Western Civilization in general. But a clear distinction can (and must) be drawn between a xenophobicd basket case like Jedgar Ballbraker and a man of my intellectual objectivity when it comes to appreciating the role played by Moronia in the shaping of world history.
9 This is an ancient proverb that has more to do with the difficulties of extricating one's self from the vaginal and psychological clutches of a properly cultivated Moronic female than it does with the growing of turnips.
10 Obviously an alias to shield her from the consequences of being linked to the Klutz Affair. But more about my relationship with "Vicky Truelove" later.
11 We argued rather vehemently over using a name so plainly (if not blatantly) symbolic—Art Is Long, Life Is Short—in nature. Eventually I persuaded her its symbolism itself would help to sustain me in the righteousness of our mutual cause—and that it was most unlikely my persecutors would be bright enough to unravel such an elementary riddle. In the final analysis, I suspect, my choice of "Arthur Long" as an alias and a nom de guerre was, as Vicky argued, an unnecessary and foolish risk I took to satisfy the need I felt to take unnecessary and foolish risks in the writing of Morons Awake!.
12 Which consisted of a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, a Detroit Lions windbreaker, faded jeans and Isaiah Thomas autographed Nikes.
Glossary
zeitgeist noun The spirit of the time; the taste and outlook characteristic of a period or generation: "It's easy to see how a student...in the 1940's could imbibe such notions. The Zeitgeist encouraged Philosopher-Kings" (James Atlas). [German : Zeit, time (from Middle High German zìt, from Old High German) + Geist, spirit. See POLTERGEIST.]
raconteur noun One who tells stories and anecdotes with skill and wit. [French, from raconter, to relate, from Old French : re-, re- + aconter, to count up, reckon. See ACCOUNT.]