“Trumped”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

The Bizarro World. A spinning cube of opposite reality.

First, it was a series by DC Comics from the early 1960’s. Later, the angular planet Htrae was reinterpreted on NBC’s ‘Saturday Night Live’ during the Reagan administration. The inverted, backwards universe was even mentioned on ‘Seinfeld.’

But in recent days, for this writer, it has become something more genuinely personal. A twisted paradigm, come to pass.

My unreal reality.

I was in Geneva, shopping for groceries at the local supermarket. A place I had managed until early retirement, in 2016. While selecting eggs and butter for my cart, a conversation about sports, beer, pizza, and old habits of the industry ensued. A friend busied himself filling the milk section as we talked. Then, a neighbor strolled by, on his own customer adventure. He had been a meat cutter at one of the other stores where I worked. Now dressed in flannel and denim, instead of his familiar service-white. Now, like myself, this happy fellow had retired and found a new life off-the-grid.

Dairy Manager Sloe and I had been trading stories of long hours and patient customer service. But Reeve the butcher took our conversation in a completely new direction.

“Hey Rod, I don’t miss the old days, in those chilly coolers full of chicken, pork and beef,” he exclaimed. “Glad to be free at last.”

I nodded with a smile. “Agreed, my friend. It just came unexpectedly, for me. Barely being able to walk, you know...” I patted my cane for emphasis.

“Things are great now that I don’t have to get up so early in the morning, and we finally have a president who is getting things done!” he observed. “It’s a good time to be alive!”

Sloe and I were stunned and silent.

Reeve raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, guess I never asked… do you like Trump?”

Sloe excused himself to retrieve another ‘u-boat’ flat of milk gallons, leaving me alone in the aisle. My face began to redden with embarrassment. I normally tried to avoid the subject of politics in public areas like a grocery store.

“No, not a fan of the ‘Cheeto-in-Chief’ at all,” I confessed.

My erstwhile cohort Reeve was miffed. “Really? You know the economy has bounced back, jobs are coming home to America, gasoline prices are dropping… things are great now! MAGA!”

I coughed into my fist. Many thoughts came to mind. First, that the economy had been recovering over a period of years, since Mr. Obama was in the Oval Office. Second, that some jobs were actually leaving, as General Motors was closing their Lordstown plant, not far away, to build the new Chevrolet Blazer in Mexico. Third, that fuel prices were simply a result of the world market. As an example, costs-at-the-pump had spiked under George W. Bush, despite his family’s crude-oil connections.

But instead, I verbally drooled on myself. “Nooooo, not a fan.”

Reeve was flustered. He threw up his hands in a gesture of disbelief. “Well, good to see you, neighbor. Take it easy!”

Driving home, after a brief wait in the checkout lane, I pondered that my friend had been a lifelong Democrat, and trade-union member. He was an outlier of sorts. So I did not dwell on our polite confrontation. Before going home, I stopped to see relatives, in Hambden. I wanted to share some of the special bargains found at my former store, while checking on the state of our family.

I took a seat in the living room, across from Rom, my brother-in-law. “Good news,” I said cheerfully. “Mom’s Social Security payment arrived on time, via direct deposit, despite the government shutdown. I was able to write a check for her share to the nursing home, as proscribed by our agreement with West Virginia DHHR.”

My sister breathed a sigh. “Glad to hear there wasn’t a delay.”

“No thanks to the politicians in Washington, D. C.!” My brother-in-law griped out loud. He was still in his pajamas. A heart attack last year had slowed his pace of living. But done nothing to soften his tone. “I hope they shut things down again! Build the wall, build the wall, build the wall!”

I felt invisible, stinging needles all over my face. “They can’t do that again… just can’t.”

“Why not?” he yelped.

I shook my head. “That was a total failure, at every level. We were about to see the system of domestic air travel collapse. Government checks were going to be stalled. Workers were off-the-job or performing their duties without compensation...”

“MAGA!” my brother-in-law growled. “Shut it down again!”

I was befuddled by his point of view. “You did not see the chaos, growing worse with each day? Nobody won in that political battle. Nobody.”

“Shut it down!” he yowled. “We get a wall or they get nothing at all!”

I stared at the floor for a minute. Then, recovered enough to mention the full shopping bag I had brought from Geneva. “There are packages of bacon, ham steaks, and some chicken breasts...”

My sister nodded, with gratitude. “We thank you.”

“Fox News says Hillary wants to run again, in 2020,” my brother-in-law complained, ignoring the shift of our conversation. “Would you rather have her in the White House?”

My face was on fire. “Rom, you know I am a Libertarian. What I really want is a sane system of government. But apparently we can’t manage that in the United States.”

He chortled at my remark. “You are a dreamer!”

“Oh yes,” I agreed. “And as John Lennon sang... I’m not the only one.”

Driving home a couple of minutes later, the cube planet was spinning in my head, once again. But instead of being a fantasy illustration, it had become a symbol. One that marked my own descent into a black hole of time and space. The Bizarro World was no longer unusual, surreal, or imaginary. It had trumped the traditions of yesteryear.

The cube was now my home.

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