by John Byrne Barry | Apr 11, 2019 | End of Life
You might think that talking about death would be somber, and yes, sometimes it was.
But there was plenty of laughter. One man introduced himself by saying, “Today is a banner day. Today I’ve lived longer than I’ve ever lived before.”
One woman told the story of a friend, who, when she learned she had inoperable cancer, said, “Oh, I don’t have to go to work anymore.”
One man said he was comfortable with the idea of dying, but he couldn’t get himself to move on the paperwork like his will and advanced directive.
We heard about a woman with a terminal disease who was determined to end her own life and planned her suicide so thoroughly, she even sought out a partner for her soon-to-be-widowed spouse.
Another participant told about a friend who was dying who asked to have his funeral before he died, and he did, with a marching band and a theater troupe performing skits, and then he died two days later.
We even heard about a new attempt to use virtual reality to help people prepare for death. You put this contraption on your head and experience entering into a different reality.
But there were also tears. One woman, whose mother had died a number of years ago, found herself unexpectedly crying. She had missed her mother’s death, and is still grieving over that.
This Death Cafe, on the last day of March, was hosted by Sukhasiddhi Foundation (pronounced suka city), a Buddhist meditation center in Fairfax, California. I had attended one in the same venue four years ago — see My First Death Cafe — and for almost everyone who came then, it was for the first time. This time, at least half had attended one before.
Death Cafe is a “social franchise,” which mean anyone can host one, use the name Death Cafe, post their event to deathcafe.com, and speak to the press as an affiliate of Death Cafe. The events are usually free or for a small donation. There’s no agenda, or intent to sell people on a product or idea. And there’s always coffee and cake. It’s a discussion group, not grief support or counseling.
The Death Cafe model was founded and developed in 2011 in London by Jon Underwood and Susan Barsky Reid, and built on the ideas of Swiss sociologist Bernard Crettaz, who opened a Café Mortel (Death Café) for an exhibition in his Geneva museum called La Mort à Vivre (Death for Life).
Pat Berube, a teacher at Sukhasiddhi, facilitated this gathering and said that since the Death Cafe started, more than 8,000 gatherings have taken place. All over the world, primarily the western countries, but in April, there are Death Cafes scheduled in Lagos, Nigeria, and Lázaro Cárdenas in Michoacán, Mexico. There’s even a Virtual Death Cafe meeting online on April 12 via Zoom.
Since I attended my first Death Cafe, the founder, Jon Underwood, died of leukemia at 44. I also learned that the man who led the Death Cafe in Fairfax four years ago had died as well. (I do remember that when he introduced himself, he said he had a terminal disease.)
What’s also happened in the past four years has been an explosion in the end-of-life movement. More organizations are promoting talking about dying. More doctors and medical practitioners are urging a change in how we approach death.
The Netflix documentary, End Game, gives viewers an intimate look at dying patients at UCSF Medical Center and the Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco.
Another documentary, Extremis, which was nominated for a 2017 Academy Award and 2 Emmys, explores end of life-decision-making in the intensive care unit
Dr. Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal, published in 2014, has been hugely influential. Pulitzer-Prize winning columnist Ellen Goodman founded the Conversation Project to make it easier to initiate conversations about dying.
This fall, in San Francisco, a group called Reimagine End of Life, will be hosting its second gathering exploring death through music, comedy, dance, and the arts.
There are more than 100 Death Cafes scheduled this April, from Denmark to New Zealand to Texas. Sukhasiddhi has hosted more than ten in the past five years.
At the Sukhasiddhi gathering, after introductions, we settled into discussions at tables of four or five, and we took turns talking about why were there. I spoke about my mom dying last year, at 95. But more about her decline—how she lost her sight, then her mobility, then her mind. We had a small crowd on a sunny and gorgeous Sunday afternoon, but it was a very moving, intimate, and profound experience.
I left feeling grateful.
You can find a Death Cafe near you at deathcafe.com.
by John Byrne Barry | Mar 13, 2019 | End of Life
No one wants to talk about death, right? Most of us would rather talk about anything, even sex or money.
So it was somewhat of a surprise to arrive at the Mill Valley Library on a March afternoon to find the Creekside Room packed for a “Plan Well, Live Well, Die Well” workshop. (Somewhat of a surprise? Well, Mill Valley.)
The workshop was the first collaboration between the library and Mill Valley Village, a volunteer membership organization that helps older adults remain active, independent, and connected. It was led by the three founding members of Dyalogues — a Bay Area- based company dedicated to facilitating conversations about death and what matters most in our lives.
UCSF palliative medicine physician Dawn Gross, business development consultant Nancy Belza, and marriage and family therapist Paul Puccinelli kicked the workshop off by introducing themselves, describing the goals of the workshop — for participants to “have what they want, by starting with the end in mind” — and then passed out decks of cards.
We each received a deck of 43 cards, and we were to imagine that we were seriously ill, near the end of life. Each card had a wish. Such as:
— To die at home.
— To be clean.
— Not to die alone.
— To forgive (or make amends).
— Not to lose my dignity.
We were instructed to go through our cards and put them in three stacks — what we want most, what we pretty much want, and what maybe isn’t all that important.
(It was a challenge for me not to put almost all of them in the first pile, and I’m sure that was the case for many of us.)
Then we were asked to take that first pile, the cards with the wishes that resonated most for us, and narrow it down to three.
I picked: To be at peace. To be with people I love. To keep my sense of humor.
(I figured that if I’m at peace and I have my sense of humor, I can weather losing my dignity and not being clean.)
Then we worked with a partner, or two, to dig deeper. We were supposed to ask questions to help our partner get as clear as possible about what he or she wanted.
Dawn and Paul modeled the conversation for us. One of Paul’s wishes was: To be with people I love. Dawn asked him who those people were. Paul said his wife, his two children, and his dog.
Dawn asked, what does it mean, to be with them?
I’m in a bed at home, Paul said, and my family is being normal and I’m part of it. (Then came a discussion about whether the dog would be allowed on the bed — yes — and how some hospitals now allow animals for end-of-life patients. One participant also mentioned that there’s a way, through the SPCA, to arrange care for your pets after you die.)
We had half an hour to discuss our wishes with our partner(s). My partner and I got through two of our cards. In regards to my wish to be at peace, she asked me if I was at peace now, and I said yes, but not as much as I could be.
One of her wishes was to forgive (and make amends), and when I asked her to tell me more, she said there were people who had wronged her who were no longer in her life, but they were, “still renting space in my head.”
We both noted that what we wished for on our deathbed was just as true for the present, but we didn’t grasp until the wrap-up that that was intentional. That what we wish for the end of our life is generally what we want today.
“Take home number one,” said Dawn, once we finished our discussions. “This is about now. You don’t have to wait to have these conversations. What matters to you as you imagine the end of your life most likely matters to you now. If there’s a playlist of music you want to hear when you’re dying, don’t you also want to listen to it now?”
She did remind us, however, that what we want evolves. “My husband and I play this game every year on our anniversary. It’s one of the most intimate conversations of the year.”
With people we know well, she suggested we play the game in reverse. Instead of sorting the deck for ourselves, we sort it for our partners. See how well we know them.
She uses the cards with her patients, some of whom are too weak to hold conversations. She holds them one by one, sees if they nod.
The wish cards are not available yet — we were the first to use this particular set — but they will be later this year. But, of course, you don’t have to wait for a deck of cards to talk about your wishes.
—
To learn more about Dyalogues, go to dyalogues.com/. You may also be interested in listening to Dr. Gross’ KALW radio podcast series, “Dying To Talk.”
To learn more about Mill Valley Village, and its parent organization Marin Villages, go to: marin.helpfulvillage.com/.
To find out more about future workshops like this, and other wonderful programs at the library, sign up for the Mill Valley Library email newsletter at millvalleylibrary.org. (That’s how I found out about this workshop.)
Also, the San Francisco Public Library has just started a new series called “Death & Dying: Rest in Peace,” with a free program every month through September.
by John Byrne Barry | Apr 21, 2017 | Murder Mystery
Ever been part of some big production and thought, “I can do better.” And then you had to follow through?
Over the past few years, I performed in two murder mystery plays here in Tam Valley. The scripts were purchased online, and I was not the only one unimpressed with them. More than once I said to myself, “I can write something stronger than this.” I might have even said that out loud a time or two.
To our credit, the actors and director in our Tam Valley Players pulled off entertaining shows, adding our own jokes and schticks, and involving the audience in solving the mystery.
Shortly after our short run last spring, I proposed writing the script for the 2017 show — titled “Publish or Perish: Tam Valley Mystery Writers’ Retreat Murder Mystery,” about a mystery writers’ retreat with real murder. I got the green light, and an August 1 deadline. The script was supposed to have roles for 12 to 14 actors.
Scenes from dress rehearsal. Photos by Barry Wasserman.
Then I sat down in front of a blank screen. Yikes! Be careful what you wish for and all that. Where did I get this idea I could be a playwright?
I’d never written a murder mystery play before. More than 30 years ago, I did write (and direct) a political Christmas comedy called “You Better Watch Out,” about Santa Claus fighting a corporate takeover and refusing to hawk military toys, like GI Joe.
But there were only six actors and it wasn’t a mystery.
I had written two novels, one a mystery, the other with a mystery subplot, and read thousands of mysteries over the years, including, back in my youth, almost everything Agatha Christie ever wrote. I’d even played Clue now and then.
I told myself that, daunting a task as this was, a play is all dialogue and that’s what comes easiest to me. Many an early draft of scenes in my novels has just been people talking. I had to go back and aerate the dialogue with setting and internal monologue. That’s not necessary in a play.
And I reminded myself that part of why I wanted to do this was because it was hard. Because I could fail.
Still.
Formula + Creative Twists
Though I found a few useful tools online, mostly I started by deconstructing what had worked in the two murder mysteries I’d performed in. The advantage of writing a murder mystery is there’s a formula. That’s also a disadvantage because, well, let me quote from one of the early scenes in the show.
Rooster, a singing cowboy writer, is flirting with Olive, author of a successful series of vegan detective mysteries. “Your books are fun,” he says, “but the plots are so predictable, I mean, the murderer is always the meat-eater.”
So my plan was to use the formula as a starting point, and add my own twists and turns and clever ideas so it wouldn’t be too predictable. Create my own formula.
Here’s what I came up with.
1. Involve the audience.
Audience participation is what makes the murder mysteries so much fun. For our Tam Valley shows, the audience comes for dinner beforehand and sits at a table for ten. Many are longtime residents who’ve been coming for years, and/or family and friends of the performers.
After dinner, we start the scripted show, then comes intermission and dessert, and then, toward the end of the second act, we stop the show, ask each table to discuss among themselves who they think committed the murder and why, and pick a table captain. The table captains report their votes, the accused respond, the play wraps up and the real murderer is revealed.
Involving the audience is risky, because you never know what’s going to happen, but that uncertainty, and the social, community feeling, is integral to the dinner theater experience. The audience doesn’t come to passively watch a show. They come to share a meal and solve a mystery.
2. Closed-room mystery.
The murder mysteries take place at a remote resort, a family reunion, a dinner party — always a closed room of sorts. The murderer, and the victim, are always characters we’ve already met. He or she is never someone who comes in off the street.
3. Lots of suspects and motives.
The more suspects the better, usually, though the characters need to be distinct and the motives clear and plausible. One problem with lots of characters, however, is that the stage can get crowded. We ran into that problem.
Because they all have motives to kill, the characters almost all have disreputable histories and/or secret lives, or at least secrets. What you see is not what you get.
4. Over-the-top characters.
The characters need more than motives. Since I was going for laughs, I wanted big, broad, cartoonish characters — the egotistical showman, the flaky facilitator, the pompous professor, the self-loathing hack.
What I aimed for was a tricky blend of cartoonish and over-the-top, but with real human emotions, like yearning, like regret. For example, Jake, the murder victim, retreat host and M.C., is a narcissistic con man and philanderer who everyone hates. But he’s also tired of hustling. He longs to turn over a new leaf, be a better person. (Spoiler alert: He’s too late.)
5. Complicated plot with clues and red herrings. But not too confusing.
While my first priority was that the show be fun and funny, I did want the story and mystery to hold together. We know from previous shows that audience members take solving the mystery seriously, and pay close attention to the clues.
Unfortunately, my plot was complicated enough that the actors didn’t understand it even after weeks of rehearsal.
The premise was that Jake and Stormy, the bickering husband-and-wife hosts of the writing retreat, are in desperate enough financial straits that they hatch a scheme to boost attendance for future retreats by staging a murder. Of Jake. A mystery writers’ retreat with a real murder! That is, a fake murder than appears to be real.
Stormy turns the staged murder into a writing prompt, essentially getting the writers, who paid to attend, to generate publicity for the retreat in their blogs and twitter feeds. Pretty brilliant, except the fake murder leads to a real murder and Jake ends up dead. Maybe not so brilliant.
6. Twists and turns.
Here’s one of the jokes in the show: How many mystery writers does it take to change a lightbulb? Two, the first to screw it almost all the way in, and the second to give it a surprising twist at the end.
As with mystery novels, these plays need a twist or two to keep the audience guessing.
I added a couple twists in addition to the fake murder, the main one being that the most obvious suspect committed the murder, but as she says when she’s accused, “Haven’t you ever read a mystery? It’s never the obvious person.”
7. Data Scraper App collects video clips.
In the second act, instead of a traditional investigator running down the clues and suspects, I created an “app developer,” a writer already at the retreat, who is deputized to investigate the murder, and his Data Scraper App, which scours all the security camera footage, as well as videos, texts, and more from everyone’s phones.
Using an algorithm, the app determines which video clips are most relevant to the murder, and the actors are “pulled” into a frame, like a large TV. They enter at fast-forward speed, then slow down to act out the scene.
The actors rebelled against this idea, urging me to consider real video instead of pretend video. But that’s a story for Part 3. Directing — Creatively Exciting, But Herding Cats. (Still a work in progress — link to come.)
8. Greek chorus.
Hiding behind a prop and eavesdropping on the private conversations between retreat workshops is Trixie, Jake’s majordomo — one-part Puck, one-part Quasimodo. Then, like a Greek chorus, shares her take on the proceedings with the audience.
As the play proceeds, she tells the audience that she’s writing her own tell-all mystery — the Tam Valley Mystery Writers’ Retreat Murder Mystery. “Don’t worry,” she says, “It’s fiction.” (One of my favorite parts is at the end when she is handed a package, and pulls out a copy of the book that she has somehow managed to write and publish during the course of the play.)
The First Reading
I made my deadline, and scheduled a reading, in mid-August, at the community center, inviting potential cast members and some friends and family. We got an excellent turnout, enough actors to read all the parts. I read the stage direction.
But it did not play out the way I hoped.
What did I hope for? That there would be gales of laughter and buckets of praise. People tugging at my arm and gushing, “This is brilliant.”
Instead, I heard actors who hadn’t read their parts in advance deliver what were supposed to be funny lines without the funny. The reading dragged, took far longer than when I read it out loud to myself.
And then there was the feedback.
Too many characters.
Too many words.
Too many video clips.
Not enough physical action.
Too confusing a plot.
Characters not clear enough.
The fake murder doesn’t make sense.
It was painful. They didn’t get the plot twists I thought were so clever. There were long stretches with no laughs.
I reminded myself that this was what I wanted. A roomful of actors reading my script and giving me feedback. I wanted to write this script and I did. I put myself out there. Took in what everyone said, acting as if hearing critical comments didn’t bother me. At least I knew not to defend myself.
There’s a note I make in the margin of my drafts when I know something needs to be improved.
Make better.
The day after the reading, I started making the script better.
Front page of program
by John Byrne Barry | Jan 23, 2017 | Uncategorized
My wife and I had planned on walking together in the Women’s March this past Saturday. But pressing family issues came up on Friday, she had to cancel, so at the last minute, I signed up to be a marshall at the march, a “peace ambassador,” and I arrived at at Madison Park in Oakland early Saturday morning, where I got an orientation and a neon yellow vest.
The park was still pretty sleepy at 8 a.m. Elderly Chinese were doing tai chi and badminton volleys on the west side of the park, and on the east side, a dozen or two volunteers were gathering and chatting. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain, and the sun peeked through now and then.
We all teamed up with buddies and one member of each team got a radio, and then we went over the route and various contingency plans. They divided us into groups by where we were standing and I ended up as one of three dozen or so volunteers whose job it was to create a wedge in front of the lead banner, clearing the center of the street for the march and creating enough space in front for photo ops.
This proved to be more complicated than I imagined. By the time we left the park, shortly after 10 a.m., the streets were so packed with people, we had to clear a path before the march could start.
At 9th and Oak Street, about 30 to 40 of us peace ambassadors held hands, formed a V-shaped wedge, and walked north on Oak Street, gently herding people from the center of the street to the sides. We walked about two blocks, trying to hold the space behind us as we moved forward. Then about half of us turned around, and went most of the way back, to where the folks holding the lead banner had set up, across four lanes of Oak Street. A man named Stefan with a megaphone was directing us — it felt like a military operation even though we were marching for peace.
(One fellow marshall noted, that of course, we had to have a man with a megaphone giving orders at the front of a women’s march. But he knew what he was doing, and the vast majority of the marshals in the front and the people behind the lead banner were women.)
Later on Saturday, someone shared a CNN video on Facebook of marches throughout the county, and there I was in the upper left corner of a clip from Oakland. With my fanny pack and bald spot on the top of my head. You can see the space we created in front of the banner.
Here it is from further above. See that empty space behind the wedge.
And here’s what the lead banner looked like from the front. (Photo by James Lerager.)
We started marching. We were directed to slow down, speed up, and now and then to stop and kneel, so photographers could get a better photo. “If only,” someone quipped, “someone was documenting this amazing march.” If only.
One of my buddies, Lily, was at the apex of the wedge for most of the march. I shouted over to her at one point, “Hey, Lily, I bet you weren’t expecting you’d be leading the march.” She shook her head and smiled.
I was on her left, about three or four people away, walking sideways for much of the march, holding hands with Jane, my other buddy, a few feet ahead of me on my right, and a man whose name I never learned a few feet behind me on my left. Sometimes both my arms were being pulled, in opposite directions. We didn’t always stay in formation, but the wedge worked the way it was supposed to. I had never given much thought to how to manage a march. It was harder than I expected, especially with crowds in the tens of thousands. We heard estimates ranging from 60,000 to 100,000. I was in no position to assess the size of the crowd, other than it was larger than organizers expected. And everyone was peaceful.
The energy, the camaraderie, the creativity, the love was palpable. It felt as much like a celebration as a protest, though of course, the signs were defiant.
Some of my favorites.
“Girls just want to have fun-damental rights.”
“You’re so vain, you probably think this march is about you.”
“The future is female.”
“We are the wall.”
“I would not want to be the guy who pissed all these women off.”
A wonderful day. A wonderful march. I’m so grateful I stumbled into the opportunity to lead it. Sort of.
I’m going to treat this experience as if it’s a metaphor for something. Now I just need to figure out what it is.
Thanks to all the hard-working folks who organized the march. Now we start the really hard work.
—
If you haven’t already gorged on march photos, here are more from the Oakland march, courtesy of James Lerager.
by John Byrne Barry | Oct 19, 2016 | Albuquerque to Berkeley, Bones in the Wash, Page-turners with a Conscience, Wasted
(Here’s a distilled version of the author talk I gave at the Great Valley BookFest in Manteca on October 8. Thanks to Toni Raymus for inviting me.)
I’m skeptical about branding. Sure, everyone knows that 15 minutes can save you 15 percent on lizard skin. But I’ve sat through enough branding meetings over the years to decide a brand wasn’t relevant for me as an author.
Until I came up with one.
This past summer, I was asked for a title for my talk here at the Great Valley BookFest. Four words or less. I came up with “page-turners with a conscience.”
After my author talk at the Great Valley BookFest in Manteca.
I wasn’t thinking brand then, just title, but it is a brand, my brand — a distilled marketing message that defines who I am and what I write.
I didn’t have this brand in mind when I wrote my two novels, but it was there in the back of mind. I hadn’t found the words. Arguably a brand is more important for marketing than writing, but having this brand is already helping me write my third novel. (A family drama about euthanasia.)
I know I want the story to race like a rollercoaster, but give the reader something to think about.
I’ve been a reader all my life. I can’t imagine life without reading. My father was an English professor and my brother is as well, so I’ve read my share of literature.
But I’m a lazy reader. If something doesn’t grab me, I stop reading. I’m not in school anymore. I don’t have a test to ace or a paper to write. So I read a lot of mysteries and suspense. I love reading a book I can’t put down.
Take The Firm, by John Grisham, who’s laughing all the way to the bank. Twenty-plus years ago, I stayed up till 3 am at camp reading it by headlamp. It tore to the finish. But it was ridiculous. The protagonist took on the mob and the FBI with one hand behind his back. To make the plot sprint, Grisham sacrificed character development and believability. And there was nothing to think about once the book ended.
What I want to read and write are books that move like The Firm, but with three-dimensional characters, believability, and some sort of moral dilemma or nuanced choice that gives the reader something to think about.
Now to the conscience part. What ties my books together — I have digitally combined them in Albuquerque to Berkeley: Two Election-Season Thrillers, for only 99 cents — is the daunting challenge of doing the right thing. Not just in politics, but in family, love, and murder.
In my first novel, Bones in the Wash: Politics is Tough. Family is Tougher, set during the 2008 presidential campaign in New Mexico, ambitious Albuquerque Mayor Tomas Zamara is charged with doing “whatever it takes” to deliver the state’s five electoral votes for John McCain. He has a strong sense of right and wrong — one of my friends said, I know you’re writing fiction, because your protagonist is a Republican with integrity. But Mayor Zamara understands that politics is like playing football on a muddy field. If you don’t get dirty, you’re not giving your all.
In Wasted, Brian Hunter, a wannabe investigative journalist covers the “recycling wars” in Berkeley, finds the body of his friend Doug crushed in a bale of aluminum, and sets off to find the murderer, all the while chasing Doug’s ex Barb, now a suspect in his murder. Brian is convinced that the big bad corporation, Consolidated Scavenger, is responsible for the murder, and blinds himself to the possibility that it could be Barb.
At the center of Wasted is an idealistic, but dysfunctional collective called Recycle Berkeley, or Re-Be. What I aimed to do, and succeeded, according to many of my readers, is portray this collective as the good guys, well-intentioned, but flawed in huge ways. And the bad guys, Consolidated Scavenger, aren’t all bad. They have a record of taking over companies and using their lobbying muscle to influence regulation, but they’re also more efficient than Re-Be, and less corrupt than many of the companies they’ve absorbed. And though Brian would like to peg them for this murder, he can’t unearth any evidence they killed Doug.
In short, I’m attracted to things that aren’t black and white. To the fifty shades of gray in between. (I might have grabbed that as a brand, but it was taken.).
That’s why I like this “page-turners with a conscience” brand — my books are entertainment more than literature, but they’re not just galloping plots. The characters face tough moral choices.
My goal is to aim for that sweet spot between best-selling mindless entertainment reading and literary masterpiece.
Though my writing style and subject matter are totally different, I’ve been very influenced by the British spy writer John Le Carre — I’ve read about 20 of his books. His early Cold War books, the good guys, the Brits or Americans, are often very compromised. In their zeal to defeat the Soviets, they become just as bad as they are. Of course, the life of a spy is characterized by deception.
One of the first books of LeCarre that was not about the Cold War was Little Drummer Girl, which starred an Israeli secret agent who went undercover as a Palestinian, and as he becomes more embedded in Palestinian society, he understood their situation more and it became harder for him to see things in black and white.
I’m going to read a scene from Bones in the Wash, featuring Mayor Zamara’s antagonist, Sierra León, a precocious hometown girl who’s made good a political operative, and has returned to Albuquerque from Washington D.C., to run a statewide coalition supporting Obama.
As editor of her high school newspaper, she covered Zamara when he was a city council member, and later, for the University of New Mexico Daily Lobo, his campaign for mayor. He doesn’t know her, but recognizes her face and her name. She pressures him to live up to his reputation of integrity, but he doesn’t, and the dirty tricks he engages in work. This drives Sierra crazy, and this scene is her talking with her father about this over dinner at an outdoor cafe.
“The thing is,” said Sierra, “I feel like such a chump playing by the rules. It’s not just being punked. It’s them shutting down voter drives, running sleazy racist ads. Cliff says we should play dirty, and I don’t want to, but I’m starting to think he’s right. Integrity is just a selfish indulgence.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“I don’t know what to believe. I mean, I’m a model citizen. I don’t litter. I bring in milk for coffee and other people use it without ever buying any themselves. I play by the rules and it doesn’t make any difference. The goopers are cheating left and right, but all the news is about us cheating. Their lies carry more weight than our truth.
“You know, you look at the news and what people talk about and you get the impression that the nitty-gritty of politics is the people running, their characters, their positions on the issues, and of course, that’s partly true. But underneath that is this whole business of setting rules, like who can vote and when, and the Republicans are evil genius and meta on that front. I hate it that I actually admire what they did even as I despise it. If they can manipulate the rules so it’s harder for the poor and young and old and disabled to vote, then they have an advantage no matter how weak their candidate is.
“They just ran this sleazy, racist ad too, well, a third-party group did that, but I’m sure the McCain campaign knew about it. We’re a third-party group and we take seriously this rule that we’re not supposed to coordinate with the Obama campaign, but right-wing groups ignore this rule blatantly, and never get called on it, except by us, but then they just say, oh, it’s partisan attacks. That’s what’s so infuriating—”
“Slow down, mija.”
“If only there were some impartial referee, like at debate club, some thoughtful observer who says, well, you got more votes, but you broke the rules, so we’re going to subtract points. The right does whatever it wants, rules be damned. I’m just so tempted to get down in the gutter and give them a taste of their own medicine. I can feel the blood lust.”
“What would that mean?”
“Well, we’ve been doing some oppo research. Opposition research. Not so much McCain as his local surrogates, like the mayor, who has a reputation for being a clean, straight-and-narrow kind of guy, but that’s just an act. He has skeletons in his closet too—and I don’t just mean the bones of his wife in the wash. I covered her disappearance when I was at the Daily Lobo, and before that, his campaign for mayor. In between, there was some scandal that didn’t get much play.”
Her father wasn’t nodding his head, but he was listening intently. He licked his lips, rubbed his cheek with his hand.
“We could make a big deal about that,” she said, “sully his reputation. I mean, this is not how I like to operate, with personal attacks and all that, but after what he’s done, he deserves it. This insistence on being honorable gets in the way. When the stakes are high, it’s a liability—”
Lamar didn’t wait for her to stop. “So you want to fight the bad guys by acting like them?”
“I don’t want that. I want to win. That’s why I’m going zombie over this.”
“Can I tell you a story?”
She nodded. She knew she didn’t have a choice.
“You eat.” Lamar had cleaned his plate and drunk his beer. Now it was getting cool. He buttoned up his long-sleeve shirt, wiped his mouth again with the threadbare turquoise napkin.
“Once upon a time there was a farmer who was gearing up for spring planting when his horse ran away. When he told his neighbor that afternoon, the neighbor said, ‘That’s terrible news. Disastrous. How are you going to get your beans planted?’
“The farmer shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Bad news, good news, who knows?’”
Sierra, with her mouth full, waved her fork. “You told me this before,” she said, “but go ahead, please.”
“I’ve also told you before to slow down and not talk with food in your mouth,” he said, signaling the waiter for another beer. She made a face at him. “The next day, the horse returned with a wild white stallion, strong and spirited, and the farmer reported this to his neighbor, who said, ‘That’s great news. You’ve got another horse to help with the plowing.’ The farmer says, ‘Good news, bad news, who knows?’
“The next day, the farmer’s son started training the stallion to pull the plow, and the horse threw him off and he landed hard and broke both legs. When the farmer told his neighbor, he said, ‘What bad news. You were counting on your son for the planting. How can you possibly get the ground ready for your beans without him?’
“Of course, you know where this is going. The farmer says, ‘Bad news, good news, who knows?’ And then the next day, the king’s men come to conscript able-bodied young men into the army to fight the Mongols or whoever. The farmer’s son can’t even walk so they don’t take him. Predictably, his neighbor is ecstatic. ‘This is great news.’
“Whereupon the farmer says, ‘Good news, bad news, who knows.’ And so on.”
Sierra held up her fork to take the floor, but finished chewing first. “So what you’re saying is if we lose the election, I shouldn’t jump off a bridge because some day in the distant future, I might get a pony. I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation.”
(Read more of Bones in the Wash at bonesinthewash.com.)
I have one more reading before Election Day — Sunday, October 23 at 2 pm at the Tam Valley Cabin on Tennessee Valley Road in Marin County.
Election-Season Author Tour poster
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