An Evening of Lunacy

by Glenn N. Holliman

Terry Field is no stranger to this space.  His insightful and pithy articles often make for challenging reading.  In this tome he moves into a different writing mode, describing the neighbors who drop by for a visit.  Terry and wife, Fina, spend their winters in a semi-gated, semi-retirement community along the Gulf Coast of Florida.  

Terry Field, a Brit wintering in Florida USA

Yesterday afternoon, pleasant neighbours agreed to visit our humble home for a return match of drinks and dips. Dips – American culture – with the promise of ‘cocktails’, to be made by yours truly.

Fina and Terry incognito on another occasion.

Both wearing MI6 inspired shades.

The neighbours are great folk – one couple includes a retired lady police commander from the hell of northern US rust-belt cities. This gentle lady, then armed to the teeth, broke up drug-houses, patrolled streets whilst dodging happy little teenagers spraying sub-machine gun bullets for fun and kicks. Her husband, also a serving police officer as well as ex-military, was also in attendance.

Wearing combat fatigues. (Probably planning to fight off the local alligators).

In some ways it reminded me of Tonbridge Wells. Anyway, back to the plot.

These pleasantly cocktail-dressed ex-warriors arrived with a brand new pair of neighbours in tow, to share hospitality. These wore in no way military; they had had physiques once, but not anything to speak of.

The additional pair were quiet, with roaming eyes, and thin bodies. Booze I thought. They want booze.

I offered a ‘martini’ as a starter to our arrived guests.

“We make a real dry Martini’, said the thin man.

‘Aah’ said I; ‘the expertise in cocktails is American rather than British – so you

mix your own’.

He did.

It was dry as a bone; it was a massive slug of vodka, ice, nothing else.

His thin female companion did the same.

Right, the Florida room with a southern exposure, 

the scene of the conversation.

All moved to the Florida Room for the ‘dips’; the ladies grouped together and us

men coagulated at the other end of the room.

I sat down; the thin man together with the husband of one of the police

commanders both joined me.

I sipped my martini. The vodka drained and the thin man refilled and returned.

He turned to me, announcing ‘I am pissed that my taxes go to these immigrants,

lefties, commies and tattooed scum’ followed by ‘Trump will put an end to this’

‘That Muslim bastard Obama wrecked America, screwed us over. What do you

British think of Trump?’

By now, he had become coloured around the neck; you know, the way a grouper

is on a fishmonger’s slab. Purple with pink lines.

The eyes rolled as they tried to bore into me.

I took my courage in my hands, and ventured

‘Well, since you ask, I think Trump is a liar, an idiot, and an irrelevance’.

The pressure cooker that had been the thin man’s head whistled; steam poured forth; ‘You think that our president is a liar! That he is an idiot! He is leading us out of the crazy mess the liberals and that Muslim Obama left us’.

‘Our young people are brainwashed by our teachers, and by the time they go to

college that are all God-damned communists. AND they are tattooed!’.

Fearing apoplexy (his, not mine), I back peddled a touch, smiled and nodded, all

the while sporting a rictus smile. I looked like a corpse; I felt I may soon be a real

one if this thin neighbour was ‘packing heat’.

‘It’s gone too far; that Obama wanted to ruin America!!!!!’ ‘He does NOT

represent American values’

He launched into a long tirade of hatred about the idle scum who were draining

his tax-dollars.

‘Can I offer you a celery stick and some avocado dip?’ I ventured. That was the catalyst that made Vesuvius emit a mini pyroclastic flow.

‘Lazy bastard liberals have ruined this country. This president is going to stop all

that! He’s bringing back factories and jobs.’

‘But factories don’t need people any more’ I said.

‘I earned two hundred thousand a year in the seventies’ Thin Man said.

Well done! I responded.

Silence.

I broke the ice. With a little flame-thrower.

‘I know some very nice people – friends actually, from Pennsylvania. They are

educated, responsible, hard working types, kind, pay their taxes, have no tattoos,

have always worked creatively – and are Democrats who loath your Trump and

love and respect Obama. As do I.’

The Thin Man mixed another massive vodka on the rocks, sank into the chair,

rolled his eyes to heaven and said ‘impossible’. They must be AARP!!

“What is that?’ I asked. ‘Being British, I am unfamiliar with American medical terms, I ventured.

‘AARP’ he said. ‘It’s not a disease. It’s the Association of Retired Persons’ he said.

His even thinner and equally vodka-filled lady-wife enquired what the first ‘A’ in

‘AARP’ stood for.

‘I dunno’ the sozzled spouse responded.

‘I think I know what it stands for’ I purred, now trying to ingratiate myself.  ‘It stands for ‘America’.

‘No it can’t be that’ they both said. ‘But anyway, AARP is all communistical’.

“Really’ said I.

At this stage in the progress to a full-blown asylum status for my little condo. I

had visions of other entities, such as the ‘Salvation Army’ as being responsible for

a contemporary ‘Manchurian Candidate’ type attack, or the American

Automobile Association’ planting IEDs along the National Mall.

Clearly I was loosing it. But my companions had already done that.

Brightbartic paranoia was hovering about proximate to my frontal lobes. I reached for a comforting piece of carrot and plunged it, with uncharacteristic force, into the Maine Lobster dip. I retrieved a tasty piece of crab-leg. Munched; relaxed. The danger seemed to pass. I spoke too soon.

Left, Terry relaxes and keyboards his latest thoughts on the human condition

“Them Mooslyms want to kill the world, then each other, then get at the virgins!’.

This helpful interjection entered the fray from the direction of the gentleman

husband of a police commander. He had been in Iraq. He was packing heat. I

smiled at him, nodded sagely, offered a slice of desert with marinaded

strawberries – he declined because that would ‘contaminate his blood’.

‘Excellent decision’ I said. Much better to remain pure!

NOW I was entering a dark world of Dr Strangelove; My condo had become

Burbleson Airforce Base. I identified with Peter Sellars in an entirely new way.

Now the Thin Woman extracted herself from the gaggle of ladies, approached her

subsided ‘principle other’ and said ‘Let’s Go!’

Joy unconfined. Oh wonderful Day’.

I rose unbidden. ‘Thank you SO much for coming and welcome to the

neighborhood.’

The thin man rose, stared at me for a long moment and asked ’Am I an

irrelevance’.

‘It’s possible’, I replied.

Quietly, all left. The packed heat left.

I made a strong coffee.

‘Welcome to America’ I thought.