As the story began to unfold, Ross Perot had developed a way to materialize, or astral-project himself anywhere he desired, complete with ubiquitous briefcase, charts and graphs. The procedure understandably left him a little woozy and in need of some R&R before getting down to business, in this case, helping me find a job. I was having a difficult time processing it all myself. Just ten minutes ago I was alone on the Silver Pelican cruising over the Chesapeake Bay at around 2200 feet at a leisurely 25 knots when the 85th richest person in America just appeared on my airship. I voted for this guy for president in 1992, but even so, I had to admit this visit was a little strange.
Unbeknownst to him, I had removed all traces of rum from my own rockeroos years ago, though I thoroughly continued to enjoy them, thoroughly limed, with plenty of mango, pineapple or cranberry juice without the alcohol stimulant, and discovered to my delight that the exact same recipe missing only the absence of the fermented sugar cane had no detrimental effects on my ebullient personality. However, I am always the gracious host, and if Mr. Perot enjoyed his rockeroos avec rhum, as they say in Haiti, and I knew his preference was for Barbancourt 5-Star Reserve Special (a most exemplary choice), I needed to set the Pelican’s course for the nearest available liquor store with a dirigible mooring mast. We also needed to re-supply my stock of El Matador Deluxe Microwave Grande Platters (tacos, enchiladas and tostados), juice, cereal, fruit, clipboards, legal pads, and pens. The iMac’s synthetic aperture ground effect radar determined three suitable supply outlets on the Eastern Shore, and in short order, together with Mr. Perot’s unlimited Amex card, we were airborne for the remainder of the evening, a lively Galaxy Girl tournament on the schedule after supper. We’d attend to serious work in the morning.
As it turned out, my guest loved playing Galaxy Girl. It was designed as a digital version of an old pinball game, with flippers, bumpers, and all the traditional sound effects of the original games. Ross couldn’t get enough of it, especially since the super-sized graphic of Galaxy Girl seemed to be loosely based on 60s actress Stella Stevens, complete with tantalizingly seductive space-themed play suit. The idea was that Galaxy Girl would help keep the solar system solvent so as not to put it at risk of fiscal takeover by the unscrupulous President Petroleus and his diabolical multi-galactic Grease Gang. “I like the way Galaxy Girl takes a spirited and practical bottoms-up approach to economic stability,” said an engrossed Perot in the midst of a double-score enemy planetoid combination. “Look at how serious economists from Galbraith to Krugman have basically demolished the validity of the whole top down, supply-side model of financial equilibrium, and here Galaxy Girl has demonstrated this very notion in a mere recreational diversion years ahead of its time.” He was in the midst of a record score until he lost his last ball in an impetuous flip down Minnesota Representative Michelle Bachmann’s Top Down Tunnel of Terror. “Damn! Even I fell for it. Say, can I borrow another quarter?”
I’m an early riser, and after some coffee and a short course of exercises, decided to check on my strange guest. I shook him gently in his upper bunk, and a fine layer of taco crumbs drifted over my head and down on the floor. Ross had evidently nuked up another entree before turning in, and the Galaxy Girl graphic on the monitor was flashing “Tilt,” but at this point in the morning he didn’t know or care. I returned to the bridge and opened the PA mike. “Hey Prez,” I teased him, “pull on your zeppo pants and listen up. We have a situation on Sub-level 3. Seems Dick Cheney’s orbiting death delicatessen discovered our whereabouts sometime during the night and penetrated the Pelican’s chameleon cloth hull camouflage with one of his deadly ham torpedoes. There was a direct hit to the galley that detonated the Hobart 9000 pressurized cheese pump. Do you have any idea of the damage melted muenster can do to 3-D holographic data consoles? I need you down here with all the moist towelette dispensers you can find, and pronto, chief!”
“What? Huh? I’m on my way.” I recognized the scattered, incoherent thoughts of a man who seconds ago was dreaming of zooming through the dark reaches of space, Galaxy Girl by his side, trying to analyze the latest trade deficit projections aided only by the glow of her indicator lights. Not an easy vision to suddenly snap out of; I’ve had it myself. “Are we anywhere near Madagascar?” I heard those slow, lazy vowels from above. “An old business pal of mine runs a airship service pen off the coast of Farafangana. I can try to raise him on your sqwawk box and start the ball rollin’ on the repairs. Wait for me, I’ll be there in a second.”
It was a none-too-pleased Texas billionaire who hustled down and discovered my ruse, but after a cup of fair-trade java brewed with Apple’s state-of-the-art solar bean roaster and wireless beverage router, and a delicious bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (his favorite), ol’ Ross was ready to set up his charts and get right to the eye of the global market hurricane.
I set the Pelican on auto pilot and Ross arranged some graphs on a portable tripod. He produced a telescopic pointer (no laser gimmicks for him), and said, “Now Larry, what’s our purpose here? To get to the center of this tragic and avoidable employment situation. How are we going to do that? Well, the answers are on these charts I’ve prepared. Larry, look at this line right here. This is just sad. It starts out…”
At this point I knew I had to intervene, or this whole Larry fixation threatened to derail our mission. “Ross,” I said, “my name is Reverbo. Well, okay, that’s not my real name but that’s how I sign all these columns. But you have to stop calling me Larry. I won’t be able to stop laughing long enough to pay attention if you continue to do this.”
The affable tycoon understood the situation. “Look,” he said, “in 92, I was on Larry King so often with these damn diagrams and graphs and my down-home shtick, it just became second nature for me to call anyone Larry when I show up at a meeting with my case of charts. You have to admit, it is a dependably funny name, especially when uttered with my unique Texarcana twang.” It was hard to argue, but I knew Reverbo could more than take the place of Larry with Ross’s distinctive delivery. “Try, will ya?” I said. “It’s just too ridiculous.”
“You got it,” he said. “Now Larry, I mean Reverbo, let’s get back to this chart here. See that line representing our manufacturing base from about 1975? Look at what happens here at 2005. The bottom just falls out. Appalling. And that famous sucking sound they all mocked me for? It’s not so funny now, is it? Those jobs left and the only way they come back is when we reach an wage parity with the rest of the Third World. Is that where you wanted to be 240 years ago? Either that, or crank up some tariffs and return the marginal tax rates to back before Reagan, and 100 million jobs will return. You see anyone with the courage to sell that?”
I sat there listening to this man who, despite his oddities, and there were many, correctly comprehended our economic malaise. ”Everybody said, well Ross, you’re just talking about companies leaving the country for wages,” Perot went on. “That’s just a part of the equation. The world will still need to buy our stuff, they all said. Not if we don’t make a damn thing anymore. Not if all we do if flip burgers, sub-prime bubble loans and naked short sales. I called it, plain and simple.We just didn’t ship out your job and wage, but all the capital, innovation, and resources to crank up our industries over there! That’s the devastating whooshing sound. Our trade policies don’t protect us at all. Our own corporations make money by manufacturing everything outside the U.S. and then selling it back to themselves. Even the Mexicans didn’t get to enjoy the free trade racket for very long. You’ve been to a Wart-Mart in Guadalajara. Almost everything’s made in China. What a scam! Say, it must be cocktail hour somewhere, and those Rum Rockeroos are superb. Reverbo, would you do the honors?”
I needed another one, too. I mixed up a couple (this time with the emphasis on fresh pineapple and lime juice, a dash of pomegranate and in a truly inspired move, two miniature bamboo back scratchers for swizzle sticks), and placed them, together with a delicious guacamole with just the right amount of serrano peppers for zip, on one of the Silver Pelican’s vintage art deco serving trays out on the observation deck. The day was truly a brilliant solar-bathed gem, and we were almost able to forget the inequity perpetrated by those who have decided the American Dream only includes the noble few. I know this all sounds great for now, but unless I can make something happen relatively soon, my life style is going to start to fizzle out like the last bubbles in a flat soda. Say that line with Bogart’s voice and you approximate the seriousness it deserves.
I really just want to be a Surrealist. There will be essays involved, just like on those infernal Federal Government applications, though, I just know it. I’ll spend eight hours espousing my theories on flaming trombones, soft pocket watches and hallucinogenic toreadors and they’ll reject me for my lack of sufficient hands-on experience with archival procedures in the context of dream-state juxtapositions inside the full range of imagination according to the Hegelian Dialectic. I can just see the rejection letter coming: “Thank you for applying for the position of Surrealist Assistant. Although you were qualified, you were not among the best qualified. Good luck in your search for future employment with philosophical and artistic movements.”
Next: We fry up some fish with Alvis, George, Tammy and Euple, and think outside the tetrahedron.
Reverbo Critic-At-Large