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CounterPunch
October
26, 2002
Concerned Citizen:
Episode 5.
Night School
by ANTHONY GANCARSKI
SCRIPT AND SUMMATIVE
COMMENTS [0:30, COLOR]
[Opens with standard montage of cars
effortlessly zooming over concrete cloverleaves, of clean people
conversing animatedly in bistros with virgin white tablecloths
and deferential brown waitpeople. The opening theme, the jazz-fusion
"Horehound's Groove", chikka-chikkaing mid-tempo and
mid-range as the familiar deadpan voice of TV's Brock Horehound
[played by Hollywood warhorse Grant Cameron, who had outlived
six marriages, five ex-wives, and a three pack a day habit by
1974] intones gravelly, secure in his poses as omniscient oracular
figure, director, and producer of the series.]
Horehound:
I was on the force once. But things have changed. The law has
changed, and left common people --good people --in the lurch.
And yeah, I work within the law... sometimes. But sometimes I've
got to go around the law, to protect the interests of the law
itself --and the people it protects.
[And there the intro ends. As Horehound's
car pulls into the familiar blacktop behind his office, he begins
to speak again. This is expected.]
Horehound: Tuesday,
January 14th. The air is cool in Los Angeles and I've got no
work, so I've been making some noise about getting back in a
Black and White. But the Force has changed now, they say. To
be considered you gotta have a college degree. So I've started
Night School, and tried to cut down on the drinking.
[Exterior shot of high school, just an
impassive structure without a living soul evident within its
frame, as strings sound hopeful progressions in the background.]
Horehound:
I knew to make it through I had to pace myself, to start slow.
One class a week. Tuesday night, at a local high school. A class
entitled "Free to Be You and Me". Some facilitative
communications jazz. I missed the first couple of weeks, because
things came up. But the professor said he didn't mind me coming
in and going at my own pace. He said that's what the class was
about.
[A battleship-gray classroom. Eleven
desks arranged in a semi-circle, more or less, with Horehound
in the center left region, clad in a coral cardigan, a power-blue
oxford, and khakis. His feet are crossed underneath the desk
in which his body is more at home than one might expect. The
bumper chikka-chikka fades out, and a voice --nasal, ridden with
"knowledge" becomes audible. We get a shot at this
teacher --spectral in tweed, glasses lingering on the bridge
of the thin pedagogue's nose --holding forth. There are hand-gestures,
reminiscent of a small-time county commissioner working the marks
to push some land grab through. Finally, we can make out words
as the camera pans again on Horehound's impassive moonface.]
Professor Riley:
One of the things we keep coming back to in this class is the
idea of freedom. The freedom to do what you want, to be who you
want to be.
[And here the camera pans: a Hindi dapper
in an indigo suit; an older white man, a deadringer for Barry
Goldwater, in a black suit and hornrims; a black woman, comely
in the way of matrons, in a pressed white nurse's get up. All
given a spot of time, a few frames, just enough for us to see
that these are people of quality. Good people. But there are
only so many good people in the world of Horehound. There are
bad people as well. And one of them is seated right in the line
of sight of our estimable title character. He is white, as we've
come to expect. Unruly, curly hair, caramel-hued, the sort of
hair mothers once called a mop, back when mothers cared what
their sons' hair looked like. Round, thick black frames, too
big for his face, with glass tinted distinctly maize, but with
a bit of a sunset's tinge. He wears a light brown leather vest
with tassels, a loud shirt underneath; paisleys on a green background.
Blue corduroys, the flares of which skirt the floor underneath
him, a dismal sort of tile all too familiar to those who have
labored in the drab edutainment institutions foisted upon us
by the state. And he speaks.]
Jerry:
Yeah, but how can we be what we want to be, when the man's trying
to bring us down. His lies. His corruption, his outdated laws.
[We hear murmurs throughout the classroom,
voices indistinct in both pronunciation and conviction, like
many voices, most voices, perhaps your own voice. A shot of Horehound
rolling his eyes in boredom, then a shot of yet another man in
a blue suit. A white guy, thirty-ish, with hair plastered close
to his scalp and a security guard's mustache. He is well-groomed
and as bereft of fashion sense as toilet paper. He speaks.]
Mr. Mathews:
Now hold on a minute. The laws aren't outdated. They're here
to protect us, and perhaps to protect us from people like you.
[Mathews --we never get his first name
--glowers in Jerry's direction. Jerry matches his intensity and
holds forth once more.]
Jerry:
Protect us from people like you, he says. Sure, make it us against
them. Spell it out so anyone can read it --if you dress a little
different, or want to see love rule, you're all of a sudden a
threat to our national security.
[Jerry here bangs the desk in frustration.
I remember once, as a teacher, a similar incident. There was
a student who made a similar argument, claiming that I was infringing
on his right to do what he wanted to do.]
Mathews:
I'm not talking about national security here. I'm talking about
my security! And the fact is your kind causes a lot of problems.
[Mathews here is sweating profusely,
as if rained on. I can understand his frustration here, really.
This student of mine felt it was his "right" to wear
a Coed Naked Volleyball shirt --in my classroom! I'm sure not
every student wanted to be presented with the idea of playing
volleyball naked, for one thing. And for another, I myself didn't
want to imagine those flabby student bodies cavorting on sunbleached
sand or in a sultry, stench-ridden gymnasium, their bodies flailing
and crashing like those of would-be heavyweight contenders made
into pretenders by their inability to commit toward achieving
the big score. There were a lot of underachievers at my university,
I'll tell you that.]
Jerry:
What problems am I causing anyone, huh? I take care of myself!
I don't ask anything of you, except to leave me alone.
[A shot of the hippie's petulant visage,
then a shot of Horehound, whose eyes show nothing but whose nostrils
begin to flare. His hand here is trembling, hearkening back to
shakedowns from previous shows, from previous roles, and you
know that if this wasn't a television classroom in 1971, he might
have been smoking, and he might have jabbed that flaming Chesterfield
in the face of that self-styled dissident.]
Horehound:
You don't ask anything of him, huh? Well, what if he's driving
behind you on the road, right after you've decided to turn on.
Studies show that marijuana use contributes to car accidents
year after year.
[Jerry runs his hand over his face in
exasperation, and looks around at the rest of the class. The
members shown --the Hindi and the Goldwaterite --don't return
his gaze. This is the way of most people though; when I started
making light of the COED NAKED VOLLEYBALL shirt, in what I'd
personally adjudged to be a valiant defusing of a would-be powderkeg,
those I was trying to protect --little blonde girls in clothes
from the mall --looked at me with disgust. And never had I felt
so old.]
Jerry:
I don't think that's your business... hey, wait a minute? Are
you a cop?
[Here Jerry smiles, mockingly. I remember
too well what it was like to receive one of those smiles. The
kid with the offensive T--shirt, smirking every time I turned
around to write a few words on the chalkboard. I took a stand,
and I too was mocked for having gumption. The camera closes in
on Horehound's face, as the bumper music takes us into break.
The almost inadvertent shadows under his eyes render him hollow,
betraying him for icons who are younger, less weighed-down with
baggage.
The bumper music --the slower version,
with guitar omitted --sounds and we get gratuitous shots that
are intended to suggest Los Angeles, as is customary with this
program: the Hollywood Bowl, at night; the Rose Bowl, teeming
with a capacity crowd; Venice Beach, lined with sunbathers. Horehound
intones as the camera pans across a line of oil-soaked nubiles,
toasting on white towels; a legion of Gidgets and Barbies, so
average that they're completely unattainable.]
Horehound:
After the class had ended, I got the names of both Ralph Matthews
and Jerry Rabinovich from the instructor. He was happy to oblige,
though I asked him under the guise of forming a study group.
After I got the names, I called an old pal on the force and told
him he might want to run checks. He took that under advisement.
[The beachtowels and the bathing beauties
fade, and we get a shot of Horehound and his former LAPD partner,
Detective Ray Linger. Though Linger was the junior officer of
the pair, Horehound's dismissal from the force altered the distribution
of power between the two (cf. unfilmed scripts of Episodes 8
and 10, for further examples). They both have beer mugs in front
of them in a dark, old-style bar. A soap opera plays on the television;
it is clear that it is a weekday afternoon.]
Linger:
You ever watch these stories, Brock?
[Horehound ashes his Chesterfield, and
genially smiles at his old partner.]
Horehound:
Never had much of a chance to get involved in them.
Linger:
Well, sometime you should check them out. You might like them
--they help pass the time. [Here Linger smiles, and damned if
that doesn't look like contempt in his eyes, as he scoops a handful
of salted peanuts from a convenient bowl.]
Horehound:
Why would I need to 'pass the time'? You think I'm not busy enough,
is that it?
Linger:
That's not what I'm saying at all. I'm just saying that Madge
likes them, and since you have more time on your hands than you
used to....
[Linger here trails off, letting the
exhaust from his newly-lit cigarette serve as ellipsis. The embers
of the twin smokes carry an unnamable psychic weight in the bar
scene, signaling the failing of bodies, the loss of faculties,
the dissolution and the hopelessness of dreams. And I cannot
help but know the failing of bodies and the myriad losses that
come as time passes, intimately, like unexpected bitter smells
from a lover who has overstayed her welcome. I know what it is
to be failed by biology, to be superceded by people with all
their hair, clad in the fashions of the day. I'm not one of those
people, but I'm a person of dignity. People nowadays, they don't
even know what dignity means. That said, there's no way that
the t-shirt incident, debasing to my professional dignity as
it was, would affect my employment. There were other factors,
sadly.]
Horehound:
So I see how it is. I have a falling-out with the department,
an honest disagreement. How long had I been with them? 25 years.
One slip-up, and I'm done, despite all the work I've done.
Linger:
Brock, come on now....
Horehound:
No, Linger, now you listen to me. You know my work. When I was
walking a beat, back when the department was ridden with corruption,
and often two cops had to deal with 20 criminals single-handed.
I dealt with the slurs --I was the fuzz, the heat, John Q Law.
Linger:
This sounds familiar, somehow.
[Linger here rolls his eyes. We get a
shot of the bartender raising his eyebrows in the direction of
Horehound and Linger. Tall, with a high forehead, with dirty
blonde hair that mats to gray near the temples. An innocuous,
almost distinguished countenance. But his eyes are icy and blue
and impassive.]
Bartender:
Would you two lovebirds like another drink? Or do you want to
keep calling to each other in the breeze?
[A touch of malice in his voice, a gutterality
at odds with any other uniformed character toward Horehound,
a throatiness that belies his blue jacket, his white shirt, his
straight--arrow bow tie. The bar has become unfriendly to Horehound
and Linger; the officers cast puzzled glances in the direction
of the barkeep. I came to know establishments that were likewise
unfriendly. During the media investigation, supermarket checkout
girls who caused me to blush with their boom time coy smiles
no longer smiled at me. Their faces were hard and impassive as
they ran foodstuffs over scanners, as they put my overstretched
Visa through its paces.]
Horehound:
Now hold on there, boy -
Bartender:
Boy? Who are you to call me boy?
[The bartender's voice is "raised",
as they say. Horehound's nostrils are flaring, as is so often
the case. His fists are clenched and he looks like an abusive
father ready to silence his noisy, noisome demon spawn. Linger,
meanwhile, works the ancillary second--banana angle, casting
his eyes heavenward, keeping a hand lightly on the shoulder of
his former partner. Linger has seen this action before.]
Horehound:
You pipe down, mister! I was just in here having a drink --a
nice conversation with an old friend. What's the big idea?
[The bartender smirks, then pantomimes
a reefer inhalation, bugging his eyes out to signify that he
took the mother of all hits. Linger is off-camera; the dynamic
now centers exclusively on the Bartender and the star of the
show.]
Bartender:
You don't remember me at all, do you?
[Here we get a longshot of a ceiling
fan. A shot reminiscent of the conversation I had with my boss
when I was being terminated. As he shuffled through the angry
stack of e--mailed student complaints, I couldn't watch that
motion as he summarized the major points of these missives, minor
in the eyes of people who know better yet enough to see me jettisoned.
I too remember staring up and watching the ceiling fan, and feeling
it dry what moisture had beaded in my eyes. But there are no
tears from Horehound.]
Horehound:
So many faces, so many names, there's no way to expect me to
remember them all. Especially now, when I'm off the force, when
I've been "excused" from the payroll. So whatever you're
trying to tell me, son, you better make it good.
[The bartender smiled and reached out
his hand to shake Horehound's, then retracted that offer just
as Horehound's face softened. Somehow I am reminded of a visit
to a local strip club that I made just after I had been awarded
a plaque recognizing my professional achievement [for the purposes
of brevity, the awarding agency needn't be discussed here, but
let's just say it was prestigious]. After Marriott's attempt
at Thai food had been consumed and after the ceremony had concluded,
I found myself in my car, alone, driving through areas of town
that had seen better days. Where the malls had closed, and where
adult entertainment complexes provided the only source of entertainment.
A light rain had started to fall, but the promise of more was
imminent. I pulled into the first parking lot I saw, as I didn't
feel comfortable driving in the rain, and I felt like I earned
a little something after the words that had been said behind
my back at the ceremony. It was a moment of weakness, to be sure.
But I had been weak before. The only difference was that this
time, the lapdancer was a student from the previous semester.
She worked me; hey, Professor, she asked, why don't you give
me a spin? I was spent before the second verse of the song was
over. She looked down at me, smiled, and then called for her
manager. She claimed that I had put my hands on her, which was
against house rules. The staff loosened my teeth and gave my
face some character by way of payback, and my explanations the
next few days at school were forced, at best.]
Bartender:
Man, you're way off! Three years ago you sent me up --I was holding
two joints, not even anything loose. 3 years for 3 grams, and
now you want to come in here and act like everything's casual.
Horehound:
You do the crime, you do the time, right, Linger? Maybe you should
search this hype right now.
[Linger stares on impassively.]
Bartender:
'Hype'? It was grass, pig, not heroin. Don't you think I know
the difference?
[Horehound makes a move to reach inside
his jacket, but Linger whispers something inaudible in his ear,
and Horehound is reduced to shaking his head at the man he had
once arrested for possession with intent to distribute, as the
two men find their way out of the deserted bar into the sunset
glare of the incongruously deserted thoroughfare.]
Horehound:
Thanks for stopping me, partner. I was about to kick his teeth
in and would've, if you hadn't been there.
Linger:
Right. I know your temper.
[Linger here stares at the sidewalk.
Horehound lights a cigarette and the camera, or my mind, focuses
on the flame meeting paper, the flash and the exhaustion that
follows.]
Horehound:
Say, I have an idea! Why don't you and your better half have
me over for some steaks off the grill? We could make a night
of it.
[Horehound's face pleads even as his
erstwhile junior partner turns and walks away. There will be
no Porterhouse, no Del Monico, no Filet Mignon or New York Strip.
There will be no illusion of collegiality: no quiet laughs, with
the bases of wine glasses standing on a fresh, clean tabletop,
reflecting a material prosperity that is superficially Continental
but intrinsically American. American in that the price paid for
luxury is implicit, and in that everyone knows the price is no
one-time thing. You keep paying the price, and if you can't,
if you slip up even momentarily, all that privilege is stripped
from you. As is your name, as is your rank, as is your corner
office with the antique Victrola and the commendation letters
from former students, former department chairs. Someone else
fills your spot. Your business cards are trashed. Your labelgunned
name on the departmental mailbox is peeled off, replaced with
that of some up-and-comer, some bright young kid who believes
that the life --the academic life --itself offers rewards. The
rewards are not intrinsic.]
[Commercial break, then we get some low-key
brush-and-string arrangement over shots of suburban men mowing
lawns, of Hispanic boys playing touch football, of the Hollywood
sign. The scene changes to inside Horehound doing push-ups in
the living room of his apartment. As the music fades, Horehound's
voice begins to intone.]
Horehound:
Fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups. In my view, the key to a healthy
mind is a healthy body. After completing my routine, I showered
and shaved, and then called an old friend on the force, to make
sure that the bar I'd been to that day had no code or licensure
violations. I told this friend, who would prefer not to be named
in this record, that the bartender had seemed hinky. I was reading
in my living room when I heard the doorbell. It was 9:15 PM.
[Horehound, dressed in a white oxford
shirt, gray slacks, and black socks, rises from his sofa to answer
the door. The woman on the other side is tall, thin, 25-30 years
if age. A blonde with a pageboy haircut and a mole on her cheek,
in a black blouse and knee-length skirt. We hear strings as Horehound
begins to speak.]
Horehound:
Carolyn --what brings you by?
Carolyn:
You know very well what brings me by --you just called me, silly.
About my notebook.
[Horehound smiles coyly, and Carolyn
soon follows suit. This is a game they've never engaged each
other in, yet it's understood that both parties know the protocols,
passed down from oracular television set designers and gangland
kingpins turned celebrities. Luck be a lady tonight. The Rat
Pack ethos is here implicit in Horehound's wrinkly eyes, in the
Julie Londonesque smoldering sexuality the female lead. Both
parties know what they want. And for those who asked, I have
had women, even students, knock on my doors at the latest and
earliest of hours. And, yes, I have opened those doors, with
acceptance in my heart trumping what fluke libido perked and
pulsed through my veins.]
Horehound:
Well, come in and take a load off.
[1994. I was teaching at a major university
in a Northeastern population center. Or should I say I was pioneering
in the field of American Cultural Studies. Some scholars felt
that the study of culture would vitiate the groundsoil of their
precious literature departments, but my endeavors in the area
did not go unnoticed by many observers of academia, and they
speak to the vitality and the "good sense" of the study
of popular culture. But that story is for another time. My class
[ University Name Withheld, 23.112.94; "Many Cultures, Many
Selves"], which had gotten rave reviews by students, faculty,
and outside observers alike, sought to synthesize hard-shell
Deconstructionism with the take-no-prisoners gusto of cultural
anthropology. One of the requirements of the class was a willingness
to take a number of field trips and observe various subcultures,
in their natural habitats. I hasten to add that the course was
approved by the University. Tacitly or openly, whatever. It was
approved.]
Carolyn:
I can only stay a second, but that'd be lovely, Brock.
[The field trips were, on the whole,
as well-received as my other offerings and initiatives in and
to the class. It had been decided that the class would go to
a local reggae club and observe people reacting to the vibrant
Caribbean music. I myself have had more than a casual acquaintance
with Jamaicans, and I was looking forward to spending some time
relaxing with and getting to know my students. Brock and Carolyn
make their way to the couch, and winsome, string-ridden music
courses through the air vents, or something. Horehound made not
even a motion toward the stereo, which renders the verisimilitude
of the scene suspect, to say the least.]
Horehound:
Say, while I have you here, I want to ask you something.
[Horehound turns to face Carolyn, in
the way that any red-blooded American male would turn and face
a young lovely on his couch, if that male were imagining how
her body would tremble from his touch, how her nipples would
linger on his taste buds like the aftertaste of home-churned
ice cream. How her hips longed to be pressed flesh against his
hips, as thrust and pull turns a chance meeting into a consecration
of something beyond words. I too have known the feeling of using
sex to render the quotidian memorable. In the 1994 class in question,
I in particular just then knew that feeling.]
Carolyn:
What is it, Brock?
[On the evening of the field trip, an
evening that would eventually occasion unfounded, scurrilous
allegations and messy legal complications that could've been
avoided, the entire city was hot and pressed close, millions
of nubiles and physically stalwart forms pressed flesh on flesh
in the dark sanctum of subway cars. The reggae club was the city,
but with ganja for all and love for most, except for those who
approached everything I tried to do for my students with guardedness,
even antagonism. Those sullen, disconsolate ones were appalled
by the public flouting of our nation's drug laws, or so they
said. They said they felt the exercise, like the class itself,
had been a waste of their time. They termed me a pompous ass,
an overbearing fool. They slandered me. But as we know, jobs
and reputations don't hinge on discussions of pedagogical methods.]
Horehound:
I want to ask you what you think of the class so far. Is it meeting
your needs? Do you feel like you're getting a lot out of this
experience?
[This question, as students of the Horehound
series and of any work with the Grant Cameron imprint, is typical
of people discussing the machinations under which power is marshaled
and exercised. The party inquiring typically holds authority
over the party being asked. Sometimes the means of said authority
is overtly stated, sometimes simply implied.]
Carolyn:
What do you mean, Brock?
[Here she bristles and for the first
time in the scene, we get the idea that Carolyn might not be
as accommodating as Horehound hoped. Many women work similar
angles in real-life classrooms. Many times in my career, I encountered
temptresses of many different permutations. Athletes, dancers,
gymnasts, actresses, and flutists with lustrous shampoo-ad hair;
blonde and brunette, to be sure, but on occasion tinged with
the indelible hues of peach flesh. On the date in question in
1994, that hair was still lovelier in the strobing, hazy airspace
of the reggae club, where arms and legs couldn't help but graze
against each other, where fingers couldn't help but become entwined
in the pulsespiking thrall of the taboo.]
Horehound:
I want to be perfectly frank with you here. I'm curious as to
what you feel the true intentions of the class we're taking are.
[At the reggae club, there was a student
who moved her hips metronomically, as if trying to lock my eyes
in and hypnotize me with her erotic undulations. I had been seduced
before, or more correctly, seduction had been attempted. I felt
her hand press against the small of my back, moving up and down
my spine, pausing almost reverentially on the muscles of my lower
back as if to say here is the body of a man. A virile, vital
man.]
Carolyn:
I can't say as if I'm following you here. What exactly are you
talking about?
[Oh, yes. Here she plays dumb. Here she
pretends to have no clue what is going on. No concept of her
body language. No idea of what patchouli as consecration itself
wafting into my nostrils does to a man in my position. She claimed
that she was "reluctant" to dance with me but did so
because she was "conscious of a correlation between dancing
and attaining the grade she had earned in the class".]
Horehound:
What I'm talking about, Carolyn, are elements in the class that
federal, state and local authorities would term subversive. Are
you aware of what subversion is?
[Horehound's eyes here, like my own in
that reggae club. Certainly beseeching, but with an air of affection,
even love. Not the tawdry love of Spelling productions and chocolate
bar commercials, but a stoic love. The same quiet love that drove
me to guide the student in question, the name of which legal
stipulations forbid me to use, onto the dancefloor.]
Carolyn:
I'm not stupid, Brock. I've seen all those Cold War filmstrips.
[Her eyes are ridged with a hardness
bordering on contempt. I grew to know that hardness on the dancefloor,
which emptied as she and I --the teacher and the student --boogied
on, reggae style. The music sped up, the reggae turned into polka,
and the chant loosed forth from the toaster (bandleader) and
the audience themselves. Go white boy, go white boy, go. Go white
boy, go white boy, go. Go white boy, go white boy, go. Horehound's
nostrils are flaring, as was their wont.]
Horehound:
Feel free to trivialize the concerns of the nation at large if
you wish. Sure, that'll make you feel good, for a while. Peace
and love, and no personal responsibility, and everything's groovy,
huh?
[While Horehound pauses for dramatic
effect, we get a shot of Carolyn staring at the floor, just as
the student discussed above stared at the floor, as if in embarrassment,
as I pulled her close to me.]
Horehound:
Well, let me tell you something. I was on the Force, and not
too long ago either. I've seen children born with hideous birth
defects. I've picked up girls barely in training bras. Girls
with reefer and sugarcubes on them, who smell of vice and the
underworld as you might have smelled of your girlhood perfume.
[Carolyn shakes her head, but otherwise
maintains her own counsel. There is no talking to these women
sometimes. It's as if they thirst for spectacle, as if they find
sport in people standing up for what is right. Go white boy,
go white boy, go.]
Horehound:
So when I speak to you about this issue, I do so with the understanding
that you too are committed to nipping the spread of illegal drugs
in the bud. You too understand the horrors these pharmaceutical
and agricultural demons are, what they represent to decent people,
trying to live decent lives. Are you with me, here?
Carolyn:
Sure, but I'm only one person. What can I do?
[The student discussed above stormed
out of the club, tears coming to her eyes. I followed her, wanting
nothing more than to stand by her. To let her know things were
going to be all right. To apologize for any actions of mine which
could be misconstrued as untoward. I caught up to her just after
she passed the doorman and a queue of gawkers. I placed my hands
on her shoulders, and even under her blouse I could feel the
heat of her skin. I could smell her scent of desire, and I knew
there were things we could share. We had a bond.]
Horehound:
Get involved. Talk to those you know about drugs. Ask them if
they know anyone who uses. Let them know drugs are a sickness.
And one more thing.
[Then she turned around and slapped the
taste out of my mouth. Her leg brushed against mine in the heart
of her follow-through, and I knew this woman had passion for
me that she couldn't dare speak. Her parents wouldn't understand.
The other students would claim I was playing favorites. But how
could anyone deny me the soft, yielding curves of her pelvis
and waist? How could anyone tell me I couldn't stand behind her
as she chopped vegetables for a healthy dinner in our cozy apartment,
pulling her back into my front, my manhood protruding into the
soft, beautiful cleave of her backside? I am a man of distinction
and degrees, a man who has accomplished things most feeble minds
can't even contemplate. I am not a man to be denied simple sensate
pleasure. I am not a man to be denied happiness.]
Carolyn:
What's that?
[The expression on her face is as neutral
as Sherwin-Williams "Caffe Tan" paint.]
Horehound:
Tell me something honestly, here. Has anyone in class approached
you about using or buying drugs?
[It's hard to expect honesty in the classroom
environment, or even in an environment where the classroom is
being discussed. Too many politics. Too many people interested
in privileging their own viewpoints over those of others.]
Carolyn:
What is this? Are you a cop?
[He might as well have slid his hand
up her skirt. Carolyn here closed her legs and placed her handbag
over the moving-day box her lap --her womanhood --has all too
abruptly become. What minor suggestion of levity that might have
found its way onto Horehound's visage under more felicitous circumstances
has vanished, in the same manner the student discussed above
vanished after she struck me. I was left there, to wilt under
the derisive glares of those waiting to get into the club and
enjoy the reggae beat. I couldn't tell them they had but a small
part of the story. That I was much more than a pathetic, graying
man who just got his jaw jacked by a woman with half his years
and twice his desirability. That she had smiled at me in class,
and had selected a desk right under the lectern so that I could
trace the bountiful curves of her bosom with my eyes in preparation
for tasting them with my tongue. Scoopneck shirts. Blouses with
the top three buttons undone. She knew her tricks, and soon enough
I knew her tricks, and soon thereafter I couldn't help but inventory
those tricks in every spare moment, deconstructing the brutal
symbolism of young flesh exposed to old eyes.]
Horehound:
This isn't police business. I'm no longer on the force. I'm just
a concerned citizen, and I don't want to see you get hurt. If
you can stem a destructive tide, why not do so? I'm just looking
for some information --what do you know about Jerry Rabinovich?
[Even before Horehound finishes his question,
Carolyn is at the door, opening it, closing it, departing without
words or even a glance. It's hard to sympathize with her, really,
as we all know how many misunderstandings could be cleared up
with a frank exchange of viewpoints. I called the student discussed
above many times as the wee hours of the evening marched forth
into a lurid, obscene sunrise. 2:30. 2:45. 2:57. 3:01. 3:35.
4:16. 4:17. 4:18. 5:30. 5:33. Those were the times mentioned
in the written complaint, and I see no reason to dispute them.
I finally found distracted sleep, even with the sun's glare coursing
through my bedroom window. The window has morning sun, and while
in good times that's a selling point, I should confess that there
are times when all I want is darkness. To be left alone, trying
to figure out what's gone wrong.
Commercial break. Then we get shots of
emergency vehicles --firetrucks, cop cars, ambulances --hurtling
down suburban streets. A loud siren at the beginning of the scene,
the volume of which dips below conversational levels just as
Horehound starts talking.]
Horehound:
Often, people are careless about pulling to the side of the road
and yielding to emergency vehicles that need to pass --to save
lives. I had intended to get to class early on the evening of
Tuesday, January 21, but I noticed a motorist who refused to
yield to an ambulance on a call. It was my police reflexes, I
suppose, that triggered the following chain of events.
[Martial music here. No strings, just
horns and bombast, like John Philip Sousa on HGH. Horehound's
sedan plays doppelganger to the one he's trailing; each is an
identical washed-out metallic blue. As the song proceeds from
bar to bar, the cars speed up, even as Horehound maintains a
distance appropriate for the weather (sunny) and the rate of
travel. One car length every ten MPH. That is his way.]
Horehound:
After following the motorist closely for a number of minutes,
I was able to persuade him to pull over, at which time I exited
my car and directed the motorist to roll down his window.
[The scene proceeds as Horehound describes
it. The motorist is a dark-skinned, diminutive black man, a well-preserved
sixty year old. He rolls down the window with alacrity. This
is as good a time as any to talk about the aftermath.]
Motorist: Yes,
can I help you?
[By aftermath, I'm referring to the day
after the phone calls the student above accused me of making.
There are other aftermaths, to be sure, but for the sake of chronology
and accuracy of what stands as a public record of the whole sorry
affair, I'll bastardize the word for my own purposes.]
Horehound:
I don't want to step in where I don't belong, but I noticed a
shortcoming in your driving technique.
[As mentioned above, I slept fitfully,
never truly finding comfort. I got out of bed shortly before
10AM, and staggered to the bathroom to wet and comb my hair.
When immersed in the ritual of grooming, it occurred to me that
perhaps I should visit the student in question. Sometimes a visit
to someone's home to try to clear up a misunderstanding in person
is just the thing to smooth over rough patches. For the record,
just for those who are reading this document with an eye toward
digging for more material with which to assemble the text of
my vilification, it was and is Departmental policy to collect
index cards with each student's "contact information".
Contact information could be many things --email, phone numbers,
and, yes, addresses --and is intended for usage primarily when
a student is unable to fulfill the requirements of the class,
or when a student has missed some classes and needs assignment
information or other information pertinent to the course itself.
It was up to me to interpret Departmental policy as I saw fit.
If I had it to do again, I might have done a number of things
differently.]
Motorist:
My driving technique? Sir, is this some kind of joke?
[The face of the motorist is wrinkled,
in the manner of "sour" expressions the world over.
The visages of people whose coffee is too bitter, whose breakfast
omelet is served tepid and clammy, as mine was on the day after
the night of the close dancing and the phone calls I've regretted
since.]
Horehound: A
joke? Sure, if you think that not following the rules of the
road is a joke.
[Horehound here smiles in the superficially
warm manner of a 50s sitcom dad.]
Motorist: Apparently,
sir, your English isn't so good. I'm asking you to tell me what
you're talking about, because I certainly have no clue.
[I choked down a breakfast at a local
independent diner. A two-egg "Spanish Omelet" that
was about as Spanish as Stanley Fish tangoing. Bacon, not crisp
as has always been my preference, but soggy and grease-logged,
like the hair of the waitress who brought me these would be delicacies.
The toast was rank with unrequested butter, and even though there
was no great pleasure from the consumption of the meal, I ate
every bite nonetheless.]
Horehound: Let
me tell you what you did, sir, and then let's see if you find
it suitable for lampooning. An emergency vehicle came down the
street, behind you. Only you could control whether or not you
pulled to the side to let the vehicle pass.
[Even though I knew digestive discomfort
was imminent, I tipped between fifteen and twenty percent. The
gratuity stood as an acknowledgement of the work that has historically
gone into food service and preparation, more so certainly than
the sorry examples of those twained trades offered forth to me
on that day.]
Motorist: Are
you talking about that ambulance? That thing turned right when
it was still a block behind me!
[Horehound smiles a no-sell at the motorist,
suggesting that he's not listening to a damned thing coming from
his mouth.]
Horehound: Rather
than pull over, you opted to proceed, as if betting on the emergency
vehicle to proceed in a different direction. You risked lives!
[Horehound speaks these words like a
gunshot rendered in slow motion. He is implacable and convinced
of his essential correctness in this matter. I felt the same
sense of essential correctness as I idled outside the group house
in which she lived, smoking cigarettes and listening to the endless
loop of headline news on the radio. Try as I might, I could forge
no pretext to ring her doorbell. I tried to conjure what might
be going on in that house, in the living room, in her bedroom.
Especially her bedroom.]
Motorist: You
are a jive talking fool, you know that? What you trying to hustle
me for?
[The scriptwriting here as elsewhere
in the series, as elsewhere in the grand body of work that is
American television, relies on stereotypes. The spiky, pornographic
thrill of convenient representations. Bleach for white skin,
white teeth, white lies. Darkness magnified, caricaturized; blacks
Maumaued into jungle bunny poses, cloned, blurred faced dark
chocolate Easter bunnies. Stereotypes; the castor-oil of the
Silent Majority, sour but a failsafe panacea all the same.]
Horehound: Hustle? Now you listen to
me. I was just trying to help you out. To tell you that maybe
there's a better way to drive, a better way to live, than what
you might be familiar with in your community. Maybe you can show
some hope, and some faith in laws and what they're intended to
do....
[During those sentences, the motorist
rolls up his window and is driving away by the time Horehound
exhorts him to "show some hope." After squinting in
the direction of the departing domestic sedan, Horehound reaches
into his blazer pocket, pulls out a memo pad and pen, and jots
what can only be a tag number. Hope may sound corny to some,
especially those of my former colleagues who seemed to teach
only for the paycheck and the rank. But I knew very personally
the hope that comes when a student learns to think through problems
in a different way than before he met you. I know what it's like
to elevate people from a base level of ignorance brought on by
social conditioning, as letters written on my behalf in better
times indicate. I also know other hopes, and I know these as
sinister and depraved. A balled--up pair of faded, size 7 jeans
on the hardwood floor of a student flat, smelling of nightclub
smoke. Panties, white with a pattern of faded pastel flowers,
smelling of All--Temperature Cheer and birth, renewal, hope --all
those tropes, all those words I wrote on blackboards in chalk
or whiteboards in dry-erase marker. Words I scrawled, really,
thinking the whole time as I wrote them how much I would like
to run my tongue inside slits and forge goosebumps dynamic and
eternal like relief map mountains or phonebooth Braille. Hopes
to wake up next to women, any women, all women, women I've taught,
women who smile at me because they recognize quality. But those
hopes were snuffed like the ass-end of one of Horehound's smokes,
and as these missed opportunities filed out, term after term,
after closing their bluebooks and leaving them on the table at
which I sat, "proctoring", they always smiled flirtatiously
and left in their wake a bouquet of cosmetic-counter scents.
I was weak, but not evil. I was bound by desires no one could
reasonably expect to fill. In another time, in another place,
in an alternate realm where I had all my hair and I was more
than a mere Visiting Lecturer, the desires and the outcomes might
have been different.
The reliable traffic cloverleaf, for
spacing, then the exterior facade of the Night School, same as
before, same as it ever was. Walking in the door, we follow the
backview of Horehound as he walks down a deserted corridor, getting
smaller by the second. He opens the classroom door, and a din
of angry voices cuts out all at once. There is silence, heavy
as sausage gravy on a summer day. Then there is a cymbal crash,
and there are voices again, still angry, but newly individual.]
Goldwater:
The nerve of you!
[Here the man shakes his fist at Horehound,
and we get a brief look at a sadness in the eyes of our male
lead. Clearly, this scene is intended to symbolize the breach
of faith series auteur Grant Cameron believes exists between
the police and the citizenry. To understand that breach is akin
to understanding original sin, one might argue, or even akin
to understanding what happened to me. Why I was jettisoned. Why
I was not given a chance to explain myself. To explain the loneliness,
the desperation, that drove me to despicable acts. For they were
despicable. And for them I'm as sorry as I am alive.]
Black Nurse: How
are we supposed to trust you? What do you hope to accomplish
in our class?
[The camera pans to show a mutinous horde,
a night school class gone ugly as they so often do.]
Jerry: I
knew it about you. I knew it from the start. Narc.
[In the course of those few lines, Horehound's
expression ranges from flummoxed to enraged. He turns around
when he notices a manicured, explicitly feminine hand on his
shoulder. The music changes from confrontation to almost a lilting
holding pattern, for just a moment, for a bar or three. Horehound
wants to lean into her torso, to be encompassed by her singularly
Nordic sensuality. But then she steps back.]
Carolyn:
Riley wants to see you. In his office. Right now.
[Her face went cold, fossilized, like
that of Ayn Rand after sex that didn't quite work out. Horehound's
shoulders slumped as he trudged out the door, as he steeled himself
for another walk down that holocaustic corridor.]
Horehound:
I had an idea what had happened, but I didn't even want to voice
my concerns at that point. I was caught in the crossfire, yet
again. Not a crossfire of bullets, so much as a crossfire of
ideas.
[Here Horehound stops in the hallway
and lights one of his familiar Chesterfields, almost as if gearing
up for an extended soliloquy. I wonder what the chances are of
that happening....]
Horehound: To
be a Los Angeles Police Officer, one undergoes a lot of training
and testing. Psychological, physical, emotional, sure, but above
all testing of character. The candidate is asked and learns to
ask himself if he has what it takes to serve on the nation's
preeminent local police force. Often, the answer is no. Less
than five percent of all candidates who apply end up wearing
a uniform and patrolling a beat.
[Here he takes another drag. I think
of the post-firing jobs I've applied for. The ridiculous tests
I've undergone. In spite of myself, I feel a connection to this
two--dimensional TV cop. Then again, I've found myself crying
at long distance commercials and reaching orgasm watching women's
softball. My mind isn't right these days. Not all the time, anyway.]
Horehound:
So why does someone become a cop? Not for the fat paychecks.
Sure, if you salt away a dollar here and there, you might be
able to go on vacation. Just don't be dreaming of Paris. You
might be able to buy a house, though it won't be a mansion or
anything even close to that.
[A drag, then an ash. There are no windows
in the hall, and there is scant light. Just Horehound with his
scents: his sharp cologne, his smoke, the aftertaste of black
coffee on his breath. He walks until he reaches an office door,
wood with frosted glass, with the name Riley over the glass in
imperturbable black lettering.]
Horehound: So
why become a cop? There's the pleasure of a job well done. Sometimes.
There's the feeling that you're helping people, that you're making
a difference. But sometimes that too is fleeting. Sometimes you
can only give so much, until you start feeling taken.
[As Horehound takes another drag, the
office door opens, and Riley stands in the doorway, schoolmarmish,
hands on hips.]
Riley: Mister
Horehound --or should I call you Officer, or even Sergeant. Come
in for a second. We have some business to discuss.
[Riley's tone is what a hack journalist
would describe as "hectoring". Horehound takes a final
drag, then throws his cigarette to the tile and stomps it underfoot.]
Horehound: I
don't think so, Teach. Not today. Not today.
[Horehound turns and walks down that
schoolhouse hall for the last time as the strains of "Theme
From Concerned Citizen" blare from fifty million small screens
in sitting rooms. He shrinks as he approaches the light and as
names of tech people and supporting characters roll over his
back].
THE
END
Anthony Gancarski welcomes inquiries about CONCERNED CITIZEN at
Anthony.Gancarski@attbi.com.
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October 14,
2002
Harry Browne
Ireland:
No to War; No to Nice
Don Atapattu
The Tragedy of Alan Dershowitz
Linda Heard
So You
Think You Live in a Democracy?
Bob Feldman
Flashback: Inspecting Nuclear Israel
Adam Engel
The Anger
of Achilles
Anthony Gancarski
The
Washington Post and the Wal-Mart Way
Philip Farruggio
Sleepers
Harold Gould
Islamic
West Asia and US Foreign Policy:
A Tale of Strategic Self-Delusion
Dan Brook
An Open Letter to Barbara Lee
October 12
/ 13, 2002
Alexander
Cockburn
Vindication
Through Violence:
Jimmy Carter and the DC Sniper
Robert Jensen
The American
Political Paradox:
More Freedom, Less Democracy
Ben Tripp
Congratulations! It's a War!
Susan Davis
Proverbial
Wisdom:
Red!
David Krieger
A Bleak Day for America
Anis Shivani
George W. in Therapy
Ken Paff
Where Do Hoffa's Tactics Belong in a Mob-Free Teamsters?
Carol Norris
The Politics of Fear
Elaine Cassel
The Lynne Stewart Case:
When Representing an Accused Terrorist Can Land a Lawyer in Jail
Musa AlShaer
Scenes
from an Occupied Wedding
Anthony Gancarski
Concerned Citizen: a serialized
novel (Episode 3)
M. Shahid
Alam
I Will Fight Your Enemies
October 11,
2002
Jeffrey St.
Clair
Montana
Fusion
Steve Kelly's Wild Ride for Congress
Ralph Nader
Whirlwind
Wheelchair Intl.
Anthony Gancarski
Stayin'
Alive: Notes on Facials and Saving Face
Romi Mahajan
What
War Means to the Iraqi People
Uri Avnery
Israel:
the Jewish Demographic State?
Francis Boyle
Bush's
Banana Republic
Lee Sustar
Taft-Hartley,
Bush and the Dock Workers
Katherine
van Wormer
Dry Drunk
Syndrome and George W. Bush
Jerre Skog
The Blessings
of Growth:
The Greatest Deception of All Time
October 10,
2002
Elson E. Boles
Iraq and
Chemical Weapons:
The US Connection
Senator Russ Feingold
"Confused Justifications and
Vague Proposals": Why I Oppose Bush's War Resolution
William A.
Cook
What Bush
Didn't Tell the UN:
The Case Against Israel
Jorge Mariscal
Chicanos
and Chicanas Say:
"No a la Guerra"
Norman Madarasz
Rio's
Holiest View:
Brazilian Elections 2002
Amir Boroomand
Just
Nod, Please
Fedwa Wazwaz
Falwell,
Graham & Friedman:
Religious Extremism in America
Kurt Nimmo
Condoleezza
Rice at the Waldorf Astoria
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