DITTOHEAD
by Jonathan Lowe
"What'll it be, bud?" the bartender asks me.
"How 'bout a Bud ... Light," I say.
I pick up the channel changer from the bar and tune the overhead TV from ladies mud wrestling to a local news report. As I do so a big tattooed biker in a tank top slowly stands behind me.
"Hey --"
"Hey yourself," I say with a wink.
"-- you!"
The biker steps up behind me now, and I reach into my pocket and without looking back hold out a $20 bill. He stops, stunned, and takes the money. I'm still staring at the screen, where a newscaster is saying that the final vote was ninety-eight to two against the line-item veto. In other news, the EPA has just banned the latest CFC replacement, drawing fire from representatives in southwestern states already struggling for energy since the last ban. As a side note, the ceiling fan business is booming in Phoenix and El Paso, and it's hot even here, in Missouri.
"It's worse than I thought," I say, now watching a commercial for Honkey Kong Condoms, followed by a phalanx of government promopops -- Department of Bankruptcy & Suicide, Immigration & Nationalization, and something called the Discrimination Bureau, specializing in all kinds of favoritism whether racial, sexual, verbal, animal, vegetable, or mineral.
I give up and change the thing back to mud wrestling, drawing cheers from the bar's patrons. The bartender sets a beer in front of me, which I sip and then spit out.
"This is warm!" I complain.
"What'd you expect?"
I lay a $10 bill on the counter and turn away.
"Hey, I can't accept this," the bartender says.
"Why not?"
"Well, it's too much. I'm over my tip limit. You want the IRS to throw me in the slammer?"
"They wouldn't do that."
"Wanna bet? My wife's in prison right now. Made way too much as a waitress ... fifteen thousand ... she's got big breasts. I miss her."
"I'll bet."
"An' I'll bet you work for the IRS too ... ya got that evil eye."
I shake my head. "Can you keep a secret?" I lift my wig to reveal that I'm bald. "I'm the President of the United States."
The bartender laughs. He thinks that's funny. Then his eyes narrow. "Hey, if you are him, whatta you doin' here? You here for a drink on the House, or the Senate?" He snickers, thinks that's funny too.
I hold out my executive Gold Card and Presidential ID. The bartender takes it, stares at the embossed photo of me seated in the Oval Office. "I ran away this morning," I tell him. "Came straight here. But you'd never believe why."
"Hey, that's you," the bartender says.
"You're right, it is. And I got me a stolen Harley belongs to some Congressman right outside ... and I'm on the lam."
"No shit."
"Yup. I'm looking for a guy was once on the radio, name of Rush Limbaugh. Used to live in this town. So you seen him in here, or what?"
The bartender gives me his best cheese-eating grin, then a light bulb seems to turn on behind his eyes. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "Hey, if you're really the Prez, where's the Secret Service?"
"Shhhhhh," I breathe, turning away. "It's a secret." Now I climb up on top of the nearest table. It sways, and I regain my balance. "Hey! Everybody!" I yell. "Anybody seen Rush Limbaugh? There's a reward if you can tell me when."
"Last night?" one man guesses.
"Last week?" says another.
A hooker leans forward into a circle of light. "Last Thursday, eight p.m.," she says, lighting up a cigarette as the other jealous patrons eye her long, white cancer stick. "He stiffed me ... on my full fee."
I step down and lead her outside, using a $50 bill as bait.
"What did he say?" I say.
"He said, 'ohhhhhhhh baaaby.' "
"Besides that. Did you find out where he lives?"
She grins from the side of her mouth. "Gruntsville ... it's somewhere in Moantana. Know what I mean?"
I shake my head. "Come here often?"
"He did -- for a little while."
"And if you had to find him again, could you?"
She grabs at my money, misses it by a hair. "What kinda game you playin'? He owe you money too?" I shake my head. Her eyes turn even harder. "He's an evader, huh. An' you a Fed."
"Yeah," I say. "I'm a Fed, all right. Ever since last night. But I'm also a Dittohead."
"A what?"
"A Limbaugh fan. A faithful listener to his radio show ... biggest in the country ... hell, in the world. I read every book he wrote, watched his TV show, bought his gold-signature coffee mug, his videos, his newsletter. The works."
"Sure," she says. "Sure you did." She holds out her hand. "Name's Bambi."
I take her hand, not sure what to do with it other than check the cool, damp palm. "Bambi. Can you help me or what?"
We walk over to my motorcycle below a billboard that reads: EQUALITY FOR ALL -- EVEN YOU. In small print below the big print it reads: Paid for by Your Generous Tax Contributions.
Bambi says, "Nobody can help you, man."
"What if ... you'd be helping your country?" She laughs, so I hold up a $100 bill. And she stops laughing. "Or are you over your limit too?" I ask her.
Getting on the back of my Harley, she snatches the money and says: "Tell ya a little secret. I don't report everything."
I gun the engine, then lift my wig for her. "Neither do I," I say.
When she puts her hand into my hip pocket and starts pinching me, I slow down. Then she points up toward an overpass where a row of huge cardboard boxes is wedged between the road and the concrete grade. And I stop.
"His house is third from the left," she tells me. I look at her and she shrugs. "Used to do charity work."
As we walk to the top, several shelter residents peer out from behind the sheets covering their cardboard homes. One old man points a gun at my crotch.
"Oh," he says, seeing Bambi. "It's sweet cheeks ..."
Bambi lowers her hands. "Is that thing real?"
The old man examines his "weapon," smiling through his rotting teeth. "Wouldn't be livin' here if it was, would I?"
We go to residence number three. It has a big #3 over the makeshift cardboard lintel in grease pencil. Bambi knocks. "Hello ... Rush?"
A voice booms from inside. "Go away, I gave at the office." The flap opens. At the sight of us, he shuts the flap, then opens it again slowly. In shock, he mutters, "Who ..."
"It's a wig," I say. "Rush, we need to talk."
* * *
We're sitting on spotted cushions made of torn blue vinyl. With light from the raised flap above us I can see that the walls are decorated with old Time magazine covers ... Reagan, Bush, Clinton, then me. There are no bumper stickers reading Dittohead Until I'm Dead or Rush Rules, but on the shopping cart in the corner a plaque reads: Just Say No To Government Waste.
"Look," I say, "it's not what you think."
"So what do you think?" Rush asks fearfully.
"I think you're a little thin," I say. "Must be your diet lately."
"What diet is that?" Rush asks me.
I shake my head and briefly close my eyes. I can almost see the old Rush at his desk ... the rotund Rush -- brazen, fat, and sassy -- delivering his diatribes with a lusty and humorous elan. The Rush that sits before me now is emaciated and nervous, reduced to trudging the city in search of beer cans, taking in laundry, and investing in a diversified portfolio of Uncle Sam's lottery tickets and food coupons. It is a Rush that didn't exist until I came along, and the guilt I feel is heavy.
"It's worse than I thought," I confess. "If it weren't for me you'd be a star right now, smoking imported cigars and dining at places like Brennan's and The Four Seasons."
"What kinda joke --"
"No joke. You should be up there on the cover of Time, not me."
Bambi starts to get up. "Hey, this is too kinky for me," she says.
I grab her arm. "Let me explain."
"You do that."
I tell them about the UFO, and how it landed in a field right next to my house in Cape Gerardo the previous night. They sit there staring at me like I'm a wacko, except they can't get away from the fact that I'm also President of the United States.
"That's it," says Bambi, reaching her threshold. She hands me my embossed ID back. "I'm outta here."
"No, wait! I didn't mean that. It's not what you think."
Bambi sighs. "Was it a UFO or wasn't it?"
"Yes and no. Well, yes ... but maybe not." Rush is examining my ID now. "Look, I don't know what the hell it was. It didn't come down from the sky, it just appeared. Opened up, like from another dimension or something."
She laughs. "So what happened, some little green men --"
"No, no, see, it was more like a crystal, a light, and a feeling."
"A feeling?" Rush asks me. “A feeeeeeling.”
"Power. It gave me a power."
"What kind of power?"
"Random power. Over everything. Like God. It focused on me, and flowed into me. Then it vanished. Like a singularity, a black hole."
Rush nods thoughtfully, a gleam of jealousy in his right eye. "So what happened?"
"I ... ah ... I felt powerful. And I wished I was President. I know it's hard to believe. Kinda like a White House press briefing."
"Who?" Bambi clucks, then adds: "You're as nutty as I am, 'cause I voted for you." She puts both hands to her head. "What got into me?"
"I did," I say, "evidently. I became President, and the power was used up. Or almost used up."
Rush leans forward. "What do you mean, almost?"
Bambi clucks again. "This is nuts."
"No, it's not ... not to me, don't you see? I changed history in that instant for everyone but me. I remember it because at that instant I thought it might be nice to be able to look back at myself too, dumb workin' stiff that I was, and remember how I once was." I spread my hands. "It was just a stupid wish. Step on a crack."
Rush is aghast now. "My mother, she had a fall. Broke her back."
"Like I said, the power isn't all used up. I couldn't help it. Ever heard of Elvis Presley?"
I watch them stare, then shake their heads in ignorance.
"See?" I say.
"See what?" replies the ghastly thin and mousy Rush.
"I did away with rap music too, and, I'm sorry to say, Mozart."
"Who?"
"But I think it's okay now. The power is mostly gone, and if there's any left I'd have to really concentrate to use it."
"What'd ya call it?" Bambi asks. "A ... singu ..."
"Singularity. Something known science can't explain. Like black holes." I cross my fingers. "Now comes the unbelievable part."
They look at each other, then back at me. I try to smile.
Of course they didn't see anything wrong with the signs carried by the homeless, either. They didn't see the humor in WILL WORK FOR VEGETARIAN FOOD, or AMNESTY FOR SERIAL KILLERS, or SAVE CAVIAR, or even the long one: STRANDED IN TOWN, WIFE RUN OVER BY BUS, AM DYING OF AIDS VACCINE -- AND TODAY IS ONLY TUESDAY. Come to think of it, I don't see the humor much myself. Not anymore.
I tried to explain that it wasn't like this in the sane world I remember. I told Rush how I used to listen to him on the radio, and how because of that the next President will be from the communist party, with no more elections. And how they're patterning it after the old Soviet Union, all because of me.
"You?" says Rush, dumbfounded.
"I listened to you too much, see? I was a dittohead, labeled a wacko. And I wasn’t even a member of the N.R.A. or a militia. No sacks of fertilizer in my garage. No AK-47s and year's supply of K rations. But I had an imagination, though, see. And now my worst fears have come true. So apparently the next Congress will be a Politburo, and this morning when I found out how insignificant I am to stop it, I came to find you for help."
Bambi rubs her eyebrows. "Les' see if I got this right, now. Ya were like God, and now yer the President, and this fool here was yer hero, and so now you wanna change the world back to the way it used ta be before ya changed it to begin with ... and nobody but you knows any of this is true. Have I got it?"
She waits for my response. I nod. She hangs her head.
"So what do we do?" asks Rush. "And may I call you Bubba?"
They follow me down to the Harley, where I rummage in the saddlebag for a cellular phone. "You could go on living like this," I warn as I dial. "That's the alternative." Into the phone I say: "Need a cab at the Grant Road overpass." Then I put the phone away and hand Bambi more slush fund cash. "When you get home I want you to try finding those people I mentioned."
"Let's see ... Bill Bennett and Gordon Liddy and ..."
"Newt. As in eye of newt."
I get on the bike. Rush climbs on the back. Bambi sticks the money in her cleavage as I start up.
"What if that guy Buckley isn't at the work farm anymore?" she asks.
"Cross your fingers," I say. "We'll be in touch ..."
Rush grins as I gun the engine. "What's the plan?" he shouts in my ear.
"Who knows," I reply. "We gotta find Bill Buckley, he'll know what to do. Maybe get him to come back to Washington, help me do my State of the Union speech. It's the only thing that might save us from all this."
"Oh, okay," he replies, patting my saddlebag. "I go where the money is."
Traffic is light. A sign on the highway says gas is ahead, $5.50 a gallon. Rush rubs my skull like a genie's bottle and yells in my ear to pull over.
"Gimme a ten for snacks," he insists. "You wanna save the world, I can't do it on an empty stomach."
I pull in for a fill up. When Rush is inside I ask the attendant: "You ever heard of the Brady Work Farm? They tell me William F. Buckley Jr. is there." The attendant points at my wig. "Kinda crooked," he says, then: "Yeah, it's two hundred miles east, give or take. Who's William F. Buckley Jr.?"
"Dissident."
"Oh yeah, right. That guy had a magazine before the non-recyclable paper ban. What was the name of it? Wackos Illustrated?" The attendant stares down at the wad of bills I take out of my pocket. "Reckon you need a sidecar for your friend? Got one out back, and it's for sale if the money is right."
"I should need it," I said, "but I don't. Thanks anyway."
Rush comes back out, frowning. "They're outta snacks," he says. "What do we do now -- hunt for rabbit? Dog?"
Three hours later I run over a cattle crossing, brake hard, and almost hit a bull. It wakes Rush up, and he points to the sign just ahead: BRADY WORK FARM -- Environmental Sensitivity Permit #107AX4.
When I see the brand on some of the cows the bull is protecting, I tell Rush it's worse than I thought.
"What did it say?" he asks.
"Beware of methane gas."
We pass under an arch with another sign on it next to the Brady mailbox: WORK MAKES FREE. Then a guard house. A man with an AK-48 steps out.
"Which way to the work farm?" I ask him.
He points with his assault rifle. "Straight ahead one mile, hang a left at the Farm Aid stage. And keep it under twenty or else."
We pass along a dirt road through a field of corn. A sign on the right reads: DESIGNATED FOR RUSSIAN COMMONWEALTH. On the left the sign reads: FOR JAPAN. And when we come to a barren field the sign is: SET ASIDE AS HABITAT FOR THE ENDANGERED WHITE FLY.
"I can't believe this," I say.
"Well," Rush replies, "at least there's something you can't believe."
We pass a muddy field with a sign reading ENDANGERED WETLANDS SEIZED BY ARMY CORP OF ENGINEERS. Next to the muddy field is a corral where a band of listless people are milling about like zombies. Several of the people are drinking water from a trough. A sign on the adjacent barn reads: FEDERAL HOMELESS ECO-SHELTER. And the building next to it is a NASA INTELLIGENT LIFE RESEARCH FACILITY. I get off the bike, taking the saddlebags with me.
"You can't be serious," says Rush.
"Ask not what your country can do for you," I reply.
A dinner gong sounds as we enter the corral, and Rush rushes to get in line. A fat cook hands us rusted metal trays. "No talking," he says.
"Why no talking?" I whisper to the couple in front of us. She points to the cook's tee shirt. On the back it reads: COMPLAINTS TO THE COOK CAN GET YOU DRAWN AND QUARTERED.
At the front of the line a glob of green goo is slapped on our trays.
"Excuse me," I say, boldly. "What's this?"
"Gloup," the server tells me, glancing fearfully back at the cook. "Creamed wheat and recycled soup. Gloup. Got a complaint?"
We shake our heads and move on, following the elderly couple into a far corner of the corral. "You're new here," the man whispers.
"We can't leave," the woman adds.
"What?" I hold my hand over Rush's mouth, and smile in the direction of the cook. I notice he packs a 9mm with a silencer.
"We're the Bradys," the man says without moving his lips. "This is our farm."
...
widez2