News from Patriot States of America—3
Everybody knew Colonel Pergell was defined by one word: clarity. The man was a crusader, a warrior. Say what you mean—not sort of, but exactly. Cut to the chase and spit it out. Such a simple thing to ask, he would say, and in fact did say, several thousand times a day—and still, examples of verbal clarity out there in the chattering world were few and far between. All that mushiness rubbed the colonel the wrong way.
Because he wasn’t really listening for content, but clarity, he didn’t care much about what you or anybody said, as long as you said it, whatever it was, clearly. If you had something to get off your chest, come clean. Cut through the bullshit and tell it like it is. Life was too short to worry about anybody’s feelings, including your own. If something made you anxious or gave you pain, he preached, deal with it and grow a pair because anxiety and pain were God’s way of telling you you were on the wrong track, and to shape up or ship out.
Of course he was an ex-military man turned language arts teacher in a PSA high school, and his fearsome reputation pervaded the campus. If you got in Colonel Pergell’s class you had better be prepared to say what you meant. He had no—absolutely zero—patience with beating around the bush or pussy-footing.
* * *
So you can imagine how nervous I was when the day of my midterm speech came. Just a podium, Colonel Pergell, a terrorized class, and me.
I will admit I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to say, but something inside me was trying to get out, and though I knew the risks, I wanted to try and understand what it was. I had also practiced breathing.
“What is your talk on, Mr. Swinson?” Colonel Pergell asked as I took my place behind the podium.
“Hope,” I said.
“Hope,” he repeated, with a touch of ex-military sarcasm.
“Yes sir. The role of hope in a meaningless existence.”
“Good God almighty, is that wussy-shit the best you could come up with?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, but what you’re saying doesn’t tell me anything. Are you trying to say you get what you pay for?”
Just breathe. “I didn’t think I was.”
“That’s your first mistake: thinking. A gateway drug.”
“To what, sir?”
“To unclarity.”
“Yes sir.” Good God, I hadn’t even gotten past the title yet.
“Proceed. And keep it clear. If you don’t, we’ll stay here all day until you do.”
“Yes sir.” I cleared my throat. “It is the innate responsibility of every PSA citizen to cultivate a positive attitude . . . ”
“Innate responsibility? Cultivate a positive attitude? What the hell are you talking about? Are you trying to say pay the fiddler and look on the bright side?”
“I guess . . . ”
“You guess? Guess? Do you think you can guess and talk turkey at the same time?”
“Probably not. Sorry.”
“If you mean don’t cry over spilled milk, say so.”
“Yes sir.”
“Keep going.”
I tried to recover my train of thought. “Uh—”
“Never. Say. Uh. How many times have we been around that block? Get on with it.”
“Yes sir. Since life has no intrinsic meaning . . . ”
“If you’re trying to say the meaning of life is not dyed in the wool, say so.”
“Sorry. Who else but us can provide that meaning?”
“I don’t think it’s possible to be more namby-pamby. If you’re trying to say if the shoe fits, wear it, by God just say so.”
“Yes sir. There’s no one else who can do it for us, so we should accept the challenge . . . ”
“Are you trying to say don’t pass the buck?”
“I guess so.”
“Then say it! Holy bejesus, are you half Blue? Turning something simple into something complicated? Muddying the water? Throwing up a smoke screen?”
“I wasn’t trying to . . .”
“Trying is for Blue weenies. Don’t try—just do it.”
“Yes sir. Sometimes we can be seduced by something that looks reasonable . . .”
“If you mean all that glitters isn’t gold, say all that glitters isn’t gold.”
“All that glitters isn’t gold.”
“First clear thing I’ve heard you say.”
“And we have to remain vigilant . . . ”
“Do you mean keep your eyes peeled and look before you leap?”
“Probably.”
“Probably is for Blue faggots. Did you ever consider saving the drama for your mama?”
“No sir—I mean, yes sir.”
“Where’d you do your military service, Swinson?”
“Two years at Fort Forrest . . . ”
“Didn’t they teach you to get down to brass tacks and pull no punches?”
“I’m sure they must have.”
“A lesson you obviously didn’t take to heart and embrace with open arms.”
“I must not have. Anyway, in the end we have to realize sometimes we’re forced to improvise . . . ”
“Play it by ear?”
“Yes sir. And when we feel we’re alone and there’s no one but ourselves to . . . ”
“If the shoe fits, wear it?”
“Yes sir. And other times we realize we can’t handle everything at once, but must . . . ”
“Cross that bridge when we come to it?”
“Yes sir. Exactly. And try not to waste time fighting the inevitable . . . ”
“Go with the flow?”
“And stay in a state of readiness . . . ”
“Be at our battle stations.”
“And remember that the situation we’re in is so perplexing all we can do is look inside ourselves for the good faith we need . . . ”
“Roll with the punches and give it our best shot?”
“Well put, sir.”
“It’s called clarity. Take a stab at it sometime. By the way, Swinson, everything you’re saying is subversive. I’ll overlook it this time, but my advice is to clean up your act and toe the line. This isn’t Disney World—it’s the Patriot States of America.”
“I’ll endeavor to do better, sir.”
“Endeavor, my ass. Get it done.”
October 12, 2023