So we were sitting around last week, the three of us--me, Chicken Little, and The Boy Who Cried Wolf. Chicken was nervous, like he usually is. Kept checking his pocket for his ID in case he got carded. It's a little sad; the guy's like 57. His carding days are long behind him. But he's all about careful. I can get him to drink one Gin Ricky. That's the extent of his loosening up over the years. But its a joy to watch him drink it--to see him unbend for just a moment and take his eyes off the ceiling. It's like watching Atlas shrug.
Wolf Boy has no such trouble. He starts in, with the whole "you got something on your cheek, nope still there" thing, and in spite of myself, I'm trying to see myself in the window until he cracks a smile. Then five minutes later he'll start in again. It's all about the running gag with him, about having a good time. But, just when I'm determined to ignore him, I scrape a cheek and come back with a fleck of the nachos we've been chowing down.
Like it always seems to, the conversation turns to the economy. CL has been saying things are bad for a long time now. He even has something of a following. They spend the weekends checking inventory in their bunkers and cleaning weapons. Wolfie, on the other hand, has his own radio talk show. He loves Chicken Little, even as he continues to toy wth him. And why not? He's making a fortune. And the wolf rears his head just often enough to keep everyone from dismissing him as a crank. Lately, he too has been talking about how bad things are, how the national debt is crushing us. He swears this time he really means it, and that, if we don't wake up, the Chicken Littles of this world will be all that's left to inherit the Earth. He's been talking about an America in decline.
So why do I care? Chicken Little is a crackpot, always has been. He's spent so much time burrowing underground, that he's made almost no effort to prop the sky up. His world view is not simply about his fear that the sky is falling, it requires the sky to fall. Nothing he does makes any sense until that actually happens. And the Boy Who Cried Wolf is even worse--a vulture who gets a special thrill out of pronouncing the worst, just to watch them come running. And when it really does strike, he can take credit for prophecy.
Here's my problem: I agree with them. I have my own reasons. Frankly, I just call them like I see them. But it's frustrating when you don't much care for the company you keep. Chicken's ok. Too nervous, but mostly well intentioned. I can't say that for everyone in his bunker though. A few of them aren't just readying a defense; they're choosing targets...just in case. Wolf Boy is just detestable, though I wish I had a little of his charisma.
The problem is, I blend right in with this crowd, and can be dismissed just as easily. I had a moment once, but that was a long long time ago. Then, as now, I called it like I saw it. Once the pandemonium started, people were too busy going crazy to pay any attention to me. They were running in every direction, afraid that the lie they had allowed themselves to believe for so long would visit them again in the form of the Emperor's judgement. But they had little to fear from him; As they scattered, he stood there for a moment, embarassed and afraid--of me--the little boy who told the world he was naked. Then he marched on. Like nothing was happening.
<sigh> So what could I do? I bought another round. And hoped, (though I didn't believe it) that we were all wrong, for a little while longer.
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