EMPIRE OF ILLUSION
The engine was dead, rendering not even a weak chirp, and I immediately knew why—the combination of a dark storm requiring headlights in the afternoon, and Chris Hedges discussing “The Empire of Illusion” and “ruthless totalitarian capitalism.” I meant to turn the lights off but Chris Hedges’ incendiary message on the radio had the impact of the hell fire and brimstone deliverance of a Southern Baptist preacher and had wiped out all frivolous, short term memories. When I locked my car, the “remember to turn off lights” brain cells had been replaced with all the ways that my life has been co-opted by capitalism, the many places that I’ve been branded.
Act II was dinner in the cozy cottage with a fire going and conversation about Thanksgiving, family, relationships, music, food, death and shoes. The storm carried on outside knocking bird feeders against the house and rearranging the yard, while we ate, drank and got lost in conversation. Right before we left, I told my friends about a dream I’d had about a man named Finn. When it was time to go, we stepped into the night with a sky swept clean, beefy clouds scurrying, 30 foot walnuts, London Planes, redwoods swaying in the final gusts of an early winter storm. Many of the houses and plants on this sleepy, dead-end street were already adorned with Christmas lights. Nothing garish requiring mega kilowatts, just simple strings of lights around doors and roof lines, here a menorah in the window, there a peace sign over the garage, all mirror imaged in the slick, wet earth.
Walking down the street to the car under a canopy of massive London Planes, I began to mentally make the transition from Marin County to my more urban digs across the Richmond Bridge. The dead battery pulled me back to thoughts about capitalism and the responsibilities of possessions. I trudged back to the house to call emergency road service for a jump. In a matter of minutes, the evening’s stage set had shifted to closing time. The fire was out and all the lights were on in the kitchen where my friend was cleaning up.
The Geico dispatcher boomed at me through the phone like a burly linebacker, asking for the usual account #, vehicle info, and, “Are you SAFE?” Then he put me on hold while he searched for someone available to provide service. He returned to update me a few times, always shouting, “Are you SAFE?,” and waiting until I answered before putting me on hold again. I always said, “Yes, I’m safe!” and then thought, “unless you consider the fresh batch of Snickerdoodles that’s within easy reach.” Finally, the dispatcher found someone closer than New Jersey available for a jump and connected us to provide directions. The guy sounded like he’d been interrupted from a sound sleep and asked for explicit directions because he didn’t want to go out to his truck to fire up the GPS. My friends joked that the tow truck driver was going to show up wearing Carhartt’s with a FINN name patch.
I waited in my car for the tow truck, feeling oddly at peace, remarkably willing to be with the truth of the situation. Not wishing it away, my typical inclination. I rolled down the window, breathed in the fresh, cold air. With no car radio, there was no auxiliary sound track, only the velvety silence of the neighborhood. Although not later than 9 PM, every house on the street appeared tucked in for the night. I felt simultaneously small and gigantic, a mere speck in the universe, securely bound to all other specks. I sensed nature invisibly seething around me and and stretching to including me.
Headlights approached from the end of the block. As they crept slowly closer, it was apparent that they were attached to a vehicle much smaller than my Honda. The little blue sports car pulled up along side my car, “Are you waiting for a tow?”
“Are you the tow truck?”
“Well, yes and no.” He positioned his car nose-to-nose with mine and got out. He was dressed for a leisurely evening at home, this activity clearly not on his agenda. No coveralls embroidered with FINN.
I waited for some explanation but he went straight to the task of attaching jumper cables. Within minutes my engine was roaring and ready to go. He removed the cables and said, “You’re good to go,” and slid into the driver’s seat of his car.
“Don’t you want to see some ID or have me sign a receipt or something?,” I asked.
He hesitated for a minute, “Nope. Nope, that’s not necessary.”
“Who are you; where's your tow truck?” they seemed like reasonable questions.
There was a long silence in which he seemed to be censoring his answer, “It’s a long story. I’m a free agent, but I get the big bucks for this,” the sentence dangled. He waved as he drove off. It could have been my eye site or the dark, but I think his license plate read “MPRILSN.”
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