"What do you mean?"
"Well..." He wrinkled his eyebrows a little, then pushed his hat back on his forehead with his thumb. He always does that when he's nervous. "I just think you're throwing it away. You're special. You can communicate with people--people you agree with, people you disagree with."
"But I still do that."
"Not as well. I don't like the company you're keeping these days, Tom. Let's face it: By their standards, you're a pretty boring guy. You don't drink, you don't screw, you're never out that late. Always back home to your 'folks.' And that's fine. That's good and noble. But..." He paused for a minute, bit his lip, and looked me squarely in the eyes. "But the moonbats don't respect that."
"I haven't really caught any flak about it before..."
"Yeah, but they're loose people, Tom. Loose men, loose women-- Hey, mind if I smoke?"
I smiled. "'Course not."
He lit a pungent cigarillo. I've never smoked, never wanted to smoke, but I like the smell of cigars. When other people are smoking them. He took a few deep puffs, then looked down, pausing thoughtfully.
"Tom, I ever tell you that they're the subset?"
"I'm sorry?"
"They're the subset, Tom. You're the superset."
"I don't get it." I always hate it when he talks like this, because I knew he was about to explain something to me in a way that would make me feel really stupid. He's a brilliant guy, in every sense of the word. I like to think I'm pretty smart, but I don't have the kind of natural grasp of things, the natural genius, that he does.
"Tom, in mathematics, a subset is a category. Let me give you an example. The religious right."
"Jeez, Luce, I'm flattered already."
He grinned. "Oh, I know how much you love those guys, Tom. But it's relevant here. The religious right... Up until 1980, they were off doing their own thing. The Republicans--fiscal conservatives, state's rights people--were basically off doing their own thing. But then..."
"Reagan."
"Exactly." He smiled, tipping the end of his cigarillo on the ashtray as he bent to sit down. "Reagan. Reagan was the superset that united the subsets. Four million evangelical voters, Tom. FOUR MILLION. And the Republican Party has pretty much owned the White House ever since. Well, people like you, you're like liberal Reagans, Tom. You can see the big picture. And there aren't as many of you. There aren't as many as there used to be."
"Thanks." I meant it. It was a sincere compliment--or at least a compliment I agreed with. No, no, I'm sure it was sincere. "But I still have lots of conservative friends--"
"And some of my best friends are black." His lips tightened, and his blue eyes turned icy. "Let's get serious here. You're taking sides." He stood up, but I didn't feel threatened. I knew it was a subconscious gesture; he always stood up when he was about to give a speech.
"I'm taking my own side, Luce."
"You're a LAPDOG! A f--" he stopped and turned his head to the side, realizing that someone might hear him curse. A faint ironic smile flashed across his lips before they tightened again. "You're a damn lapdog. You're being pushed around by all these activists. You're not thinking clearly. You're not thinking for yourself."
"No, I'm thinking for myself. I don't know how to do anything else."
"Oh, I know you don't mean to be a lapdog, Tom." He snuffed out the cigarillo and sat back down. "But it's the culture. The culture is starting to affect you. The people you hang around with on the left--they're not like you. They drink. They sleep around. Hell, a good number of them probably smoke pot. And they have no credibilty. They're going nowhere. Just living their lives idly, from pleasure to pleasure, until they die."
I started to get annoyed, because I recognized the old pattern. Luce and I went as far back as I could remember, and this was something that I knew went with the territory: He liked to try to draw a wedge between me and other people. I hate this about Luce. But it keeps me honest, right?
I looked down for a second at my coffee. It was close to room temperature by now--that's what happens when I drink coffee out with friends. It gets cold by the time I remember it's there. "Luce...," I paused, measuring my words carefully. "Luce, they're good people, most of them are. They're not really all that wild. Liberal activists, Luce? A cup of chamomile and a nice Stephen Ambrose book. Half the time that's their wild and crazy night. Every now and then-- but what's wrong with that? Look, I'm not all that great. I don't do that because I'm a pretty boring guy. I'm a homebody. I like a structured life. I like comfort. I'm not very experience-oriented. If I was more like that, I'd probably be pretty wild, too."
Luce smiled. "No, you wouldn't." He stared at me for a moment and enjoyed the uncomfortable silence. "Tom, why do you think they're pro-choice?"
"Because they don't think the government should--"
"Bullshit!" He wasn't angry anymore. He was smiling. "They don't like accountability. Women, whoring themselves out every pause in the conversation, every chance they get, filling up their meaningless lives with pleasure. And if they get pregnant? Abort! The beautiful young things--"
He flipped his hands effiminately for emphasis, irritating me, then continued. "The beautiful, precious young things of the San Francisco bathhouses. They screw each other. And if they get AIDS? They want a cure! Welfare queen over in west Jackson, never worked a day in her damn life, six kids, wants a seventh. Why? Uncle Sam's gonna write her a bigger check! One of her boys idolizes thugs all his damn life, wears his pants so low he could put a catheter on his iPod, shoots up a sweet old lady and a cop, but no death penalty for him, nossir. Clemency! After all, it's not his fault! Not her fault either! So whose fault is it, Tom? Whose fault? Why, we're straight white boys, Tom, so I guess it's ours!"
I didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. "You can't tell me that if you weren't born in a different family, you wouldn't do the same thing."
"And why can't I? You think we're all machines? Personal responsibility, Tom. Accountability. Rise above it or sink with it. You want to create a world where everybody's taken care of? Then you'll create a world where nobody takes care of himself. You know why people eat, Tom? Because they'd starve if they didn't. And they sweat because they'd die of heatstroke if they didn't. But why work? Why pull your pants up, put your gun down, and take charge of your life when the government is gonna take care of you?"
"We don't need a 'reason' to take care of people, Luce. People are people. If they don't matter, we don't, either."
"They matter if they make their lives matter." He got serious. "Tom, I talk to a lot of liberals in my line of work. You're special, but you're nothing special. The country's half full of people like you who just want to pick up Tookie Williams and cuddle him when they should be screaming to fry the bastard. Where's the outrage? Where's the accountability? What's the point of being a good person? Because you're a good person, Tom. A really good person. Too good for this."
I got annoyed. Luce's flattery never bodes well. "I'm not good, Luce. Just lucky. Just like you're lucky you're not the pregnant woman, the guy with AIDS, the 'welfare queen,'" I said, making airquotes, "the young man... Because you run this whole society into the ground for everybody else, don't you? You and me. Comfortable white boys. All we ever look out for is number one."
"No, Tom." Luce sighed. "Problem is that there aren't enough of you looking out for number one. And one day, that's going to come back to bite you. I'm worried, Tom. I'm worried that if you people keep turning into moonbats, you'll stop listening to me."
"I stopped listening to to you a long time ago, Luce," I grinned, slapping him on the back. He chuckled as he stood to leave, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"Tom, this is so sad. So incredibly sad. We're just a couple of good old boys, same culture, same upbringing. We're all basically just alike, aren't we? But you're not looking out for yourself. I wish you'd do that. Be gentle with Tom Head. He's a good guy. Stop worrying about all these other people who won't take care of themselves. Don't turn into a moonbat." He looked at me, pleadingly. "You have any idea how many friends I lost last year? I can't hold the fort alone. Everybody's turning soft, or going to prison, or..."
"Okay, Luce, I'll try." I felt sorry for the poor guy, because I could tell his pain was real. "Hey, give me a call when you're back in town?"
"Of course!" He smiled and straightened his hat, then tucked his forked tail back under his coat as he turned to walk away.
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