Philip Rappa: Oh-Sum-Bodies-Been-Lying

One nightmare followed by yet another, 278th to be exact since September 11th. In my 277th, I'm dressed as Paul Revere, in full gallop atop a great steed racing through downtown, Saint Augustine, America's oldest city. I'm yelling at the top of my lungs, "The New World Order is coming! The New World Order is coming! It's a call to arms, defend the Constitution, defend The Bill of Rights!"

Although I'm dressed in 17th Century garb, all the homes and businesses are in modern times. It's dusk, but I can see family, friends, neighbors and shop owners silhouetted by the illumination cast from the soft glow of electric light. As I race past their windows, my message is muffled by the din coming from their air conditioners. In brief instances of voyeurism, I notice the children are listening to their walkmans, dads are in one room watching the latest basketball game, moms in another, captured by yet another true-life story on the Lifetime channel. Galloping past groups of tourists that meander the streets, I'm yelling my warning, some take my picture, while others just clap their hands as I pass, thinking I must be some kind of reenactment.

Before the dawn, I have travelled to the four corners of our nation, careening back and forth through the heartland, from sea to polluted sea. Finally, with the sunrise, and my commission fulfilled, totally exhausted and unable to speak, I dismount my horse. As I turned, to my shock and amazement, there stood my dead father, dressed in his World War II uniform. He relates to me how he and others, from America's greatest generation, those who have lost their lives in battle, and the others who had toiled all their lives, are grieved and disappointed that all their efforts couldn't guarantee their grandchildren, nor their great grandchildren, the hope of freedom and prosperity earned on their watch.

Sorry was he, that all the blood, sweat, tears and deaths, had only helped to usher forth a new improved Gilded Age with no end to the whims of corporate greed. He then placed his index finger firmly on my chest, raised his voice in a stern manner, and with great consternation, as one would address an errant child, warned me, that "Ike was right", that left unchecked, the military-industrial complex, in short time would end up making policy instead of implementing it. He told me to remember that those of that ilk and their minions would scourge the earth with battle-tested weapons of mass destruction 'till peace was no longer an option, nor justification after all the monies spent.

Then, in a very fatherly way, he draped his arm around my shoulder, quickly, he looked left and right, and as quickly he checked behind us, and once again, in front, and then again, left to right. He reached, with his free hand, to his mouth, and leaned into my ear as if to tell me a secret. "Son", he said, "Osama bin Laden, isn't really a person, but a covert operation conceived on a ranch in Houston. Translated, it really means, 'Oh-sum-bodies-been-lying'". Dad said, "It was some kinda Texicana style ebonics."

Then, like in all those scary movies, without moving his feet, he began floating away from me. Yelling, "Where are the statesmen? Where are the peacemakers?" As he got further away, still questioning his last words were, "What's happened to integrity, honor, truth," and almost, inaudibly, I heard him say, " What's happened to accountability"?

Awakened by my own screaming, in a cold sweat, until I realised I was safe, in my own bed, and after catching my breath and calming myself in the realisation that my father, in death, had more leadership qualities and wisdom, then what life itself had to offer. Feeling secure, I once again closed my eyes and immediately heard Attorney General Ashcroft calling the local FBI offices, ordering his agents to arrest me. The charge: DREAMING IN AN UNPATRIOTIC MANNER. He yelled, "do it, ASAP".

Ashcroft said he would have loved to have been the one to bang down my door, but couldn't find a private jet to fly out of Washington, DC. Again, I woke screaming. Again, alas, I'm safe in bed, only a dream-deferred.

Oh, wait, I must stop for now I hear knocking at my door.

ENDS

- * Philip J. Rappa is an award winning writer, documentarian, filmmaker and gifted lecturer. To his credits are: a United Nations Award, 8 gubernatorial awards, and an Emmy nomination. His writings have appeared in numerous publications. Presently he is working on a television special in development, entitled: "Bar Stool View of America". Feedback to philiprappa@aol.com.

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