January 2006

In honor of Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday, I borrowed Futureman’s time spinner and took it out for a walk……
The Traveler.

I had been walking since early this morning. It’s tough to get around when you don’t have a car; I could have tried to rent one but it would have started people asking too many questions to which I didn’t really have answers. None that they would have understood, anyway.

Instead, I kept on the backroads mostly, trying not to draw too much attention. My shoes weren’t made for walking on this semi-dirt road that I was using, and I would have stood out like a sore thumb if I’d shuffled down the main highway just a few yards away. The dirt and dust had started working their way into my socks, and it really sucked.

The heat of the day was starting to get to me, and the comical hat I’d made out of discarded newspaper was not helping too much. Funny how people stopped using hats; you see them everywhere in the old films and newsreels. People even wore them to the baseball game. Strange. It would have been easier if I had been traveling up North in the Empire or Garden States. But I was now making my way down some God-forsaken road in the Peach State. Georgia was definitely in my mind. And inside of my dusty shoes and sweaty socks.

Up ahead I spied salvation in the form of a diner. I couldn’t miss the gorgeous curves of the roof or the efficient use of space in that old trailer that was now serving as a diner. It looked like it had just driven up the road and broken down at this spot in the woods. And now it was serving burgers and leaking all sorts of delicious smells into the air. I trudged up to the door and went inside.

The air was cool and the smells warm and inviting. This old wreck must have some primitive air conditioning unit chugging smoke out in back and I hoped that it wouldn’t break down until after I’d had some lunch. Some old coot was greasing down the grill and talking to himself. He looked like your typical movie cook and I half-expected to see an anchor tattooed on his arm. Maybe I should have called out “Cookie” to see if he turned my way. I was afraid to make him move; the ash on the cigarette dangling from his lips was pretty long and I certainly did not want it spicing up my food.

The booths were all empty as were the barstools. The old coot and this old heap of a diner should have broken down nearer to the main highway; he would have more customers that way. In any case, I sidled up to the counter, put down my backpack and started checking out the eats and drinks. First thing I noticed at once was the clean smell of PineSol; it really got my appetite going. There was a nice fresh-made apple pie under glass right in front of me, and I just knew there were ice-cold Cokes (in glass bottles!) cooling their heels in a hidden icebox, somewhere. Just waiting for me to finish that tasty burger, of course.

And then the old coot spoke.

“Hey boy, you can’t eat here.” The words were mechanical and I took a couple of seconds to parse them out. He was probably too tired to continue talking, so he half-heartedly pointed to a grungy sign on the wall: “Whites only.” I had seen pictures of this sign, and they all looked as dirty as this particular sign now in front of me. The historian in me was fascinated by this whole scenario playing out right NOW in real time in a forgotten part of the world. The good man in my should have been outraged at this injustice. The hungry man in me just wanted a piece of that pie and a cold Coke.

It must have been 30 seconds before I started thinking again. An Eternity staring at the old coot. Now I noticed that his eyes were tired and that he looked a lot like a grandfather I once had. His voice was firm but his eyes were weak and he seemed exhausted by the whole charade. I think if we’d had a chance to switch places, he would have taken that opportunity and walked out of that place. But he had his place and apparently, I had mine. I just shrugged, picked up my backpack and walked out the door.

The sun was still out but now I felt cold. It poured down on my head and neck and burned the exposed black skin on my hands. Time to go back home, if I could find a way.

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The Crack Team network is so vast and embedded that no one man can know the identities of all agents. However, I feel pretty confident that John Stossel is one of them. He’s written a fascinating article on the failures of the union supported government monopoly that we call our public school system. It’s geared toward comparing us with the international community, with which we are increasingly competing due to offshoring.
     I am a product of the New Jersey public school system, and I’ve done ok, but I’ve been out of the loop there. In California, at my day job at a large aerospace company, all but one of my coworkers send their kids to private school. The one who didn’t picked up and moved to an area with an acclaimed school system. It’s nice they can afford to do that, but it would be nicer if the government allowed more parents to (as Agent Renegade woud say) “vote with their feet”.

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