Beating Around the Bush (5 page)

“We don’t have time to clear people in the government. He will have to wait his turn like everybody else.”

“How long will that be?”

“If he’s lucky, we should finish our paperwork by 2006.”

The phone rings again. “Mr. Hanssen, the traitor, is unable to come to the phone. He is either in solitary or being squeezed dry by our agents.”

Next call: “Have you given any executives at Enron lie detector tests, since they have certainly committed criminal acts?”

“The FBI has gone out of the white-collar crime business.”

“Suppose I told you some of their people are terrorists.”

“No kidding. We’ll get on their case right away.”

“Am I speaking to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“Yes.”

“I just saw Bonnie and Clyde.”

“So?”

“They were taking flying lessons in Minneapolis.”

“Everybody takes flying lessons in Minneapolis.”

The changeover in the bureau is proceeding faster than anyone thought it would. The phones are being manned at all times. One of the most interesting changes is that the FBI has taken the CIA off its most-wanted list. One of the major ones is that the FBI is accepting calls from whistleblowers. This is something Hoover would never have agreed to.

THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN, but it could have. In 1776 the American Colonies had decided to break off from the British. It looked like war and everyone was frightened because each side had so many fearful blunderbusses in its arsenal.

King George decided to send over Sir Duncan Rumsfeld, his minister of defense.

Rumsfeld met with Thomas Jefferson at his home in Virginia.

“It’s good to see you,” Sir Duncan said. “We’re all in mourning because Britain lost the World Cup.”

Jefferson said, “What brings you to these beleaguered states?”

Sir Duncan said, “Mr. Jefferson—why do your colonies want
to separate from Britain? You have a good life, we buy your tobacco, and King George III loves you very much.”

Jefferson replied, “The History of the present King of Great-Britain is a History of repeated Injuries and Usurpations, all having in direct Object the Establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. How do you spell ‘tyranny’?”

“I think it’s T-I-Y-R-A-N-N-I-E.”

Jefferson kept reading from his notes. “He has quartered large Bodies of Armed Troops among us, protecting them by a mock Trial, from Punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States.

“He has plundered our Seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our Towns, and destroyed the Lives of our People.”

Sir Duncan said: “Everyone makes mistakes. Colonies are always complaining about how their rulers treat them. Make a list of your so-called gripes, and I’ll take them back to London.”

Jefferson continued: “He is, at this Time, transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the Works of Death, of Cruelty and Perfidy, scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous Ages, and totally unworthy of the Head of a civilized Nation. He has excited domestic Insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the Inhabitants of our Frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known Rule of Warfare, is an undistinguished Destruction, of all Ages, Sexes and Conditions.”

Rumsfeld said, “The Crown is going to think you people over here in the Colonies are politically incorrect.”

Jefferson said he didn’t care. He read on: “We who represent the good People of these Colonies, solemnly Publish and Declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES; that they are absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political Connection
between them and the State of Great-Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which INDEPENDENT STATES may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.”

Jefferson continued. “The king will have to connect the dots. Deliver it to old fatso in London and tell him we mean business.”

“But,” said Sir Duncan, “this could mean war.”

Jefferson replied, “I didn’t write this for my health.”

ONE OF MY FAVORITE PLACES on Martha’s Vineyard is the flea market, where people bring things from their attics of great value—or little value—whichever comes first.

My dream is to find a valuable painting that the owner doesn’t know is priceless.

This week I went to the flea market with my hopes high. I passed up a teakettle from 1942, a Barbie doll with one arm, a torn quilt with the words “God Bless Our Home,” a bluefish mounted on a plaque that said, “Caught by Gerry Hawke in 1971,” a pair of used sneakers, the flat back tire of a bicycle and a copy of
Boys’ Life
.

Of course there were other bargains, but my eye was still looking
for a priceless painting—a Gauguin, a van Gogh, or an early Picasso (which I always considered to be the time of his best work).

I was going through a stack of old Coca-Cola posters at one of the booths when suddenly I saw an oil painting that looked familiar. It was a Leonardo da Vinci picture of angels having a picnic. I knew the only other one was in the Vatican. Obviously, it had dust on it, and when I wiped it off with my sleeve, it looked as if Leonardo had painted it yesterday.

I pretended I wasn’t interested. This always works at the flea market because the people there like to haggle.

“That’s a nice collection of Coca-Cola posters,” I said.

“My grandson found them in the back of the attic in a trunk that Grandma kept.”

“What is this ratty painting with saints all over it?”

“I don’t know. It was in the attic with all my Coca-Cola posters, and I figured some sucker would go for it.”

“Out of curiosity, how much are you asking for it?”

“I don’t know, maybe $50.”

I looked it over carefully. “I don’t know. It’s not even signed.” “I would charge a hundred if it was signed,” he said.

“I’ll give you thirty-five,” I said.

“Make it forty-five and I’ll throw in a poster of the Three Stooges.”

He was getting desperate. I said, “Forty-five and also a poster of Marilyn Monroe with her skirt flying up over the subway vent.”

He said, “That’s my best poster.”

I started to walk away. He said, “Wait, I’m reconsidering. If you want that lousy painting it’s yours for $42.50.”

I had him wrap it up for me. Once I locked in the deal for the Leonardo I started wandering around the flea market.

I bought a television set that was made in 1959, a twenty-four-piece set of dinnerware that had only four plates left, a silver flask with “Vancouver 1990” engraved on it and a pillow that said, “Love Me, Love My Dog.” And to top it off, I had my blood pressure taken by an American Red Cross volunteer.

It was one of the most successful trips to the flea market I ever had. I couldn’t wait to get to New York and show Sotheby’s what I had bought.

ANOTHER AMERICAN ICON has landed on its keister. The banks are accused of being in on the Enron swindle. They made it possible for the company to fix its books so that loans could be listed as profits and profits could be listed as loans.

I didn’t understand it when, by luck, I went into my bank and asked for a loan of $4,000 to help me buy a used Honda.

The banker replied, “We don’t make loans. We arrange for people to use the money we give them so nobody can make heads or tails of it.”

“I don’t care what you call it as long as I get my loan,” I replied.

“Now the first thing you must do is create a dummy corporation in the Cayman Islands.”

“What for?”

“So people will think your Honda is there, when in fact it will be in your garage. Now you list your car in the books as an asset.”

“That makes sense. I’ll call the company Bad Apple.”

“Then you borrow $4,000 from the bank across the street.”

“I get it. I use that loan to pay you back, you clear your books, and I owe the bank across the street instead.”

“Because you paid us back so quickly, your credit rating will soar. You can then go to another bank across town and borrow $10,000. You pay off the $4,000 of the previous loan and still have $6,000 left for gas and oil.”

“How much can I borrow now?”

“The banks will come to you, and since you’re an offshore company, they will tailor a loan for you of $100,000.”

“But I only want $4,000 for my Honda.”

“You have to think big. Do you know what you can do with $100,000?”

“I could buy a Mercedes-Benz.”

“That would make sense, particularly since you must now move your money from the Cayman Islands to Bermuda to confuse the IRS.”

“Can I quit while I’m ahead?”

“Not really,” he said. “You have now reached the point where the banks are more worried about you than you are about them. They will wine and dine you and send your wife flowers.”

“My wife would like that because she is against my buying a used Honda.”

“The bankers are eager to throw money at you. You can buy futures in soybeans and pork bellies, sell natural gas that you don’t own, and make Bad Apple one of the largest dummy corporations in the business.”

“But at some time they are going to call in all my loans and I could lose my Honda.”

“Not if you declare bankruptcy.”

“Isn’t that tacky?”

“No. Everybody’s doing it.”

“What do I do now?”

“Just sign this agreement. If you don’t make your payment in 30 days, then we will take back the Honda.”

I HAVE DECIDED TO DO IT. I am going to be cremated and then have my ashes dropped over every cocktail party on Martha’s Vineyard. It’s the only way I can make all the parties held here in the summer.

I want Cape Air, the friendly nine-seat airline, to fly me.

I imagine it this way. The plane takes off from Martha’s Vineyard Airport, and Mike Wallace is in charge of dropping the ashes. As per my instructions, I want some of me to be dropped over Rose Styron’s lawn. She gave so many wonderful parties when I was alive. As I fly over, Walter Cronkite says to David McCullough, “Are those Art Buchwald’s ashes?”

“It’s hard to say. There are so many ashes dropping on Rose’s these days because she gives the most parties. It could be anybody’s.”

The Cape Air plane heads for Edgartown and Carol Biondi’s house. All her guests look up, and once again Mike lets the ashes float down.

“Who is it?” someone asks Carol.

She replies, “Art Buchwald. He said he was coming if it killed him.”

Everyone raises a glass.

The pilot turns his plane toward Rollnick’s house. An Air Force jet buzzes the Cape Air plane. Mike says: “Bill and Hillary Clinton must be there. We’ll drop some ashes as long as it’s not a fundraiser. Buchwald never went to political fundraisers on the island.” Mike drops a handful of ashes just in case it’s a social gathering.

Then the pilot heads toward Chilmark and Kate Whitney’s house. He asks Mike if he still has enough ashes. Mike replies, “I still have half an urn.”

The party is in full swing and Kate is not only serving drinks but also lobster and fresh corn. Once again the crowd looks up to the sky.

“Who is it?” the guests ask the owner of a sailboat who is scanning the sky with binoculars.

He replies, “I’m almost sure it’s Buchwald.”

“It can’t be. He has maintained for years he would never come to Chilmark because you always need a map.”

“He must have changed his mind. After all, this is his last hurrah.”

Mike says to the pilot, “I still have a quarter-tank of ashes in the urn. Take me over to Menemsha. Vernon and Ann Jordan are throwing a birthday party.”

The urn is almost empty and the plane has just enough ashes left to make it back to the airport.

Mike is pleased with the evening, but waiting for his plane when they land is a Coast Guard officer who says Mike can’t drop ashes without a permit.

Mike just smiles and says, “I’m sorry, and if Buchwald were here he would be sorry, too.”

THE GOVERNMENT’S HOMELAND SECURITY plan is going along nicely, thank you.

One program Attorney General Ashcroft is enamored of is the swearing in of private citizens as “tipsters” to spy on anyone who may look suspicious.

For starters, he would ask truck drivers, taxi drivers, deliverymen and cell phone owners to report anyone they see who might be acting strangely on the highway or in the city.

Like most Americans, I thought this was a dandy idea until a psychiatrist told me: “What a wonderful opportunity for paranoids to come out of the closet. The Justice Department is going to have to figure out who is a vigilante and who is just plain sick.”

“I’m sure Ashcroft’s people will figure it out,” I said.

The psychiatrist wasn’t that sure. “Suppose the tipster is keeping his eye on the laundry hanging on his neighbor’s clothesline. The shirts, undershorts and socks could be hung out in such a way that someone could read it as a code to Osama bin Laden.”

That gave me something to think about.

He then said: “Now suppose there is a tipster driving along the highway. The car that just cut him off could be someone looking very suspicious. The driver gives the tipster the finger. This could either be a terrorist act or a typical example of road rage. To make sure, the highway patrol sends a helicopter to the scene and other patrol cars block off all the exits.”