Long Way Home (15 page)

“No, sir. Now they pass by with a security detail. I don't think we're that dangerous, do you? What they love is the attention.”

A barber who'd dealt with higher-ups should be versed in Missouri politics, I assumed, and that proved true. The state used to be staunchly Democratic, Larry told me, but it switched after the administration of Warren E. Hearnes, its first two-term governor, who served from 1965 to 1973. In Larry's opinion—and the opinion of some others—Hearnes was corrupt, although he was never charged with a crime and insisted he'd been the victim of a Republican witch hunt.

As for the presidential election, Missouri had backed the winner in every year except 1956, although Larry refused to predict how it would go in November.

“I saw an interesting story in the paper the other day,” he said, veering onto a tangent. “About a Supreme Court judge. Seems he came to Jeff City for the bar exam as a young man, bought three oranges to eat, sat on a bench to study, and then had a shave. When he passed the exam, he credited the shave. It was lucky.” Larry paused to examine a stray follicle. “Later when he had a big case to review, he wanted another lucky shave, but he couldn't get it.”

“Why not?”

“Because barbers are afraid of HIV now, just like dentists.” He nodded toward the door. “I'm so close to the sidewalk
anybody
could walk in here. I still shave around the ears, of course.”

Once it was simple to run a barbershop, Larry went on, but not anymore. It's gotten very complex, with far too many rules and regulations.

“I'll give you an example,” he said. “A salesman from a vending company suggested I install a soda machine, so I gave it a whirl. And I did a darn good business, too, until someone from the health department threatened to take me to court if I didn't get rid of it.”

“What was the problem?”

“No license to sell food. Did you hear about those two barbers out in California, who got in trouble for coloring someone's hair? It came out all wrong, and they were sued. I carry malpractice insurance now. Costs me $250 a year.”

I braced myself when Larry rubbed some shaving cream around my ears and pulled out his straight razor, but his hand was steady. That was it for the haircut. He took off the smock, brushed away the loose hairs, and held up a mirror. I resembled myself as an eight-year-old.

“That'll be ten dollars.”

When I gave Larry a ten-spot, he grabbed a poker chip from a tray, opened his cash register, and put it in. “Why'd you do that?”

“Well, the register's broken,” he confessed. “I phoned somebody to repair it a while back, but he had a heart attack and died, so I use the chips to keep track. Works just fine, too.”

With my new back-to-school look, I felt ready for a stiff drink at Ecco Lounge, an intimate restaurant where the waitress calls you “honey” and the bartender pours the bourbon with a free hand. Booths lined one wall, but I sat at the bar next to an African American chatting with a white pal, the first real interaction between races I'd witnessed since Virginia. It's strange how all those small, entirely white towns consider themselves typically American when they're so utterly atypical.

Diversity was another strong suit for Jeff City. You could see that at Ecco Lounge, an institution since 1945. The customers were young and old, male and female, and both blue- and white-collar. A behemoth farmer in Can't Bust 'Ems and a tractor cap occupied one booth, devouring a pork tenderloin while he discussed the dangers of operating a Bobcat with a hired hand under the influence.

“You can tell with the drink,” he said, gesturing with his fork, a chunk of pork impaled on it, “but not with the drugs.”

THOUGH I HAVEN'T
seen the capitols of all fifty states, I believe few could match Missouri's for sheer grandeur. Built in 1917, it sits on a limestone bluff, and its monumental dome, crowned with a statue of Ceres, the goddess of growing plants and motherly love, rises 262 feet above the basement floor. All around it are heroic bronzes, among them the city's namesake, Thomas Jefferson, the two great rivers in bas-relief, and Lewis and Clark, of course.

A strapping young woman, ultrafit, was re-creating a scene from
Rocky
on the steep flight of steps that lead to the capitol's front door. She dashed to the top, ran back down, rattled off a set of push-ups, checked her pulse rate and probably her body mass index, and repeated the routine, unaware of her astonished audience and attentive only to the churning gears of her own biodynamic.

I mounted the steps at a normal pace and touched the door gingerly, expecting an alarm to go off, but it didn't. No guards were inside waiting to frisk me or check my ID, either. Anyone could just walk into the capitol, apparently, and wander at will. Such access seemed extraordinary in the current climate of fear and paranoia. It represented an old-fashioned populist democracy, where Frank Capra's Mr. Smith fought the scallywags, and the governor strolled unaccompanied to Larry Horstdaniel's shop for his haircut.

Without any difficulty, I located the House of Representatives lounge and Thomas Hart Benton's overpowering mural
A Social History of Missouri.
Completed in 1935, the mural covers four walls and traces the state's evolution from the pioneer days to the present.

It isn't an unvarnished picture by any means. The artist included images that Missourians would rather forget—the lynching of a slave, say—but Huck Finn and Jim are there, too, along with Jesse James and Boss Tom Pendergast. Hart Benton must have been the opposite of temperamental, because he didn't object to letting the public watch him labor away. His only caveat, posted on a sign, asked that spectators refrain from making any suggestions.

I ascended another flight of stairs to the second floor, still feeling like an interloper about to be grabbed by the ear and tossed out, a sensation heightened by the fact that I had the capitol to myself. Soon I came to a rotunda lined with busts on marble pedestals—the usual assortment of dreary politicians, I assumed, Mayor So-and-So and Senator Whatsizname—but instead Betty Grable, cast in bronze, beguiled me.

The rotunda amounted to a Missouri Hall of Fame, where people one truly respected and admired were enshrined. Among the native sons and daughters on display were Dale Carnegie, Emmett Kelly, Ginger Rogers, Marlin Perkins, Mark Twain, Stan Musial, and Walter Cronkite. Should they all spring into action for a party, Scott Joplin, Charlie Parker, and Josephine Baker could provide the entertainment.

My affection for Jeff City and, by association, America took another giant leap forward. Emboldened, I allowed myself to believe I had a right to be in the capitol, even that it belonged to me, so I climbed to the next floor, where state senators and members of Congress have their offices.

A sign hung on most doorknobs. “Please come in,” it read. Imagine a country that granted its citizens such unparalleled freedoms. You could talk to your representatives without bothering to make an appointment. As a test, I chose Senator Jason G. Crowell's office at random—and a splendid office it was, with a grand view of the Missouri and two attractive aides seated at desks. For the first time ever, I understood why someone might opt for a career in politics.

Senator Crowell wasn't in, Angie Plunkett informed me. A first-term Republican up for reelection, he'd hit the campaign trail in Cape Girardeau, a conservative stronghold in the southeastern boot heel, a region that has more in common with Kentucky or Tennessee than the Midwest. Cape Girardeau, the biggest city in Crowell's district, is his hometown and also Rush Limbaugh's.

Here the teenage Rush broke into radio broadcasting under the semiclever alias of Rusty Sharpe. He attended Southeastern Missouri State, as did the senator, but he flunked out, while Crowell graduated and earned a degree in law. A former Eagle Scout, he stood for faith in God, love of family, and the defense of freedom, according to the campaign literature Angie gave me.

She and her husband were from Cape Girardeau as well, and fairly new to Jeff City, still settling in. She was anxious about the election, worried that Bush's unpopularity might hurt her boss's chances and affect her job. She needn't have concerned herself. Crowell trounced his Democratic opponent.

“What about the presidential election?” I asked. “Any favorites?”

She smiled coyly. “No comment.”

“No opinion?”

“I'm waiting to see what happens, and then I'll have an opinion.”

Pretty cute, Angie. Perhaps she secretly supported Barack Obama. In the media, there'd been lots of twitter lately about the so-called Bradley effect, and how those who praised Obama in public might not vote for him in private. That contradicted what I'd heard on the road. Obama had many fans reluctant to declare themselves openly.

“Do constituents often stop in?” I wondered.

“Not really,” Angie said.

I hated to hear it. The lassitude of Americans, again.

“The Silver-Haired Legislature dropped by this summer,” Bev, the second aide, chipped in. “It's an organization of senior citizens. They lobby on issues important to them.”

“Are seniors a special interest of Senator Crowell's?”

“No, it was just very hot and humid,” Bev joked, “and they discovered we had a water cooler.”

THE U.S. ARMY'S
recruiting center in Jeff City rents some space in a little strip mall on the edge of town. In a splash of late afternoon sunshine, Sergeant First Class Mark A. Smith, the center's commander, was enjoying a smoking break. With his uniform and reflector shades, and his graying crew cut clipped short, he looked tough and resilient and capable of serious persuasion. If you dreamed of being a soldier, Smith could pose as your role model.

As I'd first noticed in Olney, some young people in the heartland take refuge in the military. When work is scarce and all you have is a high school diploma, if that, the army may well look better than the graveyard shift at Taco Bell. The trade-off was familiar, even eternal. If you survived the risk, the payout could set you up for the rest of your life.

Smith gave me his business card. I turned it over and read, “Up to $73,000 for College, Up to $40,000 Enlistment Bonus, Over 200 Career Fields, Jobs are Guaranteed in Contract.”

A native of Dexter, Missouri, Smith had been a recruiter for seven years. Though he liked his work, he looked forward to retiring—eight more years and he'd be a civilian again, with a sweet pension in the bargain. He had no firm plans after that. He thought about going back to Colorado, where he'd met his wife while stationed at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs. She'd never been crazy about Jeff City. Selling Harleys, that was one of Smith's fantasies. He really loved those bikes.

At first, Smith was brusque. No good could come of talking to a nosy civilian, he must have felt, plus he was very busy. Harried soldiers ran around the large, sparsely furnished, antiseptic room, or sat at desks tapping into computers under the watchful eye of Uncle Sam, who observed from a poster. All four branches of the military had outlets at the mall, so the competition for recruits could be intense.

“The navy used to beat us pretty bad,” Smith admitted. “They sent in a chief petty officer, but he's gone now, so we're even-steven again.”

The recruits would be in their late teens, I imagined, callow and easily swayed, but their average age was actually twenty-six. They'd knocked around in the world and had reached a dead end. The bonus scheme, while not dishonest, included clauses and subclauses, and only a rare individual earned the whole forty grand for signing up. The army demanded an eight-year commitment from most recruits, four in uniform and four in the reserves.

A young soldier and his proud dad came in to say hello. The soldier had just completed nine weeks of basic combat training at Fort Riley, Kansas, a program divided into red, white, and blue phases. He'd run the obstacle course, done the fifteen-mile march with a full pack, and learned about hand grenades and machine guns. He'd chosen to be a combat engineer, or sapper, clearing minefields and conducting demolitions.

“Basic wasn't too bad,” he bragged. “I ate a ton of sand, though.”

“Is that right?” Smith teased, loosening up. “Did you wallow in any mud?”

“Yes, sir, I did. But you
can
get through basic, so long as you don't cheat your body.”

Cheating your body involves booze, drugs, and women. “And you didn't cheat, soldier?”

“No, sir. I didn't have a chance to! I never even got an off-base pass. They took away our cell phones, too. That didn't stop us from trying to get them back.”

“But you failed in your mission.”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“I guess they saw you coming.”

“Yes, sir, I guess they did.”

For the next hour or so, Smith fielded calls, issued orders, and caught up on his paperwork. One youth, quite tentative, approached to ask for advice and spent about fifteen minutes, then went down the hall to check what the marines, navy, and air force had to offer. Smith applied no pressure. He made it sound as if the youth would have to be a superior individual, indeed, to meet the army's impeccable standards.

Outside, I met a skinny, pimply soldier in fatigues. He'd also just finished his basic, and awaited an overseas assignment. That wasn't necessarily bad news, but he was still nervous. Instead of Iraq or Afghanistan, he could be sent to Germany, Belgium, Japan, or Italy. He'd heard rumors about guys who'd had such luck. Saudi Arabia or Kuwait wouldn't be so awful, either, except for the heat. He didn't know beans about Panama.

The soldier could have added Kosovo, South Korea, Macedonia, and Djibouti to his list of possible posts. Our military presence abroad is massive and very costly. In 2008, the Department of Defense received $554 billion from the U.S. budget, or 60 percent of the government's discretionary spending.