By Dick Monaghan
Tom Ridge, director of Homeland Security for the U.S., seems nice enough
when you see him on TV, but he has a communications problem. His advice
is either incomplete or just plain mysterious.
We had a neighborhood meeting about this the other day. We met in Tyler's
garage. You'll remember he's the one who keeps his hootch in a gasoline
can, since his wife has been known to picket legislative bodies with a
sign reading "Hard Drink Is A Tool of Satan." Hoskins, the guy whose wife
won't let him drive when she's in the car, rounded out the trio.
"We ought to do what the President is advising us to do, through the
office of Homeland Security," Hoskins said.
Tyler stared at him like a relief pitcher who doesn't like what the
catcher is calling for, but didn't say anything.
"That's fine," I said, "Do you have any idea what it is he wants us to
do?"
"Certainly!" Hoskins huffed, "he wants us to buy duct tape and plastic
sheeting."
"Why?"
"To protect ourselves from gas attacks."
"How do we do that?"
"Geez!" Hoskins said, "It's simple: you just put plastic sheeting over
your windows and hold it in place with the duct tape."
"C'mon, Hoskins!" I said, "My house is two stories tall, has about 25
windows, three doors and two chimneys. You'd have to tape all of that up,
wouldn't you, or the gas would get in." Hoskins nodded, grudgingly.
Tyler got down the jelly glasses and uncapped the gas can. "And you'd
have to do that right now, because you never know when the terrorists
will strike. Can you imagine living in a house for any stretch of time
when it's airtight?"
"Like living in a condom."
"Reminds me of the 50s," Tyler said, after distributing drinks all
around, "when school kids were told to 'duck and cover' if somebody
dropped an atomic bomb. Fat ass lot of good that would have done. I
remember a rich guy where we used to live who built what was supposed to
be one of the finest and best-equipped bomb shelters on the Pacific Rim.
I used to think of him sitting it out down there for weeks or months,
then coming out to find himself in a radioactive wasteland. A huge,
unlivable big nothing."
"It reminds me of the scrap metal drives during World War II," I said.
"I've read since that the scrap wasn't really all that necessary to the
war effort, but it kept people busy and helped them believe they were
contributing something to the war effort. They towed the battleship
'Oregon' away from its berth in Portland, but they never scrapped it
until after the war. It should have stayed as a morale booster. The
history types would sure like to have her back now."
"Well," Hoskins said, not willing to admit defeat, "Mr. Ridge also said
we should have three days worth of food and medical supplies and a
flashlight."
"I've got a half-gallon of gin, two bottles of vermouth, a can of Spam,
and some frozen pizza," I said. "That ought to last three days."
"Hoskins," Tyler said, "I'm willing to bet a medium-priced dinner that
there isn't a flashlight in your house that works."
"No bet," Hoskins sighed, "But I intend to go get one real soon."
The meeting ended with no suggestions for actually doing anything. I
think Mr. Ridge may have fallen victim to unrealistic thinking, probably
because (I've seen it on television) all the really important people in
Washington, D.C., have access to really first-class bunkers. I'm willing
to bet a medium-priced dinner that Tom Ridge's house is completely free
of duct tape and plastic.
Dick Monagahn lives in Vancouver, WA and is a regular contributor to "The Tale Spinner", a newsletter published by Jean Sansum. To subscribe to this weekly newsletter, send an email to Jean at Jeans@mindlink.bc.ca.
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