Descent

The Descent

“I think it’s a real bad idea, Karl.”

“I don’t disagree…”

“But?”

“If I don’t do it, someone else will.”

“Well, let them stain their hands.”

The line is quiet for a moment, and I feel the miles between us, as I twiddle the cord, wrapping the coiled harvest-yellow plastic around my finger. I wish my brother was at home, instead of in DC, some two thousand miles away. 

“Karl?” I ask. I didn’t hear him hang up, but the silence had gone on long enough to check to see if he was still on the line.

“Sorry, Bud. I’m still here. My mind just wandered.”

“So, you’re not going to do it, right?”

“I don’t know…still thinking about it.”

“What’s left to think about?” I ask, exasperated.

“I just can’t help but think…the fall of Rome was inevitable.”

“So what?”

“So what, what if…it was a controlled descent?”

It’s my turn to go quiet. A shiver runs through my spine, even though it’s nearly a hundred degrees, typical for Texas in mid-July.

“You think you could orchestrate the decay of an empire?” My brother was arrogant, but usually justifiably so. It wasn’t like him to talk so grandiosely. 

But the fact that he called me long distance--hell, the fact that he wanted me to listen to him talk it out--that was enough for me to trust that he was right. 

The fall was inevitable.

I took a deep breath.

“What do you mean by a controlled descent?” I asked, not knowing if I wanted to hear the answer. 

“I mean, from what I heard from the Director today, the reports aren’t wrong; there aren’t any weapons of mass destruction in Baghdad.”

Then that should be the end of this conversation, I thought, but I held my tongue.

“But support for an invasion is so high. It’s polling at 87% among registered Republican males, Bud. And I’m telling you, just because the weapons aren’t in Baghdad now, doesn’t mean they're not going to be there in a couple of months. But if we wait for the proof…I mean, we could risk everything.”

“You know, Greg’s son enlisted after 9/11,” I said.

“Yeah, I heard.”

“If you go through with this, some of us are going to risk everything.”

“I know, but that’s what they signed up for,” he says, wearily, as if it’s hardly worth the breath it takes to push the words out of his mouth.

“I still think it’s a bad idea,” I said, but then I told him what he wanted to hear, “But you’re the best in the business. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. If you think this is the right choice, then it probably is.”

“Thanks, Bud. But just so we’re clear--I don’t think this is the right move. It’s just the best out of a bunch of bad options.”

“I hear ya. So, what else is new?”

He inhaled sharply and exhaled a chuckle into the receiver, as he confessed, “I’m not exactly sure of the order of operations, or how much you really want to know. But I guess I could tell you a little about what’s already in motion.”

I thought I was shifting gears, asking about what else was going on in his life. But I should have known better. 

Karl had nothing outside of work in his life.

“Have you heard of a super stimulus?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to have; it’s just a nerdy word for a pretty obvious phenomenon; it describes a biological response to an exaggerated feature. For example, Pam Anderson’s boobs are a super stimulus. As men, we’re evolved to notice them as a sign of fertility. So, even if you’re not into blondes, or you don’t think she’s that pretty, when Pam Anderson is on a magazine cover, you can’t help but notice.”

Leave it to my brother to wonkify Pam Anderson.

“Ok, Karl. So what’s a super stimulus got to do with invading Iraq?”

“It’s part of the cocktail. So, they hired all these Pam Anderson-types to read the news, and the stuff they’re reading is pretty grim. It’s all death, disease despair.”

“People dying everywhere…” I said, finishing the refrain of the dark birthday song Dad sang to us. I don’t know where he picked it up.

“Ha, yes, exactly,” Karl said. “It’s a one-two punch at the network. The super stimuli reporter grabs the audience’s attention, and then the gloom-and-doom activates the amygdala.”

“The amgyda-what? Is that some kind of marsupial?”

“No, no…it’s the part of the brain that reacts to a threat. And this is the best part, when it’s activated, it overrides your logic. We’ve got a nation primed to support whatever we say we have to do to protect them.”

“Jesus, Karl.” I would’ve thought bigger boobs on the news was the best part, but that difference between me and Karl. 

“Look, I know it’s not ideal…but it is elegant.”

“If you say so,” I say, watching the shadows lengthen, as the late-evening light began to saturate a golden glow over the once invisible dust. “You know, a bell can’t be unrung.” I said, unsure of where the maxim came from.

“I know. But I’m telling you, if it's not me, it’s going to be someone else. The bells are shaking. They’ve already shook.”

The image of a cracked liberty bell from high school history class came to mind.

“I hear ya,” I said.

“Hey, say hi to Dad.  I’m sorry I missed him.”

“Yeah, I will. Later.” Like hell he was sorry, calling on Wednesday evening, when he knew Dad would be at church.

I hung up with a click and looked around the kitchen. It hadn’t been updated since our parents bought the place back in the 70s. The harvest yellow phone matched the counters, the refrigerator, and the stove. Brick red terracotta tile was cool beneath my bare feet, as I walked to the screen porch.

I lit a Camel, hoping the smell would dissipate before Dad got back. I don’t know why I was still hiding my habit. He smoked a pack a day, and I was an adult, even if I didn’t feel like it, living at home, going to community college. 

After I finished my smoke, I headed back to the kitchen to call Leslie, to see if she wanted to come over and watch a movie Friday.

Rome may be falling, but may as well watch Jay and Silent Bob and cuddle with my girl before it completely crumbled.