| Moses Sands spent most of his working life abroad in the world’s backwaters. He was comfortable among the dignified poor much like I imagined David Livingstone was. As much as he loved America there was an aspect of American culture he didn’t like very much. Nor did he know much about it, I suppose. One of those aspects was the rude, know-it-all attitude of young people. He hated that such immature kids could be so loud and dead-certain about things they could at best, have only learned second or third-hand. Last year we were having lunch at a greasy spoon in downtown Flagstaff when in the next booth were what I assumed to be college kids, loudly proclaiming the standard “Bush is an idiot” mantra about (of all things) the impossibility of democracy among Arabs, a thing Moses knew quite a bit about. Helooked at me with one of those grins of a man about to hook a trout, then leaned around and said, “Young man, I think you’ve been misinformed about Arabs.” “What could you possibly know, Old Man?” the loud one said, looking Moses up and down. He must have decided Mose was a retired tramp, which is how he often portrayed himself. “Well, I do know those people and have been among them many times. I think they can handle democracy pretty well if given enough time.” “You sound like one of those love-America-or-leave-it Bush nuts.” Moses looked at me with a quizzical, silent ‘Huh?’ “No, I was just commenting on some of your facts, which aren’t facts at all. I assume you got them off the internet or from some other person, but you can’t possibly know them first hand. You should go double check them, and remember it’s best to speak with certainty only about things you know to be true. Everything else is just opinion. It can sound foolish to some people when you speak opinions as if they were facts.” I could tell this person had never been scolded in his life, which was probably true of his cohorts, all who had a sort of stunned, "how dare him!" look on their faces. Moses had spoken in a polite enough tone, as you would expect from someone who had stepped in, uninvited, into others’ conversation. But I could see the blood rise in that boy, and sure enough, he gave Moses his best shot. “F**k off, Old Man.” Moses just shook his head, first turning to me with one of those ‘did I miss something here?’ looks, then stood up, his 6’3 frame looming over them. “I’ll illustrate what I was trying to say with a story. When I was boy we had a joy house about five blocks from my house. I didn’t know it of course, but when I was ten my mother told me that I couldn’t go as far as Fifth Street, so I knew something forbidden was over that way. By the time I was ten and a half I had found every back alley and hidden path to Fifth Street known to man, just so I could see what that forbidden thing was. But all I saw was a house with lots of cars out front, with men getting out or getting back in. By the time I was eleven I found out what it was they were doing there, and by the time I was eleven and a half I found that what they were doing there was a sin, only a very pleasureful one…or so I was told by older boys. By the time I was twelve I decided I had to find out for myself, so I worked all summer. By the time I was twelve and a half, I marched right over to Fifth Street and up those steps, and inside that double-glass door. “Inside I was met by a very big, bosomy woman, who said, ‘What have we here?’ “I said, ‘I come here to do some business.’ She leaned back against the mantle and smiled and said, ‘Well now, can you show me some bona fides?’ “’Some what?’ “’Your bona fides, you know, your right to be here.’ “I reached in my watch pocket and pulled out a ten and two fives, folded the size of postage stamp. I unfolded 'em and reached 'em to her.’ “’No son, I need to know if you qualify as a man, so…’ nodding her head toward my pants, ‘…show me.’ “I unzipped and dropped ‘em, and she looked at me up and down, then handed my money back to me. ‘Put that on the mantle and I’ll smoke it tomorrow,’ she said, then she turned and walked out of the room. I heard some giggles behind the curtain, pulled up my pants, turned and marched home. “There's a point to this, Son. If life were a pizzle, I’d be experienced. You’d just be little.” And they left. Vassar Bushmills |
| IF LIFE WERE A PIZZLE -Moses Sands as written by Vassar Bushmills |
