9:15 a.m. EST
In the Pompano Marina parking lot, Zack did a quick walk-around of his Subaru. Inspected where the rear window once was, feeling violated, he got in and headed north toward The Boca offices. The muggy outside air sucking at the back of his head, maxed air-conditioner screaming, he lit a Camel and snapped on the radio. A familiar female talk show host’s voice shrilled through the turbulent air.
Zack turned the sound up.
Talk show host: “…all you toilet-head liberals are alike. The cops were doing their job, stopping that dope head broad.”
Male caller: “All I’m saying is did they have a right to stop her in the first place.”
Talk show host: “She was drunk as a skunk, you could see that, staggering all over the place, whatta ya want them to do?”
Male caller: “You’re a dumb bigoted jerk.”
Talk show host: “You dip head, next time you get in trouble call a drug dealer.”
Male caller: “I was just asking why the police had stopped that driver in the first place, if they had sufficient cause.”
Talk show host: “You dumb dip head, if they had sufficient cause, she was high on something, you could see that, dope all over the place…”
Zack snapped the radio off and glanced up. “They call it AM radio down here.” He paused. “But You knew that, right?”
Weaving thru traffic, he pursued on a thought he had been contemplating for some time, possibly an essay, maybe that never ending editorial: The colors black and white—white being the presence of all color, black being the absence of all color—why black awaiting the lighta candle in blackness? Why not light instead of the blacknesswinding up rather than downprogress rather than degeneration?
He heard a voice in his head: But look how far we have comethe progress we have madewhere we are todayevolved from beasts into caring, compassionate creatures…
He rubbed his sprouting beard. “Hummm.”
A verse from his prior life’s training occurred to him. Buy the truth and sell it not.
“Proverbs twenty-three something,” he mumbled. “What is truth? What is a lie? Do the concepts go only for we finely developed higher-ups?” He paused. “But of courselying is a fine art reserved to more eclectic thinkerstruth, eh.”
He thought of Joe Case, and something came to mind from somewhere: Freedom to choose is reserved in the universe but to you.
Then the words of Lewis Carrol’s Tweedledee came to him: “Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”
He wiped his brow. “Right, Jocko, keep that thought. I don’t have time to mess with you right now.”
He pulled to the familiar newsstand where he got his New York Times and rolled down his window. “Morning, Gus.”
“Morning, Mr. Zackary, beautiful morning.” Gus handed him the Times. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Confused.”
“Everybody is confused these days,” Gus said.
“You can say that again.” He paid for the newspaper and read the headline: PRESIDENT GUARANTEES LAW AND ORDER. He looked at Gus.
“Wonder if Benny will sign that guarantee.” Zack smiled.
“Ah, that Benny, Mr. Zackary.” Gus smiled back.
“Have a good day.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zack pulled away. “Gus knows more about truth than I, Benny and the U.N. put together.”
He turned the radio on again. Same station, same shrill host, different caller.
Talk show host: “Ah, you’re a dumb, puke head jack-off. The only mistake the cops made is they should have dumped the evidence in Biscayne Bay.”
Female caller: “You complete imbecile.”
Talk show host: “You air head. Get a job. Probably on welfare.”
Female caller: “I’m tellin’ you, you better watch yourself, ’cause we’re gonna get you, baby.”
Talk show host: “You dumb scumbag, you just try. I’ll have the cops on you like stink on the homeless.”
Female: “Oh, yeah, you…”
Zack snapped the radio off.