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Talking Story  by Polo

From The Asian Reporter, V17, #7 (February 13, 2007), page 7.

I have to tell you, life down here, under Old City Hall’s basement steps, in the Mayor’s Office of FOBA, has been boring. There’s not a lot of work. Not like the good old days. Not like when terrorists were big. Not like when threats to liberty were very popular. And city leaders stood in line. Seeking our opinions. Immigrant common sense.

"Do you think parking bright blue and white cop cruisers on our vulnerable bridges will prevent attack?"

Answer: No.

"How quick do we need to cap our city’s water reservoirs?"

Answer: Forget about it.

"Are fareless busses and free MAX around tidy downtown irresistible to the enemy? How much bus fare can al-Qaeda afford?"

Answer: Stupid questions. Next please.

Oh, we still have our little shivers. But it’s mostly the Red Phone, our Oval Office hotline. Mr. Bush.

Last summer the President rang. It was a Friday afternoon. Lucky, I was still in. Sam Ho’s fresh tilapia go fast on Fridays. $6.95 for a whole one. Swimming around smiling in their fishy tank one minute, crispy fried in garlic and onions the next. I picked up the phone.

Me: "Yes, Mr. President?

"— No sir, I saw it on TV news. It’s nothing to worry about. That Commie Korean’s got nothing on you, sir.

"— Yes, I agree his perm sucks.

"— No sir, Kim Jong-il shooting up that Super Scud’s no biggie. It’s a bottle-rocket, sir.

"— Well sir, 200 miles into the Sea of Japan is not the same as 2,000 miles to Alaskan Inuit villages.

"— For sure sir, Inuit are Americans. No sir, they probably don’t like North Koreans either."

That calmed him down. I got in my tired Toyota and got my tilapia.

Then last fall, again Mr. Bush.

Again on a Friday. Burgerville was doing their wonderful Walla Walla Onion Rings. Limited time only. I was just on my way out when the phone rang. The Red Line.

Me: "Yes Mr. President.

"— Yes, I heard it over OPB. No sir, that Persian Prez’s got nothing over you. Yes, he’s short.

"— Yes, of course he’s mouthy, Mr. President. He’s a politico. His job is talking stink about America. It’s why he’s always wearing that dumb little Hadley jacket. ‘Just trying to be One of the People, sir.

"— Yes, I know you thought of that first, sir.

"— No sir. Iran’s not nuking nobody.

"Mr. President? Sir? Mr. Bush, if I may suggest? Sir. Shh. Shh. Mr. President, just never mind the glodok, okay? Act like he’s a flea, sir. Shh. Sir. Just ignore him. Shh. Sir, I’ve got to go. I’m hanging up now. I mean it. Now."

Click.

Jeez.

Like I said: This job’s become a bore, except for those frantic D.C. calls. And that’s important. Indeed, the reason ricepickers got this downtown gig was to give government a good dose of newcomer common sense. And that would include dumping OFOBA when we’re no longer necessary. Portland’s not like the feds. We wouldn’t build a Costco-size bureaucracy, scare the bajeez out of folks, then call ourselves Homeland Security. Immigrants worry more about our kids’ class size, about our elders’ flu shots, about our walking wounded from America’s last awful adventure getting some healing.

And so we, your humble civil servants, under City Hall’s lovely wrought-iron stairwell, thought we’d soon be back at Gunderson riveting iron rail cars or back at Fujitsu soldering motherboards — when it happened. When our little blue planet shuddered. When that big bad Sleeping Dragon roused and sent a firework 500 miles high.

It was, again, a late Friday afternoon. I was putting down my Windows 95 when the Red Phone rang. I hesitated to answer; I was heading out to Imbibe, a Hawthorne bistro and restaurant. It’s a new place just put up by some Thai cousins. Very cozy, très chic. Terrific music. Southeast Portland’s best calamari, and the smoothest coconut milk mussels imaginable. I was not in the mood for a whiney president.

I answered the Hot Line. Reluctantly.

I’m glad I did. It saved our cushy city jobs. It meant a whole new lease on life for OFOBA.

Me: "Yes, Mr. President.

"— Yes sir, I read aaall about it in the Big O."

"— Well no, Mr. P, we at OFOBA are actually not that impressed with those doggone Red Chinesees shooting down their own nasty old weather satellite. Give our buds at VSCSO (Vietnamese Science & Cultural Society of Oregon) a Saturday morning at Vic’s Hobby Shop and we’ll light up our own Sputnik-killer. For free, sir. Their faculty’s all volunteer. All vigorous Viet. All the time.

"— Yes sir, China is The Slumbering Giant. Of course sir, they are The Middle Kingdom.

"— No Mr. President, I don’t know how many zeroes in 1.5 billion. But, yes-siree, that’s a lot of Chinese."

And that’s when it occurred to me. That’s when it hit me, like a bolt of lightning. Baam.

This man’s delicate presidency, those Homeland Security boys’ huge bureaucracy, indeed OFOBA’s very existence in the thumpity-thumping heart of City Hall, aaall depend on dread. On fear. On anxious intestinal rumbling.

Unless I want to be back doing Bud Light with my blue collar buds, my job is to help scare the sh*t out of Portlanders.

Of course, I could’ve said: Mr. President, how many times in the last 3,000 years have Koreans or Persians or Chinese invaded our hemisphere? And, how often have our angry armies occupied their neighborhoods?

Or I might’ve said: Mr. Bush, how many big ugly Yankee rockets (not counting multiple nuclear warheads) do we have aimed at President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s living room, at President Kim Jong-il’s kitchen, at President Hu Jintao’s office? Now, how many missiles have those guys aimed at you?

But of course, I said none of that.

I ran instead, in tight little circles around my desk, phone pressed against my ear, winding and winding and winding tighter across my belly our curly red phone cable, agreeing with our urgent President. Breathless. Terrorized.

We live in a dan-ger-rous world. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I gotta go. Sweet potato fries. Burgerville, USA.