The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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In Finland this week the fjord-folks are lining up to obtain the tax records of their friends and co-workers. The government makes these documents available to any and all, apparently in an attempt to keep the income disparities we have here in the Yew Ess Aye from growing too large in their wintry environment, I guess by letting everyone know that the guy in the next cubicle makes more than they do for the same or similar work. Might be a good idea. Might shame employers who pay men more than women or whites more than people of color. Probably won’t shame hedge fund managers or CEO’s. Shame is not part of their lexicon.

But then … maybe it just makes us South Enders crazy with envy for those who worked for Boeing or Weyerhauser, Microsoft or Google, made quick fortunes and retired with golden parachutes. I seriously doubt we need financial disclosure statements of those neighbors behind gated fences. What is worrisome, at least for me, is the potential for just saying to hell with the whole system, why work for measley wages when the millionaire across the ravine is traveling full time in Asia, New Zealand, Costa Rica and Paris? A few years back my UPS driver, who had a shack up in the foothills, told me, when I mentioned my brother worked for Big Brown too and made pretty good money, that he only worked for ‘wages’. I asked what he meant, ‘only work for wages’?

“I deliver to all these dot.com retirees who made a fortune,” he said. “I just make wages.” I said I think I’d look at it a little bit different. You got a nice place up in the hills, got a decent job at a decent wage, why not be happy with that? He shook his head sadly and muttered that it was hard when half his deliveries went to folks who retired at 45, got a whopping pension and stock options, and now they sit back with the life of Riley while he has to work his ass off to make ends meet.

I told him again I’d rethink that if I were him. I said I don’t make squat but I don’t have fantasies of being rich either. Poverty won’t buy you happiness, but it won’t deprive you of it either. He didn’t think that was funny or cute and he left shaking his head, no doubt driving off to the next mansion past my shack, maybe stopping at Tyee Store to buy a lottery ticket before delivering a gold plated mailbox to my neighbor.

I don’t care what folks make. I don’t care if my own mailbox is bent and the flag isn’t gold. I do think we have too low a minimum wage and we have too many rich people taking more than their fair share. But this is America. Money talks and the poor can take a backseat or hitchhike. But some of us aren’t poor, not really, and maybe we should enjoy what riches we have. Instead of envying the wealthy.

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In case you aren’t keeping up on the latest Barefoot Bandit sightings, the Kid has been back here on the South End for half a year. He served his time in a federal prison and was released last winter. We all – okay, most of us down here – wished the Kid well, hoping his stint behind bars would give him time to consider his options as an adult, maybe go back to college, find a trade in his beloved aviation field. The boy always dreamed of flying.

When one of his benefactors moved away, they gave Colton the power of attorney to sell their homestead south of Tyee Store. He booted out their mom and her husband, plus the disabled guy living in a trailer off in the woods. Kind of harsh, some said, but hey, he was in charge of putting the acreage and houses on the island’s hot real estate market. Furniture and debris got piled into a small mountain, ready for a match. He waited until the drought made fires, any fires, a threat to the neighbors, then he torched it.

Guitar Bob is the closest neighbor, his property adjoining the Kid’s. He tried explaining his concern, but was pretty much ignored and anyway, the fire was lit. In more ways than one. Colton had a sign at the entrance to the driveway. It explained how anyone trespassing past that sign would be shot. His mom had one just like it back in the heady days when Colton was on the run and she wearied of international reporters knocking on her trailer door. Guitar Bob figured the sign was mostly smoke. ‘The Kid’s a felon,’ he said, ‘illegal to even own a weapon.’ Much less use it on trespassers.

Bob is pretty much a live and let live kind of South Ender. He and his dog Maynard G. mostly just want to be left the hell alone and so he could sympathize with the Bandit’s ornery warning. Bob doesn’t put up warning signs, but like I said, he lives with his dog, which is warning enough. What the Kid does, he figures, is his own damn bizness.

You know, until he decides to run his table saw at 12:30 in the morning. Like a lot of us, Bob sleeps about then. Or tries to. But the saw is only a hundred feet from his bedroom and if you’ve ever tried to snooze with a lawnmower or a chainsaw or a table saw running high rev, you know sleep isn’t in the cards. So Bob got up, grumpy no doubt, put on his pants and a pair of shoes, then wandered through the hole in the fence behind his place and over to where the Kid was doing a little midnight woodworking. Bob is in his 70’s, not exactly in fighting shape, but I have no doubt he cast a menacing shadow in the doorway of that shop, forget the bullshit warning about getting shot for trespassing. Bob asked the Kid what the hell he thought he was doing.

What he thought he was doing was some woodworking late at night. Didn’t think anyone would mind. It is, after all, the South End, not exactly heavily populated. ‘Was I bothering you?’ Oh yeah, he was bothering Bob, Bob made that very clear. He might be an old timer, but he’s an ornery old timer and if you know Bob like I know Bob, you know once he’s pissed off, he’s not backing up. I suspect Colton met a few Bobs in the federal prison, recognized the type and apologized. He explained he liked to work late at night. Bob explained he liked to sleep late at night. And so in the wee hours, they came to an understanding.

The next day the Kid dropped by with a gift card to the local grocery in Stanwoodopolis. Bob considered it briefly, then handed it back. “Give it to someone who needs it,’ he said. ‘Just give me a little peace and quiet, we’ll get along fine.’ And so, once again the South End settled into a calm before the next storm, no lives lost, no harm done. Personally, and this is just me, I think the Kid should go back to school.

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Lordy, lordy, how the pot paints the kettle black. Mitch McConnell warned the Democrats who now run the oversight committees in the House not to engage in presidential harassment. He opined that they had tried that themselves with Bill Clinton and it had backfired when, after years of investigation that turned up mostly nada, Bubba’s poll ratings were higher than ever. Mitch evidently has an ethical compass whose True North moves based on polling.

His boss fired Sessions yesterday about ten minutes after a less than conciliatory press conference where he declared he would like to work toward unity with the Democrats then blasted the press one more time as enemies of the people. In Session’s place, the prez put in a guy who has made it clear the Mueller investigation has gone too far. This is a slow rolling Saturday Night Massacre, a bit smarter than Nixon’s, but nevertheless a not too subtle obstruction of justice. You’d do the same thing if you were in his place. McConnell, maybe not. Just warn the Democratic House that if they don’t wise up, he’ll wage war on them. Politics, all’s fair and nothing is too low.

The Harasser-in-Chief now finds himself under siege. Or will soon. He might be heartened that the Big Blue Wave was more of a gentle lapping on the beach of D.C. than folks like myself might’ve hoped, but even the rural red states might be interested in what Mueller has to say when the cow poop hits the fan. Those who see hope in derailing his investigation have never played chess. Mueller knows his quarry and is probably six or seven moves ahead of any tactic the White House think tank (only kidding!) is considering. And the Republicans know if they’re seen as aiding in an obstruction, especially if what are uncovered are high crimes and treason, the price will be a great deal higher than losing the House. No doubt they already have a pretty frightening picture of what Mueller is going to uncover.
Unless the Democrats are looking for a circular firing squad, impeachment is not on most of their wish lists. Nobody outside the evangelicals wants to see Pence as an incumbent come 2020 and that includes his wife and dog. What they dearly hope for —and the Grand Old Party dreads — is the slow but steady drip of poison as investigation after investigation makes the Hillary Wikileaks look benign. Trump, the man who loves a good bullying, who revels in body slamming the press, well, he should have been more careful what he wished for. He’s about to become the national pinata.

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