AMERICANS

Robert swallowed a bite of sandwich, fluently waved a page of newspaper over, and said, “Bono is an idiot."

I took a swig of iced tea and said, “I thought John Lennon was an idiot, until other rock stars started chiming in.” The iced tea was actually a chilled green tea, not the usual Kayro Syrup flavored tea favored in our part of the world, and I couldn't decide whether I liked it or not.

Bryan offered “Paul McCartney is an idiot.”

I countered “Yeah, but still, ya gotta love him. He wrote 'Maybe I'm Amazed.' Besides, he’s an earnest bastard.”

Bryan conceded “True. Ozzy Osbourne is an idiot.”

I reasoned “You figure?”

“Why in the hell else would anyone live next door to Pat Boone?”

“Hey!” I objected, “I like Pat Boone. Just so long as he’s not singing.”

“You,” Bryan argued, “like anyone who’s self-effacing.”

I mugged a self-effacing mugg and said, “Aw, gee, shucks, you caught me.”

Robert, meanwhile making faces like we’d lost our minds, finally spoke up: “Bono’s an idiot. What the hell good is forgiving Third World debt going to do?”

We were taking lunch together at the deli around the corner from Bryan’s office. It’s just close enough that Robert can get there, eat, and get back before the lunch hour is over, just far enough away that I can’t quite make it in an hour. Luckily, no one misses me if I’m gone longer than an hour. Bryan, on the other hand, gets an extra 20 minutes back in the office, which he usually squanders reading op/ed pieces (Monday thru Thursday) or movie reviews (Friday) in the newspaper. I chomped a chomp of my sub, an Italian Classico, while Bryan washed down a bite of pastrami on rye with mustard with a mouthful of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda, both of us looking expectantly, and ruefully, at Robert. Expectantly, expecting an argument as to why, precisely, Bono was an idiot; ruefully because while Bryan and I drank soft drinks Robert was enjoying a beer. Bryan and I worked in environments where coming back from lunch with any trace of alcohol on the breath was guaranteed scandal; Robert worked among rednecks for whom beer at lunch was as de regiuer as tit jokes and piss breaks. Finally Bryan broke the truce: “Okay, wise guy: what’s wrong with forgiving Third World debt?”

Robert made a face like he was dealing with an even bigger idiot than Bono. “It’ll throw the entire world economy into a tailspin!”

I cleared my throat and said “They can’t do that! That’s OUR job!”

Bryan said “The Stock Market!”

I added "General Motors!"

Bryan countered "The Military Industrial Complex!"

“Right!” I said. “The Third World’s job is to be there for us to point at when things look bad here.”

Bryan recoiled. “That’s kind of cynical. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but I don’t really mean it.”

Bryan brightened. “Just like John Lennon!”

“Learn from the masters,” I grinned, raising my paper cup. Bryan raised his, and we toasted each other. Robert regarded us grimly before folding the paper aside and chomping his sandwich—a Gyro, which, even though he knows it’s properly pronounced “ye-ro,” Robert insists on calling a “ji-ro.” Swigging a swig of beer, he said “You guys don’t get it.”

I bit into my sandwich again and contemplated. Once my mouth was cleared I said “No, I have to admit, you’re right: I don’t get it. Who’s forgiving the debts?”

“The rich nations of the world!” Robert propulsively exclaimed.

“You’d think they wouldn’t miss it,” Bryan said.

“Naw, that’s why Sweden hired on as a greeter at Wal-Mart,” I interjected over the rim of my iced tea.

“Ah!” Bryan reflected. “I forget, what did we loan them the money for anyways?”

“Lessee,” I said, contemplating fingers, "Rent for May, taking Julie out to a movie and then to the Orange Julius, that great vintage Led Zeppelin poster that they swore they'd never even see again if they didn't buy it right now..."

Bryan interupted, counting his own fingers: “propping up despots, privatizing diamond mines, routing elections, buying tanks and fighter/bombers, arming death squads…”

“Oh, come on,” I objected, “it’s not as grim as all that, is it?”

“I don’t know.” Robert, his partisan fervor forgotten for the moment, reasoned: “Maybe it is that bad. I mean, we’ve been saving kids from starvation over there for, what, thirty years now?”

“For the price of a cup of coffee!” I interjected.

“Where exactly is over there?” Bryan asked.

Robert thought a moment. “I don’t know. I guess I assumed we were talking about Africa.”

I said “Don’t forget Argentina. Nicaragua, Peru, the Philippines… well, hell, pretty much all of Central and South America.”

Bryan said “North Africa, Central Africa, India, North Korea, South Korea, China, Malaysia, Indonesia, Micronesia, have we left anyplace out?”

I pondered. “Russia. Since 1990, Russia’s been a big borrower.”

Bryan countered, “No, I think they’ve been borrowing from the world bank for longer than that, Back into the 70’s at least.”

Robert considered that, then spoke up: “Wait a minute: don’t they sell a lot of oil?”

“Who?” I asked, “The Russians?”

“Yeah.”

Bryan raised a finger and said “Ah! Depends on who you talk to. Russians, remember?”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “Five year plans and all that. But, wait a minute, Bono’s not talking about forgiving the Russians’ debts, is he?”

“I don’t think he’s being that specific about it,” Robert said. “Although I think he’s going to Africa and places like that. I don’t think he’s going places where they sell a lot of oil.”

“So,” I asked, “What’s wrong with that?”

Robert rolled his eyes and said “If we start forgiving the debts of the poor nations, then we’ll have to forgive everybody’s debts, and the whole world financial system will collapse.”

Bryan looked at him for a full three seconds before saying “And that would be a Bad Thing, right?”

Robert started. He obviously wasn’t expecting this response. “Well, yeah, of course it would.”

Bryan said “Ahem.” I braced myself. When Bryan says “Ahem,” and he says it just like that, too, it usually means someone’s about to have the riot act read to them.

“In the first place, the world economy has already collapsed, once a hundred years before the birth of Christ, once in 550 AD, once in 1066, twice in the 1800's, and then again in the 1920’s, right before our own economy collapsed in 1929. Then, in the 1950’s, the world economy collapsed again, due to war debt, but we propped it up again with the Arms Race. Then when that fell apart, we conned the Soviet Union into propping it up again with Peristroika, and when that fell apart they turned back into Russia again so they could have a recovering economy. Of course, that leaves out 1987, when our economy fell apart, and the rest of the world forgot to notice, so 72 hours later we had to all come together and agree that our economy hadn’t fallen apart at all, that it was just a hiccup in the stock market.”

I couldn’t say for sure how close he was on the facts, but it did make for a compelling tirade.

“Secondly, “ he continued, “forgiving Third World debt is a straw-man issue, since the Third World doesn’t really owe anything, since the money they were lent was lent by the UN World Bank, which doesn’t really lend any money in actuality, since there’s no gold standard anymore, so the only currency any of the nations got was political currency, so their leaders could stand up in front of the people and say 'I got the UN to lend us 50 kazillion bajillion dollars, so you need to support me and keep me in power!'"

I tried working this out, but decided that, on balance, it was safer to let Bryan have the point than to risk getting a mental charlie horse working out where, exactly, he was wrong. He continued:

“Finally, it’s not the UN world debt that needs to be forgiven,” he injected an index finger into the conversation, “It’s the multi-national corporations that are raping the poor so they can produce their products for pennies and give Sweden a good living as a greeter for Wal-Mart.”

“Kathie Lee Gifford,” I interjected, “Scum of the earth.”

“To quote Don Henley,” Bryan continued, “There is no right, no wrong; just people selling T-shirts.”

“Don Henley?” Asked Robert.

“Is that an actual quote?” I asked.

Bryan nodded. “From ‘The Garden of Allah.’ Alanis Morrissette sang backup for him on that track.”

“With Trent Lott on drums.” Said Robert.

“I thought Henley played drums?” I objected.

“Lott was on congas. And Allan Greenspan," Bryan continued, with an I-dare-you-to look on his face, "doubled on bass & keys.” He emphasized his point by swigging down some soda, leaning back, & crunching an ice cube.

“But Bono,” I interjected, bringing us full circle, “is an idiot.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, no doubt about it,” Bryan effused.

“Just so long as we all agree on that,” Robert concluded.

A moment passed where no one said anything. As always, I used the intervening interval to examine my surroundings: dingy tile floor, stained drywall leading to cobwebbed acoustical ceiling tiles, plastic laminate countertops in front of the serving area, which lead to a kitchen whose wall boasted a Health Department Inspection certificate bearing a score of 96 out of a possible hundred. Behind the counter toiled a kid of maybe 19. We have been coming to this place for probably five years now, on and off, and I don’t think we’ve ever seen the same kid behind the counter. I swear, every single time: same food, different kid. And I’m thinking, if Bono can feel guilty about Third World debt, shouldn’t we feel guilty about eating in a place where the pay and conditions are so bad that it guarantees a 100% turnover rate? Before I can inject this paradox into the conversation, Bryan says “Would you call Bono an idiot to his face?”

Another pause, this one actually thoughtful. Robert finally says “Yes, I think I would.”

“No,” I say, “no, I wouldn’t. Neither would you,” pointing to Robert.

“Why not?” Robert asks rather incredulously.

“When was the last time YOU wrote a song? ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday?’ ‘In The Name of Love?’ I mean, you gotta give the man some credit there. Those aren’t just big, dumb pop songs. He may have picked an issue you feel differently about, but hey, at least he picked an issue.”

"Yeah," Bryan agreed, "I mean, after all, pop stars, y'know?"

“But, you know," Robert said, conjuring a thought and clearly relishing it, “THAT’s how he ought to be greeted.” He made a motion to Bryan, indicating in an instant that he wanted Bryan to stand in for Bono: “Bono! How are you today!”

Bryan, paradoxically putting on a Liverpuddlian accent, said “Oooo, joost fiine mate, and ow ere yoo…”

“IDIOT!” Robert interupted.

“Ooo, noow, Oi don’t think that was strictly necessary…” Bryan continued.

“IDIOT!” Robert interjected again.

My chuckling turned into guffaws, which induced Bryan and Robert to dissolve into giggles. It was the latest in an installment of a game we had been playing since high school, called “How To Greet Celebrities." My favorite concerned Michael Stipe:

“Hey, weren’t you in a band once?” After his initial response, some contemplative silence, perhaps some chewing on the thumb and lower lip, then, with a snap of the fingers, “I got it! Counting Crows!” My second favorite would be greeting Ralph Reed, which is simply to hold one's index fingers in the shape of a cross and intone "EEEEEVILLLL! EEEEEEEVILLLLL!"

Handily, as my wife has observed, we don’t ever meet any celebrities.

As our laughter subsided and our sandwiches settled, we all began the stretch, the flexing of arms and chests that signals it’s about time to think about heading back to the office. Bryan and I drained our drinks while Robert swirled the last dram of his beer, which he always leaves behind for reasons we have never discerned, nor questioned. Instead of the usual “Well, gotta get back to the office,” Bryan suddenly said “what’s wrong with forgiving third world debt?”

Robert leaned forward and said “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

I nodded. “We can forgive the debt, but can we forgive DeBeers?”

“We’re living in the Tinkerbell economy, pal,” Robert proclaimed, pointing a serious finger at Bryan. “Everything will be just fine, so long as we believe.”

Bryan leaned back in his chair and said “Nice reality you got going there, pal.”

“You’re saying he’s wrong?” I countered. “What good or service do you provide?”

“I’m a broker!” Bryan objected.

“You’re a glorified money-changer,” I charged. “You’re a banker without wing-tips.”

“I think the bankers are wearing cap-toed shoes this year,” Robert offered.

“Oh, like you know fashion?” Bryan countered.

"Oh, I know fashion," I interjected, for no readily apparent reason.

"Puh!" Bryan objected, "You're an architect! Architects know nothing of fashion."

"Hey, pal: architects create fashion." I declared with outstretched index finger.

"Is that fact?" inquired Robert.

"That's our story," I assured him, "and we're sticking to it.

“But enough of this gay banter!” Bryan declared, quoting the line from Monty Python’s Flying Circus. We rose, each of us groaning from a full stomach, waved half-heartedly at the kid behind the counter, and made our way out to the parking lot. Robert and I waved our goodbyes to Bryan as he walked across to his office. We shook hands as he tumbled into his battered old Lincoln; I watched him drive off before slouching behind the wheel of my Metro. Took a look around and saw what I always see: the strip center, the office block across the way, the beat and battered and potholed South Boulevard, the disused railroad tracks across the way, the dust and filth and dirt that encrusts this artery of commerce, and I thought: what good or service do I provide? I design boxes. I ice cakes. I make it possible for people to create a new space in which to do wholly inconsequential work. I am a champion of the usefully useless, a denizen and architect of sprawl. If Sam, the owner of the deli I just ate at, came to me tomorrow, I could design him a new box from which to operate, which would probably bring his sanitation rating up from 96% to 98%. I am a model citizen of the free world, America, the home of the brave and land of the free, where we are almost ready to forgive the world.

And damn, ain’t it great to be free?

James MacFarlane Williams