1
Wherever he went in the mid 1990’s, whether wintering for three weeks at Aspen or summering for a month in Blue Hill, Maine, William George Washington George, august presence of Burkean conservatism, could not escape the nefarious outrages of his comic counterpart, Mush Dimbulb. Each swung from the same see saw, the belching, toilet flushing, Mush with his 58 inch waist and 28 inch inseam; and the elegant, diminutive, splendidly attired George, champion of the Russell Kirk wing of American conservatism.
At lunch, while reading from Hesiod’s WORK AND DAYS, that inescapable voice came yammering out of the portable radio. William George, looking up from Hesiod with irritation, put down his silver bookmark and summoned tall, polite, friendly Sven, the head waiter.
“Sven,” he said through thin lips, “could you please have that radio turned off. That man is, pathetically unintelligible, a babbler and a perfect ass.”
Sven, who was very distinguished, even for the Quill and Parchment, shook his head. “I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. George. We have a Con Ed worker repairing our main power lines. They all seem to enjoy Mr. Dimbulb. Isn’t he…” He paused for a moment, considering the first law of polite conversation: NO POLITICS. He had to ask. “Isn’t Mr. Dimbulb a conservative, like yourself?”
William George Washington George, clutching his Hesiod firmly, raising his eyes for instructive purposes. “I know you are Swedish, Sven, but in America a conservative is one thing above all other: a gentleman. Look about you on the walls. All these Americans were conservative and all were gentlemen. Well, perhaps, with the exception of Ben Franklin. That man on the radio, I won’t even mention his ridiculous name, is not a gentleman.”
Sven glided into the kitchen and had the radio turned off. He’d been an Olaf Palme man in Sweden. Poor Palme. He was a gentleman, Sven thought, until they shot him.
Mush Dimbulb, champion of the common white man, had never set foot in the Parchment and Quill. It would have been unthinkable. Members only. Gentleman members. Livid Bunkley had been there once and the portrait of John Marshall had fallen from the wall.
William George Washington George, “Tiny Willie” behind his back, was waiting for his favorite liberal, Don McDonald, the point to his counterpoint on the Livid Bunkley Show. True, Mush Dimbulb had referred to him as Don Carpethead, but the two political opposites were drawn together by a nonpolitical passion: Lacrosse. McDonald, when he still had his own hair, had been a forward on the championship Maryland team.
William George Washington George, who had never played any team sports, was writing a book on the subject. The working title was LACROSSE: SPORT OF OUR FOREST FOREBEARS.
Seated at his accustomed table beneath the friendly and familiar portrait of Oliver Reagan Wolcott, reading Hesiod, sipping his broccoli soup, he was in his element.
Donald McDonald was a half hour late. He’d been stuck in a taxi at Reagan National Airport. “Sorry William. Trapped in a taxi at Reagan National. I’ve just been listening to that two ton destroyer on the right, and with all due respect, he really took you over Yosemite Falls today. He’s stealing your thunder William and striking you down with your own thunderbolts. He called you little Zeus. What does that mean? You’re the classics scholar.”
“I consider it preposterous to even acknowledge his lewdly profane existence. Let him have sport with me. I’m immune to his darts. What would John Marshall say to such a fellow calling himself a conservative.”
Don McDonald laughed. He’d never had these problems with Dan Rather. “I brought the team photos for 1962. And here’s a little diary I kept. It’s a little personal. Leave out the stuff about the cheerleader, ok? The kid wasn’t mine.”
William George Washington George opened the musty cover with delight. Svenn brought Don McDonald his scotch and soda. A winter fire was blazing in the hearth. “Oh no. A ribald side of the puckish Don McDonald.”
Two very medium steaks arrived. John Marshall gazed out toward the Jefferson monument with his usual dyspepsia.
Don McDonald sipped his drink. “If I were you, William, I’d answer that lardass before he gets too big for his britches, it that’s possible. He’s taking you on now. He’s challenging your virility.”“Heaven forbid.” The two men sawed away at their steaks. 2
“Ah ha. A new translation of Horace. Yum. Thank you Ariel.”
Ariel was William’s latest “young thing.” She had driven up from Boston to Blue Hill, Maine with a huge pile of books scoured from Cambridge bookstores. Summer reading. THE SECRET LIFE OF JOHN JAY, THE LIGHTER SIDE OF JOHN MILTON, The Letters of Henry Adams in six delicious volumes, and “Oh boy!” the latest book on Ronald Reagan, THE CROSS AND THE FROG. And a copy of William George Washington George’s splendid 900 page diagnosis of America NEO-FEDREALISM IN AN AGE OF RUBBLE. Ariel Shapiro turned to the fly leaf. “To sign, William. It’s for mother.” “Ariel! To be with you again. What splendor! What tintinnabulations of the heart! It’s all too lovely. Now, if you could simply locate Palfrey’s HISTORY OF NEW ENGLAND, I’ll be set for the vacation.”“I’m sure we can find THAT in Castine.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. As William George wrote in his diminuitive hand “For Mom Shapiro with deft longitudes.”Ariel Shapiro smiled. She knew exactly what he meant “So good to be back in Maine, my dearest. Boston is not so chummy in the heat. How are the strawberries this year?”“Inordernately palatable. But I’d start with the lobster salad. Then the blueberry soup.” They were out on the veranda of the BLUE HILL ESCUTCHEON, one of America’s most famous restaurants. “Did you know, I once met Mary McCarthy right here? I was reading her book, THE GROUP. That was before we knew each other, of course." Ariel Shapiro’s family had been coming up to Blue Hill since the late sixties. She had introduced William George Washington George to the inner Maine coast. “Not one of my favorite anti-anti-communists. Still, she did write The Stones of Florence.”“She was reading Thomas Shadewell, if you can believe it.”“What? How shocking.”“That’s what I was thinking. After “MacFlecknoe….” Suddenly there was a tremendous crash and a shattering of glass. A rotund man in green checkered pants had dropped a three foot bronze statue right through the middle of a glass table. “Goddamit to hell and shit! Shit!” Ariel looked up in wonderment. Could it be? Was it him? What would he be doing here in Maine? William George flushed in rage as the owner of the restaurant, Penelope Cabot, rushed in with a dustpan to clean up the glass. “Mr. Dimbulb?”“Goddam stupid of me, marm. I dropped my Powhatan right through your table. Good thing it’s made of bronze. Sorry about the table.”“Oh, that’s all right.” By this time every neck in the restaurant and several on the streets of Blue Hill were craning in the direction of the restaurant’s veranda. “Could that be HIM?” “Hey Mush.”“Mr. Dimbulb. I was just listening to….” Instinctively, Mush Dimbulb grabbed hold of his belt. Even in Maine he was on his guard. William George Washington George tried to hide behind THE LETTERS OF HENRY ADAMS. Ariel Shapiro rose as though she were in the presence of Napolean. The townspeople of Blue Hill began to gather. “Well, well, well. Look who’s hiding out in a BLUE little corner of New England. And who’s this little charmer?”William George jumped to his feet as though he’d been stung by a hummingbird in heat. “I am NOT hiding out, Mr. Dimbulb. How dare you invade MY space! My summer fun! My….”“To think after all these years of being out there together on the right, I’ve finally run smack into you. You little fart.” He stuck out his hand. William George did not shake it. People were lined up down the street. “Yeah Mush. Go Mush. We love you, Mush.”“Mr. Dimbulb. Must you always be so… vulgar. Certainly, I should never Think of interrupting you, while you were dining say, at Sizzler….”Ariel Shapiro smiled. “Yeah Mush. Go Mush. We love you, Mush.” The noise from the street had become deafening. People were lining up with fresh copies of Mush Dimbulb’s latest million seller AMERICA DOWN THE TOILET.“Who’s that little guy with Mush?”“Must be his agent.”“The girl’s a looker.”“Could you just sign a copy to Milly from Mush? She loves yah, Mr. Dimbulb.” Phineas, the cook came out with his copy. “My favorite reading, Mush.” The cover was splattered with fish guts. Dimbulb signed it with a flourish. Then he placed his Powhatan on a wooden bench. The room had grown silent as he turned and fixed his fat face on William George.“Look, Tiny Will, I’m sorry. I came up here to buy this statue. Powhotan. It’s for my desk. Y shaped. Fifeteen feet long. I need something in the middle of the Y. So the guy next door where I bought this thing tells me you’re here. William George Washington George. Of all people. I tried to sneak in, but you can see what it’s like to be Mush Dimbulb.”“Make it out to Manny from Mush. He’s a car repair man.” “Could you sign my bra?” “Penelope. Puleeeez clear these people out. We’re trying to eat.” There was a leery look in William George’s cold gray eyes. Maybe Don McDonald was right. Maybe it was time to stand up to this dunderhead. “I don’t suppose you’ve come up here to discuss the Treaty of Ghent, Mr. Dimbulb?”Ariel Shapiro chuckled.Mush Dimbulb blanched, which, for a florid man, is quite a feat. “Laugh down to your socks, you shrimp on toast. So, I’m workin on finding out when Hillary has her cramps, instead of a new constitution for frogs. But I’ve come up here with a little info on your past, Little Willy. Something you might like to see. Just one reporter to another. Your war years.”William George Washington George whetted his lips and sharpened his tongue, but before he could get a word out, Mush dumped a batch of newspaper clipping down on the table in front of him. “Look at these, pal! The Canada years! Assistant lecturer of philosophy at Mackensie University?” The great northward flight of William George Washington George. I, at least, had a bad back. And hemorrhoids. But you… you ran away.” Mush plunked down ten photocopies.By now Ariel Shapiro was not feeling too well.“Who’s laughing now, you little snot? Seems I’ve got you by Shindler’s Bris.”Ariel Shapiro made a throaty whine while William George delivered a little sputtering noise, halfway between a gasp and a yodel. To Mush Dimbulb, it sounded like a dying golf cart. And it WAS true: the rotund pseudoconservative with the wide tie and squeaky shoes had him, in his own words, by Shindler’s Bris.There they were in front of him. Those damned letters to the university paper. Why hadn’t he just kept quiet?“You know….” He began, “it’s illegal to acquire official documents without the written consent and approval of the subject so mentioned. You certainly realize, Mr. Dimbulb, that you have abrogated my rights of privacy under the US Constitution.”“For godsake, you dwarf, we’re reporters. Both of us. We rip open private letters, steal medical records, unseal divorce records every day. You don’t believe that shit for a minute. Right to privacy?”“By the way, who’s the broad? You never introduced us. Ain’t she a little young for you.?”Ariel Shapiro, by now, was in shock. William George Washington George had tumbled right off his pedestal. Could Emily Dickenson be far behind? Of all things, it had never occurred to her to ask the redoubtable Burkean what HE had done during the Vietnam War. Nor could she have conceived that he had fled to Canada like some disreputable Zippy.“I’m Ariel Shapiro from Harvard,” she chirped like a wet sparrow. “I’m finishing my thesis on Emily Dickenson.”“Would you like to order, Mr. Dimbulb?” asked the owner, Penelope Cabot. “The special is lobster salad.”“Swell. I’d like to order. You can give me five crab rolls, two orders of french fries, a coke with ice, one WHOLE blueberry pie, coffee with whipped cream, lots of rye bread, and diet margarine.”“We don’t serve rye bread, Mr. Dimbulb. Blue corn squaw loaf is our specialty.”“Squah, huh! Good. It’ll go with my Powhatan. And the WHOLE blueberry pie. I’ll take what I don’t eat with me. Now, let’s get back to the Treaty of Ghent, ok?”William George Washington George was crestfallen. The first day of his Maine vacation with three weeks of glorious reading ahead, and now he had to face those ancient and long forgotten lies from his Vietnam Days. The very thought of his ROTC instructor looming over him as he marched around the quad, sent him into fits of dyspepsia, like his champion, Henry Adams., also a non-military man. NO, HE HAD NEVER LEARNED HOW TO MARCH. AND WITH GEORGE WASHINGTON FOR A MIDDLE NAME! IN THE HANDS OF A SIMPLETON LIKE MUSH DIMBULB SUCH INFORMATION COULD BE DEVASTATING! ALAS, IT WOULD BE ALL OVER THE NATIONAL REVIEW BY THE SEPTEMBER ISSUE THAT HE HAD EVADED THE DRAFT USING THE STRATEGUM OF SUPERIOR INTELLECT. “I suppose it was just a coincidence that you accosted me on my vacation with all this…raw data.”Mush Dimbulb’s belly ripped with merriment. “OK. I confess, Little Willie. My gumshoes have been on your ass for months. I’m tired of you lookin down your little nose at me like some stupid professor. So, I never went to college. Who cares? The American people don’t care.. Listen, Willie, you’ve been stickin pins in me for years. Callin me VULGAR. No gentleman. You float around like the heir-apparent to William Buckley. Beyond reproach.”He picked up the batch of letters with the government seal. “Well, now I’m gonna rub your silly face in my your own shit. Just for the fun of it. OR ELSE…”He paused. The whole room was listening. Mush loved to play to the crowd. It was his forte.“Yes?”Ariel Shapiro was feeling sick.“Or ELSE you’re gonna kiss my ass in public. On the Livid Bunkley Show. Pass the salt.” Five Sundays later Livid Bunkley was having his makeup applied.
“Too many wrinkles, Mr. Bunkley. We’ll have to use more powder.”
The old man gazed dimly at his reflection in the mirror. “God. I look like a death mask, Quentin. One continuous washboard. It’s like covering up a plowed field with baby powder. Well, do your best.”
“Two minutes to air, Mr. Bunkley.”
“God, I look old. The trick in the business is not dying on the air.” Quentin Porterhouse laughed.
Livid Bunkley was rushed from makeup. Don McDonald was struggling with his plastic hair. William George Washington George was seated bolt upright ready to face the camera. Before Livid Bunkley could begin his intro, William George popped to his feet and jumped in front of the camera.
“I just wanted to thank my friend, Mush Dimbulb, for putting me on the real conservative track again. Perhaps in my existential perambulations within the Beltway, I’d lost my way iconoclastically. Meeting Mr. Dimbulb in Maine this summer gave me a much better view of the role of GASCONADER, the role Mr. Dimbulb plays so well. That’s why I’m inviting him to join the Quill and Parchment.”
Livid Bunkley slumped in his chair. Don McDonald’s hair stood on end. The impossible had happened.
Mush Dimbulb was still in bed. “I don’t need to see the rest. Whada ya think, Ariel? Did he kiss my ass or not?”
“He has a very small member,” she said. “Gentlemen with small members should not talk politics.” Poor Ariel Shapiro. She looked somewhat stiff in the Victoria’s Secret wardrobe Mush had purchased for her. She did like the six floor apartment at the Waldorf Astoria and the solid gold slippers Mush had given her.
Mush rubbed his hands together in glee. “That little pinwheel is givin me membership in The Parchment and Quill. Did you see the expression on Livid Bunkley’s face?”
“He doesn’t have any expression.”
“Hey. Go to the closet and look in my right pants pocket. There’s a gift for you. A little something to take the sting out of your parents’ disowning you.”
She opened the closet door and reached down into his pants pocket. A box from Tiffany.”
“It’s a four carat sapphire.”
She opened the box and turned on the light. “Magnificent, Mush. What a sparkle. By the way. Did you know your belt was missing?”
Ben Pleasants is a poet, playwright and chronicler of Los Angeles literary history.
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