It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 75: Chapter IV

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

There can be no denying that the effort to desegregate the schools and hearts of Americans was akin to a full scale invasion. From coast to coast, Evil that had festered and thrived in the country, taken root in every township, city, and barrio, rearing many maliciously fanged heads, would at last be purged. This would be the final and decisive War on Inequality! The right of every person to be equal under the law, with no addendums, no technical omissions, no exceptions of any kind. Equality for all, written codified in unambiguous black and white that could never be stripped or erased. Equality, promoted by God for all mankind, now and forever more. It would be painful and it would be crushing. There would be violence, and there would be death. Blood would run freely in the streets, but when it was all over—yes! There would be a better country. A better world—

Alan Carr gave a gruff, hacking cough and had to slap at his chest for the smoke induced mucous that dripped into his lungs and stifled his air.

'Are you alright?' the Author asked, but he shook her off and sat back down on the couch, struggling to undo the tie around his throat. 'Do you want me—'

'I'm...' he cleared his throat and took from his pocket a handkerchief of some fine material and spit into it. 'Fuck...'

'Do you need a moment? We can take a break—' but he shook his head again, moping at his sweating brow with the back of his hand and pointed towards the piano and customary pitcher of lemonade.

The Author got up and poured him a drink, but when she turned, she was appalled to see the old man lighting another cigarette.

'I'm fine,' he managed, reading the expression on her face, then coughed harder, smoke spurting from his nostrils. 'Fine...' Alan Carr snatched the glass of lemonade from the Author and guzzled the sweet drink until the corners of his lips glistened and dripped. 'Fine...how many times have you heard that before?' he grinned. 'Fine...'

The Author sat back down, wondering to herself if she ought to run for James. 'You say it a lot—'

'I say?!' he gagged, spitting again into his handkerchief. 'Everyone says it! With zombified eyes and strained voices: 'I'm fine...Everything's...'' he stopped himself and suckled deeply on his cigarette, his face growing dark with, what the Author assumed, may very well be another tantrum. 'Nothing's ever easy in this fucking place. It's always a fight, always hard, but in the end, it's always for the greater good—don't you believe that?!' He raised his chin and leered. The familiar feeling of whiplash came over the Author. He was fine—as fine as he could be given what he so religiously put in his body. 'Don't you believe it will all be better if you just pray hard enough?!' he pestered, his tone wrathfully needling at that Author, as if her offer of help, of taking a break, had both spurred him to find a new energy and caused him passionate dislike of his company. 'What causes are championed and failed at, the first time, second, third, countless times before, will always be taken up again until the most obstinate of ignorant majorities are dragged, kicking and screaming, into the light. But...But!' and he jumped to his feet and spread open his arms to the Author, 'it's worth it. It's worth it, darling! One day, the sun rises. The birds chirp. The dragon is slain. The fight is over. A consensus, bitterly won, has been reached, and we, the people, accept what is, of course, the right and goodly decision; and we move on from there to a more united place. Once step closer to that utopia! Shining city shimmering on the hill...is that what you believe?!'

The Author sniffed and—

'Bullshit!' Alan Carr blurted, unable to contain himself. 'All lies. Propaganda and lies. We don't want anything solved. We live too much for the fight. That's what the rest of the world doesn't get. We are a country, a people, of attrition! You, me, all of us. We complain, and we whine, and we talk about how hard our lives are made, us all the little guys getting trodden on, but we like it. We like it when they treat us like shit. It gets us off. We fucking like it! A nation of Niamh's. No wonder my mother so loved it here. She found her kind. 'Don't hit me! Don't hit me!'' he grossly mocked, making faces like some clown. "You brute, you brute, you've ruined me!' as she sticks out her face and spreads her legs, and offers us up to the barbarian! Cried for him! Wept for him! Loved him, missed him, was never the same again without him. She would have given us all up to God to resurrect him. A nation of Niamhs...We can never be settled. We can entirely agree. There's always a 'what if' left dangling. 'What if' all men are created equal...except... It's a game. What is fought over, died for, seemingly won, there's always a backdoor...just bide your time, you'll find a way to dismantle it. It's perfect, don't you see? We'll always have something to entertain us. The Evil that thrives in America, it's a many-headed hydra. Leave just a sliver of room, and it'll find its way in, growing more terrible than the last. Turn your back, and you will be devoured. We like to flirt with ruin. We like the great escape just in the nick of time. It's strength and weakness of America. One and the same. Americas live in the now. Americans move on. Americans get back up. Americans persevere. Americans forget. Americans never learn. What lessons from the traumas and horrors of their past that could be studied, are willfully disregarded. Americans are always destined for repetition. Americans do not care!Christ, but it is an unfortunate requirement to be one of this country, this constant need for repetition, because in it, there can always be the hope of betterment. We get hard for hope. Never the actuality, that's too much work, but always the hope of the dream. It's easier to dream—Maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe it's not just us. Maybe it's the way of all true republics. Imperfect to fault! Contradictory and susceptible to evangelical dogma. Violent, ignorant, but always striving for something. Always willing to fight. We are warriors! And BB said it: 'Everythin's political!' And what are politics if not war?!'