Eve of Destruction

The eastern world, it is exploding,
Violence flaring, bullets loading.
You're old enough to kill,
But not for voting.
You don't believe in war, but what's that gun your toting.
And even the Jordan River has bodies floating.

But you tell me,
Over and over and over again, my friend,
Ah, you don't believe
We're on the eve of destruction.

Don't you understand what I'm trying to say?
Can't you feel the fears I'm feeling today?
If the button is pushed, there's no running away.
There'll be no one to save, with the world in a grave.
Take a look around you boy, it's bound to scare you boy.
(Refrain)

Yeah, my blood's so mad, feels like coagulating,
I'm sitting here, just contemplating,
I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulation,
Handful of senators don't pass legislation,
And marches alone can't bring integration,
When human respect is disintegrating,
This whole crazy world is just too frustration.
(Refrain)

Think of all the hate there is in Red China.
Then take a look around to Selma, Alabama.
You may leave here for 4 days in space,
But when you return, it's the same old place.
The pounding of the drums, the pride and disgrace
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace
Hate your next door neighbor, but don't forget to say grace.

And you tell me
Over and over and over again, my friend,
You don't believe
We're on the eve of destruction.
Mm, no no, you don't believe
We're on the eve of destruction.
(Eve of Destruction: P.F. Sloan, 1965)

The caustic, bitterness of the words sounded like screeching fingernails gouging across the dry, hard surface of a blackboard. Glancing quickly to find the source of the irritation, I saw a short, balding man, with light blonde hair that was turning a premature grey. His pale, light-complexioned face was bland, except for an oversized pair of eyeglasses that dominated his features and gave him a scholarly appearance. He spoke to another man sitting across from him. The tableau looked reassuringly benign; something you would except to see in a side booth in the Corner Bakery Restaurant on a chilly weekday morning. They were two 40-ish, middle-aged men, chatting over coffee and rolls before the start of work. But their placid appearance didn’t jibe with the tone of the words they were using. I’d heard the rhythms of those words before. They were echoes of my youth, when I listened to the gruff, staccato barking of fathers and old men complaining to each other at Little League games and picnics. It was the general talk children overheard in bleachers when dads of the same age bemoaned the plight of American society in the early and mid-1960’s. It was the white noise of a generation who had survived a devastating depression, a long and brutal world war, and the forbidding shadow of communist subversion or nuclear annihilation. My childhood friends and I accepted this outlook as a worldview filtered through the lenses of poverty and cynical mistrust of the military and the government. I was shocked to hear it again, coming from two men who were the same age as my youngest brother, Alex. This was not a post-depression, war-weary generation. They were post-modern yuppies who had experienced little turmoil in a peacetime nation, except for the precariousness of over-extended credit and dismal pension prospects. However, their world changed with the 9-11 terrorist attack in New York, and the Recession of 2009. The balding fellow was talking about a movie he saw that weekend, 2012. He called it an apocalyptic movie, which reminded him of old Irwin Allen thrillers, like the Towering Inferno, and The Poseidon Adventure. He said it was a dramatic reflection of how the world was falling apart.

I am not normally drawn to other people’s conversations, but that morning I was shamelessly rude in eavesdropping on the verbal exchanges between two complete strangers. I had just dropped my car off at the dealership for service, and was waiting for a call back from the mechanic. Rather than sitting in the waiting room of the agency I’d decided to have a continental breakfast at the Corner Bakery. I thought I could catch up on my homework in a warm and pleasant location. Instead, I became fascinated by the vitriolic talk I heard from the adjoining table.

“People just don’t get it,” the balding man insisted. “They don’t understand. There’s a lot more to this movie than just special effects. This nation is going to self-destruct by the Election of 2012. We were the last generation to experience the good times. Our economy is falling apart. I call it Obama-nomics, a socialist system where the government tells us how to run our life and our business”.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said his tall companion, biting into a roll and dabbing the sides his mouth with a napkin.
“Have you been following this breast cancer crap?” the short man continued, apparently changing topics. “I can’t believe it. All the hidden facts are finally coming out on healthcare. You see what the government is doing now, don’t you? They are refusing to identify breast cancer in women. The government will decide when you can check for cancer and when you can’t. Breast panels and Obama-care”, he annunciated, snidely, “it’s scary what this nation is coming to”.

The one-sided dialogue stopped as the bakery manager walked by the two men and greeted them.
“Hey Fred” the short man asked, shaking hands. “What’s this I hear that you’re leaving us?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” the manager said shyly, putting his hands into his pockets. “I’m being assigned to the Westwood Store”.
“Well, we’ll miss you Fred,” the tall man added, lowering his cup of coffee. “Is it a promotion?”
“Of course, it’s a promotion!” scolded his short friend. “It’s a chance to get out of this dump! Westwood is the big time; it’s all happening on the Westside”.
“It is a good move for me”, the manager admitted, politely, “but Westwood is actually a smaller store. This bakery does more business, with bigger volume than Westwood. My job will be to increase service and sales”.
“You’ll do great” the tall man insisted.
“Yeah, you’ll fix things up there in no time” the short man conceded. “ Tell me something, though, Fred,” he said, pointing to the 4 coffee dispensers behind him. “How do your guys clean the coffee urns? Do they really scrub them out with hot water, or just rinse them?”
“The guys follow strict cleaning procedures with all containers,” Fred stated in a formal tone, losing his friendly bantering.
“I don’t think they’re doing it” short guy insisted, shaking his head. “I’ve done a taste test, and I can tell you that the coffee from each urn tastes the same. It’s got to be the cleaning. Maybe it’s a language and communication problem with your guys. Those fellows need to learn how to limpiar” he said in exaggerated Spanish. “Cause they’re not washing them correctly”.
“I’ll review the procedures with them,” Fred stated firmly, looking directly into the short man’s blue eyes.
“So you’re moving up and going to Westwood,” the tall man repeated, after the momentary pause.
“What are you going to do about Chief Low-pants?” the short man interjected, not wishing to end this conversation with the store manager.
“Who?” asked the manager, confused by the term and the mocking laughter from the tall man. “Did you say Jay-lo?”
“No,” the short man snickered. “Chief Low-pants, your chef,” he explained. “I call him Chief Low-pants because his trousers are always sagging down to his knees. Doesn’t he own a belt? Doesn’t he know the appearance he gives the restaurant? He looks like some barrio refugee. You don’t want people thinking you run a ghetto operation here, do you Fred?”
The manager blushed at the sneering ridicule, and stuttered for a response.
“Yeah,” he admitted, ruefully. “I’ve talked to him about professional dress and his appearance when he’s working the front of the store. But chefs want to be comfortable when they’re working in the kitchen. You probably saw him during his break”.
“Well, break or not” continued the short guy, “it gives a bad impression. He wouldn’t be able to get away with that look in Westwood, I can tell you that”.

As the store manager ended his conversation with the two men, I tried refocusing my attention at something else. The scornful criticism by the short man was depressing me. I found myself identifying with the manager, busboys, and chef, and trying to quell a rising sense of indignation at this constant barrage of bile. I realized that I didn’t know enough to make judgments about these two men, or reach conclusions about their attitudes and opinions, but I was getting angry. Looking for other distractions, I opened my laptop and logged into the free wireless network. The Internet kept me entertained until a waitress walked by me, coming out from behind the counter to speak to the tall man. Curious over what this aproned, middle-aged woman might have to say to him got the better of me and I strained to hear their conversation.
“Did you have a chance to look at the papers?” she asked.
“Yeah, of course. I said I would,” replied the tall man.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you should wait. Now is not the time to buy”.
“Are you sure?” she insisted
“Look, I’m just trying to do you a favor,” the tall man said, in an irritated tone. “Do what you want”.
“Alright, thank you for your help,” she said, rubbing her hands on her apron. “There are a few more people I need to ask before making a decision, but I appreciate your help”.
“Sure, you do that honey, and can you bring me back a toasted bagel and cream cheese?” the tall man called out, as she walked away.
“You know,” he resumed saying to his partner, “that bitch is going to do the exact opposite of what I told her. She’s a moron. If she’s not going to do what I say, why ask me?”
“I know what you mean” the short man chimed in, adding his own measure of disgust. “I spoke to my dad last Sunday” he said. “My dad just signed a contract for some new job. He’s doing fine, but my brother’s a mess. He’s in way over his head. I told him to bail out, declare bankruptcy, and move in with the folks, but he won’t listen. That’s what’s happening, you know, there are lots of people moving in with their parents. I’ll admit that by-and-large I’m an alarmist, but I see it everywhere: bankruptcies, foreclosures, layoffs, and more layoffs. So far I’ve been lucky. I can be broke today and then make 10 million dollars tomorrow”. He suddenly stopped talking to help two young ladies who were struggling to operate the coffee urn behind him. The interruption gave me a chance to inspect this man who had been doing so much talking. He wore a striped, long-sleeve yellow shirt, with faded jeans. The fitted cut made him look slimmer than I’d originally thought. He moved around the counter with surprising agility.

“I listen to Sean Hannity,” he continued, resuming his seat across from his friend. “He calls himself a credit card deadhead. That’s a person who maxxes-out his credit card and then pays it off all at once or declares bankruptcy. He rides a credit card until it dies, and then walks away. That’s pretty much what I’m doing right now. It’s risky but I’m getting by. It’s tough out there”.
“You got that right,” the tall man added, leaning forward. “I listen to a lot of talk radio and money management is impossible in this economy. Now is not the time to sell, but it’s not the time to buy, either. You don’t know what is going on. I was at Macy’s yesterday. If you want to see how people are hurting, go to Macy’s. You wouldn’t believe their prices! A designer T-shirt runs for $32, right? Well with coupons and discounts you take 75% off and pick it up for $8. Eight dollars! Think they’re hurting? I was shocked. I bought a shirt that usually goes for $108. I paid $48!”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do”, the short man said, shaking his head. “It’s hard to be positive and optimistic when you know you’re going to be making 50 cent an hour for retirement. What kind of a future is that?” He stopped to let a busboy reach in and deposit a plate with an open-faced bagel and a dollop of cream cheese.
“What is this shit?” the tall man cried out, pointing at the blackened bread. “Come on! This thing is burnt to a crisp!
“That is what the cook gave me,” the waiter said in a heavily accented voice. He shrugged helplessly, and then flashed an innocent smile.
“Boy, I tell you”, the short man said, shaking his head and eyeing the bagel. “Conservatism is dying. It makes me sick what is happening to this country”.