FDR and Bob

Tonight I drank a few beers and had dinner face to face with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He sat across the bar from me. There was no stopping him: hanging there on the wall like he has for millions of other Americans, his calm, self-assured, elemental presence greeted me every time I looked his way. Another three letter man -- JFK -- surrounded him. (How many three letter men do we have?) In this corner of Boston, JFK may not be gainsaid. He invented the wheel as far as these folks are concerned. Or at least he didn’t back down when that shoe-banging Russian tried to get smart in our backyard. But while FDR was in front of me and JFK was all around me, middle-aged versions of Moe, Larry, and Curly sat next to me. On my right to be exact. First to my right was a self-described “vengeful” man. After 9-11, specifically on 9-12, he would have bombed Saudi Arabia and Iraq until nothing existed but the battered land. The man to his right thought this a fine idea. But being the pragmatist of the bunch, he thought it far more feasible to just take over the oil fields of these two countries, and then let us have gas for “6 cents a gallon,” and drive as much as we want. I never heard from Curly. But Mr. Pragmatic did call him a Francophile and said “what’s next, you’re going to tell me you want us to have a 35 hour work week?” It was during this meeting of the minds that a harmonica made its appearance. Not for them, but for me. Straining out of the speakers, an early Bob tune played. And all I could hear of it was his harmonica. The sound was quite low -- just enough to provide a very vague background to the poli. sci. 101 class at the bar. But when Bob and his harmonica arrived there was no mistaking that high-pitched, insistent sound. And for a brief moment I was transported back to the 60s. I had a dim understanding of what it must have felt like to think Dylan was Truth. Specifically, the dissonant chord Dylan must have struck and how that chord united so many around a shared rejection of a racist, chauvinistic society. I can’t say (or maybe I’m just incapable of saying) more than this right now. I sat there incredulous as three men self-righteously destroyed the world. (Who proudly says “you know I’m a vengeful motherfucker”?) I wanted to laugh at the inanity of the pronouncements, but I looked over at Franklin and all I could think about was the utter lack of dignity.