The Un-Candidate #1

     This week I've had the question occur to me of why keep on living in poverty, never being able to do anything nice, and never being able to attract anyone because you are old and poor. And most importantly never being able to get redemption for all the mistakes you have made. I felt like the main character in
Manchester, By The Sea when he said, " I can't beat it." That is, like him, my mistakes have been so great that I don't think I am going to beat them. I have been trying to pull myself together by telling myself to look closely at everything as a chance for redemption. These feelings come, and you work your way out of them.
     I do know of one avenue for redemption but it may require a great deal of moral courage as it could make me very unpopular in this socialist community.
That avenue is writing letters to the editor about the Title IX denial of due process to male college students accused of sexual assault. I envision the possibility of angry, name-calling follow-up letters to the editor about my letter.
I know I can't get something for nothing. You risk as much as you gain, if you're lucky.
     It has just come to me as I write this that I could write letters mocking Title IX by "supporting" it but simultaneously showing how sick and absurd it is.
     On more reflection, I don't find satire or mocking satisfying. It's too cute and smells of cowardice. You take them head-on and put as many of them down as you can. You don't snipe at them. That's not going to redeem me from my acts of cowardice. Let's see what I do about this.
     The torment du jour was my having allowed the city manager and his male assistant, a former Army colonel, to walk into my office unannounced and with no explanation, much less asking permission, go into everyone's office and start poking around, inspecting it. I heard them talking, recognized their voices, and went out to the front office, wondering what was going on. I looked, saw, and went back to my office without a word. I saw my workers with "What's going on?" looks. The two men didn't come to my office.
     In reading some of Waking The Tiger a couple of weeks ago, I learned about re-enactments for treating PTSD. I call them non-renactments because you don't do the same thing over but something more active that awakens the courageous tiger in you. Certainly, he is a magnificent animal, much more so than humans who have the brain capacity for doing evil that they know is evil. In my first non-enactment of the event, I told the city manager and his assistant to leave and call for an appointment to intrude into my office. When they laughed at me, I told them to leave or I'd call the police- across the quiet street. When they laughed at me, and said, "Sure, call Larry (the chief of police whom the city manager hires and fires)." When I called the police, they laughed at me. So, somehow, despite shaking with anger, I found the state police's number and called them. They told me to call the local police. I said I already had, but they laughed at me. I told them that this office was financed 80% by state money, and these two men had no right to pop into my office and go through the offices at will. There were confidential state papers lying around on desks too. The state police put me on a long hold. Maybe forever. In the meantime, the city manager and the colonel left,
laughing at me. It was not a satisfying non-renactment.
     When this torment came back to me this week, I decided to play rougher. Both men were old and thin. I was 35, 6'4', 220, and lifted and ran. I was somewhat built up but not at all like a short man can get. In addition, the city manager was a fussy tyrant. You could go over to the municipal building and hear him bellowing people's names. In this non-renactment, I asked him what he was doing in my house.
    "Get lost, Nickerson."
    "Yeah, Nickerson," echoed the colonel.
    "Jones, this is my house. You get out of my house. Right now. I'm counting to three, and if you're not going, I'm pulling you out. This is my house."
     To make this as realistic as feasible, I am standing up in my little living room.
     "This is my house, my f----ing house! one, two, three."
     He doesn't move, of course.
     With that, I cock my right fist at my hip, and grab his skinny, old arm with my left arm. I start pulling him out of my office, snarling, "Come along, you little
b---!"
    The colonel tries to interfere. I block and punch him away with my right hand as I pull the city manager out of my office which I rent from him and leave him on the sidewalk. I warn him he doesn't want to come after me as I was defending my office and staff and he was trespassing. He doesn't want me to go to the media. He will look like a loony tune.
     Now, this was a satisfying non-renactment.
peternickerson12@yahoo.com  352-359-0850  Philosophy Major, '68