Meeting the vast Unwashed, Pt. 2

Upon the Stoa this night, many issues concerning Obama, the economy, and our way of life are on hold while I generate the second installment of one man's journey across America. He searches for wisdom in a land of slackers and hard workers. The educated and the uneducated. It can all be found in our country. So, lets see if the Moderator can avoid getting mugged or killed by the local wildlife or by a ticked off young lady.

The van, repaired enough to be road legal, purred on its way to Melbourne, Florida. A new camera man and sound man road with him. The sound man drove while the camera man slept. The Moderator wondered if he should feel guilty about sizing up the fitness levels of the two men who rode with him. He didn't know what had happened to his last two crew. No one had seen or heard from them since that day.

With the blustery weather of Maine far behind him he stared at nothing in particular as they drove through the cities along the Atlantic seaboard. From Maine to Florida there were homes for sale and business space for lease. The only place he saw on his trip so far that was doing well was the area around Washington D.C.

They pulled into a public parking lot near the beach. There was a coffee shop that seemed filled with the locals. A perfect spot. Nice and public.

That psychopath DeRoy had to be locked away. Half the police of Virginia Beach were mobilized to bring that micro-monster down. She just had to be put away.

Slicking his eyebrows down and taking a deep breath he pushed his way into the coffee shop, his sound man and camera man following him.

The place was a bustle of activity. There were teenagers hanging out and a group of seasoned citizens talking and eating together in the corner.

He strode up to a table with 4 high school age kids. "Good afternoon everyone. I'm with the Moderator show and this segment will be aired next week. Do you care if I ask you some general questions?"

The four of them, two men and two women, looked back and forth at each other, shrugging.

"Ok, so what year did man land on the moon?"

"We've been on the moon..."
"It was a hoax, man..."
"1909?"
"What?"

"Wonderful. Moving on. What was the war that won the United States their Independence?"

"Didn't we fight Korea?"
"Wasn't that the Civil War?"
"Wasn't it Germany?"
"What?"

"Remarkable. Ok, then, Who is the Vice President of the United States?"

"Oh, easy man, it like ah, Hillary."
"Naw, man, its like this bald dude...Biden or something."
"Its bin Laden, isn't it?"
"Vice President of what?"

"Outstanding. You make your generation proud." He moved away from them and found a group of older people. Two couples, in their forties, sat at a nearby table.

He walked over and introduced himself.

"Ok, then, what countries border the United States?"

"Canada and Russia and South America?"
"No, Canada and Cuba."
"Idiot, we border Canada, Mexico, and Russia."
"Hey, South America is not a country."

"Wow. Moving on. Who is the Vice President of the United States?"

"Isn't it that Palin chick?"
"No, plug man Biden. Gaff man and hot air-dude."
"Clinton, Bill Clinton."
"Hey, Bill Clinton was already President."

"Oh let this day end. Moving on. Can you tell me what the Arab Spring is?"

"No, man, its "Irish Spring", you know the under arm deodorant."
"The what?"
"Arab Spring?"
"I hate that deodorant."

"Thank you all very much."

He moved on out of the bar, disgusted with the two generations of idiots. How these people could function in society was beyond him. How could they not starve? Who paid them for their labors? What could they offer society?

He rounded the corner of the building to see a slight, roughly 5 foot tall young woman leaning up against the van, her shoulder-length hair gently rippling in the wind.

The Moderator froze, arms swung wide to stop his crew, causing them to run into him.

She just stood next to the van looking back at him with large, almost almond eyes.

"That's ah nice van ya got there. Yes, sir, ah nice van."

She simply looked at him for another moment or two and then gracefully walked around to the other side of the van.

The Moderator did a semi-circle around the van and when he got to the other side she was no where to be seen.

"Did she get in the van? Did you see where she went?"

No one had seen her depart.

The next day he was on his way to New Orleans. He would have been there earlier but he had just had bail posted for filing a false police report. Ok, so the Melbourne Bomb squad had to disassemble his van, but he was certain that DeRoy had done something to the van. He was certain she had cut the brakes or put dead fish in the hubcaps.

Maybe he shouldn't have insulted the police sergeant's intelligence when the Moderator thought he was giving up too soon.

The van moved off one highway and onto another that would take him to the Hewy P. Long Bridge.

There were about a dozen people fishing off the side of the bridge as he turned onto the highway. Tall, lean, elderly black gentlemen with wide-brimmed hats sat in chairs or stood, leaning against the rail. At the far end, a shorter white female sat with an umbrella over her. She flipped her magazine down just as the van had to slow to make the turn onto the bridge. The sunglasses came down next and it was HER! Their eyes met and a small smile crept along the side of her face, bending into something like a smirk.

He accelerated into the turn and lost a hubcap. No sooner had he straightened out then lights began flashing on him. He was being pulled over for speeding! He knew it was her. Why was she following him! What the hell did he do to her! Damn cops. Why were they always after him!

End of part 2. Part three, coming soon.

Now, for the record, I want to say so very much that the questions and answers were made up within my fertile mind, but alas, the questions came from a high school interview of students. The questions were real and the answers, sob, sob, were real also.

Live well everyone.

--Zavost