Ongoing quest to Meet the vast Unwashed

Upon the Stoa this evening, I will continue with our Moderator discovering just how many of us live in the hinterlands...you know, that place that isn't the NorthEast and that place that isn't San Francisco.

The Moderator drove on his way North from New Orleans. Between having to heal from from his injuries and beating the "rape" charges against him, it was warm out. The sun beat down on his van as he drove towards Memphis, his camera man snoring loudly in the seat next to him.

He no longer had a sound man. None would go with him. He could not get a standard camera man either. None would go with him and none could be forced. They had all argued to their Union that going out with him was the equivalent of going out to cover war zones and therefore entitled them to HUGE pay raises.

So instead of a professional camera man with a $30,000 unit, he has instead, Randal, with a $2,000 HD hand unit with boom sound. A twenty year old putz just out of junior college. He actually was a junior college drop out with an uncle in the studio. Nepotism strikes again.

He was The Moderator, darn it. He deserved better. All he wanted to do was show America what the run of the mill person was like today. A big variety pack of idiots and hard working, honest folk...mixed in with the truly stupid and the geniuses.

Pulling into Memphis he found some kind of music arts fair going on. Over a loud speaker he could hear some song about the kinds of people that shop at Walmart. He'd heard it before. It was quite funny.

Instead of his $3,000 business suit, he wore more casual clothing. One, it was hot out, now, and two, he could run faster if that psychopath showed up.

Wandering around the crowd, he came across a gaggle of screeching teenagers. Careful not to touch their shoulders, he leaned over to them, "Good afternoon, ladies, I'm with the Moderator show. Can I ask you a few questions?"

An ear piercing scream of delight, which he took as permission, he asked the first question, "What grade are you in?" Jumping and giggling ensued.

"9th Grade!" More jumping.

"Have you had geography and politics yet?"

The jumping stopped.

"You mean like were stuff is and stuff?"

"Something like that. Tell me, what do you think about the oil pipeline that was supposed to cross through Canada and down into Texas?"

One girl stepped forward, seriousness on her face, "I think the States should have been allowed to make the decision, not the Federal Government."

The Moderator signed in positive relief. Someone smart to talk to, "Well, the States wanted it, and Canada wanted it. It was the EPA and other government agencies that told Canada, they didn't want it."

"Like, thats what I mean! The governor of Canada wanted it and it would have created more American jobs there...I mean, what the heck was he thinking?"

The girls all nodded their approval. The Moderator's brow creased a bit. He was missing something here, "The leader of Canada is a Prime Minister, not a Governor."

"No way, man, like, States have Governors, not Prime whatchamacallits," she stated with seriousness.

"Young lady, you do know that Canada is a country all on its own and not a State of the United States?"

She gave him a blank stare. Her friends looked blankly at the girl.

Coughing, the Moderator changed gears, "How about the environmental impact of diverting water from the desert Southwest back into the river system." The Moderator wanted to see if her environmental education was better than her geography.

What came forth was a 20 minute discussion, well thought out, if a bit misleading, on modern green theory concerning the watershed of the Great Divide.

Finally, he just had to cut it off, "Awesome. You know all about the web of life and the Grand Pueblo Sandy-Back Cricket, but nothing about Canada. Simply stunning."

After a quick sign-off he went back to the van. He looked about, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He conducted a few more interviews and got some reasonably good answers out of them. He found those under 30 to shamefully educated and those over 50 to partisan knuckle heads who refused to see reality.

No sign of DeRoy. Perhaps she'd grown tired of torturing him.

"Randal, don't stare into the lens like that and quit cleaning your ears out with the microphone sponge," Lord but that kid was an idiot.

He drove to the affiliate TV station in Memphis and picked up a credential for a free hotel stay. He packed Randal off to do whatever it was he did when he wasn't around irritating him.

The Moderator looked around the hotel and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He went down to the gym/pool area with his gym bag, intent on working out the stress of both his job and his fear of slight brunettes.

He peered into the locker room. It was empty and smelled of Chlorine. He went to a locker that was out of view from the archway and put his bag on the bench.

He opened the locker and looked in the top to place his wallet inside.

The next thing he knew there was a battle cry and then blinding pain in his groin. He went down like hamburger in front of George Foreman.

Grunting through the pain he looked over and saw DeRoy emerge from the bottom half of the locker. She had waited in ambush for him and the punched him dead away into the groin.

"Y'all damn predictable yah dumb'ass."

She stepped over his near heaving and possibly vomitous form in her yellow Sun dress. He caught a glimpse of white cotton underwear with a small, red rose.

Angry and irritated, he ground out from his teeth, "Nice angle."

She whirled about and kicked him in the face. He rolled over onto his stomach only to feel her begin stamping him over and over in the butt and lower back. She growled incoherently while she continued to try to stamp him into the concrete.

With a puff of air, she finally twirled her skirt about as she turned and left the locker room.

She passed Randal on the way out. He had a blow pop stuck up his nose.

She turned about and looked up at him. Randal had no idea who she was and looked somewhat proud to have gotten her attention.

With blindingly fast reflexes, she snatched the blow pop from his nose. Blood fountained on the floor at his feet.

He stared at her, unbelievingly for a moment, not sure about what just happened.

With a flick of her wrist she shattered it at the point between his eyes.

"Ya moh'a'ron", she spat and walked out into the lobby and then back to the street as Randal's form slid slowly to the cool tiles of the floor. A pool of vomit slowly creeped in his direction from the Moderator.

Well, hope this was as much fun for you as it was for me.

Live well.

--Zavost