The Unwashed of Lake Michigan

From atop the Stoa this warm winter night, I will spin the yarn ever again for our Moderator roaming the nation gauging the mental acuity of our population.

The road was choked with cars, walkers, bathers, bikes, and motorcycles leading into the Holland State Park. It took over an hour for the Moderator to inch his way into and through the toll booth. Another twenty minutes to find a parking space that was forever away from the iconic pier and lighthouse.

It was a warm Memorial Day. The sky was clear and there was only a gentle breeze. Though the water was still too cold to really enjoy, there were brave souls willing to wade into the cool waters of Lake Michigan.

The people were friendly and had come from all over the mid-west to enjoy the holidays on the sandy beaches of Western Michigan. Several had even gathered around him to get his autograph.

He went from umbrella to umbrella, listening to the conversations and arguments. Some were listening to radios. One person was talking to his wife about some riots that were going on in Stamford, Connecticut.

He was a little concerned, he owned a beautiful home just on the outskirts of Stamford. He paid people lots of money to keep his yard and home looking beautiful.

The older, well-to-do visitors were generally pretty good about answering questions and getting them near enough to right. Of course, there were those that seemed to live in their own reality.

Three girls were sunning themselves on the beach. Randal stepped on one because he was using the zoom function to look at another girl wading into the water.

After making apologies, the girls were happy to appear on the show.
"Girls, where is Canada?"
The one that had been stepped on answered, "it's like over near Wisconsin." Vaguely waving a hand out over the waters.

"It's near Wisconsin, you say? Is it near any other U.S. state?"

"Canada is a state, dufis," the girl stated full of confidence.

"Yeah," the other said. "It's up near Manitoba, Ontario, Quebec, Vancouver, Brunswick, and Alaska. You know, those are the most northern of the 57 U.S. States."

"57? America has 50 states and Canada is a country all of its own." The Moderator said, incredulously.

"If you say so," the third said in a very snotty tone. "You're going to say that Mexico is not a state either, next I'll bet."

With disgust, the Moderator turned away and began heading over to the pier.

There were people jumping off at the end, screaming and having fun. Boats of all sorts glided out of the channel and into the Lake.

He stopped at a gentleman who was fishing on a rock with his son. They looked to be of Hispanic decent.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you know who the President of the Russian Federation is?"

"Putin," he said.

"Actually, he is the Prime Minister, but no one else ever got that close."

"So, what is the Occupy Wall Street Movement about?"

"Well, people who have money, like you, need to share what you have with people like me. People who have no money." The man said evenly.

"I went to college for 6 years and took on $100,000 in debt to get my degree. I worked as an unpaid intern for years before I could collect my first paycheck. What did you do?"

"I was born poor and did not have the opportunity for an education like you. I didn't have the money to go to school like you. People like you have a natural advantage that I didn't have. It is only fair that you share. Mr. Obama will see to it that Social Justice is done."

The Moderator thought about that for a moment. "How can taking something against one's will and giving that something, we'll call it money, to someone who didn't earn it create Justice?"

"You must understand that I am not as educated as you, and though it is not your fault that I'm not educated, it is your responsibility to help your fellow human being."

The Moderator thanked him and moved on down the pier, a troubled expression on his face. Of the conversations he had that day, this one troubled him the most. This man may not have been "educated", but he understood how the world worked and he was going to take advantage of that world without regard to right or wrong.

Randal was using his camera to record the women on the pier. Many were beginning to model for him and ham it up, hoping to make it on TV.

Randal had forgotten that he was there to support the Moderator, obviously.

The Moderator continued to wander down the pier, lost in thoughts while enjoying the warm, pleasant weather.

At the end of the pier, a 30' tall tower was topped with navigation lights. He was looking at this light while overhearing a person talking to another one about riots in Stamford, CT. No one knew what they were rioting about.

"Who are the rioters?" The Moderator asked a man with an earbud.

"No one knows. There was just a huge crowd of people in a suburban neighborhood having a party. People kept joining and joining. Occupy People went there to try to take it over and they just sort of were swallowed by the growing crowd."

The Moderator whistled and shook his head. He wondered which of his friends in the field team were going to cover the event.

"Yeah, when they ran out of booze, they "invaded" nearby stores. Total anarchy. Mobs invading wealthy neighbors and taking whatever they wanted."

The Moderator said, "sure sounds like the OWS folks."

"Nah, there are no signs, no protest, no nothin', just a huge party that seems to be spreading like a revolution."

The Moderator grew more concerned since his home was in the area this man was talking about. "What about riot police and tear gas?"

They tried that this morning. The mass of people is too big to surround and the riot police that went in to bottle them up inside the newer neighborhoods just got swallowed up. Their vehicles just sort of disappeared within the growing mass of people."

"Is anyone getting hurt?"

"Nah, no guns, no news of anyone getting hurt. Just a frat party of biblical proportions."

He could hear Randal laughing, hitting on some of the women near the pillar.

Turning his disapproving eye towards Randal he walked over to him. "Stop that, Randal, you are on the clock."

Randal looked down and around to see if he was standing on a clock.

The Moderator smacked his forehead and ran his hand down his face. Disbelieving his ill fortune to be saddles with such a moron.

When he opened his eyes he saw a slight brunette woman standing in front of him, her hair wet and slicked back, her two piece swimsuit damp and dripping. A wry smile spread across her comely face.

The Moderator looked over her shoulder.

Randal lay face down on the cement, the camera crammed in his posterior.

The Moderator was so jolted that he leapt backward, off the pier and into the channel. In shock, he rolled over and swam towards the other end, away from the demonic figure of DeRoy, who simply stood at the side of the pier watching him.

The current was pulling him into the harbor and he swam hard for a ladder on the Allegan county side of the channel. A big cabin cruiser nearly ran him down. He choked on fumes and water in its wake.

Dumping his shoes and his light jacket, he made it to the ladder in his expensive shorts and polo shirt. Dripping and gasping, the Moderator stood nearly alone on the far side.

His eyes sought out DeRoy's form on the other side. He could not find her at first, until she stood up straight upon 30' pillar.

Gracefully, she dove off the pillar and into the channel with hardly a splash.

The Moderator twitched and sniffed at the channel side. He saw neither bubbles nor ripples from the water. A large boat passed by and churned up the water.

He took his eyes off the water for a moment and flicked his eyes back just in time to see her form shoot up out of a rising wake at the base of the ladder. When the wake subsided, she was gripping the ladder rungs and climbing steadily.

Screaming, he stumbled backwards and ran down the pier towards the beach. Stumbling over a log near the road, he looked back but could not see her.

He stepped on a rock in his sock-clad foot and yelped. His other foot slipped on some uncurbed dog poo. He pinwheeled down a slope fell backwards into a ditch, hitting his head on a rotting log.

His vision cleared, showing him a blue sky with no clouds. Trees swayed gently in the breeze. A sweet, angelic voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "Yah got yerself a real nice house. Yah, a real nice house."

Then it was gone. He didn't even hear a twig break.

He peddled a bicycle to a nearby marina where he called for a cab to take him to the airport in Grand Rapids. He was a sorry sight. Dog poo on one foot, bloody footprints from his other foot. Nicks, cuts, and scrapes adorned his body.

In the cab, he heard the radio go on and on about the riots in Stamford. Apparently the battle for the city had been lost. The National Guard had been called in to contain the situation, but it looked hopeless. Soldiers would come staggering back to their command posts, drunk or worse. Some had flowers stuffed in their shirts, others came back without shirts and graffiti marked up their backs.

No harm done, but lots of mischief. 10,000 soldiers were lost to the mob along with most of their equipment.

Finally, as he was pulling into the airport, reports had come in that more National Guard units had been brought in from New York to try to contain the mass party. Instead of confronting the party, they stopped cars from trying to approach the area. They also removed all alcohol and tobacco from a 50 mile radius around the party. Without the beer and alcohol trucks, the party goers would burn out the available party fuel.

His flight had to orbit JFK International airport for an hour while they made sure the runway was clear. Large mobs had broken free of the party in search of booze and an open Waffle House. They were easy pickings for the National Guard.

The party was burning itself out.

Hours later, a convoy took him to his home...or at least where he remembered his home. Like hundreds of other homes, his appeared to be a blackened and stripped husk.

Dropping him off at his door, the Moderator walked up the drive way. Where his front door was supposed to be, only an arch remained.

Sitting upon a soiled couch was a man in a flannel shirt, nursing a can of beer. Next to him, swinging idly in a hammock over what used to be his $10,000 television set, was another man smoking a cigar. They seemed to be expecting him.

The one in the hammock blew a smoke ring while glancing at the Moderator.

"DeRoy whas raht, you sur do have a nice house."

The Moderator turned and sat on his porch, his head in his hands.

From above, a news helicopter was surveying the area. The local news channel was saying that his house appeared to be the epicenter of the most destructive mob action in the history of mankind.

Oh, I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it.

Live well.

--Zavost