Checkpoint Charlie

Gorbachev’s dead, Putin’s not. Too many goddamn tyrants in the world, some too big to pry loose of, others simply petty and annoying. We’ll never get rid of them all, but oh how glorious when we inevitably rid ourselves of a totalitarian or two. Trouble is, dictators seem to live forever, and when they do go, there’s another one, less charismatic, waiting in the wings. Meanwhile, back in the USA, freedom is being caveated out of existence. We’ve gotten pretty edgy these last couple of years. Something small could lead to something big. What to do? Wish I knew. Call out stupidity and push back. Used to be, you could show up unannounced, sign a book, and get in to visit your parents. True, there were visiting hours, but the hassle factor was minimal. Nowadays, you have to make an appointment, sit outside and take a test, sign forms, provide dates when you received your shots and boosters, write your name on the test, and hand it over to be attached to your sworn statement. My test has a line on it, but it turns out there’s a C line and a T line. The C line means you’re home free. Not sure what happens if you show up and get a T line. Do the old folks get locked in without dining room privileges again? Once you’ve performed the nose swizzling ritual, waited the appropriate amount of time, and donned a mandatory mask, you’re free to go down the hall and around the bend to mom and dad’s apartment. The mask comes off the minute I get past the front desk.

Mom and dad look younger, somehow. Did they put something in the water? We talk in usual circles, with a handful of topics repeated throughout the visit. A visit to somebody he helped get into university without having to take the entry exam. But now in Australia, they turned my parents away. When was that? “Two or three years ago.” Rami, a family friend. “When did you see him last?” How come Aunt Mary isn’t moving here? What about Aunt Reva? “Do you ever talk to Ruben?” My brother-in-law. We talk every few weeks. My dad’s missing Annie, my mom doesn’t know she’s gone. “I don’t understand how someone gets cancer in the teeth,” my dad says. She smoked. “Who smokes?” my mom asks. “Annie. But none of us smokes.” “Oh good. I’m so glad you live nearby.” The watch is hard to read in the middle of the night. We went through half a dozen watches trying to meet the requirements. Accurate time. Easy to use. The day and date. No apps you might accidentally get into and never get out of. No charger you have to connect to nightly, weekly, or ever. “You should be sleeping.” No sense trying to explain how to work the illumination button, we’re liable to end up in a different time zone. The watch was an ongoing issue for a while, but my dad’s made his peace with it, mostly. Still, he brings up the hard to read in the middle of the night issue at least once per visit. I’d be sad if he didn’t. “The cuckoo in the cuckoo clock,” he begins. “Says cuckoo to YOU!” my mom joins in. Some things are still all right in the world.