AUGUST 2024 —The novella continues. Pages from G-pa’s Journal: Entry 1 - ppm

   Ang and I did not reach G-pa’s farm in August of 2024. After what happened to her in Illinois, is it any wonder she lost track of time. We both had become confused, had felt lost in space and in time… from Missouri on. My guess, we reached G-pa’s in mid-October, and moved into the hidden root cellar about Halloween. It was crisp, cold, and stars emerged in the early evening sky.

    What follows are pages from G-pa’s Journal. We discovered the notebooks soon after crawling through the entrance between the fallen dead and the huge boulder. G-pa had printed a title, seemingly after the piece was written: One In A Million—Hard to se

Sal

Dear Sal and Ang,

I’m in the barn, alone. And, after eight years, it is empty. The emptiness makes me think of you and of the space once filled by The Truck. The space is, of course, not empty. More in a second.

   All commo here is down. Power is out. We’re running off the solar generator. Things have unfolded faster than anticipated. The sh*t going on… so few understood, it hasn’t so much hit the fan as it has risen in the rivers, broken the levees, overflowed the banks. And suddenly has us up to our eyeballs swimming in sewage. But back to emptiness.

 In every cubic inch there are 4.4 x 1020 molecules of air. That’s:

440,000,000,000,000,000,000 molecules!

Can you see it? Me neither.  440 quintillion. That turns my brain to mush. I even have difficulty visualizing parts per million and that’s 1014 powers less. Just hard to visualize, and if you can’t visualize it how can you understand it? Chaos may purposefully be created—in that state of mind control is easier to implement.

So I’ve an idea. Do this for me… go out and buy 20 reams of copy paper. Make sure they’re traditional reams with 500 sheets/ream (not the downsized 400 sheet variety—although those will work if you buy 25 packages). Now take the wrapper off the first pack and place the ream on the floor. Do the same for all the packets. Depending upon the weight of the paper, the stack will be about 50 inches high.

Okay, you don’t have to physically do this as long as you can imagine a stack of 20 reams of copy paper. Here, I drew one for myself.

1 sheet equals 100 parts per million; 4 1/4 sheets equals 425 ppm

Now, that 50-inch stack holds 10,000 sheets of paper. There, its in front of you so you don’t even need to imagine it, it’s easy to see. And, let’s say were talking about 375 or 425 parts per million (ppm). Well, that’s the equivalent of 3 ¾ or 4 ¼ sheets sitting atop of the stack of 10,000 sheets. One sheet = 100 ppm.

Now were getting someplace. What we really need is only six sheets of paper, the bottom one to represent the bottom 9,994 sheets (or 99.94% of the atmosphere), and the top five to do some figuring. Maybe even less, as what we’re really interested in is the difference between 3 ¾ - 4 ¼ parts per 10,000 (375-425 ppm), or ½ sheet of paper (50 ppm). Good grief, this math is easy enough for a third grader, isn’t it?

Of course, what we’re really talking about is the amount of CO2 (carbon dioxide) in the empty space about us that’s actually filled with air.

Measured in 1975 give or take a few years, the CO2 concentration in Earth’s atmosphere was 375 ppm (or 3 ¾ parts per 10,000); and by 2024 it had risen to 425 ppm (4 ¼ parts per 10,000); a difference of ½ sheet of paper in a stack of 10,000 sheets. Some how it’s okay to ignore the other 9,999 ½ sheets which represent the rest of Earth’s atmosphere.

Again the Of Course--we are talking here about Global Warming and Climate Change created by the excess release of CO2 from manmade sources. This is serious stuff. Governments around the world have enacted laws mandating compliance with processes and procedures to reach a Carbon Net Zero state (Net Zero and similar terms mean stopping the increase in CO2 in the atmosphere, and maintaining it at, or reducing it from ½ sheet to maybe 4/10th of a sheet.)

Worldwide businesses and industries have sprung up to meet those mandates, and bureaucracies at all levels have grown to control those businesses and industries, and to control the behaviors of all people from the vehicles they drive to the stoves they cook on and the light bulbs in their bathrooms. Billions (109), probably trillions (1012) of dollars have been spent (and earned) on implementation and infrastructure because of a belief system based upon perhaps 1/8th of one page atop a stack of 10,000 pages. [Yes, I know, ½ page, but follow along.]

All belief systems have flaws, and Global Warming and Climate Change have become belief systems. The more intellectually, emotionally and financially invested people become in a system, the more rigid the system becomes, the more likely the flaws in become encoded and encased, and the more likely a continuous narrative will propagate the validity of the hoax. A system that openly and honestly questions itself, that promotes checks and balances, that examines itself for flaws and if found eliminate those flaws, can continuously evolve and improve.

The question must always be asked: Are any of the factors or variables upon which the belief system is base, flawed, faulty or forged? When 1012 dollars are involved, the felonious feel the need to protect their funds and their futures whether or not $ x 1012 spent on mitigation produce any results.

We need to go a step further but let me first tell you I am enthralled by the advancements in technology brought on by the mandates of the Climate Change belief system. From solar energy collection to storage to power usage, those who have sought to work within and to perfect those elements of the system should be applauded. Much of it works incredibly well (other parts are complete boondoggles).

Despite my love of technology, we must ask if that half sheet difference in CO2 was caused strictly by human beings burning petroleum products, or other human actions, or was some of it caused by an increase in volcanic activity or other natural causes? For example: There’s an interesting article on the internet about the three I’s--Italy, Iceland, and Indonesia. In April of 2021 each nation had a massive volcanic eruption, and it was noted that in one week the amount of CO2 belched and blasted into the atmosphere by these three mountains was the equivalent of all man-produced CO2 in the proceeding 70 years. That article didn’t mention the other eruptions that year which amounted to about 70 (there have been 46 so far this year). Also, it didn’t note all the submerged oceanic eruptions of which there were more than the land-based ones (after all, the earth’s surface is 70% ocean—but still, why not report those under its surface?) We’ll look at more examples below.

What about other potential variables or factors? Every rocket launched into space blows a 15-mile in diameter hole in the ozone layer which protects the earth from the most harmful radiation of the sun. In 2023 there were 211 successful orbital launches; in the first seven month of this year the number is 135, a rate which will bring us to over 230 = 41,000+/- square miles. Or HAARP, the High-frequency Active Auroral Research Instrument (a 33-acre field of 180 high-powered Ionospheric transmitters in Gakona, Alaska funded by U.S. Air Force and Navy) used to heat the ionosphere thereby creating a pressure vacuum beneath and giving it the ability to change weather patterns; also able to generate ELF radiation via modulated HF heating of the ionosphere thus instigating earthquakes. What about volcanic eruptions caused by earthquakes? Possible? Look up LBJ’s 1964 statement on weather modification, “…he who controls the weather controls the world…”

What of the disbursement of aluminum and other chemical nanoparticles into the atmosphere for a myriad political or Machiavellian reasons? Sounds like a flawed fact, doesn’t it? Did you see the photo, innocently posted last month on social media, of the beautiful rainbow in New Hampshire. The rainbow was a perfect arc over green mountains and valleys, but it was pink. Solid pink. That’s not the typical color spectrum caused by sunlight refracting through water droplets. Pink likely is caused by aluminum oxide in the atmosphere. Who put it there? Why? What effect does it have on global temperatures, or on plant growth? Or, why have numerous astrophysicists reported that earth’s warming is covarying with increased temperatures on Mars? Could it be the sun energy varies as it goes through it’s short, medium and long cycles, and the half sheet difference of CO2 in out atmosphere has nothing to do with climate change? Two thousand scientists of Climate Intelligence have declared that a climate emergency does NOT exist. That the astronomical sums spent on carbon mitigation are misspent—me, maybe the motivation behind the encoding and encasement of the flawed belief system is the ka-ching* taken in by those benefiting from these mis-expenditures. What do you think?

There certainly are additional questions needing answers. Some “environmentalist” and some politicians have declared that CO2 is a toxic substance. Is it? We inhale air (even in this empty barn), withdraw some of the oxygen for our use, then exhale all the other gases including those we produce metabolically, and including the CO2. (Our bodies metabolically produce CO2, but they don’t want to exhale all of it as it is the body’s chief mechanism of vasodilation.) Most plants absorb CO2 and via photosynthesis convert the carbon into themselves and their fruits, vegetables, seeds, etc. Indeed, in hot house (or greenhouse) farming the ambient CO2 of 4 pages/10,000 is boosted to between 6 and 10 pages (600-1000ppm) because plants grow more rapidly and contract less disease via “CO2 fertilization”. The idea of burying 70,000,000 trees to control global CO2 levels is antithetic to its own stated purpose—that is, it is a flaw or falsehood in that belief system. All life on earth dies if CO2 drops into the 1½ sheet range (4¼ is a lot healthier).

Ask also, Has the net-zero CO2 movement (belief system) hijacked Environmentalism? I suggest looking up recent (say last ten years) statements by the founders and/or leaders of environmental organizations they headed 25 to 50 years ago. So much funding (taxpayers’ dollars) has gone to CO2 reduction that other concerns have withered.

False narratives endlessly repeated create inconvenient “truths.” How does one, or a culture, resist indoctrination and break flawed yet accepted illusions? Sal and Ang, you know how attached I am to the earth, how I’ve always been an advocate for the environment. Know now how deeply I feel betrayed by the false elements and fraudulent mandates of the climate change tyrants.

Sal, Ang, I’ll leave it to you and your generation to answer these questions. At this age, the best I can do is to raise questions.

G-pa

 

AUGUST 2024:  https://books2read.com/u/m2Byqd

 

 

 

 

 

 

Illinois NPR: DEMISE - Race, Culture Wars…

AS THE ALIGNMENT of the stars would have it, two of the podcasts I recorded last fall were delayed, then released this week within 36 hours of each other. This one, with Illinois NPR host Jay Hoffman, focuses on DEMISE, and on numerous current issues including race, polarizations, corporatism, suicide, schools, and the culture war. Enjoy!

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Front Row Network (NPR): SPECIAL EPISODE: Interview with Author John M. Del Vecchio

Jay Hoffman has an interview with best-selling author and National Book Award Finalist John M. Del Vecchio as they dig into the many themes present in Del Vecchio's latest book "Demise: A Novel of Race, Culture Wars, and Falling Darkness".

SPECIAL EPISODE: Interview with Author John Del Vecchio | NPR Illinois

John Del Vecchio is a best-selling author and a National Book Award Finalist who offers his unique perspective on a variety of topics and their historical antecedents. He uses his time as a Vietnam veteran to tackle issues such as race, economic issues, mental health, and the changing family dynamics in society. In our interview with John, we will get into the many themes present in his latest book “Demise: A Novel of Race, Culture Wars, and Falling Darkness” and his personal experiences littered throughout. Please join us as we get the author’s perspective on his latest book.

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Borne The Battle -- VA podcast

Below is from the VA podcast site:

In this episode of Borne the Battle, Del Vecchio shares how he went from being a combat correspondent to a very accomplished author. Some of the topics covered include:

  • His experience training at The Defense Information School.

  • The hurdles he had to go through to get his orders changed and be sent to Vietnam.

  • His unique experience serving as a combat correspondent with the 101st Airborne Division.

  • The act of heroism that earned him a Bronze Star Medal with a “V”.

  • His experiences after returning from Vietnam.

  • How he got his first book published and what he thinks today’s aspiring authors need to do to find success.

Borne the Battle #227: Army Veteran John Del Vecchio, New York Times Bestselling Author, Historian, Hiker - VAntage Point

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DEMISE: A novel of race, culture wars, and falling darkness

By John M. Del Vecchio

It is me. It is not me.

The story structure of DEMISE is three concentric circles, with the inner-most circle being the last thoughts, or suicide contemplations, of John Panuzio. There is a total of four contemplations before the final convergence.

If some of Johnny’s last thoughts from the late 1990s — I smell the rotting carcasses of vacant dead businesses, of bankrupt people withdrawing, hiding. I smell the stench, a more horrid smell than that of economic dislocation, the stench of adjunct distrust, hate, violence. The craving for revenge — seem more appropriate in 2020, so be it.

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The seed.

The germ.

The storm continues.

It is me. It is not me. I’m not a part of him. I am no longer in that body. In that mind. Good riddance.

In the darkness before him sky and water meet, mesh. He feels them as one, feels the cold, dark, wet blanket enwrapping…I know what he feels. He feels the wrapping, the swaddling, over him like a monk’s hood, a shroud, completely encapsulating him, offering no protection but the numbing cold.

His fists clench. The wind hitting my face brings snow — the fourth storm of the season. Sparse yet driven. His ears, nose, lips, forehead sting. My eyes tear. Cold. Damn cold. So damn cold!

Look at him — standing, staring at the water, his mind rigid, his body tense, his legs trembling. Wind howls across the lake, drives charcoal clouds like tumbleweed, pushes the stone-gray water into swells, whitecaps. Spindrift and splash coat the shore, freeze, turn the jutting piers into treacherous glass gangplanks. The Point, his Point, becomes one contiguous humped and pocked icy undulation.

The wind gusts, relents, surges, presses the cloth of his trousers against the front of his thighs, spurts between buttons of his long coat, ceases, erupts anew. A shiver spreads outward from the center of his back, encircles him: spreads inward, upward from his thighs, engages his very core.

Frenzied gusts sway him. He leans into the wind. The slapping of the waves intensifies. It is dark. Darkness encapsulates him, presses down upon Lake Wampahwaug, upon the entire region, yet he stands there, rigid, picturing the slap, the spray, the thickening ice. He does not see the darkness, but I see the darkness. I see darkness jolted by lights from behind me, from town. I see lights chopped and shattered on the lake’s surface; I see darkness contaminated by lights from three miles across, from Lakeport, glowing, glowering on the rumpled speeding bottoms of the clouds.

My fists clench, my arms are so taut they ache. Look at this, he says, thinks. God!! It’s not even winter. So damn cold. So damn…the fourth storm…

A thought erupts. It is me. I am trying to break free, to break out of him, out of his disgust, his cynicism, his hatred, his self-hatred loathing remorse…There! A thought. A seed. A kernel of truth. A bridge to salvation, to tomor­row, to…

Vanished! Chopped and shattered like light on water.

Decision time. I am not yet ready to decide. I have come here, again…again, to see it, view it in black and white. He likes to see in black and white as if black and white will make it all clear.

The wind surges. Waves dapple a headlight beam as a car swings from Fourth Street to Lake Shore. He hears the car pass behind but he does not turn. Thoughts lurch across the waves of his mind, rise, fall, fragment. Everyone thought so, he thinks. Not a smart aleck, but intelligent. Capable of complex rationality. Creative. Funny. Committed. Caring. Now…dumber than Gump. Stupid. Dull. I wouldn’t stay with me if I didn’t have to. Why should anyone? Why should I?

Why should I? He knows there is no answer. I know…Look at him. Sick. Sick to his stomach. In pain. Every joint seemingly inflamed. His mind aching. Out of control…

Never in control. Never once in control. Never once. I think. A facade. An illusion. I wanted to do the right thing. Half a century of facades. I am not me but him and he is but a facade, a veneer without substance.

A pain shoots through his arm. If only, he thinks. The pain intensifies. Go down my arm! he thinks. Explode!

Then. No! Not yet!

He stands at the water’s edge, stands upon new snow — not nice snow, not fluffy white snow, but heavy gray crud marred with footprints. The tempera­ture has risen — not enough to melt the ice coating the shore but enough for the drizzle to come as a swirling mist instead of flurries; enough to make the ice beneath the crud slick as hot shit.

Johnny senses an odor in the mist, an aroma that seems to hang in the air, seems to him to have hung in the air all fall, grown stronger with each shortened day — an odor of depression, of gloom, of fear; an ambient odor that seems to have permeated the entire region as if the trickle-out effect of the massive layoffs by ContGenChem have caused the lake itself to stink. Or is it only me? Am I the only one to smell the spreading slick, the closing first of only the small bars and grills near the plant, then speciality stores in the near suburbs, then exurban stores region-wide that depended upon people’s discretionary income? I smell the rotting carcasses of vacant dead businesses, of bankrupt people withdrawing, hiding. I smell the stench, a more horrid smell than that of economic dislocation — the stench of adjunct distrust, hate, violence. The craving for revenge.

A new gust staggers him. He steps back, catches his balance, leans into the wind. He had raised the collar of his long coat as he’d begun his walk but he had not cinched the top button. His fingers tremble, fumble in the attempt. He abandons the task, looks into the wind, thinks he should be able to see from where the wind comes, realizes he cannot see it until it, the wind, is only in his eyes. He hunches, forces his hands to his armpits, squeezes his arms to his chest, turns, glances down, back, thinks he should be able to see to where the wind goes, but behind him the road is dark and the mist conceals his home and the town.

Again he turns toward the lake, the onslaught. Trembling no longer encircles him but now vibrates his entire being. To see, he thinks. To see from where it all comes, came. How did I, he, we get here? To see to where it all goes. Every reaction is preceded by an action; every effect has a cause; every ramification has its pre­cursor. Aaron knew. A baby! Just a baby! But he knew. He wrote. He…Vio­lence does not erupt without instigation: depression is not spontaneous self-destruction. Still, his. Johnny’s, thoughts crescendo. Does that justify rash­ness? Does that…

A new pain erupts. New fear. New hope. New dread. The pain never comes, never came, when I exercised. It’s heartburn. Nothing more. From all the food…catered food for the…Or from Agita! Agitation! But soon…

Why Julia? Why Rocco? Nicky? Mitch? Jason? I tried to be a good husband; son; brother; friend; father. Jason…geez! With this weather you’ll never get the game…The game. The games. Gaming. That bastard Tripps. And Nightingale! And LeRoy.

Thoughts ebb, are sucked from him by the wind, are carried, scattered to the far corners. One must plan, must project, must make believe he knows where it all goes. All things past are manifest in the present. All growth be­gins with a seed. All things past…Richard. 1955. Maybe ’56. At Nonno’s. Richard at Nonnos on Christmas day. Of course!

Johnny opens his arms, pats his pockets to ensure he has his keys, his wal­let. He thinks of his appointment calendar with the next weeks’ schedules ar­ranged around the last game, the postponed game because of the storms, the damn storms; around shopping and Christmas and New Year’s; his calendar with his goals for the coming year clearly defined — oh, what a good boy am I — and the steps to reach those goals clearly delineated. Certainly that could be used as evidence.

Then he thinks, worries. Yes. I am worried — perhaps that will not be enough.

The wind surges, ebbs. His teeth chatter, his thoughts run on. Solve it by… A letter to Mitch. That’s what I’ll send. Not a letter, a re­port. A proposal. For Mitch, left there, on his, on Johnny’s desk. Talk about our optimism, about our need to do it together. Yes. Yes.

He is on The Point, his feet at the edge of the waves. Again he thinks about his father. Then about his grandfather, and his godfather and godmother, and his cousins, and again about his father now with his sons. His father had been born in Nonno’s house, in the house of Il Padrone in the old sense, in the house on Williams Street between Arctic and Jerome Avenues in Lakeport only a long block from Holy Rosary. He’d been born in 1912 on the Festa di San Rocco and was thusly named for the patron saint of Castelfranco en Miscano, in Benevento province…He could have named Todd for his father! Except Julia woudn’t…”Rocky! That sounds like a thug.” But at least, perhaps, Jason. Jason could have been Jason Rocco instead of Jason Randolph, Julia’s father’s name. Todd could have been Todd Giovanni…He could have insisted. He could have…Not in America! Not in a thoroughly modern American family…a thoroughly modern American dysfunc­tional family. Wives are more interested in their careers than in their husbands and children…husbands with their own career problems paying sparse attention to their wives and children…children raised by the community which raises them with a different set of values, a com­mercial set of values, than would a family in the old sense. To the community a child is a consumer, a future producer, a product of and for community pro­duction, a carbon-based unit, a commodity to be educated, to be developed for use by Tripps and Meloblatt and the corporate padrones in the new sense.

More thoughts cascade in, swirl, swish, blow out barely leaving a trace, mak­ing no sense, no connections, no beginning, no end…fragments, shards, like broken ice, shattering, scattering, falling into, through, the veneer of thick crud, soundless, lost, an illusion…

Perhaps, he thinks, one cannot see precursors until they are in your eye, then can only surmise them to have been such, as if they could have been or should have been — that’s the worst, the should have been — seen…

Dumber than Gump. Look at me, him. His arms are tight, his fists clenched. The wind hitting my face brings snow — the fourth storm of the season — sparse, driven. My ears, nose, lips, forehead sting. My eyes tear. Cold. Damn cold. So damn cold! And the wind. Freezing. Forc­ing itself into me. An outside force inside of me. Growing inside of me. Look at the ice. The piers coated with ice. Slick as shit. And the rocks. I could slip so easily. It is no longer me. I am no longer in that body. That mind. I am detached. I am…

All excerpts, along with Aaron’s thesis, can be viewed at www.peakingat70.com

About the Author: John M. Del Vecchio is the author of four books, including two bestsellers with approximately 1.4 million copies sold, as well as hundreds of articles. He graduated from Lafayette College in 1969, was drafted and sent to Vietnam in 1970, where he served as a combat correspondent in the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile). In 1971, he was awarded a Bronze Star Medal for heroism in ground combat..

DEMISE: A novel of race, culture wars, and falling darkness

By: John M. Del Vecchio

To be released by Warriors Publishing Group — 8 September 2020

Illust 12-Mitch at casino

The following excerpts are from scenes in which Johnny Panuzio and Mitch Williams deal with the publication of Aaron William’s (Mitch’s son) thesis on race. Aaron’s full thesis will be available online in September at www.warriorspublishing.com or at www.peakingat70.com.

“Johnny, Mitch.”

“Hold one, Mitch.” Both men were in their offices in the ContGen­Chem tower. It was late afternoon. They had spoken earlier in the day, and Mitch had sent Johnny a portion of Aaron’s preliminary statement on affir­mative action. Johnny still had it on his desk, had read the first four pages, had blocked out several paragraphs and had underlined a few sentences. The concepts had sent his mind racing.

…behavior is consistent with self-image. Self-image is the prod­uct of individual and cultural story…

…I support affirmative action. However, I am opposed to race-based or gender-based — versus economic-based — affirmative ac­tion…

…I oppose race-based policies because they imply the genetic inferiority of the economically lagging race; as, too, do gender-based policies imply the genetic inferiority of the economically less advan­taged gender. The implications tend to instill a self-image of inferiority which, if it becomes internalized, produces specific self-defeating behaviors.

These implications of inferiority are hokum!

Race-based affirmative action is racist. It eventually hurts the very people it is intended to help.

Johnny glanced at his secretary then back at the pages. He’d felt as if Aaron had been talking directly to him. Within two pages, Johnny had decided to ask Mitch and Aaron if he could use Aaron’s paper as the basis for an article he intended to write. Johnny had seen how he could adopt the concepts of cultural story and self-image, but change the focus from race policy to advertising. He shuffled files on his desk, scanned another marked block.

Race-based solutions to economic problems are doomed to create worse economic problems for the protected race. It is time to scrap these programs, and to establish economic-status based programs. This will allow race to fall away as a conflict point. If the majority of those assisted are from one race, or one ethnicity, or if they are veterans, it is of no concern. The concern is only if they are poor…

Discriminatory actions, based on race, ethnicity, religion or gender, even if they are specifically tailored to make up for past discriminatory actions, per­petuate that discrimination…

“Hi, Mitch. I just heard from Julia. The game’s been canceled. Hold again, okay?” Johnny lowered the receiver, glanced at his secretary, said, “Lisa, can you give me a moment?”

“Certainly, Mr. Panuzio,” the young secretary answered. She slipped from the office and closed the door behind her.

“Son of a bitch,” Johnny said quietly into the phone to Mitch. “Tripps has been in and out of here all day. I’m only partway through Aaron’s — ”

“Mr. Impeccable or the old man?” There was no emotion in Mitch’s voice.

“Mr. Impeccable. You okay?”

“Yeah. Ah…I’ve got a big problem.”

“Vernon?”

“No. Aaron. We’re going to report Aaron missing.”

“What?!”

“He’s not at school. His girlfriend hasn’t seen him since they had a fight or something in school yesterday.”

“Jason said he was at the hospital last — ”

“No. He said a lot of kids were there. He was trying to cover for him.”

“That little…”

“The police are going to recheck the accident site, and there’s an inves­tigator going to talk to Ryan Willis. Damn it, Johnny. I’m worried. No­body’s seen a trace of him since yesterday!”

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Mitch did not let Johnny finish his sentence. “You know why?”

“A number of reas…”

“Bullshit!” Mitch bullied Johnny into silence. “There’s one fucken rea­son and only one fucken reason. Those cocksuckers at the top of the government…those gutless bastards who gutted…who emas­culated the War on Drugs. There’s a department known as the Office of National Drug Control Policy. Despite the fucking rhetoric, the fucking tears and wails about the tragedy, they chopped that budget by more than seventy-five percent. That’s just for starters. Shame on those bastards. What kind of example do they set?”

“They…”

“Bullshit!!” Mitch exploded. He was driving erratically. The car lurched left with each statement, swung right with each pause. “The example they set is tolerance. Tolerance for abuse! Reduced stigma for addiction! They glorify re­habilitation. It’s like it’s born-again Christianity! Bullshit! It’s not!”

“Whoa!” Johnny reared back as Mitch nearly rammed a car alongside them. The other driver swerved to a safe distance, flashed the finger.

Mitch was oblivious. “What the fuck do they think they’re goina get?!” His words were fast, hard, angry. “Reduced usage? Assholes. They’re all assholes. I fucken hate all them fucken enabling jerks. Try it. It’s okay. Experimenting is okay. Then if you get hooked, like it’s a mental disorder. ‘We’ll pay for your therapy.’ Fuck you!”

“Um.” Johnny swallowed. His head hurt. His mouth tasted like dirt and dirty socks. What could he say? He had not seen Mitch so angry since Thanksgiving 1965.

“Pricks,” Mitch raged. “They killed my son as much as if they pulled the trigger! Fuck ʼem! Fuck loyalty to those scumbags! If I thought I could get away with it, I’d blow away half the motherfuckers…”

“Mitch!” Johnny grabbed the wheel, pulled the car back into their lane. “Geez!” Mitch pushed his hand away. Johnny sat back. In a con­ciliatory tone he said, “If…if you decide to do it…I’ll go with you. But don’t go and do…”

“Fuck you!” Mitch balled his right fist, cocked his arm as if ready to strike. “You skipped out before. You’re not going to…”

“I didn’t skip out!” The words shot out defensively. “I never got called up.”

“Ssshhe-it!” Mitch hissed in disgust.

For some time they rode on in silence. Johnny wanted to defend himself, almost blurted out, “At least you’ve still got your job, your salary. At least your wife didn’t…” But he did not, could not. He knew there was no comparison; knew, too, that the spillover of Mitch’s anger, not cutbacks or downsizing, was threatening to subvert Mitch’s position with Tripps. He did not know how to help appease his friend’s anger. He had his own problems. His head throbbed.

Now Johnny imagined himself being arrested, being escorted from the Tower, maybe in shackles. Then he thought to say, “Ya know, Jason and the team can’t do it without Aaron any more than you could do it without me, or I could do it without you,” but he knew that that wasn’t any good, either. He wanted to empathize with Mitch; he wanted Mitch to get it out, felt he needed to get it out, felt Mitch had held it in too deep, had allowed it to fester too long; but this morning Johnny’s head hurt, he didn’t want to go in at all, and he wished that Mitch could empathize with him, too. It would have been so much nicer to have been able to talk about last night’s dinner, to share with him a tidbit about how sexy Julia had been.

They crossed the dam, swung north, came to a near standstill in rush-hour congestion. Mitch’s deep, slow burn streamed from him like an un­stoppable flow of lava. “You may not understand this,” he said harshly, “but what we’re going through — gone through — is a cultural revolution. Nobody calls it that, but America has changed as much in the past thirty or forty years as anything Mao or Pol Pot ever tried. We’ve changed more without programs of violence than Mao did with all his revolutionary pol­icies. This is not your father’s America.”

“Yeah,” Johnny shot at Mitch. “And it’s not my grandfather’s or your grandfather’s America, either. And I hope some of it’s been for the good.”

“You think I’m goina say yes because I’m black.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Fuck it. That change came a hundred, two hundred years ago. There’s a big lag time from attitude change to full implementation. That’s still not here. But these other changes — this cultural revolution of the last fifty years — it’s undermining everything. The ramifications are going to explode on our kids. Those that survive. Aaron…”

Atlas Can No Longer Shrug,” Johnny said.

Mitch snorted, bit his lip, muttered, “That’s his paper…” Mitch paused. A deep breath came out of him. “Is it any good?”

“It’s terrific,” Johnny answered. “I wanta get it published.”

Energy seemed to ooze out of Mitch, seemed to flow from his every pore. Sitting behind the steering wheel in the car in the stalled traffic, he deflated. The skin below his eyes puffed, sagged. His jowls hung. Lifelessly he said, “You’ve really been going through those files, huh?”

“Yep,” Johnny said. It was better to talk about Aaron this way.

“He worked on it all summer,” Mitch said softly. “I didn’t pay much attention.” Mitch squeezed the wheel hard, held on. He was on the verge of tears but he held them in. “McMillian.” Mitch whispered. Again he swallowed. “Aaron had McMillian…had a lot of McMillian’s notes. You know McMillian?”

“Yeah.”

“They got pretty close — and with Aaron doing that legislative intern­ship, McMillian kind of guided him. Kind of was his mentor. Did you know he’d done some pretty extensive writing? Academic stuff. On Vietnam. Aaron used McMillian’s stuff as his paradigm.”

……………………………………………………………………………………….

The Lakeport Ledger

Section D-1 The Lakeport Ledger — A Callipano Corporation

Sunday, October 30, 199-

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Area Youth Lectures from Beyond the Grave

When Atlas Can No Longer Shrug — Freedom Is an Illusion

The first in a series of essays Aaron Williams with John Panuzio

RACE, CULTURE & PUBLIC POLICY: We stand at a critical time in the Lake Region, in this state, and in this nation, with regard to racial isolation and imbalances, and with regard to the equality of ed­ucation for all, and to the legitimate role of government in our lives. It is now time for us to analyze not simply where we are, how we arrived here, and where we are going, but also to understand what vehicle and what propulsion system has brought us to this point, and what vehicle and system is most suited for taking us into the future.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Callipano began by calling Aaron’s work “thoughtful yet controversial…an example of suburban thinking,” finished with, “No high school student writes this well. Much in these articles is certainly the work of John Panuzio,” at this Johnny grinned, his eyes twinkled, “director of marketing for Continental General Chemical. The articles smack of the conservative ideology which is certainly a trait of that corpo­ration. This commentator believes that Panuzio is attempting to pass off these ideas — in order to preempt criticism — as the work of an 18-year-old murder victim. The Ledger requests comments and rebuttals.”

Johnny’s mouth fell open. He reread the lines. Twice he’d met with Liz Callipano. She’d seemed so open, so sincere, so supportive of his position. How could she…? he thought. “…smacks of conservative ideology…“?! Johnny was baffled, stunned. Mitch is conservative, he thought. He’s the soldier. Not me. Request rebuttals?! He became angry, gritted his teeth, inhaled, huffed. As he began reading he grumbled, “Bitch!”

About the Author: John M. Del Vecchio is the author of five books, including two bestsellers with approximately 1.4 million copies sold, as well as hundreds of articles. He graduated from Lafayette College in 1969, was drafted and sent to Vietnam in 1970, where he served as a combat correspondent in the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile). In 1971, he was awarded a Bronze Star Medal for heroism in ground combat.

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