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SERVICE ARCHIVE SUBMISSIONS/CONTACT ABOUT DV
by
Adam Engel
May
8, 2003
Bored
white corpuscles, the wife and I alternately crept and cruised the clogged
arteries of Empire on our way to some godforsaken suburb to visit reactionary
relatives in the rain.
We
passed depressing god awful towns. Same supermarkets, drugstores, fast-food,
Starbucks, Gap, Barnes and Noble what-have-you (just like NYC!). Hundreds upon
hundreds of flags in every neighborhood, lining every Main Street and pocking
every block. You could tell the truly
lower and working class neighborhoods cause the flags had yellow ribbons on
them, which meant the kids were off from school that day, out fighting for –
what else? – The Flag.
On
the highway we played “count-the-flag:” Old Glory waved from both domestic and imported
cars. Soggy cloth and nylon flapped like rat-tails in the rain.
And
of course, the bumper stickers and decals: “Proud To Be American United We
Stand Remember 9/11 and The Alamo Valley of Heroes No Smoking Please Sit Down Chew Your Food Forty Times Don’t
Interrupt Me When I’m Speaking…”
“Why
you wanna wear Daddy’s clothes?” I
screamed out the window at everyone, at no one. “Look at you dressing in THE
MAN’S clothes pretending you’re Big Daddy!”
We
pulled into a Shop-Rite parking lot in one of the wealthier towns – no yellow
ribbons on the flags – and parked beside this shiny Jeep-type vehicle, looked
like a Brink’s truck. But my wife said it was an SUV.
“Americans
gotta find some way to blow gas,” she said. “Twenty-five years ago it was the
Cadillac. Today it’s the SUV -- hey, look at that, that’s illegal!”
“What,
the big ugly gas guzzler or the ‘United We Stand’ bumper sticker on its fender?”
“No,
no, the flag in the rain,” she said.
“We’ve
seen about two thousand –“
“But
look at the shape it’s in,” she said. “It’s a mess.”
Soaked
and tattered; faded and fringed. I
wouldn’t wipe my ass with the rag on that SUV.
“Oh
yeah. I remember. Something about not letting Old Glory hit the ground or get
spit on and stuff.”
Years
ago, in the Age of the Cadillac, the Cub Scouts taught me the only proper way to dispose of a flag was to fold it
neatly and burn it, yet here this guy had this REDWHITEandBLUE
shmateh rotting away on his big brassy truck or sports van or whatever the
salesmen told him it was supposed to be.
My
wife ran in to pick up a cake for our hosts.
I wasn’t alone more than a few minutes before Flagman walks up to the
SUV, keys in hand, and damned if he’s not wearing a stars-and-stripes
cardigan. Now, why was Abbie Hoffman
considered a yippee yappy yahoo radical for wearing a hand-made flag-shirt
while this guy’s considered…uh…“normal,” in a super-patriotic way, for sporting
an off-the-rack Betsy Ross cardigan?
“Hey
man, that’s illegal,” I said.
“Excuse
me?” said Flagman, obviously anxious to get outta the rain lest he shrink his
sweater.
“You’re
mistreating that flag. Abusing it, in fact. It’s illegal.”
“My…my
flag?”
“Sure,”
I said. “Can’t let Old Glory fade out like an old hippy bandana. I mean, I’m
not gonna report you, but…”
“Report
me? To who?”
“You
know. TIPS. The flag codicil of the USA
PATRIOT act. Don’t tell me you don’t know?”
“No,
I…”
“Anyway,
ignorance of the law is no excuse…”
“Flag,”
he said, as if appealing to some star-spangled deity.
“Again,
I’m not the type to squeal on a guy who’s basically, I mean who appears to be
patriotic, but some folks don’t take kindly to flag abuse. Also, there’s the
type who’ll do anything for money…”
“Money?”
“Yeah.
The TIPS people pay about fifty dollars for confirmed reports of abuse. All
someone has to do is call the HOTLINE and…”
“Whoa.
I don’t want trouble. Look, man, I’ll get rid of it as soon as I get home.”
“What
do you mean, ‘get rid of it?’ You can’t
just throw away Old Glory like a piece of cloth. You have to burn it.”
“Burn
it? Ain’t that illegal?”
“Yeah.
Go figure. But it’s also the only legal way to dispose of it. You can look it
up if you don’t believe me. One of those Catch-22 deals.”
“No,
it’s just that…look at it. It’s soaked.”
“Yeah.
That’s a problem with keeping a flag in the rain. Well, it’s against
regulations, probably, though I’m not sure, but you may want to blow dry it
first, then fold it neatly and light her up.”
“Jesus
Christ. Okay, man. Thanks. I gotta go.”
And
with a chugga chugga zoom and toxic fumes, the
flag burner sped off.
Adam Engel was thrown out
of the Cub Scouts for flag-burning, though he swears he was performing a mercy
burning on a tattered remnant of Old Glory and not desecrating a virile,
vigorous banner in its patriotic prime.
Anyone up for a game of “count-the-flag” can reach him at bartleby.samsa@verizon.net