Nobody Told Him . . .
Connecting President Bush with Wankie
Elephant
The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
John 3:8
I know a place
Ain’t nobody cryin
Ain’t nobody worried
Al Bell with Mavis Staples
“I’ll Take You There”
As hulking giant moving van lumbered east on Fullerton Parkway in Chicago; a tiny Cessna 150 plane, feather light and fragile, took off from an airport near Lancaster Pennsylvania and headed south towards Washington DC..
President Bush, cocooned in a phalanx of black SUV’s snaking their way out of District towards Patuxent Wildlife Preserve in Maryland, was thinking about what he’d have for lunch.
So was Wankie, last remaining African Elephant at Lincoln Park Zoo.
Perched at wheel of giant moving van that puffed and snorted slowly past gracious old city row houses lining Boulevard just west of Zoo; Driver downshifts and rolls to a stop at Clark street at exact same moment that flight instructor in that tiny Cessna looks out his window to right and sees a mammoth Black Hawk Helicopter loom so close that it’s as if bright blue spring morning had turned pitch black with just a snap of fingers.
And in that snap of fingers, a long buried memory of a bass line in a song springs into flight instructor’s mind. He looks across student pilot as roar of two F-16 Fighter jets—even scarier than Black Hawk zoom up about a Cessna wingspan on left. His mind goes blank except for bass line of buried song. The flight instructor freezes. Shuts down cold. Except for that bass line.
As student pilot instinctively takes full command of tin can airplane now being guided by Black Hawk and all engulfing roar of Fighter jets,
the driver in truck cab rolling slowly down Fullerton Parkway snaps on radio and there is same bass line filling head of frozen flight instructor.
A bass line set down long ago in Muscle Shoals Alabama by a man named David Hood under watchful eye of Roebuck “Pops” Staples and his daughter Mavis—with words that don’t even begin to trace perhaps finest seconds of bass guitar in rock and roll soul music:
Oh. . . .mmm
I know a place
Ain’t nobody cryin
Ain’t nobody worried
Ain’t no smiling faces
Mmm no no
Help me, c’mon, c’mon
Somebody help me now
I’ll take you there
In cab of truck, driver lurches rolling house of a vehicle forward across Clark Street in time to song. In Cessna, Flight Instructor hears bass line and just stares straight ahead—book ended by Black Hawk death machine on one side and apocalyptic roar of F-16’s on other.
Back on ground in Maryland, behind tinted window of lead car in President’s convoy; a man who’s name is unknown by every single one of 23 people in that convoy—including president-- adjusts mirrored sunglasses up on his nose, runs a hand over his blond crew cut, and reaches over to turn down radio just as Mavis Staples sings:
I know a place
Ain’t nobody cryin
A beeping sound heard only by him prompts him to take a gun metal grey cell phone size of a credit card out of his pocket and hold it to his ear. He listens for 5 seconds and then says “No.” into piece of cold steel.
President Bush thinks that a pulled pork sandwich would go down fine. Especially with a tall cold one. Then he shrugs to himself and thinks---he’ll probably get tuna fish. Right after bike ride. It’s best that way. But damn-- for some extra spicy barbecue. . . .
Back n truck in Chicago, driver pulls into Lincoln Park Zoo’s unmarked service road a couple hundred yards from gleaming bright shore of Lake Michigan.
While President Bush thinks about barbecue, Wankie, African elephant – intended cargo of that moving van---is just starting to eat. It will be her last meal at Lincoln Park Zoo.
A quick glance at President Bush’s face, framed in supple black leather behind tinted windows of armor plated, black, SUV; and one can see animated facial tic delight that comes from just thought of that tangy Texas barbeque.
Wankie doesn’t have to anticipate anything. Chowing down happily on bushels of a leafy green looking concoction that it would take a scientist to explain; Wankie is surrounded by another small army of caretakers. Unlike President’s army---scanning roadsides for wayward democrats, terrorists, liberal arts graduates and all other forms of evil woven into fabric of our world: Wankie’s small army of caretakers are looking straight at her. And they are all looking worried because n bustle and clatter of million movements that go into running zoo; everyone seems half a step behind.
