The Communists and I, William Brown ’20

William Brown ’20

The Communists and I

Once a friend of mine, Bill, he asked me—over a beer, which is the best way—whether I had ever been mixed up in any politics. I told him frankly I hadn’t, except one time, back in high school—that time, you could say there were some politics, although it wasn’t my fault, not by a mile. There was a powwow or something—I guess they called it an activity fair, though I never yet saw a fair without a game or two, which is, customarily speaking, what makes it fair. So they had a fair. That’s fine with me, because if the headmaster wants to have a fair, I’ll go to any fair you please. I’m a pretty cool customer, a real Stoic type. I was A-O-K with as many fairs as you like, even if they hadn’t so much as corn-hole, which a decent man will always have at a fair.

So I got to the fair, which is my part of the bargain, and I looked around to see what was doing. It turned out my part of the bargain wasn’t yet halfway done. Activity fairs, I must say, are not my cup of tea, and that’s a fact. There were some tables up, and folks behind them, and I didn’t want to be unsociable, because it didn’t hardly behoove me, a decent chap and a student and all. I get up to this table, where there is a paper with some signatures. Well, so. I’ve seen a lot of signatures in my time. I’ve pulled a few signatures myself, too. Turns out I was about to pull a few more, probably more than John Hancock, even. These folks at the table want me to sign. I’m a pretty cool hand, as I said before. I don’t ever back down, and that’s the truth, and anyone who wants to say otherwise should think with some profundity whether this might be best for peace and the brotherhood of man. Well, I signed the paper. I was real surprised how few signatures pre-ceded mine. It doesn’t seem half decent, to let these folks down, when they want you to sign some paper. It’s not even difficult, hardly. I once had some diffidence about my signature, and writing it, but that’s all patched over now. I can dash out my signature in no time flat. Seeing it was so easy, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t sign. Understanding, however, was about to dawn on me. The sun of wisdom had sent rose-digited dawn a haymaker, and Aurora was sprawled out all over my mind, in the form of a profound suspicion. I reckoned there might be something more to this signature of mine. Yes sir, enlightenment was coming my way, but fast. I didn’t hardly have time to duck. It turned out the next table had a paper too, and a place for names, and emails. I didn’t want to disappoint the good folks behind this table, so I broke out my signature for them, and felt practically

philanthropic. Of tables, I say, there weren’t a few. When I was through my signature had hung up his spurs and retired, and I didn’t know when I’d sign anything again. But I felt real good about making those folks behind the tables happy, which is what an obliging, stoic chap like me ought to do.

Well, all I can say is, a fellow can get in quite a scrape at an activity fair, cornhole or no. Enlightenment hit me that evening, gloves off and everything, brass knuckles too. I got an email from the fencing club. That club was the first club which Enlightenment beat me with. I didn’t hardly survive my brush with discovery. Well, these good folks at the club said I had practice at 5:00 PM the next day, which was a fine how-doyou-do, because generally I like getting home at 4:00 or so. How do you like that, telling a man he has practice before you’ve so much as asked him if he doesn’t like to get home early on Fridays? Fortunately, I’m an imperturbable sort, which was a quality tested but sorely in what came after that. Anyhow, I wrote to the coach, which is what he called himself, which was fine with me, because he can call himself what he likes, though it doesn’t make it true—well, I wrote him I didn’t know a sabre from a cheese knife, but if he liked me to get there at 5:00, I’d no objection.

But that wasn’t the end, not by a Swiss kilometer, because by the end of that day I’d got more emails than Santa Claus and got booked worse than Alexandria’s librarian. Some things, I believe with every ventricle of my heart, are beyond the poor comprehension of man. There are inscrutable elements out there, friends, and I’ve met them personally. I tried to scrute my calendar every way from Sunday, and I tell you the whole thing was anything but scrutable. I couldn’t fathom it, no sir; my plumb line plumb quit. But even for a Stoical variety like myself, the Communists were a bridge too far and then some. They sent me an email too. They had their Cominterns at 11:00 in the cafeteria back then, all three of them, myself included.

Well, I sat down real easy with my peanut butter sandwich—the other Communists had bought lunch at the café—that first day, and they—it was a boy, see, and a girl, real equitable till I came along, but oh well, they didn’t mind the inequality I introduced—and they say to me real confident,

“Welcome, comrade.”

And I say,

“Hullo there.”

Anyway, I don’t know if that was right, but they didn’t seem to care too much, which is the right way to be. We ate a while, and they said they could explain what they were about. They seemed like they wanted to talk, so I gave them the go-ahead. It turned out they were about feeding the hungry and lodging the homeless and washing the unwashed and practically fixing up everything on God’s green earth to be just right and better than ever. I think they were thinking of giving lions grass to eat. That was all right with me. If they wanted to help a few folks, that sounded pretty fine. I felt I could get along pretty well with these Communists. Then the trouble began, though I know it wasn’t my fault. It was a pretty sudden thing. I was plowing along like I always do, and waxing intelligent about the poor man, and they let loose with some real unfriendly sentiments. It wasn’t about me, just yet. They said they’d like to avail themselves of the rich man’s money, without having asked him about it. That didn’t sit right with me, and I said so. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a decent chap does, taking folks’ money without holding a little consultation first, to make sure it’s all above board. I said if I had a bundle of money, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t mind keeping it, unless I decided not to keep it. All I can say is, that was a proper mistake. I consider myself an imperturbable type, but what happened next was not the sort of thing to leave a man unperturbed. Perturbations became a pretty common thing in that cafeteria, actually, for 15 minutes or so. They asked why I hated the poor, which was a fine hello. I reckoned I wasn’t about hating anyone, except maybe if they hated me first.

Well, they said that rich folks were thieves all the way down, and I said that I didn’t know any rich people, excepting most of the people at the school, and they seemed honest enough, if we set aside a test or two. But when a student’s in a tough spot about a test, what’s he going to do? Me, I never did anything on an exam but what I came up with myself, but I wasn’t really about getting top grades, which was probably just as well for everyone. I felt pretty bad about it, because after all I didn’t want to put on airs and be better than everyone else by sticking to my own head, but the fact is I was never bright enough to pull any tricks on my exams.

Let me just say, that after what ensued, which I will not describe, since there may be ladies present, and I wouldn’t recount what occurred between myself and the Communists in the presence of ladies, not for a million dollars—anyway, I was not about to go back. The Communists and I were just about through, at that point. Next semester though, I got an email

from the school authorities. It seems like my friends in the Communist club had forgot to purge their party rosters, as they say, and I was on the list. Well, the old two were quitting the party, as my other friends, who were always in the know—deep in the know, I mean—told me. The old Communists thought colleges might disapprove of their susceptibilities, communism-wise. So they left me with the club. I tell you, Bill, it was a time of change for Communism, once I got my hands on it. I wasn’t much fond of the taking money without consulting anyone, but I kept the bits about helping the poor man. After that we had a collection every year, and gave it to some poor folks I knew. I think we did Communism a real good turn, that way, and membership was up, too. The old guard didn’t show up much anymore, which was too bad. I think they meant well, all in all. But I can’t deny that there were fewer perturbations without them.

In the meantime, I still had my schedule to attend to, which I couldn’t no way reconcile with logic—Euclidean logic, anyway. But may I say that it all came out all right in the end, because, when Southeastern Oklahoma State let me in, their man said he hadn’t hardly ever seen a student with so many extracurriculars, and plainly I was a man to be reckoned with, even if my grades were of the middling sort. Well, all that goes to prove that things work out when you’re a decent and obliging kind of person. I could have got better grades, for sure, no sweat, but I didn’t want to make the simple folks feel bad, and it was on a curve to boot. It’s not a good sort of chap who gets good grades in a state of affairs like that. So I got in with some politics for a while, I guess, but it turned out OK, for me and Communism both.