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The gorilla is uneasy in the clearing, for the grass moves eerily under his feet, and the trees have eyes. He looks to the front, where all seems well, and wonders. The populist trees still seem rich and full, and the folks behind them seem happy. The gorilla surmises that they are playing baseball, for he hears much talk of bats. He is glad they are happy and nonplussed, for this is just what his handlers said would happen.
Behind him, though, things seem amiss. There is no sense of being cocksure in this part of the clearing, none at all. Ground animals scurry in random patterns, and birds caw warnings to their brethren. The gorilla looks for clues, patterns, anything to help him discern this newly minted insurrection. His barrel chest heaves with a rhythm faster than normal, and his hands are moist. Something is not right here, he fears, something is not right at all.
A predator walks within his midst, yet the gorilla does still not see. The populist trees cloud his view, for they grow fast and without concern for end results. They grow with the speed of the jaguar, yet lack the strength of the lion. The gorilla knows this, but he and his keepers have kept very quiet, lest they spoil the feast. The trees are the meal he has yet to eat, and he is very hungry. He waits for the dinner that will make him full with both food and bravado, knowing that this meal when it comes will be one of great joy. He will not need to eat again for four years, and the meals after that will be served to him on golden plates of gratitude from those who failed to look beyond the trees.
What he fails to see, as least for now, is that the predator is hungry, too. The predator stalks with measured resolve and deliberate gait, marking the path the gorilla takes whilst masking his own. For many months now the gorilla has only seen the pretender to his throne, but the new contender now lurks close by. Up until now the gorilla had defined things in terms of the contender, but as the odds makers collect the money it seems an unknown from the south is beginning to take some of the action. The handlers, with heavy money on the favorite, look at their fight plan and wonder.
The plan, until now, had been simple. Wait for the contender to expend his energy, and then knock him cold. Lead with the ”War On Terror,” follow with a combo of “National Security” and “Vermont”, and collect the winnings. They had seen him in training, and they were not concerned. Oh, he had an entourage all right, ready and willing and enthusiastically spreading the word. The collective Little Engine That Could pushed hard up the mountain, chanting a collective “I think I can, I think I can” as it moved towards what it thought was the just reward. Had they done a little locomotive research, however, they would have known that, per custom, all trains have nicknames. Had they taken the time to look down, they would have seen that right there, on the front of the engine, etched in gold, was the name – Sisyphus. The gorilla muttered “I know you won’t, I know you won’t” under his breath.
This, however, was not comforting anymore, for fear that the other fighter may get the title shot. He knew little of this new pugilist, but what he knew scared him. He knew he hit with a “War On Terror” right equal to his own, and possessed a one-two combo of Military/Leadership that was lightning quick and hard to duck. How would he fight this man? And where was he? As the wind kicked up in the clearing, but stayed calm elsewhere, the gorilla began to worry.
The new contender’s entourage was growing, and its presence was growing too large to ignore. It was led by a man who knew the jungle well, who could see its pitfalls and smell its riches. The booby traps set for those less cognizant of the terrain lay untouched, and the sweet candies of “I promise” lay untouched in the bowl, passed over instead for the basic nourishment of “I will.” The new contender knew well to avoid the baubles, and knew the need to stay on message. This is not the time for seduction, for the gorilla can use this well. “Come in”, he says, to the weary traveler, “come and tell me of your plans for the new America. Roll up your sleeves and tell me of your plans for empowerment, while the desk clerk welcomes you to my personal five star hotel”. Only after the bell cap leaves the luggage at your door do you realize that the room numbers all start with six, and that Dante turns down the bed linens each evening at dusk.
No, the new contender takes none of this, preferring to build the cadre in the jungle. With each day, the wind picks up and the murmur grows. With each day, the gorilla feels the breeze on his skin, and hears the noise. With each day, the sound is getting clearer, until it becomes a sound that has no place in the jungle, but is here, nevertheless. For all the world, it sounds like a train.
And it is. The Kicking Mule Limited is on Track 1, the steel willed visage of a general at the controls. She is a beautiful sight to see, decked out in the colors of America and gleaming with the pride of millions of people. Her route is anywhere she is needed, and the railroad men work full time adding cars to meet the demand. She is the goddamned no excuses Straight Talk Express of 2004, and her final destination is as clear as her beacon that pierces the gloom of 2000.
She sings the song of justice as she rolls west, the song of hope as she pushes east. From her engines comes the song of pride as she barrels north, and the song of the patriot as she hammers south. The songs are heard by many, and as they find their places on the train they sing along. It is a 50-state rendition of what we hope will be, and the chorus grows with each mile logged. They sing in beautiful harmony, millions of disparate voices somehow blending as one.
They sing as the train passes fifty-acre factories and two-room shacks, and they sing for everyone in this nation who wants the nightmare to end. One hears the songs on the plains of Nebraska, and nestled in the mountains of New England. The passengers sing with the converted, and sing to the unsure, until they reach yet another station on the road to redemption. Here, as if on cue, they stop. While the train adds yet another car, and the curious and the soon-to-be new arrivals look on, the doors open, and they sing again as one.
“People get ready, there’s a train a comin’,
You don’t need no baggage, you just get on board”
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