Kerry Thornley - The Dreadlock Recollections

Both of them seemed inordinately excited at this response.

"A day will come, Kerry, when you will find yourself in a struggle against very powerful bureaucrats. But the agents they send to harass you will not be loyal to their bosses. They will say and do things to give themselves away, as if by accident. And when you counter-attack, those above you will give way."

That seemed extremely improbable in all respects.

"I've got another suggestion for you. You know, a lot of fascists admire General MacArthur. Heh, heh, you might take up smoking a corn cob pipe."

Once, he spoke to me of something called "a process." It did not, however, sound much like the Process Church. As best I could gather, it was the plan of a fascist think-tank to create a society of docile conformists by means of "processing" each and every citizen.

"That's horrible," I responded.

"True, though. They are already discussing it."

Once, in chatting about cant and syntactical ambiguity, he said, "Someday you are going to encounter people something like Jesuits who speak a secret language where the most literal possible meaning of every idiomatic sentence is the true one. That way, they will be able to talk to you without being understood by outsiders. Kerry, do you think it's possible to learn a language just by being exposed to it long enough, with no formal lessons?"

"Of course, that's how we learned to speak English as children."

I had read somewhere that assuming control of important symbolic buildings was the key to overthrowing a government, since the people are conditioned to look in that direction for leadership.

An examination of the strategy used by Nixon at the Watergate Plumbers seems to indicate precisely such thinking dictated many of their decisions: possession of the White House seemed more vital to them than any illusion of fair elections, any pretense of Presidential honesty or the least shred of respect for the Constitution.

Ideas like that seemed more practical than devious secret languages and I mentioned my observation to Brother-in-law.

"Yes," he said as if he had already thought about it, "that's true."

Occasionally, apropos of nothing in particular, Gary would begin discussing how scientists went about creating nervous breakdowns in laboratory mice.

"They keep switching signals on them. First food behind one door and an electric shock behind the other. Then the opposite. Then back again to the first way. You know what happens? The mouse becomes rigid in his behavior. Sooner or later, he just begins hitting at one door repeatedly, no matter how many shocks he receives."

This discovery seemed a source of morbid fascination to him. In fact, he seemed happy about it.

"Kerry, you know California, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Texas, all that land once belonged to Mexico." This man's attention span didn't seem very impressive.

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I grew up in California, that's part of our history. We stole that land from the Mexicans, and they haven't forgotten it, either."

"And I think we should give it back to them. What do you think?"

"Hell, yes! That's a great idea. I think Mexico is a sleeping giant anyhow, just like they used to say about China. Someday, it's going to be an important modern nation."

Then I laughed and said, "One of my short-story ideas is that Mexico is first to send an rocket to the moon, and they cover its surface with an Aztec calendar! Can you imagine something like that?"

Brother-in-law nodded and laughed.

From time to time he would remind me he still planned to kill the President. Once he said: "I'm going to talk to everyone in the country who wants Kennedy dead about the idea of assassinating him. Then I'm going to do it. Then I'm going to pay a visit to each and every one of them. I'm not going to say anything. I'm just going to look at them and smile, so they'll get the idea. After that, I'll feel free to call on them for favors."

Somewhere among the conversations mentioned previously, there was one in particular that seemed incredible to me at the time. One morning Slim took me out to the house in Harahan, and Brother-in-law opened things up by announcing that he had just read Atlas Shrugged .

Always in search of converts, I perked up. "Isn't Ayn Rand a genius?" I said.

Snorting, he said, "She's a woman."

"So what? She's the greatest mind of our age."

"Nothing great is ever produced by a woman."

"But…"

"However, I found Galt's motor fascinating, the one that did not require fuel, but ran instead on static electricity from the atmosphere. Kerry, did you know that there already is such a motor, and the oil companies are suppressing it?"

"That's what my dad says. He never read Atlas Shrugged , though. I tried to read him Galt's speech once, but he just kept saying, 'When is this guy going to get to the point?'"

"And, Kerry, that motor was invented by Nazi rocket scientists working for Hitler, and it is the motor that is now used to power flying saucers!"

I should have known Brother-in-law would say that. Naturally, I was disappointed. Expecting a convert to what I thought was the most rational philosophy in all the world, I was instead confronted by the same old, raving paranoiac Nazi maniac as always.

According to personal correspondence to Stan Jamison from a man named Crabb of the Borderland Research Foundation in Vista, California: "An ex-Marine here in Vista told me that he personally saw operational Flying Saucers at Edwards Air Force base in California in 1967 when he was on temporary duty there. So the Air Force has anti-gravity machines and a radical, cheap, universally available, nonpolluting source of power which would solve all our pollution problems, and make obsolete the oil industry; so anti-gravity will never be made available for public use as long as the oil majors control policy here in the U.S."

Brother-in-law was pacing up and down. With a dramatic pivot he stopped, looked at me and said, "Don't you agree that if such a motor exists, it ought to be made known to the world?"

"Of course."

"And do you agree that there could be no greater crime, no greater crime in the world, Kerry, than the suppression of that engine?"

"Yes."

"No greater crime," he repeated solemnly.

"I agree. If there is a motor like that."

"Ayn Rand speaks of Prometheus, who brought the fire of the gods to humanity. Remember what happened to him? He was chained to the rocks and vultures fed on his entrails forever. You know, Kerry, if you try to expose that motor, that will happen to you. The world will tear you apart."

"I can imagine."

Somehow, nothing he said seemed to ring true. More than a matter of content was involved: Brother-in-law seemed so excited with his pacing about and gesturing that it was out of character. Slim sat there silently, as usual, looking much too amused.

"Another thing: one of the scientists that invented that motor went to work in Canada after the war for the AVRO Company. Until the Diefenbaker government drove them bankrupt. Diefenbaker was a Liberal, Kerry. You don't like Liberals, do you?"

"I certainly don't."

"Kerry, that scientist was just like John Galt in Atlas Shrugged . And when that company went bankrupt, he vanished. Just like John Galt!"

I was not at all comfortable with this notion of a National Socialist behaving like an Ayn Rand hero.

"And you know what else? That man had designed a flying saucer for A. V. Roe, and when he disappeared, he took his flying saucer with him!"

Sure.

Brother-in-law now turned and crossed the room in my direction, saying in what seemed a very angry tone of voice: "And, Kerry, that man's name was Tom Miethe!" He pronounced the name with frightening bitterness. Slim was nearly in stitches, though.