Ronald Reagan, My Father - Softcover

Davis, Brian Joseph

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1550229176 ISBN 13: 9781550229172

Publisher: ECW Press, 2010

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Short stories from an author with "a roomy imagination, big appetite for the absurd, healthy sense of humor, [and] heightened sense for the telling detail" (Telegraph-Journal)

Shortlisted for the ReLit Award -- Short Fiction

The elderly take to the streets at night for illegal and cathartic electric scooter racing. A copy editor suffers brain damage from West Nile virus and is suddenly filled with cannibalistic violence and award-winning minimalist poetry. Mayor McCheese visits a sexually repressed British couple in the early 1970s and touches their lives forever. A Texas doctor transplants the mind of a meth-addicted convict into the body of a suburban web developer.

Startlingly original, marked by vivid characters and a rich pop-culture sensibility, the short fiction in Ronald Reagan, My Father offer a bleakly hilarious vision that's both human and uncanny.

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About the Author

Brian Joseph Davis is an artist and the author of Portable Altamont and I, Tania, as well as the co-founder of Joyland.ca, which the CBC called "the go-to spot for readers seeking the best in short fiction." Davis has written for the Globe and Mail, Utne, and Eye Weekly. He lives in Toronto.

Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Ronald Reagan, My Father

By Brian Joseph Davis, Michael Holmes

ECW PRESS

CHAPTER 1

The Unicorns, Part One

MOST DAYS YOU WOULD HAVE ALREADY CHECKED THE CARGO DOOR WITH A WEAK TUG, HIT THE LIGHT SWITCH AND WATCHED THE OVERHEAD FLUORESCENTS STUTTER OUT. YOU WOULD HAVE TAKEN PRINTOUTS OF THE DAY'S LAST ORDERS, PUT THEM ON TOP OF A BLACK TRAY, GRABBED YOUR WINDBREAKER, AND LEFT THE LIGHT INDUSTRIAL PARK THAT YOU'VE WORKED IN SINCE YOU WERE A TEENAGER.

BUT TONIGHT, LONG AFTER QUITTING TIME, YOU SAT, DIGGING YOUR NAILS INTO YOUR FATHER'S OLD OAK DESK. YOU WERE A PRINT-ON-DEMAND PUBLISHER AND YOU WERE BEING HELD HOSTAGE BY THE HUSBAND AND WIFE TEAM RESPONSIBLE FOR THE 872-PAGE Index of Equine Characters in Fantasy Fiction. IT HAD NOT RECEIVED A SINGLE ORDER, AND ITS AUTHORS WERE UPSET AND ARMED.

THE COUPLE HAD SIMILAR FEATURES: COMPETING JOWLS AND ODDLY CHOPPED CURLY HAIR THAT WANTED TO ESCAPE WHAT IT WAS ATTACHED TO. AT SOME POINT IN HIS LIFE THE MAN HAD CHOSEN TO WEAR CARGO SHORTS, A JOKER TSHIRT, AND NOTHING ELSE. THE WOMAN LAYERED MISMATCHED JOGGING APPAREL WITH A JEAN JACKET COVERED IN BEDAZZLER UNICORNS. YOUR BUSINESS WAS DESIGNED SO THAT YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE TO MEET THESE PEOPLE—A BOOK IS SUBMITTED, AND FOR A FEE IT IS LAID OUT. EDITING IS EXTRA. IT GETS STORED ON A COMPUTER UNTIL SOMEONE ORDERS A COPY. YOU INHERITED THE BUSINESS FROM YOUR FATHER. WELL, NOT QUITE.

HE STARTED IT AS A SONG POEM RECORD COMPANY. CUSTOMERS WOULD SEND IN THEIR LYRICS AFTER FINDING AN AD IN THE BACK OF TABLOIDS OR MUSIC MAGAZINES THAT PROMISED TO Set Your Poems To Music. Songwriters Make Thousands of Dollars. Free Evaluation. YOUR FATHER WOULD PERFORM THE LYRICS, NO MATTER WHAT THEY WERE, TO EITHER A THIN POP WALTZ OR A MILD COUNTRY STOMP AND SEND BACK A BADLY PRESSED 7-inch. Though at home he kept copies of the more ribald or peculiar ones—attempts at novelty songs about the Academy Awards streaker of 1974, OR JINGLES ABOUT Deep Throat—AND PLAYED THEM FOR FRIENDS DOUBLED OVER IN LAUGHTER AFTER SEVERAL MAKER'S MARKS, YOUR FATHER TAUGHT YOU NOT TO PUT YOURSELF ABOVE THE CUSTOMER. "BE AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT BESIDE THE CUSTOMER," HE SAID. "IT HELPS."

YOU MOVED INTO THE SHOP SLOWLY, WITH YOUR NEW IDEAS AND PHOTOCOPIERS. AS CUSTOMERS BOUGHT COMPUTERS AND REALIZED THEIR TERRIBLE DESIRES IN PRIVATE, YOUR FATHER'S ORDERS SHRANK TO A TRICKLE. BUT YOU OFFERED SOMETHING DIFFERENT, A HEFTIER OBJECT THAT WAS THE END RESULT OF PEOPLE BUYING COMPUTERS, AND THE ORDERS FOR BOOKS INCREASED. THEN ONE DAY, WITHOUT TELLING HIM, YOU SOLD THE 7-INCH PRESS AND THE LATHE CUTTER TO A SMALL RECORD COMPANY. THE NEW OWNERS—TOO YOUNG FOR THEIR BEARDS—HIGH-FIVED AFTER THEY LOADED THE GREASY CONTRAPTIONS INTO A BATTERED WHITE VAN. LATER, YOUR FATHER STARED, CONFUSED, AT THE EMPTY SPOT WHERE THE WALL PAINT LAYERS ENDED IN THE SHAPE OF THE OLD MACHINES. HE STOPPED COMING IN.

IT WAS YOUR BUSINESS NOW, AND FACELESS SENIOR CITIZEN MEMOIRISTS PAID YOUR LEASE. THERE WERE VARIATIONS IN ROUTINE. YOU ONCE PUBLISHED A CHILDREN'S BOOK TITLED Mommy, Please Don't Wash Your Hands Again BY A HOUSEWIFE FROM TOLEDO. SHE HAD SENT THE ORDER THREE TIMES.

THIS MAN AND WOMAN WERE THE FIRST AUTHORS YOU HAD EVER MET, AND YOU WERE SURPRISED BY HOW MUCH THEY LOOKED LIKE THE CUSTOMERS IN YOUR HEAD, THE ONES YOU THOUGHT ABOUT AS YOU RELOADED TONER INTO THE PHOTOCOPIER ON WAN MORNINGS. YOUR FATHER WAS A MUSICIAN, BUT YOU HAD NEVER BEEN A WRITER, AND YOU FELT YOU LACKED AN UNDERSTANDING OF THESE PEOPLE THAT HE NATURALLY HAD.

YOU TRIED TO REASON, HANDS WAVING IN THE AIR, THAT THEY HAD CHECKED A WEB DIALOGUE BOX, INDICATING THEY UNDERSTOOD THAT YOU PRINTED BOOKS AND FACILITATED SALES AS A SERVICE PUBLISHER, BUT MARKETING WAS UP TO THEM. YOU WANTED TO BE BESIDE THESE PEOPLE, BUT INSTEAD THEY WERE IN FRONT OF YOU, RUINING YOUR TIGHT-AS-A-DUCK'S-ASS, WHOLLY DIGITAL BUSINESS WITH THEIR THREE-DIMENSIONAL REALNESS.

WHEN SHE TOOK OUT A GUN, YOU FINALLY UNDERSTOOD PEOPLE: THEY WILL KILL JUST TO BE HEARD, AS EASILY AS THEY WILL SPEND $39.95 TO BE PUBLISHED. YOU SAID, "TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT. TAKE MY CAR KEYS."

THE MAN ASKED YOU, "HAVE YOU EVER WRITTEN SOMETHING? HAVE YOU EVER ACTUALLY WRITTEN SOMETHING?"

THE WOMAN SCREAMED, "CALL ME SHADOWFAX!"

THEY DEMANDED YOU PERFORM FOR THEM. "WRITE SOMETHING," HE IMPLORED, AS IF YOU HAD FORGOTTEN WHAT THEY WERE DEMANDING.

"CALL ME SHADOWFAX," SHE SAID AGAIN, WITH A SLIGHT NEIGH.

YOU HAD OFTEN THOUGHT OF STORIES WHILE PUTTING TOGETHER SHIPMENTS OR SOURCING NEW LASER STOCK, BUT YOU NEVER HAD THE TIME TO WRITE THEM DOWN.

NOW, HOW MUCH TIME YOU HAD LEFT WAS DEPENDENT ON HOW MANY STORIES YOU COULD WRITE. HANDS UP AND STEADY IN THE AIR, YOU ASKED IF THEY WANTED YOU TO SIT AT THE DESK. SHE WAVED YOU OVER TO YOUR CHAIR WITH THE GUN.

SO YOU WROTE AND BECAME, LIKE THEM, STRANGE.

CHAPTER 2

Ordinary People

PA NEVER WANTED TO HURT PEOPLE: NEITHER BEFORE HIS EXECUTION, AT THE HANDS OF THE STATE OF TEXAS, NOR AFTERWARDS, WHEN HE CAME TO BE THE FOCUS OF THE ONLY DEATH PENALTY CASE THAT TURNED INTO A CUSTODY CASE THAT—MY LAWYER RECKONS—HAS TURNED INTO A RIGHT-TO-DIE CASE.

THE MEDIA TAGGED PA AS "THE ABNORMAL BRAIN" IN THE WHOLE "REANIMATOR OF THE RIO GRANDE" STORY, AS IT CAME TO BE KNOWN, BUT THERE WAS A MAN BEHIND THAT BRAIN. I KNOW YOU EXPECT A DAUGHTER TO SAY SO, BUT IT WAS TRUE.

ACTUALLY, THERE WAS A HALF-DOZEN MEN BEHIND THAT BRAIN—OR, MORE SPECIFICALLY, PARTS OF THEM. BACK SOME TIME AGO, PA WAS ARRESTED AFTER HIS ARMED ROBBERY OF A PIGGLY WIGGLY DONE WENT WRONGER THAN WRONG CAN GET. TWO STOCKBOYS WERE SHOT AND KILLED; THEIR BLOOD SPRAYED ONTO JARS OF PICKLED HOTDOGS, I WAS TOLD.

MA AND ME HADN'T SEEN PA IN YEARS AT THE TIME OF THE ROBBERY. WE HEARD HE TWEAKED OUT ON METH AFTER GETTING LAID OFF FROM A TOOL AND DIE SHOP.

HE WAS NEVER THE SAME AFTER VIETNAM, MA RECALLED. UNTIL HE WAS DRAFTED, HE WAS AS GENTLE AS SWEETGRASS. AFTER HE SHIPPED HOME AND THEY HITCHED UP, HE STARTED BOOZING AND SHE BOOTED HIM OUT NOT LONG AFTER I CAME TO BE. IT HURT HER BAD, SHE SAID MANY TIMES, HAND ON HEART, BUT SHE MADE THE CHOICE FOR MY SAKE.

PA WENT TO TRIAL—AGAINST THE PUBLIC DEFENDER'S WISHES—PLEADING THE MITIGATING CIRCUMSTANCES OF HIS METHAMPHETAMINE ADDICTION. THE JUDGE REWARDED PA WITH THE DEATH PENALTY. WHEN MA AND I SAID GOODBYE TO HIM THE MORNING OF HIS EXECUTION HE SEEMED MORE TIRED THAN ANYTHING. "AIN'T THIS A HEAP A COWSHIT I ROLLED IN?" HE TOSSED OVER HIS SHOULDER AS THE WARDEN USHERED US OUT. THOSE WERE PA'S LAST WORDS TO ME. HIS FINAL LAST WORDS TO THOSE GATHERED, TRUTH BE TOLD, WERE "THIS GOVERNMENT CAN SUCK MY WEST TEXAS DICK. Y'ALL HEAR THAT?"

THAT WAS HIS WAY WITH WORDS. SO YOU CAN SEE WHY MA AND I WERE SURPRISED THAT PA BEQUEATHED HIS BODY TO MEDICAL RESEARCH. HE FIGURED THERE MIGHT BE SOMETHING TO GLEAN FROM LOOKING AT HIS TWEAKER'S BRAIN. "PROBABLY LOOK LIKE AN OL' DIRTY CARBURETOR WHEN THOSE DOCS PULL IT OUT OF MY SKULL."

WE MOURNED HIM AND MOVED ON, HEARING NOTHING UNTIL, WELL, UNTIL YOU DID. SEEMS THAT THE UNIVERSITY DOCTOR WHO TOOK PA'S BRAIN AWAY THAT NIGHT USED IT AS THE FINAL TOUCH FOR AN EXPERIMENT AS AUDACIOUS AS IT WAS UNHOLY. THIS DOC WENT AND MADE HIMSELF A PATCHWORK MONSTER MAN THAT HE THEN—THROUGH A PROCESS THE DOC TOOK WITH HIM TO THE GRAVE—GOT ALL ALIVE AND LIKE. THE INVESTIGATORS FIGURED THE DOC JUMPED IT WITH A CAR BATTERY, GIVEN THE ELECTRODES ON THE HEAD OF THE MONSTER. UPON WAKING FROM ETERNAL SLEEP, THIS MONSTER DESTROYED THE DOCTOR'S LAB, RIPPED THE ARMS OFF THE DOC, TOOK THOSE ARMS AND CONTINUED TO BEAT HIM WITH THE ARMS. THE MONSTER—OH HELL, LET'S JUST START CALLING HIM PA—THEN RAMPAGED THROUGH THE CAMPUS TILL HE WAS TAKEN DOWN IN A HAIL OF BULLETS AFTER HE STOMPED HIS WAY THROUGH A DIE-IN OF STUDENTS PROTESTING THIS CURRENT WAR.

PA—DESPITE FIVE HOLLOW POINT SHOTS—DID NOT DIE FOR A SECONDTIME. GUESS 'CAUSE THE DOC, SICK SONOBITCH HE WAS AN' ALL, DID DO A BANG UP JOB. GIVE HIM THAT, I WILL.

MA AND I RAN DOWN TO THE HOSPITAL WHERE PA WAS CHAINED UP. HE DIDN'T SPEAK MUCH, JUST GROWLED LIKE A SICK DOG. BUT ONE OF THE NURSES, A KIND WOMAN, DISCOVERED THAT THE MUSIC OF CHARLIE DANIELS SOOTHED THIS CREATURE WHOSE VERY EXISTENCE REPLIED "TOUGH TITTY" TO THE LAWS OF NATURE.

"IT is PA!" MA AND I CRIED IN JOY WHILE LOOKING IN THROUGH THE GLASS WINDOW. THOUGH HE HAD A DIFFERENT FACE—YOUNGER, LIKE SOMEONE FROM A CATALOGUE—PA LOVED CHARLIE DANIELS.

"NO, IT'S JOSH," A WOMAN OF ABOUT 30 OR SO SAID, WALKING UP BEHIND US AND FIGHTING FOR A LOOK IN THROUGH THE WINDOW. "IT'S MY HUSBAND'S HEAD. THAT'S JOSH."

THE WOMAN WAS COURTNEY MELLON-DAVID, AND CLUTCHING HER SIDE WAS HER DAUGHTER BETHANY—A BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL GIRL OF FIVE, NO BIGGER THAN A THIMBLE. AND DAMN IF THIS ISN'T WHERE THIS WHOLE COCKEYED STORY GETS AS COMPLICATED AS THE GAME OF CRICKET. NOT A MONTH BEFORE THIS, COURTNEY'S HUSBAND DIED OF A HEART ATTACK, AND TOO YOUNG IF YOU ASK ME. JOSH MELLON-DAVID WAS THE LEAD PROJECT MANAGER OF A WILDLY SUCCESSFUL WEB STARTUP. JOSH WAS A CHARITABLE MAN, WE HEARD, WHO WALKED MANY MILES FOR CANCERS HE WOULD NEVER LIVE TO GET. AT WORK HE WAS RESPECTED, BUT NOT FEARED BY THOSE BELOW HIM. AND HE LOVED BETHANY. NO MATTER HOW BUSY HE WAS AT WORK, HE WOULD COMMUTE HOME FOR HER BALLET RECITALS OR SWIMMING LESSONS BEFORE DRIVING BACK INTO DOWNTOWN DALLAS, WHERE HE WOULD THEN LEAD HIS TEAM THROUGH ALL NIGHT "IMAGINEERING" SESSIONS.

LIKE MY PA, JOSH WILLED ALL OF HIS MORTAL REMAINS TO THE EMBETTERMENT OF SCIENCE. IT WAS PROBABLY JOSH'S FACE—SO JFK JR.–LIKE—THAT MOVED THAT DOCTOR TO SAW OFF HIS HEAD AND MAKE IT THE VESSEL OF MY TWEAKER PA'S DIRTY OL' CARBURETOR.

"IT'S JOSH AND I CAN PROVE IT." COURTNEY HELD UP THE SMALLEST IPOD YOU EVER DID SEE. "JOSH LOVED FEIST."

COURTNEY WENT INTO THE ROOM, SMILING AND TAKING SMALL STEPS TOWARDS PA, HOLDING UP THE WHITE EAR BUDS IN HER SHAKING HANDS. SHE PUT THE BUDS TO PA'S MISMATCHED EARS, JUST BELOW HIS ELECTRODES. PA FROWNED AND MADE A MEWLING SOUND. HE SCREAMED SOMETHING BLOODY AND SWATTED AT HIS HEAD. HE BIT THE IPOD IN HALF AND STRAINED AT HIS CHAINS, ONE OF THEM POPPING OUT OF ITS WALL MOUNT. COURTNEY WAS A SMART GIRL—EDUCATED AT COLUMBIA WE LATER FOUND OUT. SHE STAYED CALM AND WAS ABLE TO TURN THE CHARLIE DANIELS CD BACK ON. PA STOPPED HIS RAMPAGE, WHIMPERED, AND SWAYED AWKWARDLY TO "LONG HAIRED COUNTRY BOY."

COURTNEY CAME OUT OF THE ROOM WEEPING, AND MA EMBRACED HER. WISHED TO SAY IT STAYED THAT CORDIAL BETWEEN US GIRLS—TWO FAMILIES NOW CONNECTED BY THIS ONE ACT AGAINST NATURE. BUT IT ENDED UP BACK IN THE COURTS AS WE TRIED TO FIGURE OUT WHAT TOOK PRECEDENT IN CUSTODY FOR THE CREATURE—THE CHICKEN, OR THE BUCKET THE CHICKEN RESIDED IN.

ACTUALLY, THE FIRST ISSUE TO BE DECIDED WAS WHETHER THE STATE OF TEXAS WAS LEGALLY OBLIGATED TO EXECUTE PA AGAIN. WE GOT HOOKED UP, for free, WITH A SHARP FELLOW FROM THE AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL. THIS LAWYER PROVED THAT "AS YOU CANNOT CONVICT A MAN TWICE FOR THE SAME OFFENCE, YOU MAY NOT EXECUTE HIM TWICE." OUR LAWYER ALSO BROUGHT UP—AND THIS WAS RISKY CONSIDERING OUR SUIT AGAINST COURTNEY—THAT THERE IS POSSIBLY ANOTHER LIFE INVOLVED THAT COULD BE AFFECTED. THAT OF JOSH'S.

THE JUDGE THREW HIS HANDS UP, ULTIMATELY CONFOUNDED BY THE PHILOSOPHICAL ENTANGLEMENTS. "HELL," THE JUDGE DECIDED. "HE IS HEREBY RELEASED JOINTLY TO THE FAMILIES IN SHARED CUSTODY UNTIL COURT HEARS ARGUMENTS." THAT OLD JUDGE BROUGHT DOWN HIS GAVEL WITH A SMIRK THAT BEAMED I quit, AND I DON'T BLAME HIM.

RITALIN HELPED PA CONCENTRATE. ENOUGH THAT HE COULD MOVE AROUND TOWN WITHOUT SHACKLES AND DO SIMPLE TASKS. WHILE WAITING FOR THE CUSTODY HEARING WE SHARED PA-JOSH, AS WE AGREED TO CALL HIM. MA AND I FELT FANCY AND HYPHENATED, JUST LIKE OUR NEW KIN. SOMETIMES COURTNEY AND BETHANY WOULD PICK PA-JOSH UP AT OUR LITTLE PLACE. BETHANY TOOK A WHILE TO WARM UP TO HIM AND HAD TO BE PRODDED BY HER MOTHER. THE PAPERS MADE A LOT OUT OF PA-JOSH'S FEARSOME COUNTENANCE, LOPSIDED ARMS, AND TOO SMALL HEAD. BUT LET ME CORRECT ONE THING: HE DID not SMELL OF THE GRAVE. PA-JOSH WAS HARVESTED FROM LAB-QUALITY CADAVERS ONLY.

SOMETIMES WE PICKED PA-JOSH UP AT THE MELLONDAVID RESIDENCE. WHILE I DIDN'T LIKE TO SEE COURTNEY SWAT SMOKES OUT OF HIS MOUTH AND ADMONISH HIM, SAYING "CIGARETTES. BAD. FIRE. BAD," HER HOME WAS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL PLACE, WITH ITS REAL WOOD AND TWO TVS AND ALL, AND THOSE GAP CLOTHES DONE MADE HIM LOOK A LOT MORE TOGETHER. I FELT SOMETHING TERRIBLE BRINGING PA-JOSH BACK TO OUR HOUSE, WHICH, NO MATTER HOW HARD WE TRIED, COULD NEVER LOOK SO CLEAN AS THE MELLON-DAVID'S.

THOUGH A MAN COULD SMOKE A PALL MALL IN PEACE HERE.

WELL, IT WAS WHILE HE WAS VISITING HIS OTHER FAMILY WHEN THIS STORY GOT AS COMPLICATED AS THE ELECTORAL COLLEGE VOTE. PA-JOSH ESCORTED BETHANY TO HER SWIMMING LESSONS, AND WHILE THE INSTRUCTOR WAS LEADING THE OTHER KIDS IN LEG-KICKING EXERCISES, BETHANY FLOATED OFF TO THE DEEP END, AND THE POOR GIRL, SHE SANK. PA-JOSH WASN'T TOO BRIGHT SINCE HIS OPERATION—THAT'S WHAT WE TOOK TO TELLING THE NEIGHBORS—BUT HE SAW BETHANY LYING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DEEP END AND DID WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE. HE STEPPED INTO THE POOL AND SANK TO THE BOTTOM, TOO. HE PICKED BETHANY UP AND STARTED WALKING HIS SLOW SHUFFLING WALK UP THE SLOPE TO THE SHALLOW END. AT THE CREST HE COLLAPSED. STUPID THING FORGOT HE COULDN'T BREATHE WATER. BETHANY WAS REVIVED BY THE LIFEGUARD, BUT PA-JOSH, HE NEVER REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS.

AT THE HOSPITAL, COURTNEY AND I STOOD OVER HIM. HE LOOKED AS FORLORN AS THE END OF A TV MOVIE, WHAT WITH THOSE TUBES DOING HIS BREATHING. I LOOKED TOWARDS COURTNEY AND ASKED HER, "WAS JOSH THE KIND OF MAN WHO WOULD WANT TO BE KEPT ALIVE LIKE THIS?"

"NO."

"NEITHER WAS MY PA."

COURTNEY AND I DIDN'T DISCUSS IT. WE JUST DID IT. WORKING QUICKLY, TURNING MACHINES OFF. PA-JOSH TREMBLED AND IT WAS OVER. WELL, OVER FOR PA-JOSH, REST HIS SOUL, OR WHATEVER CAR PARTS WERE IN HIS CHEST.

NOW COURTNEY AND I ARE IN COURT, AGAIN, THIS TIME AS CO-DEFENDANTS.

FUNNY, YOU'D THINK THOSE CHRISTIAN FOLKS WOULD BE HAPPY TO GET RID OF PA-JOSH, SEEING AS HIS EXISTENCE KIND OF PROVED THEM ALL WRONG. NOPE. THERE THEY WERE, EVERY DAY, OUTSIDE THE COURTHOUSE BRAYIN' WITH SIGNS A SAYIN' A man designed his body badly, but God designed his soul intelligently OR No separation of God and monsters! THEY NEVER HAD SLOGANS FOR PA THE FIRST TIME HE DONE GOT PUSHED OFF THIS MORTAL SOFA.

MA'S TAKING CARE OF BETHANY WHILE COURTNEY AND I ARE IN THE HOOSEGOW SO I GUESS WE'RE KINDA LIKE A FAMILY NOW. THOUGH I SOMETIMES DO THINK BACK UPON PA'S FINAL WORDS TO ME.

NO, NOT THAT GUFF ABOUT HIS WEST TEXAS DICK. RATHER, I THINK: Ain't this a heap a cowshit I rolled in?

CHAPTER 3

Bury My Heart at Tataouine

Moussa sees the new visitors to his land with the perspective of countless millennia. The Amenoka—or chief—of a small population of Tuareg Berbers in southern Tunisia tells this reporter through translation: "We have wandered the desert from edge to edge since before time. We have protected our language and way. If they have come to the desert for their god, so be it. It will not upset us. We call them kel Ataram because they are from the West. They call us Sand People. We do not know why." His face covered by a deep indigo veil, he takes our crew to the site of the massacre that has shocked the international community.

MOUSSA IS REFERRING THE GROWING POPULATION OF Star Wars FANS WHO HAVE MIGRATED TO THIS ARID REGION TO LIVE THEIR LIFE IN MONASTIC PURITY ON THE SAME LAND USED FOR FILMING SEVERAL OF THE FRANCHISE'S MOST FAMOUS SCENES. AS A CATTLE HERDER AND GOODS TRADER WANDERING THE UPPERMOST TIP OF THE SAHARA DESERT, MOUSSA HAS BEEN WITNESS TO THE BIRTH OF THIS NEW AND LITTLE-SEEN SECT. IT'S A GROUP, IT SHOULD BE NOTED, NOT WITHOUT ITS CONTROVERSY HERE AND AT HOME. "THEY NEVER WANTED MUCH IN TRADE; I SOLD THEM TWO, PERHAPS THREE, DSL MODEMS," MOUSSA SAYS OF THE YOUNG PEOPLE WHO CALLED THEMSELVES THE REBEL ALLIANCE. "THEY WEAR BROWN ROBES. THEY ARE GENERALLY FAT. FAT LIKE BOARS AND PALE LIKE MILK. THAT IS ODD IN THE DESERT."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Ronald Reagan, My Father by Brian Joseph Davis, Michael Holmes. Copyright � 2010 Brian Joseph Davis. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
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