"Tyranny of the Downbeat" Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

When you get there, there isn't any there there.
-- Gertrude Stein

You say you want a revolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know that you can count me out
Don't you know it's gonna be alright

You say you got a real solution
Well you know
We'd all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
Well you know
We are doing what we can
But if you want money for people with minds that hate
All I can tell you is brother you have to wait
Don't you know it's gonna be alright
-- John Lennon & Paul McCartney, "Revolution"

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-- Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Ozymandias"

We sat enjoying the late evening breeze on the wide front
porch of The Ranch library. The low sun was dappling through the
oak trees, quilting our faces and the white-slatted railing.
Walsh nursed a beer. So did I. Elliot twirled a half-full
tumbler of iced tea. Pachelbel's "Canon" played inside the
house. Time standing still induced reflection.
--Elliot "When I think about Borba, I think about all those
men and women who blindly served Jim Jones at People's Temple."
--Western "Not possible. He was Portuguese. He considered
himself part of the Third World."
Elliot stared without focus. "I'm talking about the young
lieutenants surrounding Jones."
--Walsh "He still wasn't wonder-bread white like they
were."
--Elliot "I don't mean skin color. I mean attitude. They
all grew up in California in the Sixties. The young,
anti-intellectual, and sanctimonius. Wasted on ideologies.
Unable to clearly see through their own self-righteousness."
--Western "Most of those kids grew up affluent. In a
permissive atmosphere. Borba didn't."
--Elliot "Let me get to my point, all right?"
They shrug their shoulders.
--Elliot "As a group, these counter-culture rebels lacked
self-inquiry. None of them ever really examined their
assumptions about politics, groups, religions, or leaders."
--Western "Blind Faith, 1968." I did like my musical
allusions.
--Elliot "What they, and People's Temple, showed us was the
lack of a central social mission. They just couldn't sustain the
idealism of the Sixties. That's what was wrong with the Sixties.
We set everyone up. We gave them expectations. We raised
issues, looking for the truth."
--Western "And then we bailed out. There was no follow
through."
--Elliot "We asked the questions but didn't take the time
to find the answers. There was no closing act. And those who
believed it, who got caught up in it, were left dangling."
--Western "Sort of like Mike Prokes."
--Walsh "Who?"
--Western "The guy from Ralston who was with Jim Jones in
Guayana. Escaped 'the kool-aid acid test'. Then blew his brains
out in a Ralston motel bathroom just prior to telling all at a
news conference."
--Elliot "That's what I mean. We set him up. Made him
think he could change the world."
--Western "So, you're saying when Prokes killed himself, he
did it because he had lost sight of his original goal?"
--Elliot "Partly. He was a survivor. And Jonestown left
its scar. It compromised him. Corrupted his spirit. He
couldn't live with himself and with the shame. This society
claims it can help the victims. But what does it know about
healing those with great crimes on their conscience?"
--Walsh "So, what's the point?"
--Elliot "People like Prokes--and Borba--traded one idol
for another. One ideology for another. One blind belief traded
for another. One pursued the cult of personality, the other the
cult of power.
--Elliot "Both followed Messiahs. Borba, a good Catholic
worshiped Christ. Prokes, an average white boy, worshiped Jim
Jones. Both were seeking better worlds."
--Walsh "And they simply followed misplaced ideologies."
--Elliot "They couldn't see through those ideologies. When
they acted, they did things they couldn't live with."
--Western "And they killed themselves because of the
burdens they carried."
--Elliot "I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. I remember
something I saw in a magazine, or maybe it was a book. It
doesn't matter. Anyway, it was an interview with Michael Cimino,
the guy who directed 'The Deerhunter' and 'Heaven's Gate'."
We look at each other, our eyebrows raised in recognition of
what we know is about to come. The reaction doesn't go
unnoticed.
--Elliot "I should have listened more carefully. It told
me how the government would act in this case. Whose side they
would really be on."
We both lean back, preparing for the history lesson.
--Elliot "Cimino was discussing the historical
background that formed the basis for 'Heaven's Gate'. About
the role played by the federal government when they were faced
with the war that had started in Johnson County, Montana. He
quoted a statement made at the time by then President Benjamin
Harrison. Harrison said: 'I can do nothing except act with the
state to prevent violence. Everything else rests with the state
authorities.' In other words, the highest source of law
enforcement in the land was abdicating his authority to the money
and power of the ruling class. He was telling the cattlemen that
he expected them to maintain law and order. As they saw it. And
if they had to kill a few filthy immigrants in the process, to
keep anarchy from reigning, he was giving them the power to do
that. Don't you see? That's what happened here."
--Walsh "They supported the people with influence."
--Elliot "Sure, the people in government weren't about to
shoot themselves in the foot. They knew who put them in power
and who was keeping them there."
--Walsh "The PACs."
--Western "Like Borba's Valley Education Fund."
--Walsh "Supported by money from DiGiulio and OxyGene."
--Elliot "And that will keep the dams going up."
--Western "And the water flowing."
--Walsh "And the pesticides pumping."
--Western "Despite the fact that they know, and we know,
it's harmful to the public."
--Elliot "That's okay. They'll make the compromise.
They'll rationalize it as the greatest good for the greatest
number."
--Walsh "Or the ones with the most money and the greatest
influence."
--Western "And that's not us."
--Elliot "I once thought differently. I guess I was a
little ... " he hesitates, then finishes: " ... blind." He
refused to say the word, but he knew I had been right.
Elliot stared down the curving driveway. He was thinking
how life always did remind him of scenes from a movie. This time
he thought of all those movies made in the Sixties with
unresolved endings. That reversed the expected order of things.
He remembered something he once read. "Uncertainty is the way of
things. There isn't going to be any final truth. The path is
trackless. There is the illusion of the end point. But you
don't get THERE. What finally happens is you accept that you are
on a different journey."
He thought, as well, of the movie that had been a fellow
traveler throughout this journey. Again, it was "Chinatown."
It was John Huston, symbol of the rich, powerful, and
influential. Allowed to go free because of who he was and what
he had. In dollars and dirt on those conducting the
investigation. He truly was above the law.
Elliot recalled discussing "Chinatown" once with
screenwriter Robert Towne, who had said: "I approached the movie
from the point of view that some crimes are punished because they
can be punished. If you kill somebody, rob or rape somebody,
you'll be caught and thrown into jail. But crimes against an
entire community you really can't punish, so you end up rewarding
them. You know, those people who get their names on streets and
plaques at City Hall."
Life certainly did imitate art and history really did repeat
itself. The parallels were numbing. He finally realized,
sitting there, the truth of the cliche that the more things
change, the more they stay the same. He thought he could make an
impact. That he could use his influence to change things. But
he had only become part of the unending cycle of greed and
corruption. He had been derailed, like so many before him, by
special interests, politics, money, and influence, as well as the
apathy and disinterest of the public.
--Elliot "You know, there are no more happy endings."
--Western "Never were."
--Elliot "It's a misrepresentation. 'Easy Rider' got it
right. The world as we know it can yield only one ending. Death
and disintegration."
His disillusion was choking him. People had died. People
had been hurt so others would be more "aware." He had put his
life on the line to tell people something they really didn't want
to hear. And nothing significant had happened. He thought,
there will always be a next time. And people will be no more
aware, no more organized, no more outraged than now. He guessed
there would always be another someone foolish enough, naive
enough to think they could make a world of difference.
Elliot had given it his best shot. He had done what he knew
best; using the storytelling skills he had refined his entire
life, to move people toward enlightenment and action. He had
fired a volley across the bow of public opinion and into the void
of the vast wasteland. He had stirred the beast. Momentarily.
There was movement; some sign of life, a cry for change. Then it
got suddenly very quiet again. The beast was insatiable. It had
moved on in search of new delights to titillate; new wonders to
behold. Those who would move us must shock us someone had once
written and Elliot now believed. The attention span of this
behemoth was too short to assimilate and sustain such a
transformation in attitude.
But, more importantly, Elliot was very concerned. About the
future. The one-reeler inside his head had projected what the
future was going to look like. And it didn't look good.

I went down to the cross roads
Fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord for mercy
Save me if you please

I was standin' at the cross roads
Tried to flag a ride
Ain't nobody seem to know me
Everybody passed me by

You can run, you can run
Tell my friends before the sun goes down
Lord, I'm standin' at the cross roads
I believe I'm sinkin' low.
-- R. Johnson, "Cross Roads"

Walsh and I decided to take one last run out to the refuge.
Have a few beers and take our parting shots. The light was
getting low on the horizon. Summer was fading fast. Soon it
would be fall and, then, a new year.
We stood side-by-side, leaning against the front of the
pick-up. The summer's breeze was kicking up. The late afternoon
sun made everything golden, timeless. We stood in the middle
of a field bordering Masterson. The pond looked peaceful,
tranquil, inviting. There were no DWR men firing shotguns this
evening. The migrations would be starting soon. This time they
might have no place to stop. The refuge might be drained,
bulldozed into a pile and buried.
I kicked at one of the hedgerows in the field. It was
covered with a thick layer of salt. "Look at this shit. I can't
believe these people were so stupid. They killed the land that
fed them."
"It's money, honey. If cultivating more land meant more
money, they went for it. Even if the land got poisoned."
I picked up a handful of salty earth and let it sift and
drift slowly between my fingers. "Salt is gonna kill this
planet."
"Water to water. Desert to desert. Salt to salt."
"Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust."
The dirt fell with a thud on top of the casket. The parish
priest gave a blessing as Borba's wife, family, and friends paid
their last respects. Because he had been so generous and good
to the church during his life, they gave him a special
dispensation during death, allowing him a traditional Catholic
burial, despite the fact that he had committed suicide.
"Standing here sort of feels like the final scene from
'Monte Walsh.'"
"God, we have been around Elliot too long."
"No, come on. The one where the two friends realize the
days of the open range are over. That they're the last of the
cowboys. That they're going their separate ways ... forever."
"Don't get sentimental on me. Shit, not now."
"Yea, right. So, it's back to LA then off to DC for you?"
"And San Francisco for you?"
"I'm not sure. I've been thinking about sticking around for
a while."
"You mean going back to Ralston?"
"Maybe."
"You sure that's a good idea?"
"No. They probably won't even let me past the city limits."
"Well, you've heard it before. You can't go home again."
"But it is what I know. It's shaped me. I'm a valley boy.
I am what it made me."
"Some of that's good, some bad."
"Oh well, who knows." I drained the last of my beer and
threw it into the back of Walsh's pick-up.
"Any way, this is it for now, amigo. Give my best to Di and
the boys."
"Can do."
"See you real soon."
"Look for me when you see me comin'."
We looked at each other, then embraced. A few quick pats on
the back and we were apart, heading for our trucks. As we
climbed in, and fired up the engines, we nod. Then, Walsh
shouted out, "Hey, asshole, gargle my balls!"
"Yea, bite me!"
We both hit it, just once more. Going back in time, we
dovetailed out of the field. Pulling up side-by-side, we smiled
and were gone.
From the coast range, rising gently up from the valley
floor, you could see two trucks racing down the road. At the
cross roads, one turned south. The other turned north.
The native son was laid to rest in the earth of the San
Joaquin Valley. The land he loved, then almost killed. There
were not as many people in attendance as might be expected for
someone who was once so powerful. Ozymandias ruled no more. The
shovel-loads of dirt thumped against the wooden casket. Like a
drummer, playing the downbeat.

Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Oh, the small communities
All my friends are so small town
My parents live in the same small town
My job is so small town
Provides little opportunity

Oh, I cannot forget from where it is I come from
Cannot forget the people who really love me
Well, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I wanna be

Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Probably die in a small town
Oh, and that's just where I wanna be

Well, I was born in a small town
And I can breathe in a small town
Gonna die in a small town
Oh, and that's probably where they'll bury me
-- John Mellencamp, "Small Town"

THE FINAL WORD:
In a carefully wrought compromise among environmentalists,
the state and federal governments, the Bureau of Reclamation
agreed to carry out the state-ordered bulldozing of the Masterson
Wildlife Refuge.

The DiGiulio Winery, OxyGene, the Marriposa Combine, and the
Westlands Water and Power League were fined and ordered to pay
damages to all who could prove pesticide-related health problems.

The EPA developed a new, more stringent set of standards for
protecting groundwater.

Sandy Western's self-image problem died one October's night
when he missed the on-ramp to San Francisco in the fog.

And Elliot Lincoln returned home to fantasy.

The only reminder you'll find of John Anthony Borba is a
freeway. In his honor. Running straight as an arrow, right
through the heart of the Valley.