“I’m not going to tell you who to ask, but go ask them.”
It was a directive that sounded ridiculously stupid, my friends. Alas, I set out to do just that. Call it morbid curiosity. I guess that’s why my friends call me Whiskers. The first person I asked was a lady at Albertsons. It was on aisle 12. She was tall, slender, late 40s, pale with coal black hairs bobbed short, falling about her nape. She was reaching for diced pimentos and I hot yellow chiles when our eyes met. I sensed a pensiveness in her gander I can only describe as…searching. There was a blatant and unmistakable pain hidden deep behind her eyes. Undaunted and without delay, I blurted out, “How would you contrast Bobby Hauck’s approach to in-state recruiting to that of Bobby Kennedy?!” Gobsmacked by my sudden query, she gave but a wry smile as if to say, ‘Get the fuck away from me, douchebag!’ before hurriedly making her way down the aisle to the assorted condiments, some of which were on sale, doubtless in anticipation of the townsfolk’s Independence Day galas. Knowing she must know something, I gave chase.
After explaining myself to security several times (what is it with people these days?), here I sit. Back to square one. Ashamed? Mildly. Determined? You betcha! I will unearth those with answers and hold them to account if it’s the last thing I do. For I put it to you, my friends, if we are to live in a civilization of questions without answers, what is to separate us from the animals? I posit the answer is nil.