We were getting some supplies for the Old Vet. These days he really likes Chex cereal, and will eat a couple of bowls with milk in the evening after disliking his dinner. There was also a need for some bathroom supplies. We were at one of the so-called dollar stores, which tend to offer the best deals on such stuff. At the check-out politics came up. The woman at the register complained about her feet hurting all the time. She'd had to leave her manufacturing job, which involved standing on a concrete floor all day. The company hadn't come through on compensation she believed was owed her for creating a long-term disability. She was standing on a concrete floor at the cash register. All commercial and industrial buildings built in the last 60 years have concrete floors. They last way longer than wood floors. Mostly commercial and industrial buildings are constructed of various kinds of masonry materials and steel, top to bottom. The stuff lasts, and won't burn or get et up by the bugs.
“I voted for Trump,” the cashier said. She apparently had hopes that he would improve labor conditions. “You know,” we said, “his labor secretary is totally against unions and a minimum wage, and hates government regulations. If you look at his ads, he's also kinda squirrelly about women.” (The labor secretary designate runs Hardees, which features a lot of gigantic oozing burgers being scarfed by model type women who would never in a million years eat such a thing. The ads appear a lot on NASCAR race coverage.)
“He's against all abortion,” she said. I figured that was the true wedge issue. Around here “pro life” people probably comprise about 40% of the electorate, and 80% of the churches are hard-core pro-life outfits where the preachers talk stuff like the alleged baby genocide the liberals have inflicted on the country since the '70s and Roe V. Wade. This is why the totally bizarro rumors of a baby sex ring headed up by Mrs. Clinton got enough traction to send some lost 20-something from NC up to Washington last month to shoot up a local pizza joint. Why not a baby sex ring? They're already murdering babies every day. The folks who hop on that train don't have to think any further. Trump says “agin,” Clinton says “choice.” Nuff said.
“They're trying to make him lose his hotel,” the cashier continued. “That isn't fair.” I hadn't heard that argument before. At Trump's news conference the other day he had a lawyer bring out a huge pile of alleged legal documents which were, she said, merely half of the work it took to put the Trump business empire into the hands of his blind boys, who he would never talk business with again. Reporters were not allowed to inspect the pile of documents, a fact that was not reported until much later in the day, and not on any teevee I happened to watch. I could imagine the picture she'd formed. One of those warm cozy hotels like you see on Matt Dillon, a few rooms up some stairs, a couple of friendly poker games, a table or two with diners (monster steaks, shots of whiskey to wash it down), Miss Kitty at the bar, head to head with Matt, low talk about some rustlers rumored to be coming Dodge's way in the next day or two. Some Philadelphia lawyers trying to steal it all from the man who had come to clean things up, “drain the swamp” as he says. Reminded me of the Gram Parsons song:
On the 31st floor, a gold-plated door, can't keep out the Lord's burning rain.
The cashier hadn't been to New Yawk, or to Singapore. Maybe she'd seen some quick shots of big planes on approach over big cities, but the Trump branded buildings below were not featured in such shots.
My wife said “you know, I think it's probably better that each of us has the chance to decide about such personal things as a pregnancy, not some government official. There can be an awful lot of situations...” She didn't push it. The items were bagged. A lady over in the next aisle, she happened to be black, caught my wife's eye and gave a tiny nod of agreement. We headed on over to the rest home.
Course he knew he couldn't get rid of his businesses before he decided to run, I told Libby. He's only sitting on the horns of his own dilemma.
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