Threeway, ch. 3, Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb, pt. 2 of 3

In which we read of Connie and Herb's presidential vision and wonder how much of this the author believes. "Threeway" continues in serial form with a link to buy the book at the bottom of the post. To catch up on prior segments, start at the bottom of the blog. Enjoy. Tell your friends.

THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season

by

STEVEN LUBLINER

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112

Chapter 3: Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb (pt. 2 of 3).

In the first term, Connie and Herb would meet with everyone in the country. They would go through cupboards and closets and accounts, examine goals and relationships, and distinguish wishes from crutches from needs.

“Have your read a tenth of these?” “This is your phone bill?” “When God pays for diapers and tuition . . .” “The house is perfect.” “You don’t need that kind of man.” “Does driving that make you feel tough?” “Does driving that make you feel cool?” “Someday, you’ll want to quit; don’t start.” “Do you watch all these channels?” “Restaurants, restaurants, restaurants.” “So many guns. Are you an octopus?” “What will she do with that degree?” “You can, too, go back to school.” “No real woman looks like that.” “What if that was your daughter?” “What if that was your son?”

Special care would be paid to diet and exercise. “You’re in your car again?” “Dessert should be for special occasions.” “That’s enough steak for three people.” “Half a baked potato.” “You’re drowning that in dressing.” “That’s too much bread.” “If you’re thirsty, drink water.” “Do you know what you’re spending on beer?” “Do you know what you’re spending on wine?” “Mr. Starbuck doesn’t need you every day.” “Don’t you want to see your children grow up?”

Once everyone’s dietary needs were charted, the “Bread Lines” would come. The old Soviet bread lines had been born of scarcity and led to ill health. These lines . . . well, there would be no lines. The bread, organically grown and harvested, nutrient dense, and portioned out with the knowledge that man evolved under conditions of scarcity, would come to the people, at home or at their work places, still warm, sensibly buttered, and ready to be savored. So would the soups and salads, expertly seasoned, lightly sauced or dressed, and featuring modest servings of lean poultry or fish. In this manner, everyone would be fed as their circumstances dictated.

Citizens whose jobs changed from white collar to blue or vice versa would be allowed and, in the case of a decrease in caloric needs, required, to register their changed circumstances. Their meals would be adjusted accordingly. Medically necessary dietary needs would be accommodated. Religious or moral preferences would not. They were expected to fade away as life perfected itself and the impulse to such behavior disappeared.

Special occasions would be decoupled from the urge to gluttony and metabolism-killing intoxication. There would be no birthday cake. There would be no champagne. Ultimately, there’d be no special occasions because one’s daily life, work, and loved ones would be special enough.

Weight would be lost. Life expectancy would rise. Health care costs would go down, and productivity would go up. Income would rise, and with it, the tax base that would pay for everything. The plan would be, at worst, revenue neutral. Even if modest tax increases would be needed, who could possibly complain since they’d be buying so much happiness?

Critics would dismiss the plan as the ultimate nanny state. So? What’s a nanny but someone who takes care of you when mom and dad aren’t around and you can’t do it yourself? Grown people don’t need nannies? Okay, but they need life coaches, meal planners, personal trainers, personal shoppers, bookkeepers, and anger management specialists. Summed up, and as they themselves had learned from their publisher, everyone needs an editor, an unforgiving second set of eyes to say, “No, this isn’t good. You don’t love this because it’s good. You love it because it once seemed right, and now it feels familiar. That’s fine. I understand. I’m getting rid of it.”

Once they had rebuilt the infrastructure, once they had everyone’s debts and weight reduced, their wealth spread and their waistlines narrowed, their appetites and expectations tapered, and their wretched excesses tamed, once they had imposed balance, perspective, and calm on everyone’s lives, they could spend their second term figuring out how best, if at all, government could provide for the common good and promote the general welfare. To go about the business of governing from the get go made no sense. How can you right the ship of state if you haven’t impressed a proper crew?

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