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Clete never spoke to others of the private universe in which he lived; nor did he share his belief that the world was mad, that most politicians were liars who served the interests of corporations, that populists were con artists, and that the poor were kept poor and uneducated as long as possible.
“You know the chief sign of narcissism, don’t you? Entitlement. That’s another word for self-important jerk.”
You know what LBJ said to Eric Sevareid when the two of them were watching Nixon’s inauguration on the tube?” “No.” “ ‘He’s made a mistake. He’s taken amateurs with him.’
I have always believed there is no mystery to human behavior. We’re the sum total of our deeds.
At the center of it all were Jimmy Nightingale and his foil, Levon Broussard. I suspected an analyst would say both of them had borderline personality disorder. Or maybe a dissociative personality disorder. Unfortunately, those terms would apply to most drunks, addicts, fiction
writers, and actors.
For the Broussards, honor was a virtue that, once tarnished, could never be restored.
“Psychopaths lie for the sake of lying,” Clete said.
Three things about Clete Purcel: Since I’d first met him, he’d never once used God’s name in vain; referred to a woman in a profane way; or criticized a woman who’d dumped him, unless you counted the postcard he sent me from El Sal when he skipped the country on a murder beef and asked me to tell his ex, who’d cheated on him, that he wanted her to have the toothbrush he’d left in the bathroom.
“Because I told him we’re not right for each other. It was fun and now we move on. It was nothing personal. I thought he was a sweet guy.” “Rejection is not personal. That’s wonderful.”
The dried blood of the drummer boy reminded me of the coppery stains on the Shroud of Turin.
“The past has no reality. The world belongs to the living.”
I wanted to believe he was mad. Unfortunately, I no longer knew
what madness was.
The drummer boy and most of the others died or were wounded in under ten minutes. Was this magnificent and tragic ordeal, one that could compare to Golgotha, the manufacture of evil men who wanted to keep our brothers and sisters enslaved? I will never believe that.
