ALWAYS GOOD TO HAVE A FRAT BROTHER

It was my frat brother on the phone. While neither of us had ever gone to a Sons of Jacob meeting, (so I thought at the time! read below) both of us were continually being tainted with that brush. Anyone who knew me knew that I detested religious ideologues, or as my frat brother called them, 'idiotlogs.'

As time went on, he became more muted. You'll see why.

On top of it all, those little episodes of juvenile social unrest could not have come at a worse time. That day I was up for tenure again in the faculty, for the fourth time. The clock was ticking - 'tenure track' had an expiry date.

This time, it looked like I'd squeak through. The votes were there. If not, my tenure track position would expire, and I may have had to go out to work for a living. The other three times the faculty had caved in to campus liberals and feminists, the guardians of the politically correct. The 'woke'. They had wanted my track to expire. Those who were the loudest in 'call-out culture.' Spare me.

Even though the votes were there this time, I told my frat brother to hold his congratulations. This time, the tenure process was conducted under the radar, so that it was more likely I was to get it - before the feminists and liberals noticed.

It was how he closed the call which concerned me. He said, "You may be right. But if all the ducks line up the way they're supposed to, there won't be a need for 'tenure' anyway." What!? I told him he was sounding like a conspiracist. "Get a better hobby, dude," I said, suspecting he was wooing the religious fundies.

Which it turned out he was.

It was in the air. I got a tad sarcastic with him - when admittedly, I should have listened. "Look. Dude." I told him. "Eleanor and I are not moving to Canada. Which university is going to sign me up there with my brand of economics?"

He and I had argued ad nauseam about the threatened coup d'état those wannabee fanatics, the Sons of Jacob, had been capable of. I thought I'd delivered the coup de grâce in that argument by pointing out the near impossibility of them corraling 'the media' for their purposes, since 'the media' was so fractured in these social media days. Even the conservative media hated them. Controlling the media was an essential component of a coup, and from those whom I'd had met, the Sons of Jacob were barely capable of pounding sand up their asses at the beach.

True - rank and file military had had their fair share of religious fanatics. But come on.

My frat brother had said, "Have it your way. Jacobs have made inroads into the military like you wouldn't believe. They have a farther reach than either you or I know."

I accused him of going to their meetings. "I thought you were smarter than that," I said.

Just before he hung up he said, "Joseph, 'smart' is not what it's about. There'll be a day when you don't want to be on the wrong side of these guys. Book yourself one-way passage to Montreal, for two. Stay frosty. Be ready to move. Trust me. Eleanor will thank you." He then hung up.

Ok, that scared me. Although their websites were constantly being closed down, I looked on-line for a local chapter, just to see what was what. It was the same old deranged stuff. Believe you me, I was no fan of liberal America. This political correctness and cancel culture was killing the body politic. But the Sons of Jacob!? Give me a break.

Who in their right mind would follow them? Eleanor had read Serena Joy Waterford's book and had banned any talk in the house about either it or her looney-tunes husband, the media guy. Testing the waters, the day of the call from my frat brother, I asked Eleanor, "You know, Montreal is a lot like Boston, only more French. They also have a differing take on Benedict Arnold." She shot down that idea. Her view was that you stayed and fought for what you believed in.

Me as an economist of transaction, some of her views resonated, but I also wanted to keep some stuff in my back pocket to trade for passage if need be.

JUST A NOTE

Just a note. I've gone through the full text of this and erased any reference to my frat brother's real name or identity. I owe him that. Just to save yourself some time, forget about trying to glean clues as to his identity from these pages. I mean, the guy was/is a dick, but he saved my ass many times. I am forever grateful for him seeing that Eleanor had been saved the worse of what Gilead could offer. Like I wrote, I owe him for that. I will not out him.

But if you knew him, you'd agree - he's a dick.

DISPATCHED HER WITH ONE SHOT

You would think that the faculty meeting to do with my tenure would have occupied me that day. Few things would or could have taken me from wanting to be a fly on the wall, or pissing myself waiting for the Dean's phone call with the result. Maybe a death in my family would have accomplished that. Not that any in my family was close, and Eleanor's family had not approved of her choice of mate.

What turned out happening that day was the assault on the Capitol. Yes, that was "Capitol" with an 'o'. The vice-president had been forced to flee during the Electoral College count.

If I were to guess, the faculty meeting had been canceled because of it. I mean, I cannot imagine that they'd proceed when people with guns were in both chambers of Congress.

And what had my buddy said about media? The TV in the faculty lounge was now just broadcasting static. Hell, I even turned on the little radio in my office - a radio for Pete's sake! Who these days (outside of a car) listens to radio? Of the few remaining stations, they were uncharacteristically broadcasting music with no commercial breaks. I was ideologically opposed to NPR - liberals to the core - but at least they were trying to keep up with events down in D.C. When the announcer had said that the NPR headquarters in Washington was no longer functioning, I decided to pack up a few files into two boxes, abandon my office and head for the car.

In the car, the cell-phone still worked. I called Eleanor to find her hysterical. That meant that she'd not taken her meds today. I told her to pack lightly, but meet me in the driveway. I would not be stopping to get anything personal of mine - like clothes or toiletries. She started to yell into the phone, "I'm not going anywhere! This is my home." I begged her to get some stuff together for travel, and hung up knowing that it was impossible to engage her at times of stress. I'll probably have to physically force her into the car.

I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "And then what? Ok, now I've theoretically got Eleanor in the car. Where do we go?"

I'd driven that route hundreds of times. Thirty-five minutes, without traffic, from the office to the house. Fifty-five minutes with traffic. With what was going on, I was surprised that I had been surprised to see a road-block up ahead. They didn't look like US soldiers, but they were men with guns. Big ones. A car about 10 ahead of me tried to get out of line, and reverse course driving over the grass-median to get to the opposite stream of traffic. But it got bogged down in mud.

Those men had opened fire on it. A first for everything. I'd never seen that before.

A woman got out, miraculously unhurt. She ran in my direction, but was no match for those young men with guns. Especially with the heels of her pumps sticking into the grass. They got her to the ground not 30 feet from me. They pulled her up on to her knees, her hair going every which way. They zip-tied her hands behind her. She was a smartly dressed, business type. This next part must have taken 7 or 8 minutes, because my car had not moved an inch - one guy was on his radio, the mike tethered to his shoulder like on T.V. The others circled around the woman. He kept getting passed stuff from her purse - I.D., and that sort of thing.

Those of us in cars stopped on the road were transfixed on this scene. Especially this part. The guy on the radio put his hand up to the mike on his shoulder one last time. I distinctly saw him mouth the words, "Are you sure?" Then after a second, he slung his automatic weapon over his shoulder, told the other guys to take a few steps back. He pulled his pistol, walked up to the back of her and dispatched her with one shot.

Mercifully for us witnesses, she collapsed face down. It was merciful because the gooey material just in front of her limp body was probably most of her face.

After that, I don't remember myself clearing the roadblock. What I do remember is that women were being removed from cars. I must have remembered that because arriving home, I just drove into the garage, leaving Eleanor on the sidewalk behind me. In the rear-view mirror I could she her running back towards the car, suitcase in hand. She got into the passenger side, pushed her suitcase between the seats into the back.

"Joseph, what's going on? I told you I didn't want to go, now you're not going. What the hell is happening?"

I told her to give me a minute. I closed the garage door behind us. On the car console, I brought up my cell-phone control. Called my buddy.

He seemed out of breath, "Joseph! Are you all right? Where are you? Did you see what went down at Congress? No one can find the vice-President. Then again, all the news outlets have gone down!"

My need for information was basic. Airport, or I93 or I95? He said panickedly, "Don't bother with the interstates. There might be sideroads which are passable, but I doubt it. Forget Logan. Apparently, you now need an exit visa for Canada. Or anywhere else. Joe, they're shooting people at Logan!"

"They're"? He'd said, "They're". As if he wasn't one. That was the voice of a guy truly embedded, who was dealing with factions within his own entity. Most others would have had him say, "We're", not "They're". I guess that's how people deal with it. Then there was silence. He continued, saying, "Look, Joe, I've got another call. We'll keep in touch. Best guess? Stay in place. Keep your phone charged. Not sure how long they'll work anyway."