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Why We Don't Bomb the Amish

By Jen Zeni

In the aftermath of the revolution in Lebanon, Polidori studies bullet-hole constellations a while in France, he looks in on renovations at Versailles; and, in New York, he observes the colorful mess of claustrophobic East Village apartment. At the moment he was sitting on a Persian rug draped over a metal bench painted green along one of the tree lined walkways in Central Park. There is a thick paper backed book on his jean-clad knees, he is trying to blend in with the people around him and look like a native New Yorkian. At least he assumes they are called New Yorkians, what else would they be called after all? However, his hole-less jeans and nice button down shirt do not quite match with the stripped torn woolen sweaters and well worn corduroys of the long- matted haired, sunken faced men who lay on thin quilts under the trees around him. The first native Polidori had asked to recommend a book had simply said, "Eat my voltage," in that deep, no nonsense tone of voice used to intimidate strangers, and turned back to gnawing on the same meatless chicken bone he had been eating for the past several days. He had gotten the book on his lap as a recommendation from a native who lived by the fountain a good 15 minutes walk away. Her clothing had fewer holes than the first native's had, and she had all her teeth, which for Polidori marked her as probably being part of the upper classes of society, and based on this assumption she probably had some level of literacy. Polidori glanced down at the back of the book and read,

"Betty smiles her way past the condolences and the questioning cops, then packs her worldly goods and, with Charlie and Wesley on her tail, leaves town on the most unworldly of quests­to find Dr. David Ravell." Polidori read it over once more to make sure he had taken it all in before opening to the first page of the book and beginning to read. He had scarcely gotten through two sentences before he got the uncomfortable feeling that several pairs of eyes were boring in to his head. He looked up to see all the natives around him staring unblinkingly at him. Obviously one did not read in public in this society. Polidori made a note of that on his tape recorder and stuck the book quickly back into the large plastic shopping back with the red word "Safeway" on it, which he carried about with him. He had seen several natives carrying these around, and after trying it had discovered that they could hold much more weight than you would expect from the thin material. They were in fact extremely useful. He imagined they could hold at least a dozen boxes of Simoan cookies. He had put into the report that he sent home the previous week a suggestion that their use be introduced on Lebanon by the new Lebanese government, which had been usurped by Eastern Simoa. However, the government had not taken well to this suggestion. In the following weeks, the Administration downplayed the report, and the CIA disputed it's findings. But Polidori would not be disheartened by his government's lack of enthusiasm and continued to carry the bag wherever he went, even if it contained no more than an extra sweater and a handkerchief. This was another odd thing about this world of New York, no one seemed to carry handkerchiefs, and they all looked at him quite oddly when he delicately blew his nose on his then stuck it back in his bag. They blew their noses on little squares of paper, which were tossed onto the beautiful lawns of the park after one use. He would not consent to give up the luxury of a handkerchief though, not for all the useless information in the galaxy.

It was beginning to get dark, and Polidori decided he had better make his way to the most popular native entertainment. This was a thing the natives referred to as "going to the movies" which was basically sitting in a cold room full of foul smelling human bodies all munching noisily on exploded bits of food drenched in a yellow liquid which they referred to as "popcorn." After one had sat in this room for so long that one was assimilated into the mass of popcorn eating, soda drinking, chattering humanity, one's senses were bombarded by a wave of sound and explosions of color that the natives were referring to when they later asked you, "how did you like the movie?" The purpose of this, as far as Polidori could make out, was to get all one's life and excitement into two hours so that for the rest of the week one could live quite contentedly without it. At any rate, it was a custom all natives practiced, and, this being Friday evening, Polidori made his way like the rest of them to the building marked by a huge canopy where the word "Cinema" was outlined in flashing lights.

Polidori had read about the movie playing tonight in a page of the paper he had dug out from one of the green buckets marked "trash" in which the natives seemed to put everything they had finished with which might be of use to others. Polidori thought these buckets were a very kind and generous thing and appreciated the way these people shared everything they had with other people whom they had never even met. Anyhow, in this paper it had said that the movie was, "A hyperkinetic teen movie that flirts with some interesting ideas about race, hip-hop, and the overblown world of competitive cheering but decides to smile and high-kick instead." Polidori hadn't the slightest idea what half of these things were, as he hadn't yet come across one of the natives known as a "teen" in Central Park, but the movie sounded deliciously normal, and Polidori looked forward to it as a great learning experience. The movie was everything Polidori expected it to be, and he left the theatre contented and with a hundred new thoughts and ideas to puzzle over.

On the way back to his apartment, Polidori passed a Red Cross table. These had been set up all over New York the day after Thanksgiving, and had now been standing almost two weeks. Behind the table were a group of people, much better dressed than the natives Polidori generally associated with, who seemed bent on reforming the natives of Central Park. "It's the classic missionary appeal: replace those bad rituals with these good rituals and we guarantee salvation," Polidori thought as he walked by. He knew that these people, in their warm down jackets and stylish leather gloves, would never change anything about the natives of Central Park, and it was a lucky thing for them that they wouldn't. If they succeeded in making everyone else just like them they would no longer have anything to do. These people spent all their time feeling superior to the Central Park crowd, and if the natives of Central Park were to become like them, then these other people would have no one to feel superior towards, and would cease to exist. But these "missionaries" had nothing to worry about. The natives of Central Park were in their own way just as proud of their culture, and Polidori thought happily, "No amount of red ink will wash it out."

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