Now You Hold the Gun

There's an old story I used to hear when I was growing up in the Ozarks, about a hillbilly that accosted a stranger walking along a narrow country road up in the hills. He pointed a rusty pistol at the man's face and said what hillbillies always say in these stories, "Hold it right there stranger."

Then he shoved a jug of moonshine into the stranger's hands and ordered him to take a drink. Half scared out of his wits, the stranger unstoppered the jug and took a mouthful. The instant the white lightning hit his throat, molten wax shot out of his ears, tears gushed out of his eyes and he felt his tastebuds trying to commit suicide.

"That's awful . . . worst thing I've ever tasted!" he gasped.

"Yeah, I know," said the hillbilly. "Now you hold the gun on me while I drink."


The problem is self-discipline. How the hell am I supposed to work on my novel when people leave pencils that need sharpening and books that need re-shelving around my keyboard? A prominent 19^th century author claimed that he'd ordered his housekeeper to lock him in his library every morning and refuse  to give him food or drink until he slipped a specified number of completed pages under the door.

In campaign season, which is damned near always these days, politicians have an essential task called "Dialing for Dollars." They sit in a comfortable room at a comfortable desk, put on a headset, go down a list of people who are able to give them substantial campaign contributions, and they dial and schmooze and beg for money.
Almost all of them hate doing it. I knew one elected official who said he would rather stand by a freeway exit with a cardboard sign and beg for change than make that first phone call of the day.  So to insure that they do what has to be done, political candidates - in effect - hire their own hillbilly to keep them at the desk until they finish their phone calls.

In civilian life, military style boot camps have become big business. In lieu of self-discipline, people fork over a sizable chunk of cash to have someone force them to exercise, eat right and get enough sleep.

In Young Frankenstein, Dr. Frankenstein is not behaving that outrageously when he makes his household promise  not to let him out of the monster's cell until he tamed the monster, "No matter how cruelly I may beg." Of course he starts begging as soon as the door is closed, ". . . it was a joke for God's sake . . ."

But, when push comes to duck and cover, politicians are in a class by themselves when it comes to the desire to avoid anything that might offend one of their supporters. Once when I was staffing a candidate on a campaign trip, she took me aside before a fundraising coffee sponsored by a rich but obnoxious supporter, and said, "Get me out of here in 20 minutes, no matter what is happening."

Twenty minutes to the second after we arrived, I gave her a nod and started wading through the crowd  as if I had received a message from God. She turned to the people she was talking with and say, "uh oh" and gestured toward me.

When I reached her she gave the people around her a look as she was about to be wrenched away from her closest friends. "Sorry," she told them."Sometimes my staff is just relentless."

I took her arm, smiling and apologizing, trying to look as if I had to get her to the mouth of a volcano to prevent a catastrophe of biblical proportions.

Thank you, smile, step, step,  she pulled loose and hugged an old guy who was wearing a really great suit. I leaned in, touched her elbow and whispered that the magma was burbling closer to the surface . . . she nodded and start moving again.

At the door she stopped and gave her apologies to the group and dispensed one more hug while I looked worried and glanced at my watch. She continued to smile and wave through the window of the car as we pulled away; then she turned to me and said, "What kept you? If I'd had to stay there two minutes longer, I would have set myself on fire!"

Okay, your turn to hold the gun on me.