Marcel Proost, Libertarian

I should be composing this morning, but the grass has grown enthusiastically during my absence, and I suspect it will be a weedwacker kind of day.

This morning, Marcel Proost, my neighbor here on Buckshot Creek Road, dropped by to say hello. All month he had been much amused by the little plastic bag that said “U.S. Census” that had been left hanging on my gate while I was away in Europe. Inside was a questionnaire asking about my age, my sex and whether I am a Latino or not. As it had been left for weeks in the rain, the questionnaire was soaked, and when I tried to open it up it came apart in my hands.

“That’s OK, John. No one up here is answering that census thing anyway. It’s just big government snooping.”

“Ah, Marcel, you gonna start up with your country-bumpkin paranoia so early on this lovely spring day?” I say.

“Well, it’s the truth, don’t you know, that they just gonna put all that info into a data base and use it to raise your taxes.”

I know that Marcel has three bumper stickers on his truck. One is a Ron Paul for President sticker, another says “I’d rather be fishing,” and the third says “I LOVE MY COUNTRY BUT FEAR MY GOVERNMENT.” So I know pretty much where he stands on political and social issues. These conversations, which can take up the whole morning while his dog has to sit patiently in the driver’s seat, never seem to reach a point of resolution.

I protest. “Marcel, that’s such perfect redneck paranoia.
I know you pride yourself for your libertarian values, but all that Adam Smith stuff about the market place being the sole and proper arbiter of all human activity is just wrong.”

“Now, John, you know that, give ‘em a chance and the government will only make a mess of things, make up a lot of rules, muck things up and get in the way. They should just stick to building roads and protecting our right to bear arms. Other than that, they should leave us citizens alone.”

“Yeah, and let us go happily and blindly right to the brink, like about sixteen months ago, when the big banks had screwed up so bad they were screaming for Congress to throw them a lifejacket?”

“Well, that’s when government can be of use, to help out when we’re in a jam—but only when necessary. But now that things are getting better, the folks in Washington should just step aside and….”

“And let big business, big banks and all the huge corporations take us to the brink yet again? Come on Marcel!”

In truth I suspect he’s just pulling my chain, taking the devil’s advocate position. I’d heard that just two days ago a guy from PG&E was around in a blue truck, installing new those new “Smart Meters” that allow the company to instantly monitor every home’s use. I know that Marcel had chased the guy off his property with a shotgun.

“So, Marcel. You consider yourself a free-market kinda guy, but you don’t like it when PG&E wants to regulate how much electricity they give you.”

“That was invasion of my property, John. Guy come into my backyard uninvited and he’s in big trouble.”

“So, what happens if they shut down your electricity in response. What are you gonna do, fire up that pathetic little gas generator you got there? You won’t have enough power to run your grow lamps AND listen to your old Robert Craft albums at the same time.”

Marcel just grins.

“Well, gotta go. Gonna drive out to the coast and meet Herb Schreiner for lunch and check out his new Harley.”

He turns on the ignition of his truck and I hear the strains of Harrison Birtwistle’s “Silbury Air” on his tape deck as he disappears down the dirt road.