The Atlantic Monthly

(Oliver Wendell Holmes would be rolling in his grave.)

Yesterday, I taught a poem called Old Ironsides to my high school class. It was written by Oliver Wendell Holmes back in the day. It’s about a ship that was used in the War of 1812, and to Holmes’s chagrin, Uncle Sam wants to tear it to pieces and sell the vessel for scraps. Holmes argues for its restoration and says that it would be more patriotic to sink the fucking thing rather than breaking it to bits.

I said, “Oliver was everything you kids want to be.”

One girl said, “That’s not true. He lived more than a hundred years ago.”

I shot her an arrogant smile. “He went to Harvard. He became a medical doctor. He started a successful magazine called The Atlantic Monthly. And it’s still in publication today.”

She nodded in agreement. “Maybe you’re right. I would love to go to Harvard.”

I pointed in her direction to lend gravity to my words. “On the dark side, his magazine is now staffed by loons. They tear down statues. They burn down cites. And they celebrate war pimps. Even guys like Abraham Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson aren’t safe from their wrath. Poor Oliver would be rolling in his grave if he saw it today.”

She said, “Why are Americans destroying their heritage?”

I shook my head from side to side. “I haven’t the foggiest clue. We seem to be going through a type of cultural revolution that infected the Chinese back in the days of Mao. We might not even survive.”

One of the boys decided to pipe in with his two cents. “You’re a conservative Trumper!”

I lifted my hands in a sign of surrender. “I’m not a conservative, and I haven’t voted since 2008. But yes. I do appreciate Orange Donald’s style. He was an effective leader.”

Yet this didn’t stop him from giving me the evil eye. “You’re the type of person who was storming the Capitol on January sixth. You’re old and white, and your ideas are stale.”

I didn’t respond to his insults. I’m past the point of caring anymore. After years of teaching, these minor skirmishes roll off my back like water from a duck’s ass. In fact, I enjoy the feisty children more than the ones who obey all the time and agree with my every word. Perhaps I’m a sick son of a bitch, but the conflict can be rather exciting.

I eventually got home at 6 p.m. and vacuumed my floors. It had been four days since the last cleaning, so it felt good to get it out of the way. Then I sat on the sofa and drank a large can of beer. The alcohol always helps to take the edge off.

Rice-Boy Larry called me. “I’m eating dinner with my friends.”

“What time will you return?”

“Probably around eight.”

I sighed heavily. “I never see you anymore.”

“Do you need me at the apartment?”

“Not really. But could you help me order bacon and deodorant from Coupang when you get back home? It would be a huge help.”

“Sure. No problem.”

True to his word, my boy walked through the door right at eight on the nose. Then we sat together as we ordered our supplies off the internet. 2.5 pounds of bacon cost me twenty bucks. And I got three sticks of deodorant for twelve dollars. I also purchased twelve bottles of off-brand cola. The entire order came to right around $50.

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