COLUMBUS _ We filed into the
brightly lit school lobby on a chilly
Saturday night, and the rush of warm
air felt good on my hands and face.
The sounds of bouncing balls,
heavy feet and dozens of voices
echoed through the building.
A knot of people gathered before
the gatekeeper, an old woman at a
student’s desk, selling tickets. They
moved on, then we stepped up.
She had a pile of programs, a little
strongbox on the desk and a handmade
sign that read: ``Children under
12, $1; Adults, $2; Senior Citizens, $1.’’
``How old is a senior citizen?’’
Uncle Chet asked.
``Oh, I don’t know.’’ She looked at
him in mild surprise. ``At least 60, I
guess.’’
``Then we’re in luck.’’ He handed
her a $10 bill. “I’m 69, those two are 60
and he’s well under 12. How old are
you, Buddy?’’
``Eight,’’ the boy said.
``There. Four half-priced admissions
and only one
full-fledged adult,
his mother, with
us,’’ Uncle Chet
said.
The woman
looked at Alice
and me dubiously,
and Alice said, ``I
don’t mind paying
full price.’’
``But she really
is 60,’’ Uncle Chet
said and took the
$4 in change.
We murmured
thank-you and
continued on.
``Well, that was
embarrassing,’’
Alice confided as
we hiked the tiled
stairs. ``You told
all the world I’m not an adult anymore.’’
``Just looking after our business
interests,’’ he said.
``I don’t feel like I’m past it,’’ she
said.
``You’re retired, aren’t you?’’ he
said as we sidled past the food stand
and entered a spacious gymnasium.
``Well, I’m not,’’ I said.
``You never were an adult,’’ he said.
The music was thumping, and the
players were going through their
layup drills. We sat in the front row,
took off our coats. Hon got out her
camera and checked the light.
``Can I have a hot dog?’’ Buddy said.
``You’d know better than I,’’ I told
him.
``I mean, may I have hot dog?’’
``That’s up to mom.’’ I looked at her.
``Let’s see what they have,’’ Hon
said, and handed me the camera.
``Maybe they have pizza.’’
They headed back out the double
doors as more people were filtering
in, filling the bleachers.
``In a way, it’s demeaning to pay
less,’’ said Alice, who has long silver
hair like Emmylou Harris.
``Like being on food stamps,’’ I said.
``Yes, an admission of frailty,’’ she
said. ``It seems you’re taking charity.’’
``Listen, I won’t do it again if you
don’t want me to. But wasn’t it a logical
question?’’ he asked. ``They put up
a sign for a senior discount and don’t
tell you what a senior is. Of course,
not all seniors need a discount and
plenty of juniors do, so if I were in
charge, I’d admit people on a sliding
scale, from free to five bucks, depending
on their means.’’
``The socialist approach,’’ I said,
watching some crisp passing during
the warm-ups.
``Yes, because at root, this country
has only one problem: the lopsided
distribution of wealth,’’ Uncle Chet
said. ``The tick has all the blood, and
it’s killing the host. And the bigger it
gets, the tighter it hangs on.’’
``Who’s the tick?’’ I said.
``The billionaires. They’re bleeding
our society. They own the government,
the media; they own a controlling
interest in everything and they
control it to their advantage. If it’s
to their advantage that we go to war,
we go to war, and anyone who doesn’t
get in line is branded. If it’s to their
advantage to bail out Wall Street, we
do it, even though no seems to want to.
It just gets done, because money flows
mostly in one direction in this country,
toward those who need it least.
``Amen,’’ I said.
``Of course there is a remedy, if
anyone had the guts to propose it,’’
Uncle Chet said. ``Bring back the
tax rates we had under Truman and
Eisenhower, where the top bracket
paid 90 percent. Then phase in a tax
on assets more than $1 billion and use
that money to fund health care.’’
``Do you have a target on your
back?’’ Alice asked him.
``I’m sure I do,’’ he said. ``But this
one senior citizen who isn’t going to
shut up.’’
