"Hate, hell. I'm about the last friend he has left. Nearly the
only one who refuses to boost common man exclusively, so as to
exploit him--consciously or unconsciously. I'm one of the few
who still care enough about poor old common man to criticize
him. Everybody else is a planner or a mere booster--presidential
candidates--Stalin--Hitler--just rah-rah-for-humanity boys. I'm still
trying to save common man from himself."
"You chill me," Paul said sarcastically.
"Chill you?" I would have picked up any lead to keep this bicker
alight. It wasn't about Marcia.
He spoke to Yvonne. "Phil is the champion lost-cause defender of them
all. Whatever he's for is sure to fail. He has the mildew-touch. My
childhood is pockmarked with embarrassments that came from having
people read his stuff--or having them barge over to see us and tell my
dad that his brother-in-law was off the beam again."
"I can imagine," Yvonne said.
"Phil was out there hollering for rearmament in the thick of the old
pacifist days. He was an air-power promoter when the brass was folding
'em in like eggs in puddings. He predicted we'd have to fight the
Soviet a dozen years ago--and our boys immediately chummed up with
Stalin. He went roaring out for intervention in the last war--bucking
isolationists and practically cracking his insides when England and
France went in without us. The minute the bomb was shot off--he
started battling military control and telling the folks the mess we'd
be in--and are in--right now. Once--down in Miami--where he lives--he
started a big health crusade. It's a prize pesthole. But that collapsed
in his face, too. What he says is usually right--but what happens
always makes him look like a louse. If he's championing common man
now--well--draw your own conclusion." He winked at me.
"I'm championing the Better Man, these days," I said. "Breeding the
Better Common Man. Another noble prospect doomed to fail in our time."