Stopping the Saving of the Day

Frieda’s little fuel efficient car sped them out of the city and into the suburbs. 7-11’s gave way to Wawa’s, whitewash boards became siding and then the houses were simply hidden behind great expanses of foliage. The image of an obese Hobart (Cuckler?) with his fist raised was still frozen into both their minds. “Is it possible for a person to actually be too liberal? Not that I haven’t met people who were really excessive, but isn’t what Hobart is about to do just crazy talk? Stuff from the drugs? He’s going to drug an entire party of Republicans into doing, I don’t know, into just thinking like him. But what if the drug works? Is it wrong to believe that those people should think exactly the way we do? Wouldn’t it make the world a better place if everyone in the conservative party stopped being conservative?” Frieda was talking without looking at Proctor, saying it more to herself than anyone else. “Cuckler once told me that he wanted to save the planet. And I believed him. And I think Hobart genuinely wants to stop Prop 415. But neither Cuckler or that guy going to this party have ever, once, made a good decision on their own. Maybe those rallies were a success, maybe we did raise a lot of money, but how long could it last? Bordex and the drive-by at the environmental rally were so outrageous at first. But now, when I see Hobart acting just as crazy on these other pills, I think I finally get it. When you only think one way, it’s only a matter of time before you’ll screw up. Liberal or Conservative,” Proctor said. A quick check on the invitation and they turned down a winding road. As they pulled up to a gate Frieda asked, “Wait, so we should let him dose the Republicans with the Liberal Drug?” The guard didn’t even blink when he overheard what Frieda said. She showed him the invitation and the little car was waved through. “Well, yes. Except it would be a lot better if they took it voluntarily. And I guess we’d have to take the conservative drug, just to make it fair,” Proctor said. The party was being held at a very elegant boat house. Some sort of club, by the look of the sign that read ‘Lucky Bastard Fishing Society’. They followed a trail of white balloons and the sound of clinking glasses until they came out onto the veranda. On one side all of the women were gathered while all the men were on the other end of the lawn. No one was fishing. And there was no sign of Hobart. “What the fu-“ Proctor said. “No time, you go to the boys end and I’ll go to the girls. Find Hobart!” Frieda ordered.