Me and Ray, Part II: Finding Common Ground With a Trumper (original) (raw)

Read Part 1: Me and Ray: A Hollywood Screenwriter Discovers Trump Country From the Cab of a Truck. Part 2 follows.

MY COVER WAS BLOWN ON JUNE 20 when Trump held a rally in Tulsa. The speech was broadcast from an arena a few miles from the Greenwood district of Oklahoma, where 99 years earlier, a prosperous Black community had been decimated and burned out of existence by angry white people.

Trump had been talked out of speaking on June 19 as it was the holiday when we celebrate the end of slavery, but he’d insisted on holding the rally indoors, despite COVID killing thousands of people each week. I was driving. Ray was tuned in, dozing off and on in his bunk behind me. I had to listen to every damn word of that entire speech.

I’d never experienced an entire Trump rally, never heard, firsthand, the genius of it. Maybe it was more effective on radio, but Trump pulled off a remarkable show. He spoke off the cuff, in a casual manner, like a guy with his foot on the bumper of your truck.

He was part comedian, part demagogue, resembling more a comic Mussolini than Hitler. He took his jabs not with furious anger, but derision. He didn’t start softly and end with a thunderous denouncement of his foes. He plied his audience gently, kidding with them, matter-of-factly. He got them to laugh. He said things which give them a feeling they were being handed the inside track on a world the rest of us were groping for our eyeglasses to see.

Nothing Trump said that night was particularly compelling, complicated or memorable. His line of thinking was easy to follow. He repeated himself often and, just in case we’d missed his point, repeated it again. He used brilliant, little, memorable phrases and rhymes reminiscent of “If it doesn’t fit you must acquit.” Most importantly, there was no hint of the Kennedy challenge, “Ask not what your country can do for you,” because Trump asks nothing of his audience. He’ll get it all done for them. They don’t have to lift a finger. He’ll remove the left menace while they work and play. Though I wasn’t moved in the direction he’d intended, personally I understood his appeal, sickening as the realization may have been.

Trump pulled off a remarkable show. He spoke off the cuff, in a casual manner, like a guy with his foot on the bumper of your truck. He was part comedian, part demagogue, resembling more a comic Mussolini than Hitler.

To talk to Trumpers you must understand: They believe Trump says what he thinks. Sometimes it may sound like he’s talking to himself, and he can be obnoxious and insulting, but it flows out of him so effortlessly. He doesn’t use a teleprompter or notes. His speeches are stream-of-consciousness stuff. Words don’t flow out of him as much as it seems they flow through him, by some unseen spirit in the room. They mistake his frankness for honesty. This is something that confounds the left, when Trump supporters say Trump is honest. His easy style makes whatever he says disposable. No matter how outrageous, he can always say later he was kidding or that you didn’t hear it right. The right howls whenever Trump sets the left’s hair on fire, proof they have no sense of humor or perspective.

Impromptu Trump Parade Lakeview OK Sept 2020

An impromptu Trump parade in Lakeview, Oklahoma (September 2020).

His lack of civility, his sociopathy allowed him to be untethered from any restraint. What would come out of his mouth that night could have been anything. The audience waited with bated breath. The more outrageous, the bigger the reaction. Trump couldn’t be embarrassed because he’s never wrong. The idea he might need to apologize for something would be absurd. These qualities give him the illusion of strength, infallibility and invulnerability. He’s like a child’s larger-than-life protector. Trump’s a folk hero like John Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde. The only way to Trump-proof society from Trump is to ignore him. When you strip away the political mask, Trump is simply a con man pulling off the biggest con of all time.

I was certain of this after I heard him speak in Tulsa, and also certain that God had forgotten to put a single honest bone in Trump’s baby body. The crowd was ecstatic. The commentators were falling over one other finding new superlatives to praise him.

***

BY THIS TIME IN OUR TRAVELS, I liked Ray and felt a strong need to intervene. My stomach was churning after the two-hour love-fest. I was driving at night, which is always draining, demanding full attention of the road. I wasn’t sure if Ray had fallen asleep or was listening to the people interviewed as they exited that night. Converts like Herman Cain (the 999 presidential guy), who was seen there that night without a mask, said it was a helluva VIP party. Everyone felt special for being invited and most of them never wanted to leave. As it turned out, Cain didn’t get far because he contracted COVID that night and died a month later.

Then I heard a voice behind me. Ray asked me what I thought of the speech. I wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe he’d respect my directness, my sincerity. I tried to hold back, I really did. But the full weight of the two-hour speech was upon me and the pundits were patting Trump so hard on the back with bulls–t that it all just spilled out. I don’t admit this with any pride, but I launched into a diatribe, an embarrassing rant which went on way too long and wasn’t near brilliant enough to change Ray’s opinion. In fact, my arguments were rather dull and shapeless. When I finished, Ray remained silent for a moment, and then he smiled. He nodded, pulled the cover over his bunk and went to sleep. He was onto me.

zeke richardson

Once the ruse was removed, the gloves came off. Ray and I argued incessantly. I’d become Jane Goodall throwing food at her subjects and they were throwing feces back at me. Our verbal wrestling match went on for about a week and became unbearable for both of us. There are only so many ways to say “f–k you,” and after awhile it doesn’t mean anything.

What’s difficult about fighting in a truck is you don’t want to hit a guy behind the wheel of a vehicle with the weight of 10 medium-sized elephants hurtling down the highway at 65 miles per hour. And you don’t want the guy in the driver’s seat trying to hit you back because if he loses control of the truck it’ll jackknife and probably land on the passenger side, squishing you, bathing you in diesel fuel, unless the tanks explode. I seriously thought at one point Ray was going to pull over, tell me to get out, toss my s–t on the shoulder behind me and take off. I’d have to return somehow to my family after so many hardships, so many tough nights and days, empty handed, humiliated, financially ruined. I prepared to surrender. Then something miraculous happened, the spontaneous combustion of a bright idea that burned away the nonsense and would remain lit for the rest of our time together.

I seriously thought at one point Ray was going to pull over, tell me to get out, toss my s–t on the shoulder behind me and take off.

I don’t remember what we were arguing about. It may well have been about that poor, Black, drunk guy in Georgia who’d been shot to death after he’d pulled over at a Wendy’s to sleep it off. Let’s say it was. And Ray must have said something like, “Being a cop is the most dangerous job there is, and they’re bound to shoot a few people,” and I probably stammered something idiotic like, “That’s bulls–t. In England only nine guys in the Secret Service have a license to kill and they all go to Cambridge.”

But instead, I said, “Yeah?! Yeah, Ray?! Let’s look it up.” And I did. We discovered that being a police officer isn’t nearly as dangerous as being a truck driver (19th versus 7th on the most dangerous jobs list). What’s more, the odds of a cop being killed in a routine traffic stop was 10 times less likely than being struck by lightning.

Ray Nichel in his truck, courtesy of Zeke Richardson

Ray Nichel in his truck, courtesy of Zeke Richardson

Ray mentioned he’d been struck by lightning once and it hurt. I suggested the job itself might attract a certain kind of person prone to liking authority. Ray agreed with that. And he suggested that whether the job was seriously dangerous or not, the perception of it being deadly probably contributed to a lot of officer anxiety. I shot back that the job itself is full of a ton of unsightly, terrible things they see and this has to wear on their mental health. Especially given they’re wearing sidearms. People wielding guns should be reasonably content and sane. We agreed it was probably a good idea if all police officers are routinely provided psychotherapy. Ray said, “If you put social workers in charge, they’d probably piss a lot of people off and get themselves killed.” And we laughed. We were on our way to solving the world’s problems together.

OK, maybe it wasn’t that rosy or pleasant. But from then on, whenever either of us grew tired of the other’s fatuous statements, we’d agree to look it up, find several sources. One night, Ray said Nancy Pelosi was the richest member of the House, so I looked it up. Turns out she was the 16th richest. Pelosi’s net worth was debatable but estimates of $65 million were generally agreed on. Her husband was an investment banker and believed to be the main conduit for their income, so Ray was probably mistaken about who was bringing home the bacon.

I then scrolled down the list to see that there were dozens and then hundreds of members of the House of Representatives, on both sides, who were millionaires. The Senate was even more populated. An exclusive millionaires club! WTF! So Pelosi, Ray conceded, might not be worst of the lot receiving, but why in hell were there so many millionaires in the House? I thought this was the people’s house, full of regular folks: firemen, teachers, social workers, lawyers, vets. And that led me to find an article on stock trades members of Congress had made just prior to the announcement of COVID-19. They’d cleaned up. Democrats and Republicans alike. Ray and I agreed this was a very bad idea, to allow people in positions of power owning secret knowledge to fortify their bank accounts with that knowledge. We had a conversation about campaign finance reform and term limits where we agreed on all points. We’d found the secret sauce.

Ray and I agreed this was a very bad idea, to allow people in positions of power owning secret knowledge to fortify their bank accounts with that knowledge.

There’s an old saying, often attributed to Mark Twain, which both sides should look at carefully right now: “It ain’t what we don’t know that hurts us. It’s what we know for sure that just ain’t so.” The more we researched, the more we read, the more we realized there were a lot of things we agreed on. The more specific the issue, the less emotional the debate. The broader the topic, the more heated the exchange. You can’t have a conversation if the subject is abortion, gun control, racism in America. These topics are too broad. Too many rabbit holes to disappear into. Too volatile emotionally. They’re essentially pointless. You may as well debate what’s the best food.

Now, if Ray and I started discussing the Chicago handgun ban which was pending back then, well, there was some meat on that bone to chew. Does the Second Amendment give us the right to protect our personal property? That’s a legitimate discussion. The answer would not kill the Second Amendment. There was a “pro-abortion” bill in Virginia that summer, which sought to remove one of the representatives in a delivery room when life and death decisions about aborting a pregnancy occurred. Right-to-Lifers were all over this one, saying it would legalize late third-trimester abortions; it wasn’t. The bill simply said that an unborn child should not have the same legal rights as the mother, the doctor and the hospital.

zeke-richardson-family

Zeke Richardson and family in 2003 (Photo courtesy of Zeke Richardson)

If we’re asking that question, boxing on that footing, there’s some ground underneath us because we’re talking specific facts, and laws, and policies, instead of how we feel. What we feel is vulnerable, easily manipulated and useless. Would you want your nurse or lawyer to be emotionally involved in your care or defense? I wouldn’t. What we feel has been stuffed into us like a sausage by powerful groups that want our votes and support for their individual interests. And those interests, right and left alike, are not necessarily aligned with what we need. We’ve all been trained to automatically react, like guard dogs when we hear a command phrase. We’re cued up now, coiled, springs ready to shoot us off into outer space.

I made a little bet with Ray about the election, which I never collected on. In fact, Ray and I never saw each other again. We didn’t stay in contact. The last time I saw him he was holding a T-shirt I’d bought him that had Trump as a big cat on the front with the words, “He’s no pussy.” After Ray drove away, as I was getting into the cab of my truck, about to take my final inspection by one of the company guys, I asked him what Ray had said about me. He answered, “Highly recommended.”

Four-and-a-half years have passed. I retired from truck driving for health reasons, cancer mostly. I volunteered during the election, canvassed in Nevada. I’m on the other side of the Trump coin flip. A development I had not thought possible after the attack on Congress, the felony conviction, the sexual assault. I wasn’t there to feel Ray’s pain back in November 2020 and he’s not here to feel mine. I guess we’re even. I’m depressed and anxious. I have fears of losing my Social Security, of being guilty by virtue of my citizenship if the mass deportation devolves (as it almost certainly will) into another holocaust. I want to leave the U.S., renounce my citizenship, turn off this nightmare. That’s how I feel, but it’s not what I’ll do.

I believed Trump was unfit for office back then and believe it more now. I found, while researching this essay, a list of a hundred reasons I would not vote for Trump, and I could make a fresh hundred today. But history has a funny way of coming clean in the morning light and I know tides turn.

I’ll end my opinion piece with a few suggestions. Part of me hesitates, because it may sound like I’m suggesting we treat our poor, misguided Trumpers with kid gloves. I know we’re better than this. I also know it may get a lot uglier and I’m preparing for that as well. But I will stay open. Remain patient. When my blood boils, I’ll go cool off. And when they become apoplectic, I will disengage and try again tomorrow. I will try to impart things I know are true and remember that just because they voted Trump doesn’t mean they are Trump.

DON’T:

DO:

Good luck. Godspeed. God help us all.

Read Part 1 of this essay here.

Zeke Richardson is a retired member of the WGAW and MPEG. During COVID, he spent two and half years on the nation’s highways as a truck driver. He recently posted a new album “Blue Skies” on music streaming services and is currently working on a nonfiction book about his trucking experience. His “Election Song” is the musical version of this essay.