Literary Agent Orson: A Fundamental Problem

The old man smiled.

Orson caught sight of the old hick in overalls seated in 24b, but tried not to make eye contact. Two hours, thirty-four minutes to New York, he thought. He scanned the plane, every seat was taken. ‘God’ he thought as he held his breath and sat; ‘what luck.’

“Howdy,” the farmer said.

“Good morning,” Orson said. He pulled his copy of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style from his bag and opened it quickly.

“That’s a classic. Been around for some time. It was my constant companion in my college days.” Orson was surprised to hear that. “Except for the cover, it’s changed very little over the years.”

“Funny how things change and yet they stay the same,” Orson said, and then kicked himself.

"You a writer?”

“No, I’m a literary agent. You?”

“I’ve done many things in my time, and yes, I’ve finished a novel. My working title is End Game: The Rise of Fundamentalism and What We Must do to Combat It.”

Orson sat up. If any man ever looked like a fundamentalist, it was this bumpkin; this hick; this representative of the rabble, and yet I judged him wrongly. Oh, Orson, you must stop pre-judging people, he thought. “Your title’s too long, but I agree with your premise: fundamentalism is the worst cancer facing the modern world,” Orson said.

“Exactly. Well put; a cancer. Harlan’s my name,” he said as he extended his hand.

“Orson.” They shook.

“Fundamentalism has wrapped it’s cold, dead grey fingers around the throat of modern society and is near to extinguishing the life from it. If we don’t stop it now, we will lose two hundred, twenty-five years of progress,” Harlan said.

My God, this redneck’s an enlightened renaissance man; a man of genius, Orson thought. A new age Will Rogers in overalls. “Colorful metaphor,” Orson said. “Fundamentalists and their mouthpieces in the media are getting louder and louder.”

“Exactly.”

“And, as your title suggests, we must combat them. We must silence them.”

“Exactly.”

“There is legislation that will begin the process, but it’s not enough. The entire right-wing conspiracy must be brought under our boot! The fanatics and shouting lunatics must stop. Rush Limbaugh must be silenced,” Orson drew a deep breath. “Sean Hannity must die!” He had gotten carried away. Now a passenger across the aisle panicked, and looked around for a crew member. The man behind her in 25f leaned forward. “That was a little hyperbole. I didn’t really mean it,” Orson said to her. Her eyes calmed a little.

“The farmer laughed. No, Son, you assume Fundamentalism is one-sided. My book's about the Secular Fundamentalist: The fanatics and zealots of the left. They crow that all should be tolerant, when in fact they are the least tolerant, most judgmental of all fundamentalists. Their tolerance applies only to those with whom they agree. Their ultimate goal is to legislate from the bench. Their creed is Marxism and their method of dissemination is through the universities of this great land.”

Orson’s mouth hung agape as he processed this stunning turn. “Why you small minded, redneck idiot bigot. You farm swine. You should be ashamed you racist.”

“If you would let me finish…”

“Just a minute,” Orson said over the elder’s attempt to speak. “How dare you impugn... you fool. Liberalism is the vanguard of personal freedoms and as soon as we get our Fairness Doctrine through the Supreme Court we will shut you up once and for all, and give the voice of freedom to all! I knew the minute I sat here that you were an old, ignorant... FUNDAMENTALIST!”

Now several people nearby became visibly uncomfortable. The man in 25f leaned forward again and in a stealthy motion reached out to Orson.

The old man laughed, “The Fairness Doctrine is many things, but fair ain't one of 'em,” he said, but Orson wasn’t listening. He had slumped forward. “The fundamentalists on the right are an equal danger, but we know them. The left is more insidious. ALL Fundamentalisms must be stopped. Hey, you okay?” the old man asked with a nudge.

“He’s fine,” the man from 25f said, now securing Orson’s hands. “I tazed him for his own good. Sky Marshal,” he said pulling out his badge. “I couldn’t listen to anymore of his crap or I mighta killed him with my bare hands. I got a pension to think about."

The old man smiled.