Departing Dialogue

Twenty-five years ago, Dr. Egot won, the copyrighted ‘powers that be’ red and blue state board game, spending an unbelievable money amount the branded entrepreneur, earned a victory receiving the new title, “President”.

Now 2050, Dr. Egot, dearly departed, a couple decades ago, while dedicated volunteers keep his legacy alive, saving researched information at the library bearing the legendary socialites name.

Not everyone contributing, investing, creating the nation’s profitable paved gold roads achieved unforgettable notoriety, in fact a younger affluent individual to President Egot, quietly prospered embracing the financially friendly era. Peacefully porch sitting, drinking wine cultivated in his garden, nicknamed ‘Eden’, the hardworking senior contemplated rights and wrongs. This daily exercise kept him attentive, spirits high, debating any complicated destiny outcomes, declaring honest social status, confident he lived life properly.

Back in the old country, Mason Dixon’s great grandparents escaped an overpowering situation, staged by aggressors who forcefully abused personal internal needs, and the youthful curious minded go getter decided, new world adventures may be a viable solution. Having many similarities to the homeland, the free and brave wilderness ended up as a comfortable replacement, making the transition easy. Unsafe international tensions were Mason Dixon’s ancestors excuse for not returning, confirming the commitment, building an existence honoring stars and stripes.

“Yup, Dr. Egot wanted us great again,” Mason Dixon thought, “he was a shrewd businessman and that was the medical field’s reality check, a healthy bottom line.”

Off in the distance, his grandson drove an equestrian buggy, passing an automobile on blocks, arriving moments later. “Grandpa,” Devon Dixon exclaimed, “why don’t you take the car out for a spin?”

“It’s illegal,” Mason Dixon answered back, “too much pollution, Dr. Egot’s administration tried electric, but the enemy pulled the plug cracking a joke about lights going out in

Georgia.”

“Enemy?”

“Same one my great grandfather, distanced himself from, my son,” Mason Dixon retorted, “a manipulative evil monster preying on weakness.”

“Are they from the galaxy far far away?”

“No, son, across the border,” Mason Dixon pointed, “tell me could you take me to our security guarded knights.”

“Sure, Grandpa,” Devon agreed, “hop onto the passenger seat.”

A few minutes later the near century long respectable resident climbed aboard, “off we go, Devon,” Mason Dixon commanded, and the teenager requested the horse, ‘walk on’.

Reflecting while watching his historic property stand at attention, Mason Dixon began seeking information, “are you still playing that game?”

“You mean, charity stripe?” Dixon told him, “my school is successful, and I am the reason.”

“You are good at Chairty Stripe, the new sport,” Mason Dixon paused, “am I correct?”

“Yes, Grandpa, when the crowd is so silent you can hear a pin drop, I throw the ball in the basket.”

Mason Dixon remembered, before the electric cars had their plugs pulled an organization surfaced claiming humane protection for basketball backboards. Complaining, the wooden structures were constantly physically assaulted for one, two or three points. Legal papers filed said, the priority reason to present this barbaric action was something called ‘showtime’.

“You know, son,” Mason Dixon acknowledged, “I learned the Greek hardwood system as a Delta Delta Dunk fraternity brother, we smashed more glass, and it took workers fifteen minutes to clean the floor.”

“Grandpa,”

“What,”

Not only did the sporting good activist extend the expensive merchandise lifetime warranty but they removed all the production’s entertaining elements, including cheerleaders, dancers, and light shows. Stating these distractions “had nothing to do with playing a game.”

“I do not know what a dunk is,” Devon innocently confessed, “but when I go to the charity stripe, everyone remains silent, and I put the ball in the bucket.”

“No, showtime circus lay ups, just point, shoot and score,” Mason Dixon clarified the changes to the rules.

“Yup, team with the most charity stripe buckets win,” Devon smiled pulling into the driveway servicing a message Mason Dixon’s Great Grandfather sent warning future generations.

“The crosses,” Devon’s eyes lit up.

“Son,” Mason Dixon started, “I want you to remember one thing.”

“What is that grandpop?”

“Always, respect others wishes, especially when you cannot see them,”

Constantly, scared, that in the night’s deadliest darkness, an opposing antagonist would walk in and take him over, Mason Dixon’s Great Grandfather collected crucifixes. When death finally visited him, a wall was constructed, and he believed the artistic relics magic would ward off those who abuse God’s most powerful gift, inner emotional strength.

“Son, a person has the right to deal with their fears and conflicts in the way they want to,” Mason Dixon told him, “as long as they do not endanger or interfere with others.”

Those words struck a nerve, and Devon Dixon pondered the crosses’ martyring torturous message, containing sacrificial forgiveness defense mechanisms, “Everybody deals with their challenges privately and they have many different ways,” the maturing adolescent spoke.

“Correct,” Mason Dixon agreed.

Next morning, Devon Dixon performed his routine chores including checking in on his beloved Grandfather. Not seeing him on the porch, concerned the youngster, “Grandpop, are you doing all right?”

“I am in here,” a weak voice sounded from the bedroom and Dixon followed the verbal trail.

“It is 2050 you know,” Mason Dixon referenced, “time for me to sleep.”

“Grandpop,” Dixon started to cry, “no.”

“Yes, it is now your world,” Mason Dixon defined, “but could you do me one last thing.”

“What is that?”

“Do you know where I have the peach basket hanging?” Mason Dixion asked, “make a layup, for your Grandfather, complete the assigned task, obtaining the two points the right way.”

Grabbing his hand Dixon watched Mason drift off into an eternal slumber and before reporting the event to any other souls, he snatched a large orange. Staring at the wooden cylinder above the garage door, Devon ignored the charity stripe and ran, jumped, softly placing the fruit into the basket.

Suddenly an air quote exclaimed, “that my boy is how you handle a situation, working it inside, carefully making sure the job is accomplished, scoring the points.”