Coke or Pepsi?
Democrat or Republican, what's the
difference?
June 30, 3003
The Iranian
It was a cool
Friday afternoon in Montreal,
somewhere around the fall of 1987. I had taken the overnight train
from Toronto to attend a friend's wedding that Saturday.
I loved taking the train that departed just before midnight and
arrived early in the morning as I could sleep most of the way and
between all those stops at tiny towns and cities along the way,
not wasting any "productive time" en route. In Montreal
I checked into this cute and cozy bed & breakfast I knew. It
was clean, reasonable and centrally located right on Rue Sherbrooke.
I spent the morning checking out some of my favorite
spots: Place Des Arts, Phillips Square, Bishop Ave., Campus of
McGill and Atwater
metro station, each one bringing back sweet and sometimes sad
memories. After lunch at Pasha, I called a friend to get together
for coffee
and rehash even more memories. Somewhere between 3 and 4 in the
afternoon, I made my way to the sidewalk in front of this large
hotel across from my room to wait for her to pick me up.
The
winter wind that must start somewhere near the North Pole and
often flies
straight into the streets of Montreal, unobstructed and direct,
had already started its annual visit to the city and the weak
afternoon sun was no match for the cold air. I wrapped my scarf
tighter around
my neck, tucking the ends under my overcoat and prepared for
my friend to be unfashionably late. Iranians are always late.
I remember
somewhere on an overseas flight reading an article about
how to conduct business internationally and under Iran it said
if
you have a meeting with an executive or upper manager personnel
and
they show up on time, you can be sure he/she is not that
important and is definitely not the decision maker. How sad, our
secret
is
out for the world to know. I digressed.
As I'm waiting and watching the street for her familiar car,
I notice somebody approaching from right. He gets my attention
as he is talking to himself, sometimes quietly and then suddenly
very loud. He is clothed in what you'd recognize as typical
attire for a street or homeless person, or whatever the current
PC term is. Old stained coat, several scarves, pants that haven't
been washed in a while and worn dirty shoes. He is probably in
his late thirties or early forties, but looks many years older.
I try not to stare and look the other way, aimlessly
searching for her car again without much success. Suddenly I feel
the homeless
man standing very close to me. As I turn my face, the man (I later
find his name is "Bob") has stopped beside me and with
a calm but deliberate voice says "Pepsi or Coke?" Without
waiting for a reply, he continues to walk away.
I'm puzzled and a bit taken back. Before I get a
chance to process what just happened, I see him turn around and
again as he walks slowly by me, he turns ever so subtly saying "Pepsi
or Coke?", then walks away again. This was repeated twice
more with Bob asking the same question then walking away chatting
with himself, as if he was replying to his own query.
Curiosity
was killing me and despite knowing what had happened to the cat,
I decided that I needed to find out more. So, the next time Bob
turned around and got near me, I stepped forward almost blocking
his path.
Bob stopped, looked up into my eyes and said "Pepsi
or Coke?" As I asked what he meant, Bob found someone who'd
listen to his story and we spent the next half hour or so chatting
away. Well, in reality it was more like he talked and I occasionally
mumbled a noise in agreement or even amazement, then he continued
his stories unfazed by my interruptions.
It turns out Bob was an American and an ex-professor
from a respected east coast university. He had "snapped" at
some point, spending time in a hospital and then exiled by the
community to
the streets. Bob wasn't sure how he had ended up in Montreal,
just that he had come on a train hitching rides all over the continent
as a Hobo . But he had
enjoyed Canada and stayed for the past few years. He was articulate
and had a large vocabulary. Yet he had difficulty concentrating
on a topic and would often wonder off branching into other subjects
and issues. It took him going through 15 other topics before he
could tell me about his question.
I find out that without realizing it, I was standing
right under a gigantic U.S. flag flying in front of the hotel along
with about
10 or 12 other flags. Bob's question wasn't really
for me; he would ask the same question whenever he came across
the Star - Spangled Banner. He had probably done it for years and
for all I know is still doing it someplace.
"Pepsi or Coke?" was in
reality his statement about the state of democracy in his homeland.
Bob believed the only political choices left for Americans are
like choosing between Coke and Pepsi. Both look the same, similar
color and general feel, some subtle differences in taste and ingredients,
but essentially the same. He'd say "but what if I'd
want a cold beer, ginger ale or even a glass of water? Nope, sorry,
not available!"
"Coke or Pepsi, Democrat or Republican, what's
the difference? Really, what's the difference?" he said.
Of course he would then wonder off, talking about the environment,
the economy or
corruption of the justice system, but he'd end up asking
the same question; "Pepsi or Coke?"
The sound of my friend's automobile horn interrupted our
conversation. I look over and she is half way out of her car, waving
her arms and trying to get my attention. I guess she had arrived
several minutes earlier and was tired of waiting while I chatted
with "some bum". I look back and Bob had already left,
walking fast several feet away, once again chatting with himself.
He entered and left my life the same way; inconspicuous, understated
and very quietly. However, looking back at something so brief and
so long ago, he obviously left an impression.
As I read the statements by some of the Democratic
Party's presidential hopefuls, I thought about the amount of money
pledged already to George W. Bush's
2004 campaign, the mess surrounding the
2000 "election", and the many different hurdles that
make it impossible for any credible third or fourth party candidates
to seriously challenge any elected office. I thought about the good-old-boys
network of who you know versus what you stand for and the
biased and controlled media needed to get any message out to
the average voter.
Then I couldn't help but think of Bob and wonder
if there are any real choices left in America. Real choices besides
Pepsi or Coke, besides Democrats or Republicans, besides bad
and worse.
Next time a server asks if you'd like anything to
drink, think of Bob and order ginger ale, anything but Pepsi or
Coke. And
be assured, as promised by fellow Canadian Leonard Cohen, Democracy
is coming to the U.S.A.
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