At first it can feel weird, the freedoms and protections of the U.S. Constitution.

  Just like feeling grimed by war and crime and addiction, true freedom manifests a real bunch of feelings.

  This morning I remembered when some jet sounds brought a feeling of dread then awe then exhilerating pride in nation.  I could feel it even more than a marching band all through my body.  I wanted my God to "see" it too!  To know, some of us in a little nation got as close as we could to forging something that wins because it's a winner!

  "Mixed emotions" can be an understatement when it comes to politics.  The world battled an evil that not only oppresses but can change people into that.  The U.S. and its Allies fought forms of hate and abuse with forms of freedom and responsibility!

  Awesome!

  "We don't have their answers."

  Awesome!

  "Best we can do is dis-entangle!"

  Awesome!

  The Constitution still works.

  Totally awesome!

  Not all causes find support in the Constitution but the Constitution may support your cause.

  Huh

  A lot of us were explaining this stuff to family and friends.

  I put the Constitution in my briefcase and headed to the City.

  "I'm here!"  I knocked on the apartment door.

  "Good morning Miss Secretary."

  "Good morning Mr. uh, what's your last name?"

  "You can call me Mr. S."

  "And where is my desk?"

  He was just slightly taller than the doorframe and his arm slung over the door opened it further.

  He had a genie scarf over his hurt hand.  Hurt bad but didn't need kisses.  Not that kind of booboo, more like wounded pride.

  "What first?  I don't type very fast but I'm a decent person.  And um, I can write!"

  "Oh!  You can?!" He held up the wounded hand, "I can't."

  I straightened up the matches and ashtray and pens on the desk.  He brought the phone far from the wall and put it on the desk and straightened it to the desk edge.  Saw my eyes seeing past, present, and future all at once.  I threw one of the pens just slightly out of reach.  The scarf slid back some

          Handcuffs !

  He stayed turned away slightly.  Kept his eyes on me and I on him.  

  He reached towards a restaurant tray table.  I opened and slammed the top drawer of the desk.

  He turned towards me and put a lanky finger up to his lips, Ssssssshhh.  The genie scarf fell further away from the handcuffs.  

  The bed sheets started to move!  I hadn't really seen the bed.

  "Are you a CRIMINAL Mr. S?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I'll put YOU under citizen's ARREST."

  He pulled a really big shirt off the tray stand.  "If I was," he gulped, "A criminal," he put bare feet into shoes and an arm, the arm, into the shirt sleeve, "I wouldn't tell you."

  "I'd find out."

  A lady's arm reached from under the sheet and blindly searched the nightstand.

  It's in the drawer dear.  Dearie.  Drearie.  My brother is my brother too.  The man mumbled, chewed on a cigarette.  When he gingerly shoved a second foot into his second shoe (if they were his shoes) he oooooo'd a wince.  We were brothers once before, he reasoned aloud.  He suddenly stood up straight.  Hadn't seen his belt taken by the hand from the nightstand.  A giant, turning head at the bed, at the desk, silence holding the stillness still.

  "What should we write?"

  "I'm the secretary today."

  "Make a phone call for me, will ya, Miss Secretary."

  "Not 'til you tell me if or if not you're, a criminal.  Keep in mind I don't want you to be one."  He considered this as he flattened some hair on his head.

  "How old are you?" He asked the bed sheets.  But I answered too.

  Eight

  Teen

  "Eighteen huh?"

  "How would I call someone?"

  The lady's hand pulled and pulled, wrapping the wire around a fist, then yanked.

  A newspaper came flying into the room under the door.  He stomped a foot on it, then said, Ooowaah.

  "I'd find out in the newspaper!" I tried to get it but he leaned on it harder.  Suddenly my head was like a basketball in his palm.  I ran as hard as I could but he pushed me backwards to arm's length.  "I'll find out anyway," I panted.  "How's that?" He turned me like a dial and scooted me back to the desk.

  Cross armed Huuuuumph sat.

  "Call your mother."

  "No."

  "I said call your mother little girl."

  "You call yours!"

  "That's not a bad idea, but," he stooped and picked up the treaded newspaper.  He picked it up with both hands then handcuffed but like it was a cat by its tail or something that stunk.  "I can smell it from here," he plopped the paper on the desk.

  "Move."

  "Did you look in all the drawers?"

  No answers.

  He read the newspaper like my brother ate cereal with milk or like PopPop said not to drink lick-or.  Then he opened a drawer with his good foot and plunked the paper into it with his teeth.

  "I'll still find out."

  "HOW?!"

  "I'm really a detective-reporter!"

  "But you answered the ad for secretary."

     Across town....

  Rosemary the secretary followed a rushing in, late my Dad to his office.  

  "Oh, don't slip on your banana peel Mr. Lane!"

  My father stepped over it.  Then before he opened his office door, he stopped.  Went back to the banana peel and looked at it.  Then asked the secretary quiz-ically, "Did I drop that there?"

  "You sure did Mr. Lane."

  He picked it up and dropped it into his briefcase.  The secretary gently put her hand not holding his cup of coffee over her eyes.  Then waved him back towards the office.

  "Good morning Mr. Lane."

  "Good morning Mr. Lane."