Jane Armstrong
Sick Crush
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Every morning I go to the gym, get on a treadmill, and scan the TV wall for the TV that?s set to CNN and hope for a Pentagon press briefing. Then I?ll get to see Donald Rumsfeld. When Donald Rumsfeld is on, I turn the audio to the alt DMX station and crank ugly music through my headset and watch Donald Rumsfeld smile at reporters and mouth words to reporters and make his happy warrior gestures. I ratchet the treadmill up as fast as I can stand it. When I see Donald Rumsfeld, I want to sweat. When I sweat to Donald Rumsfeld, the sweat that runs down my face and onto my lips and into my mouth tastes strange, like moldy almonds.
Donald Rumsfeld looks oddly attractive to me. I?m not impressed by his credentials. I looked up his bio on the internet. It?s a curriculum vita of loathsomeness. He?s licked the ass of everything I hate. He worked for Nixon. He worked for Reagan. He?s been CEO of this and CEO of that and now he?s the Secretary of Defense (again) and is an upper manager of the unofficially declared war on terrorism. But inexplicably, I think he?s handsome, in his bespoke suits and smart-guy glasses, shoulders back in perfect Navy posture. I watch the Pentagon press briefings and imagine Donald Rumsfeld naked.
Superficial observation suggests that Donald Rumsfeld is a man who should never be naked. He?s defined by uniforms, trappings, flags and weaponry, his body hidden behind the podium of his office. But I picture him nude, fit and disciplined, only the gray pubic hair shows his age. I want to undress him. Not Donald Rumsfeld, but ?Donald Rumsfeld??a concept simultaneously despicable and irresistible; a power so fierce I can not avert my attention. I can spend hours with ?Donald Rumsfeld.?
?Donald Rumsfeld? has certain predilections. He likes to play Rape Camp with me. He wants me to be an indigenous person of a vanquished nation. At crucial moments, he makes me scream, ?I am Iraq. Rumsfeld has conquered me.? But ?Rumsfeld? can be kind, all sweets and stockings. He pushes my stringy, dirty hair from my grimy face and says I?m his favorite, with the opportunities afforded by the capitalist West, I could be somebody. I could be anything in the world, says ?Rumsfeld.? Just look at him.
Crush: the frenzy of the admirer crushes the factual existence of the object admired.
During one Pentagon briefing, I can?t resist: I dial the audio over to CNN. Donald Rumsfeld says, ?I know what I know and I know what I don?t know and when it comes to body counts I know that I don?t know.?
Crush: the frenzy of the admirer is crushed as soon as the object admired opens his stupid mouth.
Sick crush: Nevertheless, the frenzy of the admirer necessitates adjustments.
On the TV, Donald Rumsfeld explains his experience with body counts and why he tends to undercount dead bodies. He references Vietnam. He twitches a little half-smile and delicately eases his raised hand downward. The hand is beautiful, the gesture elegant.
I am still on the treadmill, running uphill fast. Poisoned sweat oozes from my pores and I want ?Donald Rumsfeld? to taste it. I want to pound him down with my hatred. I want my sick crush to obliterate ?Donald Rumsfeld,? make him the nullity that Donald Rumsfeld already is. I want to fuck him invisible.
http://www.publicscrutiny.net/2002/p...armstrong.html
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Jane Armstrong teaches writing at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. Her stories have appeared in journals such as The North American Review and New Orleans Review, and her commentary in Newsweek and on NPR. She can be reached at
[email protected].