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Dobie Pokorny was on tour in support of his manifesto, Another Way: Beyond the Status Quo, an anti-corporate diatribe born of a lifetime of people-watching and corporate employment. He never had a career. Just employment. One job after the other, never quite fitting in anywhere. Never believing in the company he worked for.
The manifesto was something he believed in completely. Spouting off for a living was his new career, in spite of those who did not like his message or its messenger.
Driving north from Tennessee, he took a hard left, southwesterly, after escaping an angry mob in Indianapolis. With further stops in Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma and Texas, crowds grew larger and more receptive with each passing week.
Word was spreading. Well into his tour, he was filling up those previously half-empty hotel conference rooms, even the occasional small concert venue, as he shared his plans to save the world.
After that rough start, he was finally doing what he wanted, staying sober, and saying what needed to be said. Selling more books online, in stores, and in person now, he felt he was winning the war against those who would shut him up.
He was a reluctant hero, though. Nobody’s savior. He said so repeatedly, and refused to pretend otherwise. Several seminar attendees suggested he take himself more seriously. Act like a proper leader, they said.
To them, he said, "The fatal flaw of most would-be saviors is to take themselves too seriously. Take your principles, intuition and beliefs seriously, sure. Not yourself. This isn't about me, it's about getting people to think for themselves. Stop being followers! I'm the leader who doesn’t want followers. We all need to be responsible individuals!"
He knew he had no business giving lectures and solving the world's problems, but the world had gone crazy and nobody seemed to be doing anything about it. Nobody he trusted to get it right, anyway. Someone had to inject some no-longer-common sense and decency into the conversation. Why not him?
He hated corporations, especially those bent on convincing people to buy things they don't need. Before being fired from his last job and starting this tour, he had put copies of his magnum opus in strategic locations around the office. He wanted his co-workers to read it, like it, tell their friends, with everyone buying a copy. He likened his approach to Johnny Appleseed. It was the closest thing to marketing that he would allow himself. The process had to be organic.
The book laid out who and/or what was running things on this planet. He tried to focus on the who over the what, but there were times he had to wonder if there was not something out there, unseen, manipulating things.
There was nothing much new in his book for anyone well-versed in the prevailing conspiracy theories – international banker scams, staged “false flag" terror attacks, CIA/military drug-running and mind-control, etc. – but Another Way had solutions. From better toilet seat design to new forms of government and everything in between – assuming there was an in-between – he had some real answers.
"Best of all," he liked to say, "none of my solutions require anyone's assassination!"
Another Way started as an assignment for an online creative writing course his singer-songwriter girlfriend at the time suggested. Dobie personally considered fiction to be the fine art of never getting to the point, but when the instructor implored his students to "write your manifesto," Dobie was all in. He wrote down pretty much everything he had ever heard, read or thought about life, politics or religion. Several hundred pages of everything you're not supposed to talk about in polite company. He never knew he had so many ideas waiting to get out, so much pent-up frustration.
It was also a great way to stop drinking, which came as a surprise. Putting into words what had only been nebulous thoughts up to that point gave him the same sense of calm and comfort he once derived from alcohol. He didn't know if this was true for anyone else, but it worked for him. The need for mental clarity while writing it all down put an unexpected end to his excessive boozing.
It was a Eureka! moment. Who knew? Alcoholics Anonymous probably already knew, but he'd never been to a meeting.
He was so proud of himself and his work that he kept some of the best ideas out of the version he turned in for course credit. Some of the details had to be kept secret. He didn't want to show his hand to the powers-that-be. Didn't want anyone stealing his ideas before he could get it published and be given proper credit.
Reading other famous manifestos for research prior to writing his own, he found The Communist Manifesto completely unreadable. Marx and Engels could have used a writing course. Mein Kampf was better-written, but they both had at least one fatal flaw: they blamed others for their problems, promoting an "us versus them" mentality. Not just politicians, but some of the world’s “great” religions rely on and promote that mentality.
Dobie firmly believed there was no "them." It was just us, no matter how hard that was to believe sometimes.
When faced with fight or flight, love or hate, truth or lie, he always tried to choose the former over the latter, but he was no saint, and it was not easy. Thinking big picture, he hoped his own work might spark a revolution of responsible, peaceful coexistence with all of God's creatures. He just had to focus on the goal, not the obstacles.
He made a mental note to sing Revolution by The Beatles next time he did karaoke, and maybe that song Big Yellow Taxi with the line, Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone?
His parents' favorite songs from his childhood were coming back to him now.
Dobie was having lunch with co-worker and occasional girlfriend, Martha. They sat at a round, metal mesh table in the shared courtyard surrounded by several office buildings.
Dobie's best friend Bucky worked in one of those buildings and now joined them. An inch taller than Dobie, but with a much lighter, bird-like frame, Bucky's brown hair was a shade darker and kept longer than Dobie's. To stand the two side by side, most people would guess Dobie was the more straight-laced, corporate type, but the opposite was true.
Bucky was holding up an advance copy of Dobie's book, asking, "What the hell is this?"
"My manifesto," Dobie said, as if everyone writes one. "See?" he smiled, reached out and touched the book, "Right here on the cover underneath the title, it says 'A Manifesto.'"
"Well, it sucks!"
"To each his own," Dobie was offended but prepared for such comments.
"Put in some jokes!" Bucky suggested.
"Jokes are easy," Dobie scoffed. "This book is too important. Who knows? It might even save the world."
Martha raised an eyebrow.
"Now that's funny," Bucky laughed, "but you need to get over yourself."
Dobie turned to Martha to see her reaction. She had her curly, light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her brown eyes were smiling as she nodded, agreeing with Bucky.
Dobie leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, elbows out, and spoke with the most sage and wise look he could muster. "'Only in his hometown and in his own house is a prophet without honor.'"
"That sounds familiar," Bucky looked off into the distance, where people keep their slightly familiar quotes and just-out-of-reach thoughts.
"It's from the Bible," Martha said. "Book of Mark, if I'm not mistaken."
Dobie nodded. He wasn't sure, either, but that sounded right.
"Wow," Bucky was shocked. "You've changed, man."
"No, I haven't," Dobie argued, bringing his hands down and grabbing the arm rests on his chair. "I'm just saying out loud what has always been in my head. And, I like to give credit where credit is due. I always thought Jesus was cool. Buddha and Zoroaster, too. It's organized religion that I have a problem with. Anything hierarchical, really, with permanent – or even semi-permanent – leadership. Every organization ever created needs term limits!
"I agree there are right and wrong, healthy and unhealthy ways to live our lives. I don't subscribe to this ‘anything goes’ attitude promoted by pop culture. Remember Sodom and Gomorrah?
"But, we have to remember to hate the sin, not the sinner." He gave a nod to Martha, who first said the same to him. She smiled as he continued, "I hate self-righteousness, though – especially my own – and I don't go around thinking I'm the smartest guy in the room. Definitely not the holiest. I'm okay thinking I'm one of the stupidest, actually, until proven otherwise.
"I'm just trying to be helpful, but I'm not a fan of taking someone else's word as gospel. I mean, just because somebody said something two or three thousand years ago, what makes their judgment and conclusions any better than mine? Not a fan of worship, either, unless you're worshiping health, hope, consideration, decency and life itself."
Dobie noticed several people looking up from their lunches to hear what he had to say. Some were nodding, others were shaking their heads.
"There was a time," Bucky was one of those shaking his head, "when you woulda just said, 'Whatever, dude,' and not given me a lecture."
"I guess so," Dobie had to laugh. "Too much?"
"A little bit, yeah."
Dobie agreed he needed to get over himself, but would continue speaking his mind.
Air Force Colonel Reginald P. Charonne, Retired, was now CEO of SaynCorp, where Dobie and Martha worked. The Colonel was almost never at the office, preferring the cooler climes of northern Michigan over the oppressive heat of The South.
He took meetings online, from afar, typically, but someone in his employ had referred to him as a Neanderthal, and he would not tolerate insults.
The entire office was bugged, and the transcripts were sent to him regularly. After reading the latest and watching the original video, he bellowed at his administrative assistant, Crissie, an attractive young blonde woman, "Someone's about to get fired!"
Most people would have shrugged it off. A corporate executive needs a thick skin, but the Colonel never developed one. He was furious.
They arrived at the office a few hours later on the Colonel's private jet. Crissie went straight to her desk in the executive suite while Charonne took the scenic route through the break room where the recorded offense had taken place.
He saw Dobie's book on the counter. The word manifesto – in red – jumped out at him as he passed, and he picked it up and carried it with him.
Crissie was at her desk in the anteroom in front of his office when Charonne caught up with her. "Call Norwich into my office," he said while thumbing through the letters, bills and adverts from the previous several days’ mail. "Tell him it’s urgent. This should be fun!"
It was not urgent. It was almost never urgent, but standard procedure was to pretend otherwise. Also standard was to have all employees wait exactly seven minutes in the waiting room before being called into Charonne’s office. He had done his own studies – considered himself a bit of a sociologist – and found 7 minutes to be the perfect length of time for putting underlings properly on edge. Crissie was made aware of this and, exactly seven minutes after his arrival, HR Director Kenneth was sent in to see the boss.
The Colonel was a speed reader and had scanned Dobie's book in just over an hour. He had to admit Dobie had a few good ideas, but nothing practical or even possible in the real world. Still, he thought people might be dumb enough to fall for it, and he needed to do like Barney Fife and nip this in the bud.
He would make it his top priority. The business was chugging along nicely under its own momentum now, so he had the time.
Charonne thought of himself as a modern day Clark Gable, and liked to smile at himself in the mirror every chance he got. There was a very slight resemblance. He might pass for a homelier grandson. More importantly, he was a brilliant businessman, charming when necessary, and so driven that even his friends found him difficult to deal with. People tended to just say "yes, sir" and get out of his way.
He was smiling at himself in the mirror on the wall, from which he could see the trashcan next to one of his office side tables behind him. With Dobie's manifesto in hand, waiting for the sound of his office door opening, Charonne tossed it over his shoulder toward the receptacle. It was in the air as Norwich entered.
Dobie would have been happy to know his book was flying across at least one corporate executive's office, but Norwich was terrified. He was relatively new on the job, and had only met the Colonel a few times. It was scary every time, and this time there was something flying across the room.
Charonne turned to admire his own stunt. "Three-pointer behind the back!" he squealed as the book landed squarely in the trashcan. He then shifted gears mentally, as was his wont. Referring to Dobie's manifesto, he asked Norwich in his deep, resonant, yet somehow still nasal voice, "What is the point in discussing impossible theories?"
Norwich had no idea what the man was talking about. His initial fear had exploded into full-on terror as he came through the door. He looked for something to hold onto or lean on, and nearly crapped his pants when he came face-to-face with a glassy-eyed black bear to his left, baring its fangs. He instinctively raised his arms to protect himself before realizing the poor beast was long-dead, stuffed, and preserved for all eternity to entertain people like Colonel Charonne.
The boss, already giddy from his behind-the-back shot, laughed so hard, he almost fell over. "Oh, my God, that was funny! Thank you! Best laugh I've had all week!"
"You, um, needed me, sir?" Norwich eventually managed.
"This is a 'right to work' state," Charonne was serious again, buttoning his jacket, and walking over to vigorously, almost violently shaking his junior executive’s hand.
"Yes, sir." Norwich felt like a schoolboy unprepared for a pop quiz.
"We can fire people without cause."
"Ah, well...." Norwich began to argue as his eyes came level with the knot of Charonne’s necktie. He had to look up at an uncomfortable angle, his boss stood so close, to meet the CEO’s intimidating gaze.
Charonne raised his right palm, and Norwich melted, silenced, into the plush leather visitor's chair in front of the huge, hand-crafted wooden desk. Halfway through any sentence, the Colonel could guess where an argument was going. Norwich was about to advise against firing someone without cause, and Charonne stopped him.
The Colonel sat along the front edge of his desk. His left leg was planted on the floor, revealing his red-on-black argyle socks. His crotch was now directly in front of Norwich and, like a motorist passing a horrible accident on the highway, Norwich couldn't help but look.
"Have it your way," Charonne winked and smiled, knowing his crotch was on full display. He liked to show it off, he was so proud. "To be safe, then," he stood and returned to his seat behind the desk, "we'll wait for this Portnoy complainer to give us an excuse, no matter how flimsy. Then we fire his ass! Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
Norwich was relieved for two reasons: Charonne's crotch was no longer in his face; and, someone other than himself was being fired. Up to that moment, he had no idea who they were talking about. He did know that Portnoy was not Dobie's last name but did not dare correct the Colonel. And, not a big reader, Norwich had no clue "Portnoy" was in reference to a novel from the same year as the Woodstock festival. Long before Norwich's time.
The Colonel hoped firing Dobie would break the man's spirit and send him on a downward spiral of job applications and failed interviews. He remembered how disheartening it was that one time he had to interview for a job, only to be rejected, all those years ago. Charonnes don’t get rejected! His daddy pulled some strings to get him into officer training school.
His subsequent military success was all his – rising to the impressive rank of Colonel – but he was handed the reins of SaynCorp, the family business. He would argue with anyone accusing him of benefiting from nepotism, being "born on third base, thinking he'd hit a triple," as the saying goes, but they were right and he knew it. Was it his fault he took advantage of life's gifts? Anyone else would have done the same. His accusers were simply jealous of his good fortune, good looks and overall brilliance.
He smiled at the thought of Dobie flipping burgers or digging ditches for a living, and had hoped pulling his corporate job security out from under him would end Pokorny's lofty aspirations and apparent messiah complex. He thought for sure his soon-to-be-ex-employee would succumb like millions before him and beg for the next soul-sucking corporate job just to pay the bills. He expected Dobie to fall in line and take his rightful place as a mere cog in the wheel of modern, corporate society.
"I don't want," Charonne barked, "this Communist Manifesto 2.0 giving my people any ideas!"
"Of course, sir." Karl Marx's work was also written before Norwich's time, but he had at least heard of that one.
"If I had a fireplace," Charonne was still barking, "that book would be burning right now. I need a fireplace, Kenny! Have one installed after I leave."
"Yes, sir. Wood-burning? Gas? Electric? Digital?"
"Digital?! How can I burn books with a digital fireplace?" Shaking his head, he added wistfully, "I'd love a wood-burning hearth." Wistfulness quickly morphed into disgust as he added, "but that's probably against city codes. Just get me something that passes codes and burns books."
"Of course. Anything else, sir?"
"I don't want that book in my office, not even in the trash. Dig it out and take it with you."
"Yes, sir."
As Norwich bent over to extract the book, he could feel Charonne checking him out from behind. He smiled and wondered what might happen next. He never knew the Colonel was so inclined, but did know climbing the corporate ladder went much faster for those, like Crissie, willing to climb the boss on their way up.
In the trash, Norwich found a half-eaten container of sliced peaches sticking to the book. Watching its syrup drip slowly down the sides, it reminded him of something else sticky, and he became aroused. He looked for a towel or tissue to wipe off the book.
Charonne was no help. He simply smirked and adjusted himself.
Norwich took a knee and used the edge of the trash can to scrape the syrup off as he pulled the book out. He minced, almost tip-toed, toward the door as he carried the soiled book like a dead rat out of the office.
"One more thing," Charonne asked in a conspiratorial tone. Norwich stopped and turned, hoping he was about to be asked out on a date. "Have you heard anyone talking about Neanderthals?"
Norwich thought that was a strange question. "Um, no, sir."
"Alright, then," Charonne nodded and waved Norwich off as the latter kept his distance from the stuffed bear on his way out.
The Colonel could have shown Norwich the surveillance video of Dobie in the breakroom and asked if he recognized him. But, that would reveal the existence of such surveillance, and he didn't want anyone but himself and Crissie aware of that. It was his own junior executives like Norwich, in fact, who most often fell victim to Charonne's spying.
Major Randall Watson, Air Force Special Ops, Retired, was the Colonel's ground force in this latest battle. Charonne loved a good war and ordered his junior officer to make sure Dobie didn't turn into "some sort of charismatic leader like Fidel Castro or Mahatma Gandhi. At the very least, get this dimwit, Dobie – Pokorny, is it? – talking about something other than capitalism and conspiracy theories!"
Watson assumed Dobie was onto something and had hit a nerve to get the Colonel so worked up. It didn't matter. The Major had his orders and dutifully came up with a plan to wear Dobie down with agents planted in his audiences bombarding him with questions, heckling him, and creating overall negativity. Your basic harassment.
Phase Two was to set him up with beautiful women so far out of his league that, in his eagerness to impress them, Dobie would speak out of turn and reveal his secrets. A side benefit for Watson was to first date the women and make sure they were up to the task.
Charonne complimented his junior officer for "using women as God intended. Pillow talk! Spy Craft 101!"
When none of that kept Dobie from touring, Charonne had Watson talk to the business owners Dobie was dealing with and warn them not to allow him on their premises to speak.
"Do your usual research," said the Colonel, "and I'll talk to my friends but, if a bookstore owner or hotel manager is gay, tell them Dobie is homophobic. If they're Jewish, say he is anti-Semitic. If Black, he's racist, and so on.
"People used to let that crap roll off their backs, but now everyone is so easily offended. We'll use that against them. Push people's buttons!"
Watson did just that, and it worked well with the corporate outlets. Not so well with independents, but it became more difficult for Dobie to book speaking gigs.
Watson tried the same tactic with conference room providers, but seminars given by charismatic leaders – corporate or otherwise – were a good chunk of such venues' income, and they were in no hurry to lose that.
Once Dobie realized someone was playing dirty tricks on him, he told his audiences about it. "Most people avoid conflict and controversy," he said. "Merchants, especially. The fear of offending anyone about anything – because it might hurt sales – is a powerful thing. Political-correctness, run amok, takes care of the rest. I guess I'm supposed to stop the ‘crazy talk’ like saying voters are stupid to vote along party lines. It's those parties and their leaders that are the problem. You can't expect a politician to be anything but a spineless weasel. No offense to actual weasels.
"And, I'm supposed to stop asking the FDA to do its job and require that vaccines be properly tested and free of nerve-damaging adjuvants like aluminum and mercury? Our food be free of similarly-damaging preservatives and other mystery ingredients? Big Pharma and Big Food are just two spokes of the Ferris Wheel we call Corporate America. And, that wheel has broken loose from its mooring and will stop at nothing as it rolls over people like me to keep us buying whatever they’re selling."
"If all else fails," Charonne told Watson, "we can always kill him."
Watson was not going to kill an innocent man. He hoped his next dirty trick was his last. If Charonne still wanted Pokorny dead after that, Watson was out. Done. Finished. He would, for the first time, not follow a direct order. He might even start that pot farm in Colorado he'd been dreaming of.
Dobie stopped in Hannibal, playing tourist in Mark Twain's boyhood home. Huckleberry Finn was an all-time favorite, and walking around that little town put him in a buoyant mood.
Somewhere on the outskirts of St. Louis, however, everything fell apart. He was at a mall for his next talk and book-signing, setting up the usual lectern and book display, with eight or nine fold-up metal chairs in the corridor in front of a bookstore.
He repeated himself – because no one was listening the first time – "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Another Way: Beyond the Status Quo!"
"You said that already," a young man heckled, "and it's boring!"
"I did," Dobie admitted, "but it's anything but boring. It's a road map for generations to come! It'll be a must-have reference someday, right up there with the dictionary and Bible!" Seeing raised eyebrows and otherwise incredulous looks in his audience, he conceded, "Okay, probably never be as important as those. The dictionary will always be the most useful."
He pointed toward the bookstore where its manager stood in the doorway, smiling, hoping a few people would buy a dictionary, Bible, anything. Book sales had been abysmal, and the man had specifically asked that Dobie be in front of his store, hoping it would drum up business.
A large Black woman in her thirties stood up and said loudly, "The dictionary? Honey, the Bible is the most important book ever written!"
Dobie gave the Good Book credit for including some useful information. What was the harm in critiquing it? Then again, this was Middle America, and they, like the South, took their religion seriously. Dobie had no problem with that. It gave them a level of wholesomeness that he personally could use more of. These were good salt-of-the-Earth people.
Maybe a little too salty, in this case. He grabbed the green ballpoint pen off the lectern and held onto it.
What happened next taught him to choose his words more carefully. He should have known better, but got excited when launching into a speech. There was an energy that came with these talks.
"The dictionary is the book that tells you the meaning of things," he said, "and those words are the foundation of our understanding. I am personally fascinated by the derivation of words, where they come from. Etymology. And, I am jealous of anyone who can speak more than one language!"
He spotted an Hispanic man and said, "Hola! Como estas!" He realized the man might not speak Spanish, and Dobie might be accused of cultural appropriation. But, when the man smiled and waved, Dobie knew he was okay on that score.
"The Bible, on the other hand," he continued, "the greatest story ever told, creates more questions than answers. I do recommend everyone become familiar with it, but then I recommend reading software license agreements, though no one ever does. At least those can be used in a court of law. The Bible cannot. Almost everything's a parable or analogy, with nothing said directly and unequivocally. Some of it is just plain psychotic."
Putting his hand to the side of his mouth, he added, "But don't tell that to so-called settlers using it to justify the theft of other people's land."
"Psychotic?!" the same woman, who had sat down, got back up and shouted. "You're the only psycho I see ‘round here!" Several people laughed. The friend next to her, also on the hefty side, rocked her chair so hard, something popped. She stood up quickly before it collapsed.
Dobie started twiddling his pen nervously. "For example," he continued, "there's the saying, '...bundle the weeds and burn them,' which means kill your enemies. And then there's '...seize their infants and dash them against the rocks,' which means take your revenge upon your oppressors, including their children. And let’s not forget ‘an eye for an eye.’ These are all in the Old Testament, of course, but as a whole it’s not exactly a sane, reliable resource."
"Not exactly...?" the woman shook her head, "Are you crazy?"
"I thought that was well-established," he tried to diffuse the situation.
"We're talking about The Holy Bible!" she was not laughing. "The word of God!"
"Hey, don't get me wrong. There's a lot of good advice in there, not including what I just quoted. I like most Christians – especially Mormons, they're so nice and helpful – and I like a lot of what Jesus supposedly said, but the Bible is not the word of God..."
Even the non-Christians in the audience gasped at that one. A woman whose book he signed earlier had not yet left. She was lingering, listening, holding his book in both arms like a schoolgirl with a textbook. At this last comment, she turned and hurried off.
"...it's the word of men who think they've been talking to God," Dobie continued. "Maybe they were talking to God. I don't know. Who am I to say? But, the problem with men – just ask any woman – is that we make mistakes. We misinterpret. Overall, the Bible is a self-contradictory, hodgepodge of mistranslated, misunderstood, misquoted information, misinformation and disinformation. Maybe that’s where cognitive dissonance got its start? At least Hindu, Buddhist and Zoroastrian texts are relatively consistent."
Several people clearly took offense. The woman he'd been arguing with, still standing, was now fuming and ready to tear him from limb to limb. She was as tall as Dobie and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds.
He could see the rage in her eyes. When her friend stood to join her, Dobie felt like an eight-point buck in front of a couple of hungry mountain lions. He didn't want to make any sudden moves but looked around for the nearest security guard.
Then disaster struck. The pen he'd been twiddling slipped out of his hand. He bent down to pick it up – too sudden, apparently – and the women attacked. They were on him within seconds, easily knocking him to the ground with their combined weight. This triggered several others into action who smashed his display and kicked him while he was down.
Curling into the fetal position and covering his face with one hand, genitals with the other, he was prepared to pay the price for his indiscretion until the cops showed up. Assuming they showed up.
When he saw people running off with copies of his book, he thought, You hate what I'm saying, but steal the books in which I say it?
People were grabbing books from the neighboring bookstore and throwing them at Dobie. Others, having no idea who the object of their hate was supposed to be, simply destroyed property at random, on principle. The bookstore manager tried to intercede and recover his tossed books, but was not having much success.
Still on the ground, suffering the occasional kick to the ribs, Dobie eventually managed to slide out from under the women. He forced out a laugh. It was difficult at first, but he instinctively felt this was the perfect response to confuse an angry mob. Aside from the pain, it was all just so ridiculously, unbelievably comical, and he kept forcing out laughs. Maybe that woman was right, he was crazy, but laughter seemed like a good idea at the time.
Once he felt it was starting to have an effect – people looking around, wondering if they were on hidden camera, being pranked – the laughter was no longer forced. He was honestly cracking up now. This brief interlude lasted only a few seconds, though, before several people, including the bookstore manager, grew angrier.
A pair of cops whose regular beat was the shopping mall finally did arrive to break it up. One of them was careful not to drop his double-scoop ice cream cone in the process. He had just stood in line for it, after all. And they eventually dispersed the crowd, keeping Dobie safe while he packed up his display.
Once outside and alone at his car, however, three or four guys – Dobie wasn't counting – came out of nowhere, shouting, "Go back to Michigan!"
It didn't make sense. He was in Missouri. His car had Tennessee plates. He was from Michigan, originally, but how would they know that? He never mentioned it in his talks. Either way, they put a dent in his car, Sabina's, rear panel as he escaped.
Dobie normally would have demanded restitution for the damage and injury inflicted, but felt lucky to escape with his life. He let it go, but it all came as a surprise because crowds had been increasingly receptive up to that point. That's what you get, he told himself, for letting your guard down.
Hey, just trying to make a living.
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