To Build A Nation
It is commonly understood that all the great, world-changing events happen in Very Important Places. Boardrooms, war rooms, throne rooms and meeting rooms, oval offices and round tables. All are Very Important, and Very Important Things happen there.
This understanding, while certainly common, is nonetheless wrong. These places are very nice for Sunset magazine photo shoots or impressing your friends, but in the course of world events they are hardly worth mentioning. No, the truth is, every major global plot twist since the dawn of man has been born in a bottle of alcohol. The pubs, bars and taverns are their maternity wards.
This is not to say that it is the drunks that make the decisions (well, not all of them, at least.) It is, for the most part, a coincidence. Gandhi, for example, came up with the idea of the hunger strike while having a burger at his local pub. Joseph Smith thought up Mormonism over a smoke outside his favorite bar. And Arthur only pulled that sword out of the stone to impress a bar waitress. There's just something about a liquor license that catalyzes these sorts of things.
Which is why, on a warm Virginia night in 1781, fate perked up her ears and sniffed the wind. This was going to be a Very Important Night.
Gent Naperson hated routine. He didn't know why, but he did. He hated it so much he tried to live each day differently - sometimes only slightly so, sometimes not as much. One day he tried to only speak Ancient Egyptian, with mixed results. On one hand, he didn't know a single Egyptian word or hieroglyph. On the other, neither did anyone else he knew, so it worked out pretty well for everyone. He hated meal schedules, so he ate by the dice. There was a one-in-three chance that he'd actually eat breakfast on a given morning - it was just as likely his wife would be cooking up a big dinner as the sun was rising. Some days he had three lunches, and, if the odds were in his favor, three desserts as well. Then there were the days he got desperate, when life was really getting him down. He'd try to avoid the color green for an entire day, or go a whole week with a bee caught in his mouth. Anything to give monotony a slap in the face.
There was, however, one exception Gent had, and he cherished it like gold. Every Friday night he would meet up with The Guys at the Goat and Goblin, the town's local pub. Seven o'clock, drink until the lights go out. It was the sort of ritual religions are built on.
The Guys were about what one would expect from a little coal-mining town. They were loud, crude and hairy - a bunch of walking paper towel mascots. They were men of the manliest kind. Needless to say, they loved competition. They lived for the stuff. For them, anything could be competitive, from heart beats to fingernail growth rates. They once had a competition to see who could get the sickest. Hamhands Henry lost that one, and the other guys toasted his grave that night. Still, they had to laugh - he had won, after all.
On this particular night the competitive spirit was flowing almost as strong as the beer was. As the night wore on, they began to brainstorm, in a sense very opposite to that of the word 'brainstorm.' They were getting desperate. It seemed they had tried everything. Martin Rondelé had already spent the most time in a bathtub - 18 months - and was still puckered from it. The 'Fastest Fall From a Building' record had been beaten more times than they could count. Even duck-stacking was getting old. They needed something new, something fresh. Something they could win.
I suppose it was bound to happen. It was just in the air that night. It was, if I may use another word counter to the nature of The Guys, floating in the zeitgeist. All it needed was a bit of help from the liquor license to be plucked out.
George Minster plucked first. "Hey!" he said. "What about nation-building?"
It really wasn't as bizarre an idea as it sounds. With the United States being so young, and new countries popping up faster than flags could be designed for them, the idea seemed to be on everybody's mind. And, although they would have never told George, the guys all thought it was a smashing idea.
"Alright," said Gent. "What're the rules?"
"Simple. Start your own country. Whoever's is the best wins."
And that was all it took. Soon they were shoving their way out of the pub, clamoring to start their own nations.
Back then it really wasn't too difficult to find a bit of land. Everybody seemed to be claiming something in the glorious name of God and Queen So-and-so of Such-and-such Empire. Even if somebody else had already claimed it, all you had to do was dig up their flag. And if it was Injuns that had it, hell, even easier. They didn't even believe in land ownership, so what were they gonna do?
And so, like startled cockroaches, the guys scattered through the West Virginia hills, grabbing up what they could. Martin set up camp in an old peat bog and called it New France. Jack Macintosh claimed a little hill outside of town, inexplicably calling it Dozer's Hill Town Country Paradise. Thunder Creek Valley became The George Minster Colony, and Rudolph Applebee crowned himself Emperor of Applebeesley's First Forest Nation. Jack Bullard swam out to a little island on the river and called it Aletown, claiming his muse spoke to him on the matter. And Dan Crowley, thinking himself quite clever, didn't even leave the pub. Instead, he decided to claim it as his own, aptly naming it The Republic of Goat and Goblin. Its citizens enjoyed a brief period of independence, until the owner shouted for last call. Then Dan was dethroned and sent home to his wife, who was quite cross that he was so late coming home.
As for Gent, he knew a fellow had to aim big for this sort of thing. So, with his wife, kids and several tourists from out of town looking for a nice view, he hiked up the big mountain overlooking the town. For years the townspeople had called it, with a kind of proud unoriginality, Big Mountain. It was the sort of bland oatmeal notion Gent couldn't wait to change.
After setting up camp and breaking the news to the tourists that they would be the first to help populate a new nation, Gent got to work. His nation was going to be something new, something the world had never seen before. There would be some very fundamental changes. First off, routine was out the window. If what you did today was the same as what you did yesterday, you got a warning. Do the same thing for a week and the sheriff would come by for a visit. And no funny business with patterns, either, doing the same thing every other day. No way that kind of thing was gonna fly.
There would be other changes too. Certain things in other countries had grown commonplace and familiar, and so could be improved upon. Streets, for example. Dirt roads had been used for so long people couldn't even remember who thought up the idea in the first place. So Gent decided that the roads in his country would be laid with grass. People's lawns would simply extend out into the street. It'd save money on shoes, and it felt good on bare feet. The horses liked it too.
Street lamps, as well. Fire was even older than the dirt roads. Everybody knew about it by now. So, instead, lamp posts would be affixed with big beehives. This way they served two purposes - in the day time, the honey would drip down channels to be easily collected and spread on toast. At night, the sticky stuff would attract the lightning bugs, hundreds of the things, and illuminate the streets. And transportation, well, horse-drawn carts were certainly popular, and just as predictable. Gent thought about just walking everywhere, but that too had been around for a while. After several trial runs, he settled on his St. Bernard Murt as the country's model of transportation. The sturdy dog could support a grown man with ease, and they were fast too. Other St. Bernards were imported in, and soon every man, woman and child was a licensed dog-rider.
Then there were the tricky social problems. In the first draft of Gent's constitution he called for a "constant and random swapping of partners." It was, in his words, so "one does not get bored and used to her husband or his wife, and can keep kindled the spark of love." Upon reading this, however, his own wife made the constitution's first amendment: "Not in your life, buddy."
Children would be treated different as well. Taking from the spirit of his friends, Gent decided that competition was the key to a child's strength. Every day after school, a child would have to return home and tell his parents something they did not know. If the parents already knew what the child told them that day, they'd have to tell the child something he didn't know. This would continue until one had bested the other, and the loser would have to make dinner that night. Or breakfast, depending on how the dice rolled.
Perhaps Gent's most exciting change was with economics. While taking a bath one day inspiration struck - his country would be classless! Everybody would chip in for the greater good, and nobody would be hungry. Nobody would have more or be better than anyone else, himself included. He threw on a towel and wrote it all down in great excitement. But as he was reading it over he got a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Maybe I'll just let things sort themselves out..." he said as he tossed the page into the fire.
Finally, Gent came up with the biggest change of them all. This was going to put his country on the map. Gent had noticed that for as long as he could remember, people had been naming things. These names were so ingrained in us that we could hardly fathom a plot of land, let alone an entire country, without a name. So Gent decided that his country was going to remain nameless. That was, he figured, about as far away from the standard routine as a person could get.
The weeks went by and Gent was having the time of his life. There was so much to be changed! He never realized just how boring the other countries were. His mountain country was doing pretty well, too, and the tourists had finally stopped complaining. In fact, it was doing so well that Gent had pretty much forgotten about the outside world. Besides importing in the dogs, they had just about everything they needed on the mountain. And it seemed the outside world had forgotten about them, too.
Until the day their first immigrant came, that is. He wasn't in very good shape, and if they hadn't been so hard-up for more people he probably wouldn't have qualified for residency. He was, after all, bloody and legless, and as he crawled into town he hollered enough to wake everybody up. Hardly good citizenship material.
Gent came out of his thatched hovel to see what all the fuss was about. He was just about to release Murt on the bloody intruder when - my god! If it wasn't George Minster! Well, half of him at least. But it was Gent's favorite half, so he ran out to greet him.
"George! How are you?"
"My god! My legs! Help me!"
"Your legs? What- Oh yes, of course!" And he called for his wife. They brought George inside and bandaged up his legs. With a bit of whiskey (ok, half a bottle) George calmed down enough to talk.
"My god man, what happened to you? Where'd your legs get off to?"
"War, I tell you! War! I've stood at the gates of hell and looked inside! I've seen Beelzebub's pagan dance!"
"What are you saying? Speak some sense."
But he didn't. He went on about the abyss and the inhumanity of man and fields of poppies for several hours. Gent came back after dinner to see if he was still on about it. Luckily he had stopped.
"Really George, what happened?"
"War, I told you! The United States came. It turns out they don't like the idea of people starting their own countries. They're probably just afraid someone else will do it better. Anyway, they invaded The George Minster Colony last night. I was the only one to escape. Before that they got New France and Aletown. No survivors there. I suspect they'll be here next."
This news made Gent's stomach curdle. War! How predictable. Everyone's had a war before. Why couldn't they have done something new? Declare a brutal friendship maybe. Anything but another old war.
They spent the next few days coming up a defensive plan, but it wasn't easy. Gent forbade anything as traditional as a rifle or cannon. He had come up with a sort of flammable water balloon that worked pretty well, but he had lost his roof in the process. He had drawn up some plans of various Things To Be Thrown At Attackers, but it was mostly just a list of dense vegetables. All attempts to train attack St. Bernards had failed as well.
There was an overwhelming sense of defeat in the thin mountain air. Somehow, seven and a half people with water balloons and turnips couldn't muster up the spirit needed to defeat the United States Army. The two tourists even started complaining again.
When the army came they made no attempt to hide their arrival. Just several thousand well-trained men on horses, blue coats and muskets gleaming, suddenly standing there in strict file. It hadn't taken long for them to start looking like the British, Gent noted with a dull humor. The horsemen surrounded the mountain and waited. They were a two dozen deep and still had plenty to spare!
Soon, a messenger rode up the grassy main street, bugle blaring. Gent went out to meet him.
"Don't trust him!" yelled George from the front porch. "Shoot him now! That's what we did!"
Gent ignored him. "What do you want?" he said.
"I come representing the government of the United States of America, the land of the free and God's chosen-"
"Yeah, yeah. What is it?"
"We've come to declare war on your seceding nation. It's written in our constitution. Have you read it? It's really good."
"Attack us then! We stand ready."
"Well, there's a bit of paperwork first. We're trying to be organized. New country and everything." He pulled out a clipboard and quill. Dabbing the quill point on his tongue, he said, "Ok. How long have you been an independent nation?"
"About a month now."
"Mm-hmm. And you have a constitution?"
"Yeah."
"And a declaration of independence?"
"Well, no..."
"Ooh... not good. Ok, your name?"
"Gent Naperson."
"And your country's name?"
"We don't have one."
"Oh, come on! You've got to have a name."
"No. No name. It's a principled thing."
"Well... I have to put something. Jeez, can't you just make one up?"
"Nope."
"Man... ok, I have to go talk to my supervisor. Just a sec."
The messenger reared his horse back and rode down the mountain and out of sight. Gent turned back to his citizens and shrugged.
Fifteen minutes later the messenger returned, this time with his mustachioed supervisor.
"My messenger here says your country doesn't have a name. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"What kind of country doesn't have a name?"
"I don't know."
"Can't you just make something up?"
"That's what I said!" squeaked the messenger.
"No, sorry. Like I said, it's principled."
"Well... we can't just leave it blank..."
"But we can't lie!" the messenger piped in. "This is data we're talking here!"
"I know, I know." The supervisor clenched his teeth. "Well, without a name you're not even a real country! And we're only supposed to invade countries, not waste our time with. . . things!"
Had this gentleman not been in command of a highly trained death squad, Gent would have found this tantrum funny. The supervisor floundered for a few moments, waiting for Gent to change his mind and give it a name. Finally, he reared his horse around and galloped off.
"You're so. . . so stupid!" He cried as he rode out of town.
The messenger gave an embarrassed shrug and followed after him, bugle blaring.
Several minutes later, as fast as they had come, the army was gone.
The citizens of the mountain country could only muster a sense of dull amazement. Never before had bureaucracy been such a godsend. They spent the next few hours shuffling about, unsure of what to do, and wondering if the army would come back. But as the sun set they realized what had really happened. That night they had the biggest party Gent's mountain country had ever seen. August 14th became National Bureaucracy Day. Every year they celebrate their freedom by filling out form 43-Z, the Social Revenue Office's Filing of Reasons for Loving Independence for Single Filers with No Dependents. If you're married, you must fill out form 450-7, for Joint Filers of Love of Independence with No Dependents. If you've got dependents that's a whole 'nother form entirely.
The rest of Gent's country's history is pretty interesting. They've had a lot of ups and downs, just like any other country. I would tell you more, but I couldn't find any of their history books. I didn't know what to look under.
The mountain country still exists today, out in the West Virginia hills. Not many people know about it - the grass roads keep a lot of the traffic out. There are no maps to get there - the country has proven to be quite a problem for cartographers. It tends to confuse them; they don't know what to label it. So usually they just smudge the area of spill some ink on it. It seems to make things easier.
They say that if you get on the back of a St. Bernard and wait, eventually he'll take you to Gent's mountain country. Sounds made up to me, but you never know.
The End
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