Uncle Abe confronts the fourth estate Uncle Abe confronts the fourth estate (March 28, 2001)

by Gerald Brett

Yes, it was the anniversary of Uncle Abe's seventh week in Palo Alto. And no, not for one minute did I think it might be the lucky day in which his elongated visit finally ended. All of my hopes crashed that morning when I discovered that half of the mail was addressed to him.

On that same, heart-wrenching day my daughter asked me to pick up some art supplies on California Avenue and so I started looking for my car keys. Fifteen minutes later, still searching, Uncle Abe appeared.

"Looking for these?" he said, dangling them victoriously.

"Sure am," I answered. "Which is why I screamed 'Where are my keys?' four or five times."

"Next time ask me first."

"Next time leave them in the key holder where you found them."

"They're too out in the open," he replied, scolding me. "Somebody might five finger them."

"Who? My wife? The kids?"

"Anyway, let's go," he said, and by the way he raced out the door I had the impression he decided I needed his company. On the way to CalAve, Abe commandeered the radio and we listened to a right wing commentator just so he could refine his rile from merely disagreeable to downright ruffled.

"Listen to that Cossack," he cackled, poking me.

"Change the station if it upsets you," I counseled.

"With that attitude the whole country goes fascist."

"Just by turning off some AM radio nut?"

"Go ahead and laugh. Next thing, they're at your door."

"Right, and they're choosing my radio shows for me."

"Wise guys like you end up in totalitarian societies with their heads in the sand," Abe concluded.

Only because I'd been with my uncle every day for seven weeks did I understand how we got from an asinine reactionary on the car radio to my subjugation in a despotic nation.

We arrived and I parked right on the street. Standing in front of the car was a young woman holding a camera, a notepad, and a pencil.

"I'm a reporter from the Weekly," she said to me. "Can I ask you a question for the 'Streetwise' column?"

"Don't ask this guy," said Uncle Abe, pointing at me. "He'd only deny it." Everyone but Abe looked confused.

"Anyway, here's today's question: what do you think about planting more trees on El Camino?"

While I was carefully mulling over her question, Abe sat down on the hood of my car. I could hear the chain of his pocket watch scrape the paint. He ignored my pained glance.

"Boy, that's sure a hot topic," Abe said. "But why not ask something a little more controversial, like, what's your favorite color SUV?"

"Abe!" I said, a practiced whine in my voice.

He continued, "Or, how about, when should pre-schoolers start carrying cell phones?"

The Weekly reporter smiled weakly, but graciously.

"Look, Abe. She's interviewing us, not the other way around."

"Reporters have opinions," he countered. "Here's another: why doesn't Palo Alto put a ban on all businesses that don't have at least five branches?"

A crowd started to gather. California Avenue hadn't seen this kind of action since The Edge closed its doors. I was waiting for a Good Samaritan to holler "Fire!"

"And when will Palo Alto start rewarding developers for the number of old buildings they can demolish in a single day?" Abe went on. "Shouldn't there be a penalty for landlords who charge less than $10 a square foot for office space? Also, why don't we privatize parking spaces on University Avenue?"

Heads in the growing throng began to nod. Abe climbed onto the front of my car, his hands hovering like a faith healer's. I would give my life savings to be transported to a safe haven, like maybe Death Row in a Texas prison.

"Abe, you're going to cause a riot," I screamed.

"Why, because I'm having a conversation with a newspaper journalist?"

I was starting to fear an uprising. The raucous gatherings at Town & Country after the Florida fiasco showed how Palo Alto has a serious potential for political acrimony. And I was also worried about him denting my car.

"Let's just go," I pleaded.

"Just a few more questions," Abe said. "For example, do you agree there ought to be a law against people without advanced degrees living in Palo Alto?"

"Uncle, please," I cried.

"Shouldn't old timers who can't afford to buy their own homes be asked to leave Palo Alto?"

"That's it," I said. "I'm going home."

"You're not leaving me here, are you?" Abe asked.

I saw the reporter shake her head fearfully. The crowd began to disperse. And then I found my keys.

"Get in the car, Mr. Question Man," I said.

"Hey, I like that. Maybe I should be a reporter for the Weekly," Abe said as I backed up. A shiver went up and down my spine. We were witnessing the opposite of paparazzi; it was a frontal attack on our nation's twice-weekly press.

Gerald Brett is a member of the Weekly's Board of Contributors.> 