“...all you have to do is touch the right key at the right time and the instrument will play itself.”

J.S. Bach

Every year for the past several, I have given a leather bound appointment book to my sister for her birthday. She’s a realtor, so she actually uses them, and I figure her image is important so I always get the best. Around these parts that means a drive into town to Fine’s Department Store.

Abe Fein moved his dry goods business from New York to Tulsa about the time the city began evolving from Indian Territory to Oil Capitol of the World.  He also moved the e to the end of his name, which at that time was a local rule of grammar my grandmother described as “e after n, lest you’re followed by 3 k’s.” Those days have long passed, though, and Tulsa is as cosmopolitan as Oklahoma can be.

Riding the oil boom to the top, Fine’s became “The” retailer of the finest of finery. Among wealthy Tulsans a gift in a Neiman Marcus box will prompt feigned excitement, the recipient wondering why you didn’t care enough to go to Fine’s. If you put a load of dog squat in a Fine’s bag and set it afire on a neighbor’s stoop they would, after the stomping ritual and in the balance, feel more honor than anger.

Fine’s is now located in Utica Square near the mansions that oil built. They continue their tradition of don’t ask prices with the professional air of propriety and level of service wealth demands, and that commoners seeking an item of quality with cachet appreciate.

I was in the Stationary department signing the receipt for the leather bound book when I heard a commotion. I turned to see a man in colonial costume leading a stream of people through the doors and straight up the escalator. Some had signs, and the one I could read said: Muslims Go Home!

A conga line of naked atheists dancing through the Vatican wouldn’t have been more shocking or out of place. The clerk gasped. A blue haired patrician turned and scurried past me with fear in her eyes, her short steps outpacing the package carrying manservant as they headed for the south doors. I took my copy of the bill and coveted bag and joined the crowd, following them up to the second floor.

We ended up in Homewares. The crowd of about a hundred formed lines, 5 deep, in an arc around the colonial guy. I circled around the displays to get a better view.

With the exception of cowboy boots, the colonial guy’s costume seemed authentic. To his right stood a skinny fellow in a dark gold polyester suit, with slicked-back hair that suggested “country preacher.” To colonial guy’s left were three ladies wearing tee shirts with Glenn Beck’s picture. Behind and between preacher and the colonial guy was a tall, dark haired tree of a man that most native Oklahomans would recognize as a full-blood Yawana.

About half of the crowd wore tee shirts with iron-on block letters reading:

    Homeland

   Securety

    Saints

An elderly saleslady approached colonial guy to ask if she could help him.

“We’re waiting for the media,” he said, “and not the liberal media.” He turned to preacher and asked when Fox News would be there.

“I didn’t call them, Loralene did.”

The lady next to preacher said “I thought you did.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Colonial guy looked a bit panicked and unsure of what to do.

I felt compelled to get involved. I didn’t want to wait for the show to begin, so I stepped forward and said:

“I’m a news editor at Fox 23, (our local affiliate) I can get a reporter and crew here pronto.”

I flipped my cell phone open and hit speed dial.

“Hello, Sheila, this is Paul. There’s a major story breaking here at Fine’s Department Store. It’s a tea party protest. These folks are waiting for Fox to show up. I need a reporter and crew here as fast as you can dispatch them. Uh-huh, that’s right. Sure, no problem.” I closed the phone and slipped it back into my jacket pocket.

“Our producer is sending them, but told me to get you started so I can set the story up for the crew.” I pulled the book out of its sleeve and the bag, took a pen from my jacket and stood poised to start writing. “Y’all go ahead.”

Colonial guy relaxed. He had very much wanted to get this thing going. Preacher and Loralene smiled and thanked me.

Colonial pulled a scroll out from under his arm, unrolled it and began to speak.

“Hear ye, hear ye! I, Publius, and the members of the T-Town Tea Partiers (half the crowd cheered) and Reverend Bob Rowe’s Homeland Security Saints (the other half cheered) are here today to demand that Fine’s Department Store quit encouraging America’s enemies. We insist that you immediately remove these Islamo-fascist Muslin robes and head rags!”

He pointed at a display of muslin sheets and pillowcases. I looked at the signs again, this time more carefully. They said: Muslins Go Home! My shoulders heaved up a bit as I stifled laughter. Publius went on:

“As long as the liberal elitists continue to pander to our enemies, we real Americans will be under threat of a 9/11 kind of attack. Remove the robes now because we fear for America!”

One of the Beck ladies wailed “We fear for America!” All three of them began to cry and moan. “Like keeners at an Irish wake,” I thought, “impressive organization.”

The name-tagged saleslady, Mrs. Deavers, addressed Publius. “Sir, these are mus-lin sheets and pillow cases, not Mus-lim robes. They have nothing to do with religion, sir, they are bedding.”

“Sure,” Publius replied. “We expected you to deny it.”

Deavers looked at me, her eyes pleading. “Sir, would you mind explaining?”

“Sorry, Ma’am, I can’t get involved with the story. Fair and Balanced, you know.”

Loralene shouted. “That’s right! Fox ain’t the liberal media biased!”

Deavers' eyes narrowed to give me a smoldering look until she turned to listen to Rev. Bob.

“Ma’am, you’re a woman. Do you know the Muslins use these robes to cover up their women?”

“That’s a-cause they’s ugly,” Loralene blurted, eliciting chuckles from the crowd.

I need to take a moment here so you may extract the true humor from Loralene’s statement.

Her hair was a tight ball of curls with a dye job that was probably supposed to be strawberry blonde, but came out red and gold with greenish highlights. The ball of hair set the architectural theme for the series of orbs below – forehead, cheeks, neck and so on - a lazily drawn Michelin Man with “Homeland” across her chest, “Saints” on belly, and “Securety” hidden in the fold. If ever a structure was built to be covered...

The classical Muzak paused as the store intercom was keyed and a strained voice spoke.

“We need the manager to Homewares. The manager to Homewares, please.”

“Sir, you’ll have to speak with the manager. He’s on his way.”

“Good.” Reverend Bob said. “That’s who we want to talk to.”

My phone rang. It was my brother calling me back to find out what was going on.

“What, Sheila? Oh really. Cherry Kurilko? That’s great!”

Cherry Kurilko is the perky female half of the Fox 23 news anchor team. As soon as I mentioned her name the protesters became excited. Loralene took a compact mirror from her purse and began patting that end zone, John 3:16 sign ball of hair.

“Possible live remote? Perfect.” I hung up on my brother, turned the phone to vibrate and stuck it back in my pocket. The crowd was buzzing now, so excited I thought nothing could bring them down. I had them primed.

I knew the moment I saw the manager and his assistant coming down the aisle that Mr. Aziz might be a bit of a buzz-kill. I was right. As soon as he stepped up to Deavers' side the buzzing stopped. Jaws went slack and eyes opened wide. Somebody dropped their sign. The Beck keeners began wailing and crying again, their national fear now local and personal.

Deavers held her hand out, palm up, wordlessly introducing Mr. Aziz to Publius and Rev. Bob.

Publius recovered first. “A Muslin! I knew it!”

“What?” Mr. Aziz said with a British accent. “Mrs. Deavers, what is this gentleman talking about?”

Deavers explained the nature of the complaint. The assistant turned and sprinted to the escalator, heading downstairs. Aziz spoke to Publius and Bob.

“Gentlemen, as Mrs. Deavers has explained to you, these are items of muslin bedding. Muslin is a material, not a religion. These are sheets and pillow cases; they are not anything other than that.”

“Like a Muslin is going to tell us infidels the truth!” Publius said, his voice rising.

“Sir, I am not...” Aziz paused, catching himself before he went out of dignified mode. “If you are not here to purchase anything, I’m afraid you and your group will have to leave.”

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere until you get rid of these robes,” Bob replied.

The big tree of a fellow took a half step between Publius and Bob, and glared down at Mr. Aziz.

“Yawana take this outside?”

All paused as they pondered the rhetorical power of the Yawana’s rebuttal proffer. I thought I saw Aziz shiver.

“That won’t be necessary...yet, Jim.” Bob said. Jim stepped back and folded his beefy arms.

Two security men in blue blazers stepped off the escalator. Bob spotted them, then turned around and yelled “Link!”  The rows of protestors linked arms. Aziz gave a subtle wave of his hand and the security men stopped.

Mr. Aziz’ assistant came running up to hand him a dictionary. “I thought you might need this, sir,” she said before disappearing again.

“Very good. Gentlemen, I am going to prove that what I’m saying is true. I then expect that you, as honorable men, will act accordingly.”

Aziz handed the dictionary to Deavers. She flipped it open to the M section while Mr. Aziz stretched his neck and moved his shoulders to adjust his collar. He kept his head held high.

“Here it is,” Deavers said, handing the book to Publius, who gave it to Bob, who passed it to Loralene, who turned to hand it to “school marm.” I hadn’t noticed the marm, as she was true to form and relatively invisible. Marm had the talent that allows reading with eyes and finger. She tracked the words as she spoke.

“Muslin – noun. Any of various sturdy cotton fabrics of plain weave, used especially for...” She looked up, her voice fading as her face blushed bright pink. “...sheets.”

“There it is. Now will you please leave?” Mr. Aziz swept his hand towards the way out of the store.

Publius and Bob were in a bind. Publius began stammering.

“I’m not sure this...this proves anything...but...I’m going to keep my eyes on your...store...and I...uh....will...”

I was beginning to feel pity. I knew it would end, but didn’t want it to, especially with such an embarrassing and deflated conclusion.

Reverend Bob looked up. “Lord, I know you led us here for a reason. Give me a sign, Lord, give me a sign!”

At that precise moment the muse of inspiration shat upon me. I caught Rev. Bob’s eyes and moved my head to say “come here.”

With my best deadpan seriousness I leaned to whisper in his ear.

“If you want to know their real agenda, look on the other side of this display.”

Bob nodded, and then circled around the rack. Deavers was the only one who noticed what I had done, as Aziz was focused on Publius’ stammering soliloquy.

Bob worked his way to the other side. He then saw what I wanted him to see.

“Lord, thank you for this sign!” Bob shouted. He grabbed the small framed sign from the tiny easel, turned it around to show everyone and shouted again.

“Look! Linen! These people are Marxists!”

Never mind that there are no such things as “Marxist robes and head rags,” this was the safe harbor port where Bob and Publius could seek comfort from the storm waves of embarrassment. Publius cried “Ah-ha!” The crowd gasped, and then shifted towards Bob. Aziz shrugged his shoulders and sighed. The signs went down and were passed to school marm, who took a marker from her bag to scratch out uslins and extend the legs of the M. The Beck keeners wailed and began crying anew. Publius started singing - “Oh say can you see...” The crowd joined in. The signs began going back up, now reading:

Go Home! Marxest Linenest!

Aziz stepped back to have a conversation with the security men. Deavers was thumbing the dictionary to the L section. I approached her.

“Mrs. Deavers, these are basically good people, but they aren’t very...” I hit a euphemism block.

“Worldly,” she said.

“Exactly. They aren’t that way, so you won’t be able to use the dictionary to, uh...fool them a second time.”

Aziz’ assistant appeared and told him the police had arrived.

I gave my watch a glance, and then told Deavers I had to be going. I wasn’t worried that I was in legal jeopardy, even though I was an instigator. I was worried about what would happen when the Yawana found out I wasn’t with Fox, and that Cherry Kurilko would be a no-show.

“Good luck, Mrs. Deavers.”

“Thank you, sir. You’ve been so...helpful.” Ice sickles hung from her words.

I smiled, pointing a thumb over my shoulder towards the dinnerware. “Look on the bright side. You don’t have any red china on display.”

(I know that’s part of an old joke, but I think I deserve points for placement.)

A chilly “Hilarious” response.

I stepped aside at the head of the escalator to avoid colliding with two camera and sound men who were too impatient to ride the up one, which was crowded with police, firefighters and reporters.

I glided towards the exit feeling like a movie star. The lone agent provocateur calmly heading in the opposite direction as the first responders rushed to the scene of his crime.