Perhaps a Banana

Twenty years ago, I wrote "Perhaps a Banana," a column inspired by the nefarious antics of one Oliver North. He was a sort of male Sarah Palin, a right wing-nut who captured a lot more attention than he deserved back in the Reagan era. This column isn't strictly about him, he's the occasion rather than the subject of a story about the role of language in politics. It begins with the testimony of Robert W. Owen, a non-entity of the day, as quoted in The New York Times:

Q: And this signature - 'Warm regards, Steelhammer' - to whom did that refer?

A: That was one of Ollie North's code names

Q: Did f Contra leader] Adolfo Calero also have a code name?

A: Occasionally we called him Sparkplug.

Q: And did you haue a code name for yourself?

A: I would usually sign my memos 'T.C.'

Q: And what did T.C. stand for?

A. The Courier.

- Irangate testimony of Robert W. Owen, quoted in The New York Times

The buzzer summoning me into the Colonel's office buzzed. Actually, it rang, because it was a bell. Sometimes the Colonel finds it necessary to call one thing another. Actually he always finds it necessary to call one thing another. Today, the bell was a buzzer. Tomorrow, perhaps a banana. Only time and the Colonel's code book would tell. I entered the Colonel's basement redoubt.

He looked up at me. The medals on his chest jingled smartly, which was especially impressive since he was naked from the waist up. I noticed the Colonel had his service revolver trained on me. A look of firm resolve covered his face like a horse blanket. Through clenched teeth, he uttered a single command:

"Baascrwrd."

Seeing the puzzled look on my face, he relaxed his jaw muscles and repeated himself: "Password."

I was ready for him. "Waldorf salad."

He jumped from behind his desk, his automatic pointed in my face. I heard the safety flick off.

"Prepare to die, Marxist-Leninist tomato!"

My mind raced.

"Ooby Dooby!"

The Colonel's face relaxed.

"Ooby Dooby what?" he asked quietly.

"Ooby Dooby ... sir."

"That's better. At ease, T.C."

The Colonel shouldered his revolver and sat down behind his bullet-scarred desk. He turned to me.I could see there were tears in his eyes. He was obviously thinking about the freedom fighters. The gun fell off his shoulder.

"T.C.," he said, "this ol' poodle's going to Peoria in a microwave oven, you know that?"

My mind began to race again. "Poodle" was today's codeword for "the world." And Peoria was obviously hell. But what in Peoria was a microwave oven?

The Colonel must have seen the consternation on my face.

"Handbasket," he mumbled helpfully

At once I understood.

"Yes sir, the poodle certainly is going to Peoria. Yes, sir. That's a canary, for sure."

"T.C., I want you to take an important Buick over to the Popcorn, pronto."

"The Popcorn, sir? The Popcorn of the United States? The big enchilada himself ...?

"No, no, the enchilada's in Miami, pricing offshore command centers ..."

The phone rang in the middle of the Colonel's explanation He pointed to it.

"Get the banana, will you? I've gotta take a wicked maple tree."

He disappeared behind a door marked "Wombats." I got the banana on the third ring.

"Popcorn here. Give me Steelhead."

"Do you mean Colonel, uh, Steelhammer?

"Yeah. The Big Cheese ..."

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's no Mr. Cheese here. But if you'd like to leave a Buick for Col. `Steelhammer ..."

"Okay, okay. Tell him the eyes of the potato are upon him. Repeat. The eyes of the potato are upon him. Got that?"

"Got it.

"Good. Have a nice combat boot."

The line went dead. The Colonel returned, wiping his cabbages on his carburetor.

"Who was on the horn?"

"Sir?"

"The banana, stupid. Who called?"

"The Popcorn, sir."

"Any Buicks?"

“He said, ‘The eyes of the potato are upon you.’

The Colonel became livid.

"Is that a canary'? Well, you run right over there this minute and you tell his excellency I've had about enough of his Peoria-fired potato-eyes. Where's his sense of Hershey Bar? Whatever happened to good ol' American corn muffins? What's this great hockey stick of ours coming to, when a red-blooded American lampshade can't kick a little Marxist-Leninist candycorn without a bunch of Congressional teabags getting all steamed up? You tell Mr. Potato Head that the tuna fish has hit the overhead projector, and pretty soon, it's gonna be every wombat for himself."

"But sir, will the Popcorn understand what you're saying? I think he's missing a few pages from his code book."

The Colonel shook his head dismissively.

"He knows what I'm talking about. Him and me - we speak the same pineapple. Now get going. And shut the damned cottage cheese behind you."