George Carlin, a man of exquisite intellectual savvy, has died. You may be asking, why is a group dedicated to economic and social justice interested in a comedian? Surprisingly, Carlin understood the realities of life in America better than any politician I've ever met.

The best way I've found to honor someone's life is to continue the work they committed that life to, and while I lack his comic genius, I can offer my own response to our modern dilemma.

Fixing the House

My parents didn’t take care of their house. Often times they were just too busy to do the needed maintenance, sometimes things broke they couldn’t see, and yes, a lot of the time they were lazy and decided it would become my problem when they moved out and signed the place over to me. I’m pretty sure they hadn’t intended things to get this bad, but that’s how it goes. Things just get away from us.

I’m not exactly handy, so I call a contractor. Eight years ago my parents hired one of the two unions operating in our town, so I call them, thinking they should, you know, back their own work. Our first meeting is less than stellar. The dinosaur that I open the door to walks in, nods at the cracks along the wall, the groans of the floor, the doors falling off their hinges, and attempts to convince me nothing’s wrong.

Those are meant to be there,’ he says, pointing at the web of cracks along the ceiling.

‘Those opened up during an earthquake.

‘See? Perfectly functioning safety feature. You know, pressure release, makes sure the wall doesn’t fall down.’

I’m speechless. Pushing against the wall to prove a point, and thus earning myself a shower of plaster and paint chips as the wall sags under my doughy physique, I look back at this contractor. ‘That’s not supposed to happen. This wall is about to fall over, and the house with it.’

He pauses, chews his lip, and with undeserved confidence, answers. ‘That is a foundation correction you’re seeing there. The wall is adjusting to find a better place to saddle all that weight.’

‘But if the wall moves the ceiling will collapse.’

‘No, I’m sure it will be fine.’

I look up, back to the contractor, then up again, and back again. Up one more time, just to make sure. ‘I’m pretty sure the ceiling’s going to come down on our heads without this wall.’

He smiles. ‘Trust me, my friend, you’re as safe as you could ever hope to be.’

I call a contractor from the rival union. He’s young, enthusiastic, and equally hopeless. I show him the wall, he nods and agrees something has to be done. I smile, for now it is I with undeserved confidence, as I ask,

‘So when can you start?’

‘Right away,’ he replies, ‘I’ll get my tools.’

‘Would you like me to move any furniture?’

He looks back at me and shakes his head. ‘No need, I’m starting on the roof.’

‘Excuse me?’ I’m two paces behind him as he exits the building and gets a ladder from his truck. ‘The problem is not the roof.’

‘Oh sure it is, just look at those shingles.’ He’s right, the roof does need a lot of work.

‘But isn’t the wall slightly more important than a few shingles?’

He stops on the third step of the ladder. ‘Maybe, maybe not. But I’m not sure what’s wrong with that wall, and fixing it is going to take a lot of work. Might mean rebuilding a lot of this house, since so much of it is falling apart, and that’s not something I like to get into. But shingles, I can do shingles, and you can’t argue that your house needs new shingles.’

‘But if that wall isn’t fixed those new shingles are going to be in the cellar in about a week.’

He shrugs. ‘But you’ll have a better looking roof, and that’s a change you can believe in.’

‘Okay, get down from there.’

His head pokes over the edge of the roof. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I said get down, I’m not hiring you.’

‘But those shingles need changing.’

‘I don’t care about the shingles, I care about the wall. If you’re not going to fix it I’m not going to hire you.’

‘Well,’ he huffs as he descends the ladder, ‘I don’t know who else you think you can hire. The only other union … well, they’d probably tell you nothing was the matter and everything will work out.’

‘Yes, they did.’

‘So I’m your only choice.’

‘But you’re not going to fix my wall.’

‘But your shingles-‘

‘I don’t care about the shingles!’ I roll my eyes and point to his truck. ‘Just go, I’m calling someone else.’

And so, several phone calls later, I find a contractor who, upon looking at the wall, agrees that it’s in serious trouble and that he can probably save the house.

‘It’ll take basically building a new wall around the old one to hold up the ceiling, then knocking out the old bits.’

‘Can you do that?’

He shrugs. ‘Can’t see why not.’

My relief is indescribable. ‘When can you start?’

‘Let me get some things from the truck, get a better look at what exactly needs fixing.’

I nod and walk him out, only to find my lawn has been filled with a hundred or so protesters who, upon seeing me and the newly hired contractor, begin shouting at us.

‘Scab!’

‘Traitor!’

‘Weasel!’

‘Thief!’

I look at the contractor, whose bewilderment is strangely comforting. I suppose if he was used to being called a traitor and a thief I’d have cause for concern.

‘That’s our business you’re stealing,’ one of the protesters shouts at the contractor before turning to me. ‘You’re not allowed to hire non-union!’

‘Yeah!’

‘Yeah!’

‘I think I can hire whoever I want.’

‘Gasp!’

The crowd recoils, and then recovers. ‘No you can’t!’

‘Yeah!’

I sigh. ‘Yes, yes I can. Because you,’ I point at the dinosaur, ‘can’t even realize that this house is about to collapse, and you,’ I point to his younger shingle obsessed colleague, ‘think ignoring a problem you don’t understand is okay as long as you make some small improvements. So I’m going to hire this man, who not only recognizes there is a problem, but also has a plan to fix the wall, and with his help this house will survive to see another generation of my family inherit it. Now get off my lawn.’

I wish I could say that, being professionals, the unions took it well and realizing the error of their ways, allowed this independent contractor to do what they could not do and fix the house. Instead they picketed every doorway, every window, threw things at us, prevented the contractor from entering, until finally I thanked him for his time and told him to go home. It was quite obvious that the two unions would rather see a house collapse than let someone else have the job.

Thank god politics isn’t like this at all.