"Third World Man," Steely Dan, 1980

“Good evening my friends,” the voice is overwhelmed by spurious frequencies flaying the channel on either side of the AM dial. It was hard to understand, but loud.
“—ad to have you back I […] week, although I will be with you the rest of the summer!”

Everything seemed to come into focus now.

“Tonight, we’re going to be talking about those forgotten men, those who are missing either in body or in spirit. Those who never left the jungle in their minds. Those brave men for who I proudly fly the MIA/POW flag for every day. Those men who sacrificed everything for this country, BUT…” and here he held the silence a beat longer so that the third order mixing products of nearby and far away transmitters could be softly heard in the background “BUT, WHOSE COUNTRY HAS DONE NOTHING FOR THEM!” Again, he paused before continuing. “They were spat on when they came back from Vietnam. Called Baby killers. Good Christian men who fought for their country accused of killing babies. Accused of killing women and children. Spit on by hippies and druggies and politicians trying to get re-elected. It was disgusting. And those” here you could hear the anger rising in his voice “Hollywood liberals with their films like the Deer Hunter and Apocalypse Now showing our boys as war criminals. Killing babies!” Was he crying or was it the static?

“Back then, on college campuses, they’d talk about the third world. ‘Oh, we have to help the third world!’ They’d say in their shrieking, feminist voices. The bleeding hearts and tree huggers worrying about the third world. Well, let me tell you folks, what I’ve seen in this country over the last decade is another third world. This is a third world within the United States. No, I’m not talking about the blacks and Mexicans who are always looking for a hand out. No, I’m talking about the white working class. The white farmer in the middle of the country whose farm went under. I’m talking about the little guy—”

He drove around aimlessly at night. His wife had left him recently, but he did it before she left as well. It wasn’t like her leaving started it. His insomnia had only intensified after the war. He started crossing the bridge back into town when he noticed two figures stumbling along the side of the road. They were two college students, drunk, falling into one another with each step. There was a possibility that, even with planning, he would accidentally clip one of them. He decided to slow down and open his door.

“You guys need a lift?”

Both looked up startled, and in that moment the man in the truck realized that they weren’t college students, or at least they weren’t young. Late twenties, maybe even early thirties. A tinge of disappointment ran through him. He wouldn’t try it now that there was a chance of both fighting back.

Looking at one another both said yes and got in.

The man continued on the radio:
“Vietnam used to be a third world country! Not anymore! Sold to the highest bidder and now those people will have the jobs and factories of white Americans. I voted for Regan but he’s got to do something, or else—“ the driver turned down the radio.

“So, what are you guys doing out at this time of night?”
The two passengers both burst into laughter. “Um, we’ve just been drinking. You know. Having a good time.”
“Nice,” the man behind the wheel chuckled, “I remember those days…”
The woman started talking, she seemed, to the driver, to be the more powerful of the two. Real boss lady. He liked that.

“So,” she said, “what are you doing out here this late?”
Her voice was scratchy, like she and her boyfriend had been chain smoking and drinking all night. But she was sexy, no doubt, the way he had liked them back in his twenties.
“Well,” he took a left turn as he spoke, “I can’t really sleep. Never have been able to, but it’s getting worse. My wife has to get up in the morning, so rather than keep her up walking around the house I drive around.” Other than the fact his wife had recently left him, it was mostly true.

“Where are you guys headed?,” he had forgotten to ask them where he was driving.
“Those new apartment buildings up on the outskirts of downtown. The nice ones. Do you know which ones I’m talking about?” He was getting more turned on by her but didn’t need to get into trouble.
“Oh, yeah. Fancy. You look kind of young to have money.”
“No,” he answered, “she’s housesitting.”
“Ah.” And then everyone in the car went silent again, giving the driver time to turn the radio back up.

“Welcome back! So, we were talking about Regan and Vietnam and all of the third world really, and, look, I voted for Regan…like the guy…but he’s got to realize something. If he looses all of his white voters because the rich guys who fund his campaign want him to give nice trade deals to all these countries without helping real Americans, well… You know who gets shafted in that scenario? The little guy. The white guy living in the midwest, the bread basket, the heartland, all the places where Regan did well and won. Well, let me just tell you he’s going to have a wake up call…and if he doesn’t start listening to us, real Americans, he’ll regret it. Because we’re peaceful now, but more of this and people will throw down their disguises, let me tell you—“ The voice was soon overwhelmed by static and interfering chatter again.

Five years ago, one Sunday morning, he had woken up on his front lawn, naked, clutching his rifle. He had no idea how he had gotten there, why he was naked, or why he was cradling his gun. He only woke up because the neighbors had called the police, who came and politely covered him in a blanket, putting him in the back of their squad car.  Once they ran his license, the younger of the two officers quietly said, “thank you for your service.” He was single then. His parents, his only next of kin, then living in a nursing home in Oklahoma, signed the necessary paperwork to place him in a VA psychiatric hospital. He had met his wife, a nurse, inside the hospital and they were married once he was released a year later. Even she realized he was too fucked up to be with. That was over now.

As the three of them pulled up to the tall, new developments on the outskirts of the downtown, he had a brief thought about doing something before they left the truck, but, again,  thought about the struggle that would result and the attention. He would never be able to get what he really wanted, everybody made sure of that.

“Well, thanks again!,” the guy, closest to the passenger door, didn’t even bother to wait for the car to stop before he got out. He thought about how the girl was less worried about getting out of the car and took her time sliding over, her bare thighs slowly sliding sweat all over his seat, and it turned him on again. Before he could think twice, they were outside the truck and he was giving them a wave and driving off. He thought about what they would get up to once inside, but thought better of it and started the drive back to his empty apartment.

He started paying attention to the radio again: fuzzy, flayed, fried and fading, the last words he heard before he lost the station entirely was “the white man is a third world man in his own country...he’s a third world man…a third world man...it's the age of the third world man.”