bostonteaparty How did an agreeable, affable person like me get into a shouting match with a Tea Partier last week?

I favor Joan Didion’s famous explanation about the weather—the combination of heat and Santa Ana winds, specifically—and its “deeply mechanistic” effects on Angelenos.  Last Monday was hot, you’ll undoubtedly remember, and temperatures in our Wrigley neighborhood had reached 106 degrees well before noon. By dusk I had grown accustomed to a wind so hot that I could feel it with my eyeballs every time I opened the front door.

Tuesday was better,  but still in the mid-90′s—and my 2- and 4-year old were miserable—so I went to Target to see if they were stocking wading pools. Nope.

So I went to The Place of Great Evil; Wal-Mart didn’t have any pools, either.

But it wasn’t a total loss: as I said, as I left the store I got into a shouting match with a Tea Partier—a middle-aged man wearing a fishing cap and sitting behind a large folding table spread with  clipboards and pens. An enormous sign spanned the width of the table: REPEAL OBAMACARE.

The man seemed perfectly pleasant. He smiled and said “hello” to shoppers. Meanwhile, I was feeling just fine—chipper, even—enjoying a rare moment unaccompanied by a toddler demanding juice. And yet…and yet…

I walked up to the table, smiled at the man, said hi to him, then nodded toward his array of clipboards and asked, “Could you tell me where I sign to repeal Medicare?”

“What?” he asked earnestly, although as he began to catch my drift—I was referring to his Medicare—his face folded into an illustration of “disgruntled.”

I repeated myself: “Where do I sign to repeal Medicare?” But he had already recovered, returning to checking signatures on his petition. “Contact your congressman,” he said airily.

But I didn’t take the brushoff. I insisted that I wanted to sign something, sassily saying it looked like so much fun but seriously emphasizing that I didn’t want to pay for his healthcare, anymore.

The man calmly put down his pen and in a remarkably quiet voice explained, “What I am doing is using the law to overturn an illegal government program. The people didn’t have a say. The government acted against the will of the people.”

He seemed to be making my point. “OK, fine,” I responded. “Let’s repeal your Medicare. Where do I sign?”

Now he was growling: “Congress didn’t even vote on the health care bill.”

Exhilarated, I countered, “Congress passed Medicare long before I was old enough to select my representative—nobody asked me, I didn’t have any choice—so I think we should get rid of it.”

The man began to sputter about the Constitution. I shrugged.  “Let me sign the petition to repeal your Medicare.”

That’s when the yelling started.

“You don’t even pay taxes for Medicare!” the man shouted.

“You have no idea what I make, or what I pay in taxes,” I volleyed back, “but I pay ‘em, and they are covering your healthcare.”

That’s when the weirdness started.

“Fine, go repeal Medicare then,” the man conceded.

“I don’t want to,” I pivoted. “I think people should have access to healthcare.”

“Fine,” the man said. “Enjoy seeing your taxes go up.”

 ”They should be higher, anyway,” I asserted.

That got the bull to charge.

“You know how much I make?” the man exploded, and now a group of onlookers was beginning to gather. “I make $250,000 a year! You know how much I pay in taxes? You know how many people I employ?”

While he ranted, I played to what had become a crowd, backing away from him while swinging my hands—index fingers extended—as though I were conducting an orchestra. Then it was my turn again, and I reached back into my childhood for the greatest undercut of them all.

“I don’t care how much you make or how many employees you have,” I informed him. “All I know is that you are old enough for Medicare. And I’m paying for it. I’m paying for your healthcare.”

Wobbly now, the man went after just about the only place left to go: my clothes.

“You know, just because you are wearing Birkenstocks,” he said, “I could make a lot of assumptions about you being a bleeding-heart liberal!”

But the man had made his final error, and I began to celebrate my victory.

“They’re not Birkenstocks!” I sang, grinning giddily. “Enjoy your Medicare!”

Looking back, I’m not entirely proud of my behavior.

Clearly, I had not been searching for a wading pool so much as spoiling for a fight. My confrontational manner would not have pleased my grandmother, who detested open controversy. I was as annoying as anyone else with a newly found political voice, every bit as tedious as those screechy people clutching their pristine copies of Thomas Paine, the spines tight and uncracked as soon as one thumbs past the editor’s introduction.

So be it.  At least in my world, everyone would get vaccinated.