Shooting match High-scoring Spartans vie with 'Hawks on road to Dallas. See page 13.
SINCE 1889
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
FRIDAY, MARCH 21, 1986, VOL. 96, NO. 117 (USPS 650-640)
Warmer Details page 3.
House rejects Reagan's bid for contra aid
United Press International
WASHINGTON — The House of Representatives yesterday rejected President Reagan's appeal for $100 million for the Nicaraguan raguan battles the Sandinista government, slapping aside his offer to hold back some military aid during a new bid for peace talks.
In a statement read by presidential spokesman Larry Speakes, Reagan said the 222-210 defeat must be reversed.
See related stories p. 10.
He vowed to shift his campaign today to the Senate in a bid to salvage the request, which called for $70 million in assistance and $30 million in non-lethal funding.
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Wednesday to withhold all but crucially needed military supplies for 90 days while pursuing peace talks with the Sandinistas.
Alan Cranston of California, the assistant Senate Democratic leader, forecast the House vote could spur anti-aid sentiment and reported votes had begun shifting within hours
From an initial tally of 49 for, 40 against and 11 undecided on the initial $180 million package, Cranston said a second count showed 48-41 for the aid with 11 undecided.
Cranston's count showed 43 Republicans and five Democrats supporting Reagan, with 34 Democrats and seven Republicans opposing the aid. Among the undecided, he said five were leaning against.
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Up Front
Gunman sparks paranoia
In life people often are victims of random, absurd violence that an unknown gunman triggers. The gunman can be a terrorist in Vienna, a farmer in Iowa or a mail clerk in New York. He may even be a man who would shoot two men for nothing more than sitting in a pickup truck
When I think of this unknown gunman, I think of him as the undertoad. I borrowed the name from John Irving's "The World According to Garp." One of Garp's sons has a deep fear of the ocean's undertow, which he calls the undertoad. In December, I met the undertoad and he wore striped boots.
He wore a waist-level mink coat with puffy shoulders which, combined with his long arms, gave him an apelike appearance. A lump of gold on one finger was large enough to sprain his wrist.
Our meeting occurred on a morning when it was difficult to imagine anything bad happening. The sky was clear and the temperature was expected to reach 60 degrees — a rarity for Colorado Springs in mid-December.
Bill, a friend at whose house I was staying, needed to take his Saab to the garage for a mysterious problem. He suggested I follow him to the garage in his old pickup. We'd leave his car with Mel, the high priest of Saabs, and then have breakfast. It seemed as if it were a good plan.
When we arrived at the garage, Mel was late for his 8 a.m. appointment. Bill came over and sat in the truck.
The driver stepped out and he was dressed for a nightmare. He wore a waist-level mink coat with puffy shoulders which, combined with his long arms, gave him an apelike appearance. A lump of gold on one finger was large enough to sprain his wrist. His finishing touches were Carrera shades, long blond hair and boots made from the skin of some fortunate zebra.
A new one-ton truck pulled into the yard and stopped behind us.
I had no intention of speaking with this guy. Anyone who isn't an aborigine but wears the remains of dead animals other than leather makes a bad impression
Gil Chavez Staff columnist
on me. Whatever my reasoning, I had no desire to meet this zebra-booted monument to bad taste
The driver walked toward my side of the truck. I wasn't even going to lower the window to hear what he had to say, but Bill suggested diplomacy.
The man said, "What's going on here, gentlemen?" I said I didn't know.
"So you're just cooling out watching the cars go by?" he asked. I said I guessed so.
Bill started to ask the driver whether he knew why Mel was late, but he and his boots already were heading back to his truck. I began to suspect that our meeting had not gone well.
I looked again and the driver now stood on his truck bed bumbling with a plastic sack. Tools? I thought. No, he seemed too nervous. He pulled out a suede bag from inside the sack. Now, I was worried.
I started the truck and put it in reverse. Bill, who still looked out of the back window, wondered what the man was doing. I said we should leave. It was too late. The bag had contained a hand gun which was now pointed in our direction.
I couldn't help but stare at the gun. It was too shiny to be well-used. Small comfort. The understated waved it about like an actor in a western, so he wasn't familiar with guns. He was new at this sport. Still there was beginner's luck.
I turned the truck and drove onto the street. We were looking for the nearest telephone when we saw Mel driving to his garage. He didn't see us, and we weren't about to turn around. We tried to call the police from a pay phone, but it was broken.
The undertoad croaked, "I want you out of here in thirty seconds or I'm going to put five shots in that truck." And I presumed in us. I began to back out but too slowly for the undertoad. He repeated his demand.
There the undertoad stood, aiming a chrome pistol — death in striped boots.
We backed past where he was perched on his truck. As we passed, the undertoad hopped down and threatened us further. He kicked the truck and said he never wanted to see the truck or us again. I already had decided to end our acquaintance.
We found a phone that worked and called Mel to see what had
happened to him. Mel said that it was safe to return, that the gun-singer had left as he arrived. A scared couple in a Volkswagen van had informed him of the proceedings.
We returned and discovered Mel had a gift for understatement. Mel told us that the man was a frequent customer and a pretty rude guy. Bill and I were giddy from a tidal wave of adrenalin, and once outside Mel's office we began to laugh.
Threatening someone's life went beyond the bounds of rudeness. I could see it: Dear Miss Manners, My son insists on using a gun to threaten dinner guests. What should I do?
The decision not to press charges underscored the futility of law in the face of rampant paranoia, the gunman's and now ours. We could have pressed charges and then armed ourselves to prepare for the assault, but we'd had enough gumplay.
Bill decided he wouldn't press charges, I agreed, particularly after the police officer told Bill that Mr. Zebra-bots was the kind that would find out where Life lived and drop by for an unpleasant visit.
We went to breakfast. We had earned it. Bill later called the police. He was told the man had been declared mentally competent. Lucky for us we didn't meet an incompetent gumman.
I began to see the gunman's menacing world where two men sitting in a truck could be seen as a threat. At times I felt the undertoad's presence lurking about in the dark. I ducked slightly when cars passed. When people exhibited unrestrained bad taste in clothing, I viewed them immediately with suspicion. I had met the undertoad, and I was becoming him.
THURSDAY, MARCH 20, 1986
In the days that followed, I felt less safe and more threatened. The instinct for self-preservation is strong in us all, and there's nothing like a serious threat to make it stampede.
The first step was living in fear, the second was arming oneself and the third was being feared. The threatend become the threat until everyone is viewed as an enemy and we are engaged in our own low-budget arms race.
When I realized what was happening, I resolved to discard fear because it fed the undeartoad.
I know I am no match for a fired bullet no matter how tense I make my puggy 155 pounds. But I have no desire to carry anything more threatening than an empty wallet. I'll leave the undertoat for those who welcome him.
--clearance
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