The Politician

“I was born into politics, a wedded man with a storm for a bride.” Huey P. Long

Work gets dull. The thrill is gone. Then the cell rings.

It’s Charlie. “Get down here. Now! I want you to meet my ‘good’ friend, Junior. He’s running for office.”

“How much will it cost me?” He laughs. Meeting his friends always costs. They’re politicians. Are all politicians ‘good’ friends of lawyers? I drop the question, get in the pickup and go.

A reasonable crowd mills around in his back yard. They make small talk. Mostly men, a few women. Billows of smoke pour from the cooker. BBQ and beer...typical fare for a political reception. Some call these ‘shakedowns.’ Yard signs beg, “Elect Junior.” No office, no last name.

“Charlie, where’s Junior?”

“Junior smells money. He’ll show. Have another beer.”

“Does Junior practice ‘quid pro quo?’” I ask. “Huh? Of course, he’s a politician.”

“What’s his last name?” I ask. “Not sure. Doesn’t matter. You’ll see.”

Soon Junior arrives. His aura is awesome. Some have power in their organizations, but Junior has power in himself. He brings them all to their knees.

He swaggers in. He’s an actor. Timing is everything. Self-confidence oozes out. A big man. His tie is loose at the neck, his suspenders show under his blazer. He sweats.

He has the eyes of an assassin...sharp, cold, steely. They measure the crowd. His mind calculates the evening’s take. He smiles, grabs my hand with a plow-share paw and squeezes. My feet feel the pain. He hugs my neck. “Whatcha say, hoss?” he says. I feel small.

He wears a smile like a Baptist preacher who holds four aces at the Thursday night card game. I can feel his smile. It counts the money in my hip pocket.

He owns the crowd. He hugs the women, kisses a few. They swoon. I can see right off that Junior knows his way with women. He glad-hands the men, high-fives a few, slaps some backs, hugs three. To some he points, nods, winks. Enough. They’re affirmed.

The carnival begins. He needs no introduction. “Every man’s a king, folks, that’s my slogan. The others are thieves and robbers. Now give me a chance.” The crowd nods.

“Listen, everything I did, I had to do with one hand, because I had to fight with the other. Amen?” The crowd applauds.

“I’m gonna fight for you. They give the little man a biscuit to eat, and put a barrel of flour more taxes on his head to carry. You had enough?” The crowd cheers.

“Wake up. They’re Republican waiters on one side of the aisle and Democratic waiters on the other. It doesn’t matter who brings you the grub, it’s all prepared by the same Wall Street kitchen. That’s gonna change!” The crowd roars. Amens resound.

“I have enemies. They don’t like my politics. But I’ve got alligator hide and Jesus inside. I fight fire with fire. The end justifies the means. You’re with me or against me. No middle ground. Reward or retribution. Amen?” The wallets come out of the pockets.

“Now my opponent. He has robbed you and covered up the grave. But the corpse is not buried very deep. It stinks. I’m gonna expose the crime the bastard is covering up. Now, I don’t use profanity, I’m just referring to the circumstances of his birth.” Wild shouts of approval erupt.

“The media reports I’ve got closet skeletons.” Before he can continue the women retreat to the ladies room. They know the gender of his skeletons. He’s a politician, after all. “Folks, I’m a deacon down at First, and my sins are washed in The Blood. Yessir. Lily white.” The crowd shouts Hallelujah! Some cry.

Then suddenly his speech becomes manic. His fists beat the air. They pound his chest. He burns like fire. His fervor is intense. He’s possessed. He grips his lapels, grabs his tie. It’s a noose. His body twists and turns, dips and sways. He tears his passion to tatters. The crowd shouts wildly in a frenzy of evangelical ecstasy.

And then it’s over. His shirt’s wet. His jacket lies crumpled on the grass. His voice moderates, his body regains composure. He concludes with a wink and a benediction: “Every man’s a king.” He’s mobbed. Checks and cash fill his pockets. The carnival leaves.

I ask Charlie what he said. “Beats me. Who cares? We got a winner here…buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I leave, poorer but wiser, but feeling good about government again. The more things change, the more they remain the same. “Alligator hide and Jesus inside” still rings in my ears.


Bud Hearn
May 3, 2012


PS: A posthumous thanks to Huey P. Long and Hunter S. Thompson for their contributions.