A Southern Politician

Political elections are never over. Politicians are like fleas. Impossible to eradicate. Huey P. Long once said, “I was born into politics, a wedded man with a storm for a bride.”

Without politics, life’s dull. The thrill is gone. Until a sanctimonious candidate emerges. Then life gets interesting again.

My cell rings. It’s Charlie, a lawyer. “Get over here. Now! You need to meet my good friend, Junior. He’s running for office.”

Charlie is Junior’s campaign manager. He was once a boxing promoter. His legal and promotional literature has similar qualities.

“What will it cost me?” He laughs, mutters something undecipherable. Meeting his friends always costs. They’re politicians. Why are all politicians ‘good friends’ of lawyers?

A curious crowd mills around in his back yard making small talk. Mostly men, a few women. Smoke billows from the charcoal cooker. BBQ is the staple cuisine for fund raising events. I contemplate the similarities between pigs and politicians. I feel pity for the pigs.

Junior’s smiling face appears on the yard sign. It reads, “Elect Junior.” No last name, no office, no phone.

“Charlie, where’s Junior? I ask.

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

“Does Junior understand ‘quid pro quo?’” I ask.

Charlie grins. “Huh? Of course. He’s a politician.”

“What’s his last name?” I ask.

“Not sure. Doesn’t matter. You’ll see.”

A black SUV pulls up. Junior emerges. He’s huge. His aura is awesome. Some people have power in their organizations, but Junior has power in himself. The crowd goes silent.

He swaggers out. He’s an actor. Timing is critical. Self-confidence oozes. His tie is loose. His suspenders groan over the bulge under his blazer. He sweats.

He has the eyes of an assassin…sharp, cold, steely. They survey the crowd. He wears a grin like a Baptist preacher holding four aces at the Friday night poker game. I feel his smile. It counts the cash in my pocket.

He grips my hand with a plow-share paw. My toes recoil in pain. He hugs me and says, “Whatcha say, hoss?” I feel small.

He hugs women. They swoon. He glad-hands the men, high-fives a few, slaps some backs. He points at some, nods at others, winks at all. Everyone’s affirmed. He owns them.

The carnival begins. “Every man’s a king, folks. That’s my slogan. All the others before me are robbers and thieves. Now give me a chance.” The crowd nods.

“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 load him down with a ton of taxes. You had enough?” The crowd cheers.

“Republicans or Democrats, they’re all the same. They’re just waiters who serve you the same grub, prepared by the same Wall Street kitchen. That’s gonna change!” The crowd roars. Amens resound.

“Look, I have enemies. They don’t like my politics. But, friends, I’ve got alligator hide and Jesus inside. I fight fire with fire. You’re with me or against me. No middle ground. Reward or retribution. Amen?” Wallets come out.

“Listen. My opponent has robbed you and covered up the shallow grave. The corpse still stinks. I’m gonna expose the crime this illegitimate scoundrel 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 says I’ve got skeletons.” The women smile. They know the gender of his skeletons. After all, he’s a politician. “Folks, I’m a deacon down at First, washed in the blood. Yessiree, lily white.” A tear trickles down Junior’s face. Hallelujahs are heard.

Suddenly his speech becomes manic. His fervor is intense. His fists beat the air. They pound his chest. He grips his lapels, jerks his tie. It’s a noose. His body contorts. His passion tears him to tatters. The crowd shouts wildly in a frenzy of evangelical ecstasy.

Then it’s over. His shirt’s wet, his jacket lies crumpled on the grass. He 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 look at Charlie. “What did he say?”

“Who cares? We got a winner here. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I do, leaving poorer but wiser, and feeling good about government again. “Alligator hide and Jesus inside?” What a combination!



Bud Hearn
Copyright, February 2, 2015

Posthumous credits for ideas from Huey P. Long and Hunter S. Thompson.