I slipped through the public area of Thistle Stop, a popular eastside restaurant, and sidled into the private banquet room where the Rotary Club was hosting a debate among the mayoral and city commission candidates. Hoping to avoid contact with Lance where Albee might notice, I’d arrived late and missed the buffet. Naturally, the first body I passed when I entered the room belonged to Lance. I broke into a joyous smile at the sight of him, but he refused to notice and scurried to the front table where he ended up sitting next to Bill St. John. If Lance was hoping to avoid propinquity with the sexual minority community, he’d missed his aim.
I scanned the crowd. Stacy Sawyer wasn’t to be seen. I wondered whether she and Satoko were looking for new jobs, and I made a mental note that Bill should approach them. I saw Neil and Lisa sitting at the fourth table back. They were saving a seat for me, which I promptly filled with my graceful derrière.
After greeting my friends and the political reporter from The New Out who had seated himself at our table, I drew a deep breath. By a coin toss, Kim Flanders was due to speak first. The event had no moderator, only a timekeeper. Each candidate had ten minutes for his introductory remarks. Then the candidates would ask questions of each other, allowing two minutes per response. From this risky format, the voters were supposed to decide who had shown more leadership and who had the requisite experience for Portland’s top political job.
Kim stood and made a solid speech, detailing specifically the needs of the city and how he intended to address them. He discussed the increase in the homeless population under Albee’s administration, including the nation’s highest percentage of teenage heroin addicts, and how these street people’s panhandling and theft were frightening people away from shopping downtown. He talked about egregious jaywalking, which had increased the number of traffic fatalities, and he discussed the gross misuse of the city budget. When he concluded, Kim sat down to hand-clapping and cheers from his proponents. But mingled with our applause were hisses and jeers of “faggot” and “queer” from the Albee supporters. Then the mayor assumed his place behind the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Justin T. Albee announced, his eyes sweeping his audience. Abruptly he spotted me among the assembled company. “And the rest of you as well,” he continued to the consternation of his toadies. “We stand before you tonight in this brave venue, prepared to wage debate against one another, and you, my friends, and the rest, will be the victors, for tonight it shall be yours to root out the corruption of our enemies.” Albee fixed his gaze as firmly upon me as upon a viper at his bedside. “Tonight you will learn how the coven of perverts have infiltrated my own office—our own City Hall—my friends, to provoke the wrath of Providence upon our fair city.” Sorrowfully, Albee wiped a pretended tear from his eye.
Albee vented on and on, praising himself, and advancing his opinion that God had made him Mayor of Portland—while Kim Flanders was a surrogate of Satan. “There before you sits the Whore of Babylon,” Albee thundered. The declaration might have been effective had the mayor pointed at his opponent, but he pointed at me instead.
Seated at my left, Neil whispered hoarsely, “Justin T. Albee’s gone absolutely bonkers.” Several heads nodded, but the true-blue evangelicals whipped out their Bibles.
Tuning out Albee’s insane diatribe, I looked around the meeting room. Gigantic murals adorned the walls, depicting natural settings dotted with thistles. On the north wall, the mighty Columbia River rolled onward, its shoreline dotted with native sunflowers and thistles. On the south wall stood a butte mounted with tall firs and spruce, with a field of thistles at its summit.
As I vainly speculated on the thistle motif, Albee’s roar invaded my thoughts. “And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of homosexuality.”
The local television stations had camera operators recording what had been billed as the most pointed exchange of the campaign season. Max Ubaldo, who’d first broken the shirtlifter/scanty panties story, was there, as were The Portland Bee’s Tad Manes and Sharon Hobbs. The New Out’s reporter was sitting on my right, offering pointed barbs about Albee’s homophobic misquotation.
Justin T. Albee ranted on until I could scarcely contain my disgust. When he was but seven minutes into his megalomaniac pronouncements, I could’ve sworn he had been gassing for an hour. I wondered what he’d do if his cell phone warbled its tune. After “Amazing Grace” had interrupted his speech the previous week, he’d probably swear if it happened again.
Seemingly of its own accord, my hand slid into my pocket and fumbled with my phone. However the rewards weren’t worth the risk, so I ordered my erring hand away from my phone, sighed regretfully, and sat up straighter. Besides, what were the chances that Albee had left his phone turned on? In abject misery, I gave ear to Albee’s harangue against people like me.
“And so, my friends, I can only echo the words of the beloved Apostle John . . .”
. “Oh, for the love of Christ!”
The evening turned into one peerless in the history of politics. That musical interlude, however brief, had shot Albee’s concentration to hell and gone. He endeavored to bring the conversation back to shirtlifters and scanty panties, but Kim Flanders hammered him with questions about city streets full of potholes, homeless alcoholics and drug addicts smashing car windows, two recent drownings in the city reservoir, and a series of fatal police shootings of unarmed black people.
“What do you think is most important, Mr. Mayor?” Kim demanded.
“The public cannot abide a sexual degenerate as its mayor,” Justin T. Albee thundered.
“Calling me names is nothing less than rank prejudice, and I believe the public is more concerned than you about dead bodies floating in their drinking water.”
Bill drove a jubilant crew back to campaign headquarters. Kim Flanders’ eyes were blazing with victorious light, and the rest of us were pumped. I told Kim that he’d nailed Albee to the wall. “His own mother wouldn’t vote for him if she watched that debate,” I declared.
“I feel good about it,” Kim admitted.
“You were terrific,” Bill said. “Tying Albee to a couple of drowned bums was a masterstroke.”
“Fuckin’ super,” Lisa said.
“I cracked up when Mike made Albee’s cell phone play church music,” Neil said.
“The Mayor’s intended Bible verse sure didn’t come out as he’d intended,” Kim agreed. “Thanks to Mike.”
“Maybe the Apostle John did say ‘Oh, for the love of Christ,’” Lisa hooted, bouncing like a six-year-old. She was sitting between Neil and I on the back seat, and we had to scrunch against the door panels to avoid her brawny bottom.
“I didn’t do it,” I said quietly.
“Don’t you fuckin’ lie, Mike Dodger,” Lisa yelled. “We all know you did. I saw you reach for your phone.”
“I’d like to take credit,” I admitted. “I want to see Albee bomb like Wilkie and McNary. But I’m innocent.”
“Bullshit,” Lisa said.
I didn’t reply. Only one human being on Earth could’ve pulled it off, but Albee was too reactionary to think imaginatively. Lance had deliberately left Albee’s phone on. When he sent out that single ring of “Amazing Grace,” he was sending me a message. My problem was that I didn’t know what it meant.
Wendell Willkie
Senate Minority Leader Charles L. McNary of Oregon.
In the 1940 presidential campaign, President Roosevelt defeated Willkie and his Oregonian running mate by 449 to 82 electoral votes.
The next morning, I arose energized by a consciousness of excitement. I dressed in khaki slacks that fit my ass nicely, a yellow shirt, a forest green tie, and my checked sport jacket. After I’d checked my glad rags in the mirror, I hurried up the stairs where the scent of chipped ham and gravy over biscuits and eggs scrambled with green onions and red peppers hung in the air like crepe paper streamers.
“You look chipper this morning,” Mom said.
“I’ll bet Tinker Bell sat on a big one last night,” Janet sniped, then snapped her mouth shut when Mom caught her eye.
“Janet, I’m going to call the Bodhisattva Maharini Jones about giving you spiritual counseling,” Mom promised. Maharini Jones, a self-exalted bodhisattva, was the shaman, guru, high priestess, and chief medicine woman of Mom’s New Age Center. “Your father and I never raised you to utter such mean-spirited and bigoted remarks.”
“Jesus save me,” Janet pleaded, rolling her eyes toward the neon ceiling fixture. “Not that Jones witch! Couldn’t I just kiss the devil’s ass and have it over with?”
“Janet!” Mom brandished the skillet like she was about to club my sister.
Janet grabbed Pop’s arm. “Help me, Pop,” she wheedled, exercising her Daddy’s-little-girl tone. “What did I say that was so wrong?”
Kissing the Devil's Ass
Pop lowered his paper like he was walking to the gallows. “I . . . er . . . uh,” he managed.
“Right. Mom, even Pop agrees with me. I didn’t say anything bad. That’s how Tinker Bell and his boyfriends get it on.” Janet snickered, and Mahatma snuffled.
“In case anybody’s interested,” I bellowed, feeling it time I snuffed the gay sex topic, “the county elections office mailed the ballots yesterday, and they’ll start hitting the mailboxes today.”
“I’ll pull ours out of our box when I stop home for lunch,” Pop offered, also relieved at the change of subject.
“How many are we getting?” Janet asked.
Mom gaped at her daughter as if she was surprised to learn she’d spawned an idiot. “Three, Janet. You’re not old enough to vote.”
“Wouldn’t tax my imagination if Tinker Bell had registered me and Mahatma too,” Janet quipped, thinking herself clever. “He’d sign up the tombstones in the graveyard.”
Mom rose to my defense. “Your brother would do no such thing.”
“Eat your eggs, Janet,” Pop ordered, though he darted a suspicious glance my way. For his part, Mahatma cocked his head and winked his eyebrows until I felt quite ashamed that I hadn’t registered him.
After eating, I called Lance’s phone and listened to his voice mail greeting. “I got your message,” I said, “but I didn’t understand it. Call me.”
I drove to the office and completed several meaningless chores. When I finished, I bent over Lisa’s desk and made faces at her until she hung up her phone.
“How about lunch?”
“Sure,” Lisa agreed. “We gonna eat Nancy’s fuckin’ meatloaf again?”
“Not today. I’m taking you and Neil to Shaketown.”
“Ugh! Why go to that friggin’ cholesterol palace?”
“We’re having a strategy lunch with a couple of cowboys.”
“You mean I’m finally gonna meet Bunny and the Buckaroo?”
“Yeah.” I beckoned to Neil. He rose from his desk with a nod and struggled into his coat.
“What kinda strategy session, Mike?” Lisa demanded when we were seated in my car. I looked at the sky, which was darkening and looking rather greenish.
“Were going to a meeting of his Stink Tank,” Neil clarified, demonstrating his greater experience with my shrewd campaign style.
“Stink Tank?” Lisa said. “We’re gonna fart?”
“Try to control yourself, Lisa.”
“Blow it out your shorts, Mike.”
“We’re going to play dirty tricks on Albee,” Neil rejoiced, his eyes glinting with anticipation. For a second I saw demonic horns sprouting from his head. The dark side had fully claimed him. As I accelerated through a yellow traffic light, I bestowed a wicked, twisted smile upon him.
“Not dirty,” I said. “Just opposition research.”
After ordering up a supply of burgers, fries, and milkshakes, we claimed a back corner booth. Bunny and the Buckaroo arrived a few minutes later. Lisa regarded them with glowing eyes, suddenly alive with interest.
“You’re the pair the fuckin’ Republican State Chair called the Devil’s Sidekicks?” Lisa asked.
“Them specularations ain’t too wide o’ the mark,” the Buckaroo said, and he and Bunny introduced themselves.
“Oh, if Lou could see me now,” Lisa moaned, after shaking their hands. Amazed by her grip, Bunny and the Buckaroo worked their injured fingers.
“Because you’re keeping such company?” Neil asked. Bunny and the Buckaroo looked offended.
“No, because I’m gonna eat this shit,” Lisa denied, indicating the mountain of artery-hardening fat, cholesterol, and empty calories standing before us.
“It’s good grub,” Bunny asserted and bit into his burger.
After we’d dented the pile of “grub,” I called the meeting to order. “We’ve got to come up with strategy that works,” I said. “We’ve scratched chinks in the mayor’s armor, but the bastard’s still swinging his sword with the anti-gay mob. We need to deliver a killing blow.” As I finished speaking the light inside the restaurant dimmed as the sky darkened without.
Bunny enumerated on his fingers. “We’ve spread false rumors like manure on a field, sent phony letters and e-mails ’till nary critter’d read another one, invented fictitious groups to reprove the mayor, conducted push polls that’s most jaundiced the public, swiped yard signs, and harassed Albee during his speechifying. Is there any meanness I’ve omitted?”
“We registered the cemetery,” Neil contributed before I could kick him under the table. A gust of wind rattled the window.
“Cemetery?” Lisa’s eyes grew bigger than flying saucers. “Dead voters. Shit, you’re involved in voter fraud.” She froze with a French fry sticking out of her mouth. “The fuckin’ mailbox!” A pregnant pause followed as adjoining diners scanned us warily. “The cops are watching your mailbox, Mike.”
“Keep your voice down,” I whispered.
“We hain’t gone in fer vote buyin’ or ballot box stuffin’,” Bunny said, ignoring Lisa.
I shook my head. “Anything we do has to be cheap and practical. We don’t have money to buy votes—and how do you stuff ballot boxes in Oregon? The state votes by mail.”
The window rattled again. A sudden hailstorm followed. We watched the hailstones rain down upon the parking lot. From where we sat, I could see ice pellets rattling off my car like brass casings from a machine gun.
“How much does a vote cost?” Lisa asked.
“I guess it depends on how much people value their votes,” I said. “In 1948, the Brown & Root Construction Company in South Texas paid Hispanics five dollars each in exchange for them voting for Lyndon Johnson for the Senate. That was one wild election. J. K. Ray of the Alcohol Tax Unit and Texas Ranger Frank Hamer, who was famous because of the Bonnie & Clyde case, claimed that they bulled their way, guns drawn, through strong-arm thugs and their pistol-packing henchmen protecting a bank in Alice, Texas, to find men burning ballots and changing voter registers. A million votes were cast in that election, which ended with Johnson defeating former Governor Coke Stevenson by 87 votes.”
“How ‘bout a-whoppin’ up a big ole’ whispering campaign?” the Buckaroo asked.
“I’ve already launched several,” I said. “I’ve got people gossiping about Albee acting in porn films back in the 1970’s, and now The Precious Virtuous Decency League’s accusations are making their rounds.”
President Roosevelt, Governor James Allred of Texas & Lyndon Johnson. Later, Johnson had Governor Allred edited out of the picture.
Coke R. Stevenson
“Not counting the invention of the pancake,” Neil added.
Lisa was still stewing over the graveyard voters. “Those bulls in Cell Block H are gonna make me their bitch,” she whimpered. “They’ll stick a broomstick up my poop tube and make me sweep out the cell.”
“Lisa, you’ve watched too much television,” I burst out in exasperation. “You haven’t committed any crimes.”
“I’ll end up as the patsy,” Lisa wailed. “Ever since I started with this campaign, Lou’s been warning me that I’m the perfect fall guy.”
The hail had died down, but the sky remained black and green.
“So what kinda pure-dee meanness are you cookin’ up in yore coyote-head, Mike?” Bunny demanded.
“I’m out of ideas, Bunny. That’s why we’re having this conference.”
“How ‘bout claiming the mayor done been supportin’ hoodlum mobs ter control the city,” Bunny suggested. “Claim Portland’s infested with methamphetamine and liquor-crazed juveniles, ragin’ ‘round the city like packs o’ wolves.”
“Or call him a totalitarian,” Neil suggested. “He sounds fascist, especially when he says stuff like it’s more important for the police to keep order than to protect individuals.”
“Sorry guys, neither of those suggestions will work. We’ve tried smearing the mayor, but we’ve lacked sufficient evidence to make the poop stick. Bunny, your idea would not only sound racist but would ruffle feathers that Kim would have to soothe after the election.”
The Buckaroo pushed his white cowboy hat back on his head.
“’Twern’t racist,” Bunny protested, offended down to his undies.
“I know that, but certain opinion leaders would interpret it that way for political gain. They’d read ‘juveniles’ as a euphemism for the ‘N’ word, and you can guess where the debate would go from there.”
“What’s wrong with my idea?” Neil asked.
“The right-wing mentality would agree with the mayor. Remember, these people attack anybody who dares suggest that the police and the military aren’t perfect. They call people who protest bloodshed ‘anti-war whackos.’ They’re so opposed to environmentalism that they empty recycling boxes into Dumpsters.”
“They’re nuts,” Lisa howled, inviting glares from the lunch crowd. “And the assholes think that they’re the good Americans.”
“That’s why we’ve got to win, Lisa,” Neil said.
It was time to offer up more historical wisdom, so I offered, “According to Huey Long, if totalitarianism comes to America, we’ll call it Americanism.” I smiled triumphantly around the table and sipped from my second blackberry shake.
Mike is not always right with his quotations, and he has gaps in his knowledge. For example, he says. “According to Huey Long, if totalitarianism comes to America, we’ll call it Americanism,” but he seems to have missed Sinclair Lewis's “When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”
“So’s what’re we a-going ter do?” Bunny asked.
“Until we come up with a better plan, we better do what we’ve been doing. Lisa and I will keep working the yard sign angle. Neil will keep sending e-mails from The Precious Virtuous Decency League. Buckaroo, how about you round up ten of the worst-smelling street people in Portland. We’ll pay them ten bucks each to walk door to door in an upscale conservative neighborhood passing out those Albee flyers we lifted.”
“That’s a purty expensive proposition. Yer ain’t figgering on a-writing ‘em a check?”
“Bill will spring a hundred dollars per day for a few days. He’s given us a limited budget.”
Lisa shook her head over my prodigality, rose without excusing herself, and trooped toward the bathroom.
“Bunny, I want you following Albee with a camera wherever he goes. We’ve got to dig up something. If nothing else, at least snap a picture of him driving the babysitter home.”
“Why don’t you get your sister to baby-sit for the Albee household?” Neil asked.
I shivered with horror. I could imagine Mom and Pop’s reaction to my prostituting Janet. However, I didn’t want my crew thinking that at age twenty-five, I was afraid of my parents so I turned my answer into a joke. “Mahatma might bite me.”
I glanced around the restaurant. The crowed had thinned and the booths around us were vacant. Lisa had not yet emerged from the bathroom. “My most pressing problem is to get the ballots out of my mailbox. As long as that cop keeps hovering, I don’t dare.” The glimmering of an idea struck me. “Bunny, do you still have that old motorcycle?”
“How’d we buck from ballots ter motorcycles?” Bunny queried as Lisa rejoined the party.
“Humor me. I have a kind of an idea. So do you still own it?”
“I’ve still got it.”
“Why don’t you start it up and see if it runs.”
“That sucker runs like a coyote chasin’ a roadrunner. What kinda tumbleweeds you got rolling ‘round in yer brainbox now, Mike?”
“Give me a day. I need to think this one through.”
“Oh, fuck me, I can feel the big one plunging toward us,” Lisa moaned. “Mike’s gonna hatch a scheme that lands the lot of us in the crowbar motel.”
“Don’t be a crybaby,” I said. “Take it like a big dyke.”
“I can’t,” Lisa wailed. “I’m just a little dyke.”
On that mournful note, our meeting broke up. Lisa and Neil and I dashed through the gusts and piled into my car. The wind was blowing so hard that Lisa had a time pulling the car door shut. The rain hit as I drove out of Shaketown’s parking lot. I asked, “Since the cat’s out of the bag, does anybody mind if we swing past the mailbox and see if it’s being guarded? The wild weather might have driven the cops indoors.”
“I don’t mind,” Neil said. “I want to make sure those ballots get counted—especially since I help register them.”
“That’s right,” Lisa said. “Land my lesbo ass in jail. Sure, Mike, take us to your fuckin’ mailbox, by all means, but you gotta knock off using trite expressions.”
I had to sit forward to see the road. I passed three cars involved in a chain-reaction fender-bender. “You’re referring to my ‘the cat is out of the bag’ remark?”
“Yeah, it’s a stupid cliché. You use them so much that people think you’re not too bright.”
“Shh, Lisa,” Neil whispered. “Don’t tell him he’s a half-wit. You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Back at you, Neil,” I jibed, unable to think up a better retort. “Lisa, using ‘fucking’ as a universal adjective is a no-brainer too.”
“Never fuckin’ mind,” Lisa barked with a sardonic laugh. “Besides you didn’t even use ‘no-brainer’ in its correct sense.”
I kept quiet and concentrated on driving between the white lines. Since I’d become a political worker, I’d increasingly peppered my speech with overused expressions. Their use kept me from sounding too radical, threw my opponents off guard, and gave the average intellect a comfort zone. However, I attempted to use my clichés properly: overused metaphors do call attention to themselves when one misuses them, as in the case of President George W. Bush who stated: “Free societies are hopeful societies. And free societies will be allies against these hateful few who have no conscience, who kill at the whim of a hat.”
My mailbox was so stuffed with ballots that its door stood ajar. The kindly mailman had covered the outer row with a plastic sack. My heart itched to get at them, but I left my craving unscratched and drove insouciantly along the road.
President George W. Bush
“There he is,” Lisa shouted in my ear. “He’s parked under a tree in that unused driveway.”
“He’s sleeping,” Neil said. “Let’s pick up the mail. He’ll never know we were here.”
“I didn’t see his eyeballs,” Lisa protested. “What makes you think he’s sleeping.”
“His head is slumped sideways against his head rest,” Neil said. “He’s a lazy cop who’s discovered a napping place. Let’s get the ballots.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Lisa nearly shrieked. “I’d have a heart attack if he turned on his strobe lights.”
“One of us should check it out,” Neil suggested. “Lisa, why don’t you go see if he’s asleep.”
“Fuck me, no way.”
“I’ll go,” I offered. Before either could protest, I pulled the Honda off the road, jumped out, and ran up the drive. My shoes were sloshing by the time I reached the car.
The cop was asleep, his mouth gaping open. Loud snores echoed through the closed window. Getting the ballots was going to be like stealing his lunch, I thought, until he dashed my hopes by waking with a start. He sat bolt upright and reached for his holster when he saw me standing next to him
“Sorry to disturb you,” I yelled, putting on my Good Samaritan act. “I was driving by, saw you there, and stopped to see if you needed help.”
He rolled down his window. “I’m watching for speeders,” he lied. “Move along and mind your own business.”
“Sure, officer, just wanted to make sure nobody’d shot you.”
Leaving him wide-awake and watchful, I walked dejected back to the car. I was fairly well drenched, and all for nothing, by the time I’d crawled behind my steering wheel.
“Did you wake him up?” Lisa asked.
“If I’d listened to Neil,” I said, “we’d have those ballots in our hot little hands now. I can’t have the postman coming by tomorrow and finding that mailbox still full.”
“So what are you going to do?” Neil asked.
“I’m going to divert the cop from the mailbox,” I admitted.
A terrified expression crossed Lisa’s face.
“Not now,” I reassured her. “Tonight, while you’re home in bed. I don’t want either of you having anything to do with that operation.”
“That’s the way I like it,” Lisa said. “This Stink Tank shit is too scary for me.”
Shrugging off her obvious lie, I drove Neil and Lisa back to campaign headquarters.
I returned to Ladd’s Addition in time for supper and rushed upstairs to examine our family’s ballots. I heard an unfamiliar voice as I entered the kitchen, so I peeked into the front hall. Fabulous in a flowing blue caftan decorated with stars and moons and a tall witch’s hat of matching design, the Bodhisattva Maharini Jones stood in the open doorway bidding Mom, Mahatma, and Janet farewell.
“May the unknowable Ultimate Reality make Her face to shine upon you in any virtuous enterprise until you pass from this plane of existence into the Happy Entirely. Fare thee well, Seeker Donna. Bide you well, Seeker Janet. Goodbye, Seeker Mahatma.”
The Bodhisattva Maharini Jones talked like a pulp science fiction writer’s version of a missionary from another planet. I snickered behind my hand at the dour expression on Janet’s face. I didn’t imagine that Maharini Jones’ lecture had reformed Janet, but Mom was groveling as though the crazy witch had been handing out doses of immortal youth and physical beauty.
Our three ballots were spread upon the hall table, so I grabbed the one addressed to me. As I touched it, Janet brushed past like Alexander Hamilton snubbing Aaron Burr.
“Did you enjoy your social call with the Bodhisattva?”
“Jesus, Tinker Bell,” my sister snorted. “I’d sooner receive a hot enema from the Antichrist.”
Though a risky excursion loomed in my future, I was in a jovial mood. I’d thoroughly defiled Neil’s ethics, and Lisa’s moral codes were slipping. Her constant griping aside, Lisa liked political wickedness. Before I left the office, she’d dragged me into the bathroom and volunteered to pedal to the mailbox.
“No cop will suspect me on a bicycle,” she said.
“It’s a good plan, but it’s getting dark already,” I temporized. I’d once seen Lisa in bicycle shorts, and I didn’t want a second look. “I’m going to try the diversion tonight. If that plan fails, we’ll implement your bicycle scheme tomorrow morning. Hope it stops raining.”
Alexander Hamilton
Aaron Burr
When I reached my room, I heard my phone ringing. Half-hoping and half-expecting a call from Lance, I answered and found myself talking to The Portland Bee’s Sharon Hobbs.
“Mike Dodger?” she asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Mr. Dodger, tomorrow morning we’re running an article about your political chicanery. Do you have any comment?”
My heart shot into my throat and hopped around my tonsils and voice box like a frog. “An article about me?” I croaked. “I’m nobody.” Of course I was the somebody who had nearly gotten her fired, save for Albee’s intervention.
Hobbs read me the gist of her article, and mentioned that the paper would run a photograph. I choked out a quotation that I hoped might minimize the damage. Before hanging up, I asked where she’d gotten my photograph.
“An unnamed source,” she said. “It shows you at the zoo, standing in front of the tiger’s cage.”
I slammed down the receiver. I wanted to barf, rot, or die. Only one human in this world could have provided a picture of me at the zoo. My soul, if I possessed one, cried out in anguish, but I gritted my teeth, stiffened my lip, tightened my sphincters, and stuck out my chin. After grabbing a hasty shower, I dressed in black jeans and a black shirt. I pulled dark sports socks over my feet and tied on black sneakers. Dressed for concealment, I summoned my cohorts.
After selecting a large canvas sack with handles, I climbed the stairs, exited through the back basement door, walked across to the park, and sat on the bench to await Bunny and the Buckaroo. The night was chill and a light drizzle began falling. After another depressingly long wait, the cowboys’ pick-up truck arrived, a purple monstrosity with more lights than the space station and a decrepit motorcycle chained in its bed.
The Buckaroo was driving. Bunny and the Buckaroo were also wearing black jeans, along with dark country shirts and black cowboy hats. Bunny slid into the middle to let me pile into the passenger side. Without a greeting, the Buckaroo surveyed the park with disgust. “Yore homestead gives me the fantods,” he affirmed.
“Did you get lost again?” I asked.
“We done been whirly-gagging ‘round this maze fer a coon’s age,” he moaned.
“You couldn’t have found a less conspicuous getaway vehicle?”
“None that’d haul that there motorsickle,” Bunny said. “Twon’t fit inter our SUV.”
“Your SUV wouldn’t have been less conspicuous.”
The Buckaroo told me not to mind his vehicles, but to direct him out of Ladd’s Addition before he started howling at the moon along with the coyotes.
“Drive around the circle,” I suggested. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
Halfway around the central park I told the Buckaroo to turn right. Thirty seconds later we were driving around a diamond shaped park. I took him three-quarters of the way around. “Turn right again at the next street,” I said. “No, not this one. The next one.”
“Horseshit,” the Buckaroo complained.
“How’re you doin’, Mike?” Bunny asked.
“Don’t talk ‘til he directs us out o’ this goddamn labyrinth,” the Buckaroo griped. We were negotiating another diamond-shaped park.
“Go all the way around,” I said.
“All the way? Are you twirlin’ my spurs?”
“Almost all the way. You’re going to turn right again at that Chinese-looking house.” After he made the turn, complaining constantly as he spun the steering wheel, I told him, “Okay, now left. That’s it. See, there’s Hawthorne Boulevard. That wasn’t so confusing, was it.”
The Buckaroo grunted disagreeably. For gay cow-punchers and bull-ropers, the boys had surprisingly little sense of direction.
I told Bunny and the Buckaroo about the phone call from Sharon Hobbs as we drove to the mailbox.
“Oh, shit, that sounds blamed awful,” Bunny said.
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I muttered. “If I could figure out a way to blow up the presses at The Portland Bee tonight, I’d do it. Barring that, I’ll just wait and see how bad the damage is. I gave them a comment that might minimize it.”
“You reckon Flanders will fire yer no-good ass?”
“I wouldn’t call it firing me exactly. Still, if Hobbs makes me sound like a con artist, Kim can’t keep me on the payroll. He’d be committing political suicide.”
“So how’re yer goin’ to lasso the filly?”
“Not to worry,” I mused with greater imperturbability than I felt. “I’m working on an idea. If I can’t find a way to turn negative publicity to our advantage, I should hang up my Bag of Tricks.”
The Buckaroo parked behind a clump of huckleberry bushes half a mile from my mailbox. They unloaded the unregistered motorcycle, plateless and thoroughly illegal, and while the Buckaroo guarded our getaway vehicle, Bunny walked his motorcycle and I carried my canvas sack up the road.
“It’s a goddamn gullywasher,” Bunny complained.
“It’s hardly drizzling. Barely a mist,” I corrected. “I’m hoping the rain will keep you from raising a trail of dust on this unpaved road.”
“I was counting on raisin’ dust ter hide me whilst I skedaddle,” Bunny said.
The squad car was parked directly in front of my mailbox. He hadn’t parked subtly. Had I been an honest boxholder, I’d need scramble across his hood to retrieve my mail.
The cop was clearly sleeping. I theorized that one cop started napping near the mailbox and word spread around the Portland Police Bureau. Soon Portland’s laziest had learned of a safe place to bag a few Z’s on duty. However, this cop’s siesta was about to come to an abrupt halt.
I signaled Bunny who’d held back a hundred yards. Then I slipped behind the trees so the cop couldn’t see me. Abruptly the most hellish racket rent the peace of the night. Bunny revved the muffler-lacking contraption several times and then tore past my position. He was hitting eighty as he passed the squad car.
I watched as the sleeping policeman stirred and raised his head. The cop looked around dreamily before settling back into his napping posture. I could hardly believe my eyes. A few minutes later, Bunny came roaring back from the other direction. Bunny was traveling more than a hundred, and the noise was so intense that I plugged my ears with my fingers. The cop sat up and stared about him dazedly. While the policeman was yet casting about for whatever had awakened him, Bunny came screaming past a third time.
Apparently the cop’s rest had been badly disturbed. He fired up his engine and strewed gravel as he roared after Bunny, lights strobing and siren wailing. After I’d emptied the mailbox into my canvas sack, taking care to get every ballot, I trotted along the shoulder of the road away from the direction the policeman had taken. When I reached the pickup truck, the Buckaroo and Bunny were chaining the motorcycle onto the truckbed. I punched Lisa’s home number into my phone, and when her sleepy voice responded, I told her she wouldn’t need her bicycle in the morning.
Worn out from my nocturnal exertions, I awakened late on Thursday. Reluctantly I dragged my weary rear out of bed, pulled my robe over my underwear, and stumbled up the stairs. Mahatma met me at the cellar door, joyous to see any member of the family. I pulled one of the three slobbery tennis balls from the dog’s mouth and rolled it toward the front hall. The dog took off with his ears flapping, and I winced at the crash of a floor lamp meeting its end.
Mom and Pop had left for work, and Janet had departed to Grover Cleveland High School. Mom had considerately left the coffee maker set up for me. I switched it on, placed the cast iron skillet on the front gas burner, and let it heat. Mahatma was back, fooling around with his tennis balls on the kitchen floor. Avoiding tripping over the “Family Pet” (as Janet had referred to the pooch) and his toys, I turned my attention to the kitchen table.
After I’d crept into the house during the early hours, I left a note sitting on the kitchen table. I knew that the family would be horrified to read an exposé of me in the newspaper.
Folks,
Don’t be bothered by anything you see in this morning’s newspaper. I have the situation in hand. Don’t wake me. I’m planning to sleep late.
Love,
Mike
Underneath my handwriting, Pop had written, “Don’t worry? Are you kidding?”
Mom had added, “Let us pray for the peace and enlightenment of all living beings.”
Below and somewhat overtopping Mom’s beautiful script lay Janet’s scrawl. “What you have in hand is your dick, Tinker Bell. Wow. That Hobbs bitch fired a rocket up your wazoo.”
The morning Bee had been left folded open to page three of the Metro Section. Contrary to Hobbs’ assertion, the newspaper hadn’t printed the photograph. I scanned the print until my legs wobbled, and I sank into a chair.
Kim Flanders’ Dirty Dodger
Sharon Hobbs
The Portland Bee
Mike Dodger, a paid staff member in the Kim Flanders campaign, has spent the entire campaign season smearing the mayor and harassing him during his speeches, according to sources in Justin T. Albee’s campaign.
Mayor Albee has demanded an apology from his opponent. “I didn’t invent pancakes,” the mayor asserted, “and it’s time that the shirtlifters owned up to it.”
Kim Flanders denied that anyone in his campaign suggested that the mayor had invented pancakes.
When contacted by telephone, Dodger blamed his accusers for spreading urban myths.
“Kim Flanders is an honest politician, but urban myths convince people that all politics is corrupt,” Dodger said. “I’d never do anything to hurt Kim Flanders’ chances of becoming the greatest mayor Portland ever had.”
Other accusations have surfaced against Dodger, however, charges of push-polling, misdirecting Albee back-ers to campaign events, and stealing yard signs.
Weeks earlier, another Flanders staff-er, Lisa Shaw, was caught on video tape tearing down an Albee poster.
I’d been breathing easier until I reached the final two paragraphs. I sat staring at the newspaper, willing the article to vanish from my sight. I’d been prepared for an attack, but I hadn’t expected an outright lie. I had not stolen a single lawn sign (I’d let Bunny and the Buckaroo and Lisa swipe them), and the final dig at Lisa was completely beyond the pale.
As I sat staring, I heard an odd sound behind me and turned my head to see the grease in my frying pan had burst into flames. As I rushed to cover the fire with a lid before it reached the window curtains, my cell phone buzzed. I doused the fire and answered. His voice hard, Bill said he needed to talk to me—and Lisa—right away.
