yustyoking

 

            One of our supporters sends us Hiram Whiplash’s campaign brochure. Hiram is running in the Democratic primary against our candidate, Anna Bola. Each wants to win the primary, so he or she can compete against the Republicans in the general election, for the position of State Attorney General.  Hiram’s brochure is a 4-inch by 6-inch full-color foldout. It has photos of Hiram with his kids, smiley close-ups and emphasizes his years of public service. While I spent my Army career fighting insurgents, rescuing refugees, pulling my pud and negotiating peace accords, Hiram worked 15 years as a JAG officer. The Judge Advocate General’s office is a good background in paralegal for someone running for A.G. Not a perfect fit, mind you, but at least something judicial. He also brags about serving on a minority rights committee by direct appointment of the president.

            “This sounds very impressive,” I tell Eric, campaign manager honcho extraordinary. “On paper, Hiram sounds like a formidable opponent. I’ve served in the military. Hiram’s JAG experience may be nothing but a desk job, for all anyone knows.”

            “It doesn’t matter,” Eric tells me. “If we run the campaign we want to have, nothing can compete. The oppo will be swamped. It’ll be a rout. Of course, we can’t always fulfill all the details of an ideal campaign.

            “Ideally, every household in the Great State of Maryland will get a mailer or a personal visit from someone affiliated with our campaign. They’ll participate in a meet-and-greet with Anna, see her at a campaign event or receive a welcoming telephone call. If nothing else, we can do the mailers and phone calls. The point is, we need to contact every single voter in one form or another. This requires manpower. You have no doubt noticed me interviewing in person and by phone several dozen interns from the University of Maryland. My A Team, they in turn will recruit more summer interns until we reach my stated goal of 300 campaign interns. Using their own personal cell phones at carefully scripted telemarketing marathons, they should blanket the state. Anna can sign that many letters of recommendation before these kids return to college.

            “Since I see that you are worrying, Kevin, rest assured that the people who do my TV commercials will make Anna sound like the biggest thing since the Coming of Christ. Warm and fuzzy, tough on crime and resilient in the face of adversity, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, even I will begin to believe Anna has super powers. The TV ads will require an enormous campaign chest loaded with gold doubloons, which, unfortunately, we do not at this time have.

            “So stop worrying and drive these yard signs to the addresses on the lists I’m giving you.”

            Not a local resident, Eric doesn’t seem to realize that his predecessor Amy has had me carting yard signs for weeks before he arrived. “There’s a technique to it,” I tell him.

            “Oh?” Eric says, turning his pale eyes in my direction. Anything having to do with technique interests him.

            “You hold the sign out in front of you like this. When people open the door, they laugh. The effect is that you’re naked and hiding behind the sign.”

            “Streakers for Anna,” Eric mumbles, intrigued.

            Driving around the local neighborhoods, my street map ever ready, I cover Oxburg, Chevy Chase, Silver Spring and Rockville. Everything from residential to strip mall, high end to suburban sprawl, winding country road to major artery. These signs aren’t destined for grass islands in the center of the street. Each sign has been requested by a supporter answering Anna’s election appeal. There are little red boxes on the contribution envelope for volunteering, hosting an event or receiving a yard sign. These people have put a check mark in the latter.

            The house I like best is a modern Frank Lloyd Wright knock-off with a gold plaque by the door. It states

                                               On this site

                                                  In 1864

                                         Nothing happened

                                                 

            That takes balls. One thing all of the addresses have in common is their peculiarity. Driving past a line of houses, Anna’s supporter invariably lives in the funky abode with the clay pots on the doorstep, the park bench situated on the lawn, the wind chime, the dogs baying in the window, the Christmas lights lining the gutter in June, the lawn trolls, glazed pavers and a driveway littered with junk.

             Those houses.

            If the homeowner is present, they are no less funky. Sometimes I think half of Anna’s supporters are Jewish. A mezuzah on the door post sends me into lyrical recitations in Hebrew. 

            “Oh, I don’t speak Hebrew,” the person at the door stammers, embarrassed.

            “Hi,” I’ll say, “I’m Kevin Feingold, a volunteer delivering yard signs for the Anna Bola campaign.”

            “O-o-okay-y-y,” people respond, apparently expecting me to ask for money.

            “May I give you the sign?” I ask, handing it over.

            “Oh!… Yes, certainly,” everyone says, relieved that I’m not asking for money.

*

            At Saigon Terrace, where I’m delivering a yard sign to a man named Ky, I pass a Vietnamese woman wearing a bright white T-shirt. In bold black letters, the text reads

                                                      SO FAR

                                                   HE SUCKS  

where the “O” in “SO” has been replaced by Obama’s Sun Rising Over the Road to Hope campaign symbol.

*

            One of the names on my list is Andersson. You can’t get any more Swedish than that. The house is a faux Colonial mansion, just the kind of place an over-extended Swedish immigrant would rent or buy. I make up my mind to take a chance. Ringing the doorbell, I’m confronted by a black maid. “D-Do you speak Swedish?” I ask doubtfully.

            “Ah, honey,” she drawls, “y’all wait a minute! Lars! There’s somebody here about Sweden.”

            “Yes?” a brutish, very tall young college boy with startling blue eyes, asks me.

            “Svenska,” I say stupidly. “Förlåt, Anna Bola kampagnen har skickat hit mig att tilldela skyltar.” (Swedish… I’m sorry, the Anna Bola campaign has sent me here to deliver signs.)

            “What about it?” he asks.

            “Här har ni skylten.” (Here’s your sign.)

            “What are we supposed to do with it?” he asks suspiciously, “Put it on the lawn?”

            “Y-Yes!”

            “Okay! We will!”

            “Hej på er! Vi hörs och syns!” (Best wishes! See you later!)

            “Yeah, yeah, goodbye!” he says, closing the door in my face.

             It felt neat to get to speak Swedish again!  

            Chugging water bottles, studying the map, the heat and humidity are awesome.

            I also get a kick out of seeing some of the signs I previously delivered, particularly in Oxburg, where there’s a tradition of tweaking the message. There’s a sign that states “Simon Cowell Loves Anna Bola For Attorney General.”

Another says

                                                      I 2 AM 4      

                                                    Anna Bola 

 

Or the one telling us 

                                    Anna Bola For Attorney General

                                      –     –     –     –     –     –     –     –    –    –

                                              Beware of Dog                                         

                                                             *

            I knock on Dr. Isaac Sack’s screen door.

            “You just got paint on your knuckle,” he informs me genially, carefully opening the door from within. Sure enough, my finger has a smudge of dark green paint, the same color as the door. “I haven’t had time to put up the wet paint sign,” Dr. Sacks explains. Inviting me in, he hands me a paper towel and says, “Both my dad and my aunt are elderly and have medical issues. I’ve invited 60 people to the event, but I’m afraid it’s going to be a bust.”

            “A meet-and-greet at your home?” I guess. “These things aren’t meant to be straightjackets. If you need to cancel—“

            “Is Anna canceling?” Dr. Sacks asks, horrified.

            “No, no, no!” I flounder. (I don’t even know when it’s scheduled for!) “What can we do? To help?”

            “I’ve sent out 60 invitations, but only a handful have responded. I need someone to telephone people on my list and get a commitment. That they’ll come.”

            “We can do that at the campaign,” I suggest. “Our summer interns will make the calls.”

            “Only, my mailing list lacks phone numbers, and God only knows when I’ll have time to track them down.”

            “We have a Democratic voter data base. E-mail us the names and addresses. We’ll punch up the phone numbers. Not a problem!” I assure him.

            A very worried Dr. Sacks begins to look relieved.

            “Who are you?!” asks his wife, coming into the living room. Tough lady.

            “I’m delivering a yard sign—“

            “Oh! Of course. The Anna Banana campaign… Well… hello!” she says, friendly as chestnuts by an open fire.

            Later, exhausted, I telephone Eric from home and tell him to have someone call Dr. Sacks immediately, if not sooner. We have to help him contact his guest list by telephone. Naturally, I’m leaving Eric a message. I know better than to expect him to answer his phone.

            Once, in a similar fix, Amy had me address 150 anonymous white envelopes. We wanted them to appear as if they came from Mrs. Franklin, who was hosting the event, not from the campaign. With Amy gone and the campaign in the hands of mathematicians, it’s definitely a colder experience. On the plus side, Eric is the one who said, “You have to service your voter base and make the choir sing!”

            While Amy said, “We concentrate on convincing the undecideds. Basically, once someone is an Anna supporter, we ignore them.”

            Two very different philosophies.

            Now, Eric’s will be put to the test.

            He and his assistant Judith are cold fish. “How’d you like the parade?” Judith asks me. Apparently, she was there, although I never noticed.

            “I liked Jackson Jones,” I tell her. “Great speech!”

            “Oh, I didn’t like it,” she replies. “I prefer reasoned argument. Jackson is too much fire and brimstone.”

            Fuck! Here we go again. Math geniuses!

            “I need that fire to heat up my coals,” I say, mock apologetic. That makes Eric laugh.

            “Kevin needs a fiery speech to get hot,” he chuckles.

            Lacking warmth, I don’t know how helpful this campaign is going to be to someone like Dr. Sacks.

*

            Employing public sources and creative use of the telephone, I locate the JAG office of the National Guard Reserve where Hiram Whiplash so patriotically serves. JAG is accessible to the general public since some cases impinge on civilians. When I tell the clerk I’m ex-military, he puts me through to Hiram’s commanding officer.

            “What seems to be the problem?” this gentleman asks me. “Do you wish to file a complaint?”

            “No. As a voter, I simply want to fathom the extent of Hiram Whiplash’s duties, to judge his qualifications for holding elective office in the State of Maryland.”

            “Well, I certainly cannot comment on that,” Hiram’s commander says, weighing his options. “Captain Whiplash is a meaningful addition to this office. We fight a constant backlog of cases. Captain Whiplash isn’t afraid to put in the long hours.”

            “Is it a desk job?”

            “It is most assuredly a desk job.”

            I thank the man.

            “Are you a movie buff?” he asks me.

            I begin to laugh. “Deep into my second career, I am a screenwriter. Yes, I am definitely a movie buff.”

            “I only ask because I’d say our office is a lot closer to A Few Good Men than Top Gun.”

            “I understand.”

            Anna is on the campaign trail, shaking down corporations for the big money needed to finance TV advertising. I wonder: What is she promising them in return?

            I’m delighted that Eric trusts me enough to hand me an assignment and leave me to run my own show. I enjoy the work, but never in my wildest dreams, had I expected to be lonely out on the campaign trail. Driving around delivering yard signs, I do become desperate for ever more human contact.

*

            No one home, I prop a yard sign against the stucco wall of a suburban dwelling. Sometimes, I’ll actually plant the sign in the front yard. This time, I can’t figure out where they’d like to put it. As I return to my car, I see her.

            She is sitting across the street in a beige compact. Watching her through the windshield of her car, two features strike me, setting my heart a-flutter. She is wearing ridiculous heart-shaped sunglasses. And she is laughing. Not talking-on-the-phone laughing, not listening-to-the-radio laughing, just sitting by herself, convulsed in mirth.

            THAT IS A VERY NEUROTIC LADY WHO IS NOT GOING TO BE ANY FUN.

            My immediate reaction. If I get involved with her, she is going to be high-maintenance, lead me a wild chase, turn me on and break my heart, but (1) it doesn’t lead anywhere and (2) it won’t be much fun.

            I’m totally devastated.

            She’s everything that’s wrong in a friend, my polar opposite. All I do is work, all she does is play. It’s obvious that’s what she’s doing now. Having fun. Her way. Something is going on, I have no idea what.

             SHE’S LAUGHING. SHE’S SO BEAUTIFUL.

             I’m captivated. She owns me.

            As I approach, she keeps fooling around with the car door. She opens it. She closes it. She opens it again. Finally, one shapely leg arches out. A sandaled foot touches the pavement. And what a sandal! One of those Roman toga numbers with tight leather thongs crawling up the calf. Turning sideways in her seat, she crosses her right leg over her left and starts bouncing her foot.

            “I saw you eyeballing me! What are you looking at, snarky?! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” she calls out, wrinkling her nose.

            I am going ballistic!!!

            A comparison shopper, this is what I’ve been looking for! Ever since my high school sweetheart and long-term nemesis Peggy Sue Cockburn died, I have sought a replacement pitcher who will tease me, drive me crazy, treat me like an idiot and give me a hard-on. Someone young and non-threatening who will make me feel like a tongue-tied teenager again.  

            “What are you, a mime?” she taunts me. “Can’t you talk? Cat got your tongue? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            “Hi!” I say walking up to her in my khaki cargo shorts, white T-shirt and sneakers. “You’re so great. You’re amazing. I mean, I saw you sitting here laughing and I thought, ‘Oh my god, she’s wonderful!’ I-I’m sorry.”

            “You’re mad!” she lisps. Looking down at her red painted fingernails, she lifts her arms and waves her hands in my face. “You’re so wired! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! You ought to close your mouth before a fly buzzes in there and sticks in your throat!”

            That’s when I realize that my jaw aches. I’ve been staring at her with my mouth hanging open. Up close, I see she is much younger than I anticipated. She has a tiny, round face with outsized features. I can’t see her eyes, but her nose, her lips and her apple cheeks are squarely in evidence.

             Me like!

            “I-I’m sorry! I, I love it when you laugh,” I tell her, feeling myself blush.

            I love more than her laughter. I love her legs, her arms, her hands, her face, her blond hair, every part of her compact little body. Sitting sideways in the driver’s seat, she’s wearing a white, frilly, cotton summer frock.

            “I drove over here,” she explains with a wave of her hand. “Ricky Williams has been my boyfriend for the last three weeks, but he won’t commit! He says his mom will kill him if I come around. She’s such a bitch! So this morning, after class, I told him, ‘Ricky, Ticky-poo, if you won’t give me your home address, I’m leaving for California, like, tomorrow. Right after school lets out. I’m not waiting around here when I can drive to California!’ That’s when he gave me this address! See the sign? He lives here! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            Intelligence isn’t handed out like door prizes, where everyone gets one. Besides, she’s “funny”: A lady with an agenda, she uses laughter as an aphrodisiac.

            Definitely my kind of girl. “Gosh, you’re so neat!” I tell her. “What, what’s your name?”

            “I’m Carrie!” she smiles.

            “Hi! I’m Kevin.”

            “Kerim?”

            “Kevin.”

            “Oh, okay!”

            I look over at the house across the street and see the trad mushroom-shaped sign with the family name painted in black. “Williams.” Well, well… little Ricky Williams doesn’t want Carrie showing up at his house. Gad! I wouldn’t want her showing up at my house, either! My mother would have a heart attack. Carrie is every mother’s worst nightmare.

             “You’re great,” I tell her. I sit down at her feet, right in the middle of the street. The pavement is hot and sticky under my shorts. Fortunately, it’s dead quiet, not a breath of traffic.

              LOOKING AT SOMEBODY WEARING HEART-SHAPED SUNGLASSES DOES PUSH MY BUTTONS.

              “Do you carry a wallet?” she asks me. “Not everybody carries a wallet. I was just wondering if you do, ‘cause… Huh? Do ya? Can I see it?”

            I fish out my wallet.

            “How much money do you carry around? ‘Cause different people carry around different amounts, and I was just wondering how much you carry around, Kevy…”

            “Well, it’s, I…”

            “Show me! Take out your money!” she says, her foot bobbing inches from my face, her hands making violent circles in the air, her mouth constantly breaking into a triumphant smile.

            “Please!” Desperate, panting, I pull out my bills.

            With a flip of the wrist, she shoves her left hand in my face, palm up. Flexing her fingers, she waits, laughing at me behind her crazy sunglasses.

            “H-Here!” I say helplessly, handing over my money. “It’s a… a twenty and a ten and a five and some… ones,” I choke, barely able to speak, my mouth is so dry.

            “This is so weird!” she assures me. “You’re such a go-go! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            If Carrie is young and dumb, what does that make me? A masochist?

            “I-I’ve got to go,” I say, gazing up at her.

            “I’m gonna go ring the doorbell and visit Ricky, Ticky-poo! Then, when I finish with that, I’m gonna come visit you! Go straight home and wait for me!” she instructs, pulling off the heart-shaped sunglasses and staring deep into my eyes.

            Gulp!

            Her eyes are sky-blue. My kind of loser, I feel like I never want to leave. I never want to stop staring into her baby blues. My penis is hard as a rock. I feel dizzy with so much blood in an unaccustomed place! Lord help me! Eureka!!!

            (She’s still human. Yes, she’s wearing blue eyeliner, but late nights, booze, drugs or hay fever have left her with bags under her eyes and puffy lids. I find these flaws endearing.)

            “D’you have money in the bank?”

            “I have money in the bank,” I tell her, swatting away gnats. The humidity’s a killer.

            “Because people always say they have money in the bank,” she enumerates, punctuating each phrase with an emphatic up-and-down motion of her hand. “But when I go to borrow $1,000, they never have any money!”

            “I have money in the bank!” I insist. She’s driving me batty with this line of questioning.

            “How much money do you have in the bank?” she demands. Now she sounds like an auditor from the IRS.

            “I have money in the bank! I have $20,000 in the bank.”

            “No, you don’t,” she joshes me incredulously. Her foot stops bobbing. Leaning forward, she slaps me playfully upside the head. “You’re as bad a liar as everybody else!”

            “Carrie! You’re driving me nuts!”

            “O-o-o-oh??? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            “I have $21,560 in the bank as of last Wednesday,” I shout, exasperated.

            She tweaks me on the nose. “Liar, liar, house on fire!”

            “I will take you to the bank and show you.”

            “But it won’t be in cash! It won’t be in cash,” she chants, giving me a noogie.

              It feels like my cock is going to explode.

            “I want cash!” she sings, drumming on the door frame.

             “I will give you whatever you want!!!”

            “If I want to go to Europe this summer…” she asks me in a scratchy,

sing-song voice, “will you pay my way?”

            “If.. you want to… go to… Europe this summer,” I recite, nailed to the spot by her iron gaze, “I will… pay your way!”

            “Oh,” she opines, “I thought you might want to!”

            Kirk to Picard: Resistance is futile.

            “My god, Carrie! I just met you ten minutes ago and you’ve got me paying for your trip to Europe. I love you! I love everything about you!”

            “Well, gooo-o-o-ood,” she chortles. “What’s your home address and phone number?”

              Now I know how Ricky must feel!

             “Here’s my cell number,” I tell her. “I live with my mom. She’s not an easy lady to get along with…”

             “They never are, Kevy-poo!” Carrie assures me. “I understand, honey pot! Is there a Starbucks where you live?”

             “Well… yes!”

              “I’ll meet you at Starbucks. We need to talk about my trip to Europe. I’ll help you with the details!”

             “Are you serious? Oh, Carrie! Thank you,” I babble, finally getting up from the street. “I’ll do anything for you!”

            “That’s not my fault,” she drawls. I realize she has a soft South Carolina accent.

           “Oh, no! I mean, yes! Please! Of course! I’m just glad for any time we… can spend … together. Carrie.”

           I love the way she twists me around her little finger. She’s putting real time and effort into this new-found relationship. I’m impressed, this lady has both the technique and the panache down pat!

          Waltzing up to me, she runs her left hand down the side of my face. Reaching over my shoulder, she massages the bump on the back of my head. “I like hanging out with you!” she announces. Breaking away, she approaches the Williams residence, giving me an admirable view of her gorgeous little butt swinging left and right under her cotton dress.

           Give the lady an A+ in seduction.

           Grrrowlll !!!

            I’m in love!

*