yustyoking

          “There are two things that are important in politics. The first is money and I can’t remember what the second one is.”

                             – Mark Hanna, Republican political operative, 1895

            I hadn’t realized until now the vast extent to which Anna Bola has dominated Hiram Whiplash’s thinking. Maryland is a big state. There’s no reason for him to keep showing up at the same events as Anna. He could be campaigning on the other end of the state and we’d never know, unless the Oxburg Gazette published an article, and when did that rag ever do anything but flack for local retailers?

            It’s the evening of The Great Debate, the first of four, and I sort of admire Hiram for agreeing, first time out, to debate in Anna’s hometown! That takes a certain kind of balls: part stupidity, part arrogance, some foolhardiness, mostly very brave. The guy’s a soldier. There will be three more debates between these two Democratic hopefuls for State Attorney General— Salisbury on the Eastern Shore, Hagerstown and, of course, Baltimore— but this is numéro uno. Guess if Oxburg is excited?!

            The venue is that famous local landmark, the Oxburg Regal Hotel. A clapboard farmhouse from the 1840’s, it was originally Wilkerson House, the farm where Tom and Mary Wilkerson conspired with Confederate spy Henri Henried to assassinate Lincoln’s Secretary of War Edwin McMasters Stanton. Their attempt resulted in the decapitation of Trigger, Stanton’s horse. The poor beast was done in with a cavalry sword “so sharp you could trim your whiskers on it.” This prompted a later descendant to produce the ever-popular Wilkinson Sword Brand Razorblades.

            I love contemporary historian Dmitri Potl’s description of the couple: “Led into the dock by the Bailiff was a woman so plain, no man would have countenanced a second gaze upon her person. This was her obvious strength, her total lack of lustre. This feature alone allowed Mary W. to pass unnoticed through the Halls of Power.

            “As for the husband, he also appears to the naked eye to be a total non-entity. Graced by God with a limp, a squint in his right eye, a harelip and an attempt to hide same behind a walrus mustachio, it is even at this late date well nigh inconceivable that this lumbering farmer of the Piedmont, smelling of dirt, could have conspired to do anything more complex than feed the chickens.

            “The true Brain behind the endeavor must in all instances have been known Confederate Spy Henri Henried, who led astray these two witless Dupes in Henried’s machinations to behead the Secretary of War. Henried’s whereabouts remain currently Unknown.

            “As for his co-conspirators, the couple make for a pitiful sight in the Witness Box…”

            Hung by the neck until dead, their former home is now the Oxburg Regal Hotel.

            Out front, I count six poor sods puffing away on coffin nails.

             “There but for the grace of God…”

              I smoked my last cigarette (President Obama, please take note) on December 18, 2005. (If I can stop, so can you! I seem to remember a slogan? “Yes, We Can!”)

              Inside the hotel, the audience is a hodge-podge. Whatever I expected, this cross-section of Oxburg family life defies easy description. Perhaps that favors Hiram. Aiming to sit in the front row next to whisperer Jane Jeffries of Riverdale Precinct, it never occurs to me to check whose thin brown leather briefcase occupies the seat to my right. If I sit even one row back, I don’t hear nothin’.

            “Hiya, Jane!” I shout in her ear.

            “I don’t understand why modern political campaigns need to be so expensive,” she states. Every goddam time I see her, the same lament! She always makes me want to scream. Today, it’s “Jane, darling… WHO CARES HOW MUCH IT COSTS? PUT A CORK IN IT, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” And as always, I hold my water and smile sweetly.

          My friend Jane.

          The meeting room is too small to be called a “hall,” it’s just a room full of folding chairs.

          Everyone looks familiar.

          A big event, the local Brahmins are out in force.

          Politician A: “How about a campaign contribution?”

           Politician B: “Okay. How much can you give me?”

           Josie Lambert, campaign manager for Linda Dale-Eckert and president of the Oxburg Young Democrats is, of course, here. She looks amazingly pretty and sounds impressively competent. Seeing her surrounded by gofers jumping at her every request, I realize how inanely foolish I was to let this one get away!

             Incredibly, a giant, clear plastic tarp is masking-taped to the ceiling. When I go to the front desk to ask what that’s about, I get a blank stare from the clerk. “Wait here. I’ll ask,” says he. Returning a minute later, he asks, “Does it matter?”

            “Well, no. I guess it doesn’t matter. I was just curious what is going on.”

            “Can you still hold the meeting?”

             “Yes,” I answer uncertainly. “Why?”

              “The air conditioning caused some condensation on the ceiling. Guests were complaining about getting dripped on. For whatever reason, the plastic seems to help.”

               I return to the debate, prepared to get dripped on.

               When Hiram Whiplash marches up to the folding chair next to me and sweeps up his briefcase in a meaty paw, he isn’t exactly ecstatic. “You!” he mutters. “The nut job!”

              “Now, is that nice?” I ask him.

             “Go sit someplace else, sonny!”

             “It’s a free country,” I taunt, feeling about 16 years old.

              “Who told you that? Our friend Calloway will tell you, ‘Freedom isn’t free, as we all know…’ Where have you been the last ten years, living under a rock? Some shitheads rammed the World Trade Center in 2001.”

               “I don’t want to distract you before the debate…”

               “Why don’t I just punch you in the kisser and get it over with?” he asks, balling his right hand into a fist.

                “Hiram, please…”

                We stop arguing long enough to watch Anna come into the room. She wears a simple black and white checkered housedress, which brings out her bosom.

                Girl Scout Alexandra Kerr belts out the National Anthem on a shiny brass bugle. Don’t ask me what the red tassel is about, I think they come that way from the factory. I’ve never seen a bugle without one.

               Gregory Graves is the moderator, which is something of an insider joke: We all went to school together. A used car salesman, Greg was captain of the high school debating team. His tan suit accommodates the summer weather, but the meeting room is—as stated—air-conditioned.

              “I represent the common people of this great state,” Hiram announces in his introductory remarks. “Anna Bola does not.”

            “You win the primary,” local party boss Arthur Pascoe quips quietly in my right ear, “and you have the nomination.” The split second Hiram went up front to speak, Arthur stole his seat. “You have the nomination, you’re a shoe-in.”

            “What about the general election?” I ask him. I’ve known Arthur since forever, we’re buds, but I still find it disconcerting to be sitting next to someone who weighs 320 pounds.

            “That’s what I’m saying, you’re a shoe-in.”

            “We’re not that strong a bastion of Democratic power!”

            “Democracy starts with a D,” he tells me, at his most Delphic.

            “I have a family,” Hiram declares. He’s a young guy. “We have a dog named Rover! My wife Peg and my two daughters love our house in Dorkhaven. The Dorkhaven neighborhood of Jessup. I believe in equal opportunity employment for all our citizens.”

            “Who doesn’t?” I sigh. Having read Hiram’s campaign brochure, I really wonder if he is prepared to grapple with a single local issue.

            “I should add that Anna Bola represents the special interests. Unicef, Télémondo, Brazilian fashion models, L’Oréal.”

            “You know,” Anna says wryly when it’s her turn, “I don’t recognize this person Hiram describes. My friends…” and you can feel the room warming right there… “how big a foot print do Brazilian fashion models have in Oxburg, Maryland? Maybe I should get out more!”

            Laughter. Applause.

            Having learned nada from historical precedent, Hiram posits such questions to Anna as: “Didn’t you on 12 September last year in fact receive the sum of $9,413 in small denomination bills in a greasy brown paper bag previously containing high caloric but tasty french fries?”

            “No.”

            “No to which part, the money or the fries?”

            “Both!”

            “Did I mention that this transaction took place on the island of Aruba?!”

            “Aruba? I haven’t been to Aruba!”

            “Well… it might have been your representative who received the french fries and cash infusion.” Grimacing at the crowd, his hands held out wide, Hiram seems to be asking for our forbearance. “If it pleases the court— of public opinion, of course— I have here Exhibit A, the greasy brown paper bag—“

            Poor Hiram is all but drowned out by the chorus of groans that fill the room. “Give us something else!!!” a man calls from the crowd. “Move on!”

            “I have the backing of MoveOn.org!” Hiram counters.

            “So do I!” adds Anna, looking surprised.

            “They’ll endorse anybody,” Gregory Graves, the moderator, comments affably, “as long as it’s a liberal Democrat.”

            “The only endorsement I need,” Hiram declares defiantly, “is from you, the voters!”

            That sounds great, but he also claims he’s fighting for “progressive values,” while Anna lists half a dozen specific programs and what she has contributed to each. “In the energy sector, voluntary portfolio standards have to be made mandatory. Just because the oil companies claim they are cleaning up their act doesn’t mean they are actually doing so. We need to pass laws in Maryland to steer ecological development. We’ve got the windy hills, where are the wind turbines? Flat school roofs are perfect locations for solar panels. Some districts already have them. I want all districts to have them!” Fourteen years on the Town Council, the lady knows her stuff.

             This leaves Hiram sounding good, but his résumé looks paper thin. “Anna is in the hands of the power company!” he declares.

              “I’ve heard you say that in one of your stump speeches,” Gregory interjects, seemingly awakening from a long and refreshing sleep. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

              “Well… she uses electricity! Her house is wired. Electric lines have been strung on her street. Here, I have a photo! This gray cable box is mounted on a telephone pole directly in front of her house! If that’s not favoritism, you tell me!”

             “I hate that cable box!” Anna retorts.

             “Never-the-less, it’s there. Somebody put it there. It didn’t grow out of whole earth. I oppose crony capitalism!” Hiram concludes, looking smug.

             “What is your position on legalized gambling?” Anna asks.

              “As Attorney General, I shall support all activities as long as they are legal.”

             “So you support the Maryland Gaming Initiative?” Anna persists.

             “I support free enterprise! ‘Think outside the bun.’ ‘What this country needs is a good 5-cent cigar.’ ‘Who is buried in Grant’s tomb?’ I consider myself a fiscal conservative and a Blue Dog Democrat. We need to get off the gold standard.”

            “But you support legalized gambling?”

             “Anything that accrues revenue to the state cannot be all bad!” Hiram insists, braying like a goat.

             “What is your stand on abortion?”

             “Madam, I am not pregnant!”

              Boos from the audience prompt Hiram to develop a fuller response:

              “As long as abortion is legal, I support it. Legality is my guiding principle.”

              “What about human compassion?” Anna queries.

               We seem to be arriving at the meat and potatoes of the debate.

               “Go to church!” retorts Hiram.

               “That’s your entire answer?” Anna asks doubtfully.

               “I believe in separation of church and state. You can’t legislate emotions. Never in the course of human affairs, has so much bally-hoo been made over so little as the constant litany of complaint regarding same-sex marriage. I would support people marrying their dogs if the Supreme Court ruled those unions legal under the Constitution. ‘In pursuit of life, liberty and happiness’ it clearly states. What is it in the foregoing phrase you do not understand, Anna?

               “Although dogs provide companionship, I oppose buggery, so I don’t think a marriage of that type can be satisfactorily consummated,” Hiram suggests. “Other than that, I say, ‘Let the courts decide.’

               “America is a country of laws!

               “Let loose the dogs of war!

               “Unlike my opponent, I am not trying to move this nation lock, stock and barrel to Russia.”

               “What?!” Anna howls. “Who ever said I was trying to do anything with Russia?”

               “Oh!” Hiram answers, feigning contriteness. “Did I say Russia? I meant Cuba!”

                More boos from the audience.

                At least we’re getting a candid view of the candidates.

                “I think Anna scored a point there,” Arthur whispers confidentially in my ear.

               “How about cleaning up the bay?” a gruff waterman demands.

                “Absolutely!” Anna calls out.

                “Within the confines of budgetary constraints!” counters Hiram. “Let’s not do like California and bankrupt the state trying to clean the beaches.”

                 “Um… I’m not sure that is accurate,” Gregory Graves, the moderator, interjects.

                 “Virginia and Delaware must do their part!” Hiram insists. “I will not throw money at an insolvable problem.”

                 “We have the resources. We should do it,” Anna declares. “In conjunction with our neighbors, certainly, but we mustn’t be afraid to act unilaterally, if need be. We should make it a priority. Sewage run-off and fertilizer run-off must be totally curtailed. For our fishermen, for our children, and… for us all!”

                  “Here! Here!”

                 “Sounds expensive!” snaps Hiram, looking askance. “This is why you should elect me! I’m prepared from Day One to work with every state legislator in Annapolis or local politician to make Maryland the great state we know it can be! And I’m not afraid to say so! Straight up and down. That’s all I’m saying. Legalize gambling and use those profits to clean up the bay!

                 “Sound solutions. That’s what we Democrats need to take with us to Annapolis!”

                  Hiram’s campaign manager has seeded the audience with his supporters. Whenever Hiram reaches an applause line, they shriek their enthusiasm, they clap thunderously. If elections were measured in decibels, he’d walk away with it!

                   I see Anna kind of hunching over in a crouch and hear her shout, “You deserve a candidate who can WIN in November!

                   “Fight the politics of blame!” she continues. “It’s not the fault of immigrants, unwed mothers, low income wage-earners, firefighters, gays and hypochondriacs that our political system is in disarray and our state economy a shambles. That’s the fault of us, the politicians! We’re responsible for sound government and fiscal restraint. Where that is lacking, the fault is ours!

                   “When society fails, it is the political establishment that has failed you, the voters!

                   “I’m tired of hearing our shortcomings blamed on day laborers from South America!”

                   Good old Anna! She’s hit a hole-in-one!

                    “It’s the political establishment’s responsibility to succeed! The Republicans in Annapolis don’t seem to get that!”

                     “Anna to Annapolis! Anna to Annapolis! Anna to Annapolis!” our interns begin chanting, marching in a tight circle at the back of the room.

                    “Quiet, please!” exceedingly tall Sergeant at Arms Teddy Goliath requests, rushing on stage and commandeering the microphone.

                     A single pair of hands can be heard clapping. It’s good someone favors his intervention. 

                    Shrugging his shoulders, he stalks off-stage.

                    “What about the Casey Anthony case?” a lady wants to know.

                    “Guilty as charged,” Hiram announces.

                     “But she was acquitted,” the same woman’s voice asks from the audience.

                      “Declare a mistrial. Go to retrial,” says Hiram.

                      “It’s a tragedy either way,” explains Anna. “Nothing will bring back that poor child.”

                      “Outlaw swimming pools!” a man suggests.

                      “Increase swimming pool regulation,” someone else counters.

                      “Implement a swimming pool tax!”

                      “Raise the swimming pool tax!”

                       “Abolish the swimming pool tax!”

                       “Outlaw children!”

                       “Boo!”

                      “Justice must be served!” says Hiram.

                       “Human compassion should guide us in our endeavors,” explains Anna.

                       “I cannot countenance wasting tax payer money, but a retrial is in order,” insists Hiram. “She’s guilty. We just don’t know it yet.”

                      “What about—“

                      “Go duct tape your mouth!” Hiram shouts.

                      Silence.

                      “W-What?” Gregory, the moderator, asks with a start.

                       “I didn’t mean that. I misspoke! I was joking, of course,” Hiram insists.

                        “I think that about ends our debate for this evening,” Gregory exclaims in pearly tones dripping with bonhomie. “On behalf of the Township of Oxburg, we’d like to thank our two contenders for the Democratic primary…”

                       “Anna nailed it,” Arthur rumbles contentedly as we wait for the aisle to clear.

                    “It was Hiram’s to lose,” I answer slowly, thinking aloud, “and he lost it.”

                    “Why are you still here?!” a janitor in olive green overalls exclaims, looking aghast. Pointing at his watch comically, he bellows incredulously, “I was supposed to clean room 20 minute ago! Please hurry up you momma and leave!”

                     All politics is local: The political elite of Oxburg is being chased out of the premier hotel by a janitor!

                    That’s our town in a nutshell.

                                                         *