yustyoking

  

            On January 1, 2012, after 14 years on the Oxburg Town Council, Ms. Anna Bola resigns her position to become Attorney General of the Great State of Maryland. (Applause!) With only four people on the Council, the town by-laws require a special election. I could say, “This is that story,” but the truth is, I’ve been way too busy cleaning and repairing my mom’s house to pay any attention. Yard signs (!) for Suzanna Son have sprung up on every street corner. (I was the sign guy for the Bola campaign.) Robocalls clog the chip in our telephone answering machine: “Hi, I’m Ted Hugo and I want you to vote for Suzanna Son…I’m Derek Derrière, and I want your vote for Oxburg’s next Town Council member, Paulie Marple!… This is State Senator Leonora Pix suggesting you join me in supporting Marcia Weinglass for the Oxburg Town Council. Marcia has years of experience…” I’ll bet she does!

            One Saturday afternoon, as I pile rotting wood panels from our basement by the curb, Iraqi War veteran Taylor Mitchell, a chiseled black dude with a shaved head, crosses the street to speak to me. My equally shaved head and my dust mask, my worn camo pants and white tee bring a smile to the faces of both Taylor and the fat guy with a clipboard acting as his campaign manager. The fat guy’s black tee sports the slogan, in white letters:

                                                   ASK ME ABOUT IRAQ 

            Irritated at somebody selling something, unwashed and exhausted, I grouse, “Tell me what you need, gentlemen! Just tell me what you need!”

            That’s when Taylor explains his mission and gives me his colorfully printed cardboard flier.

            Taking off my dust mask, I smile and say, “You’re running for Town Council? Good for you! Some new blood would do them good.”

            “I helped form the Provisional Government in Iraq.”

            “Ouch!” I quip. “I wouldn’t tell people that in this neighborhood. They’re anti-military and we all know how things went with the Iraqi Provisional Government. Thomas E. Ricks’ Fiasco has practically been required reading.”

            Taylor’s face falls, but he soldiers bravely on: “We need to open a fresh front on the myriad problems facing this township! We need to marshal our troops and set our sights on clear goals. It’s time to direct our firepower—”

            “Look, just tell people you can bring a fresh perspective to a group of entrenched bureaucrats,” I suggest. “Don’t even bring up the fact that they are megalomaniacs.”

            Embarrassed, both candidate and campaign manager have the good grace to laugh. They check my address off their list and walk up the hill to try their luck with other woters.

            In the next two weeks, we get daily candidate fliers in the mail. Still thinking like an Iraqi, Taylor sends us a letter bragging about how many endorsements he’s received from state officials. One sentence is so far outside the box, I have to quote it verbatim: “I am currently employed by Arkan, LLS investigating war crimes and incidents of sexual assault by military personnel in Iraq.” Is that… American military personnel? Or the new Iraqi Army and police force? Maybe Taylor figures people will get so upset, they’ll get off their butts and visit his website. I sure wouldn’t have written that in my appeal. He’s also “Director of Central Maryland Black Veterans For Obama.” Well, Oxburg is in central Maryland, he got that right.

            So when our local rag The Oxburg Sentinel announces a candidates’ debate, I tell my mom to schedule an early din-din. I want to see these Joes in action:

             Suzanna Son – Asian-American, 20-something, the only millennial running for office

             Taylor Mitchell – black, Iraqi War vet

             Jeeter Johnson – the “other” black, a ghetto, breakout NBA star sidelined by a knee injury

             Ernst Stavro Glickman – the unabashedly Jewish candidate

             Marcia Weinglass – the women’s Jewish candidate

             Paulie Marple – Casper Milquetoast in a suit, he kept showing up to work on the Anna Bola campaign

            David Davis – Ph. D., Tea Party candidate, a fourth generation Ron Paul clone

            The Ye Olde Firehouse Museum debate is an extremely physical event: When David Davis castigates Ernst Stavro Glickman on-stage for his campaign slogan—“Don’t Be A Prick / Vote For Glick”—the Glickman pulls a cattle prod from a blue canvas bag at his feet and zaps Davis one. When Asian-American candidate Suzanna Son— easily the brightest person in the room— goes to work on Marcia Weinglass, Marcia empties the contents of her plastic water bottle on Suzanna’s head. Jeeter Johnson takes occasional swings at Paulie Marple, in between exchanging vituperative perjoratives and cracking  “Yo mama” jokes with fellow-black Taylor Mitchell:

            “Honky-lover!”

            “Who’s a honky-lover, you Uncle Tom?”

            “You about as black as O-bama, whiteboy!”

            “Yo mama’s mouth so big, it won’t fit ina trunk o’ mah car!”

              In the beginning, moderator and museum curator Sylvia Sims tries to stop the mayhem, but finally, she simply leaves the candidates to duke it out among themselves. She’s all dressed up, sporting a bouffant ‘do, so no one can blame her. “Decorum!” she occasionally shouts, but there’s no decorum.

                Taylor Mitchell, the only candidate openly touting his work developing a Provisional Government in Iraq—“Boy, we all know how that turned out!” sneers Jeeter—says, in lieu of an apology, “Listen, we candidates may seem a little boorish, but in Afghanistan, people shoot their political opponents!… At least we don’t do that! “ he quickly adds as people at the back of the hall make a beeline for the exits.

               (Suzanna Son, a jogger, sports a bright red water bottle that says, “Run For Your Life!”)

              “Harrumph!” grunts precinct captain Arthur Pascoe, grossly overweight, sitting next to me in the front row. “This is a motley crew to be running for Town Council.”

               “Even if we deserve better,” I whisper, “obviously we’re not getting it.”

               “It?” asks Arthur, perennially obtuse. “What does ‘it’ mean?”

               “A reasonable candidate for Anna’s seat.”

               “Aha!”

               “Aha? What does ‘Aha’ mean?” I wonder, but keep my mouth shut.

                Taking a page from Speaker of the House John A. Boehner’s playbook, Paulie Marple bursts into tears every few minutes. Not while he’s under attack and not while he’s speaking, but apparently he takes his cues from voices inside his head: Nothing the rest of us can see or hear accounts for this geyser of tears.

               Marcia Weinglass: “Oxburg’s school system is the second largest employer in the township, second only to the U.S. Government. I will fast track a solution to our school problems, even at the cost of delaying other programs!”

                Paulie Marple: “I won’t just go along with the majority. I want to hear divergent opinions!”

                David Davis: “And then you’ll side with the majority!”

               When asked to define what makes him an acceptable candidate for Town Council, Jeeter replies, ‘Whassa mattah, O-blam-a, can’t take it?”

              “That doesn’t really define you,” moderator Sylvia Sims complains.

             “Oh? I think it do!” counters Jeeter— and most of the audience agrees. “Yo’ want frostbite, lady, y’all go outside!”

              “You see,” Arthur wheezes, “normally that kind of speech would disqualify a person, but we’re talking about a position on the Town Council here.”

               I’m impressed in spite of myself. Instead of the usual dullards and burnouts, we have seven candidates who actually have something on the ball. Why they want to run for Town Council, God only knows.

               Looking up at the stage, Arthur says,” It really depends on who endorses you. The person with the best endorsement wins. Every time.”

               Huh? Is that true? It sounds like b.s. to me, but I zip my lips.

               Paulie Marple: “We have a tendency to redo everything, repave streets, rebuild schools, replant trees, replace park benches…”

               David Davis: “The town should provide basic services, not finance capital projects.”

                Suzanna Son: “Currently, we’re borrowing to finance debt. Raising our debt ceiling has to be a last resort. We’re already at 8% equity. At 10%, we risk losing our Triple-A rating… It’s time to bring everyone to the table on this.”

                “I be there!” booms Jeeter from the stage, flashing his Michael Jordans for us to admire. “I speaks my mind! I one hi-top dude!”

                “I’ve been to Russia!” counters Ernst Stavro Glickman. Although some in the audience wonder if this is a swipe at the Politburo mentality of the sitting Council members, Arthur shakes his head knowingly.

                David Davis: “This meeting is pantywaist! Why, the Occupy Movement uses Human Microphones. None of this electrical P.A. system crap. ‘Public Address,’ my ass! Human mikes! The speaker at the front says, ‘We need to send a message to Wall Street!’ People in the front row pass it on back! By the time it reaches the cheap seats, what they hear is, ‘What’s selling at Wal-Mart?’ You can’t buy that kind of democracy!”

               Taylor Mitchell: “Now that one dance company in our area is staging a satire on reality TV and another has choreographed a tribute to the agonies of the Vietnam War, I have asked the Le Favre Dance & Shoe Repository to step forward and— with your consent— they will now give us a three-minute interpretive dance performance regarding this special election.”

              Grunting audibly “We are the 99%,” three gray-clad, ghostly figures come marching up the side aisles. Wearing Kabuki masks and writhing sinuously, they have those of us in the audience squirming uneasily in our seats. Filling the open space between the front row and the stage, they present three minutes of sexually-charged gymnastics. After which moderator Sylvia Sims gulps, “Well, that was refreshing!”

             “This is something that gets me in a party-down mood!” adds Taylor.

              Ernst Stavro Glickman: “The Oxburg Sentinel considers me one of 2011’s Top 10 Twitterati! I don’t go to the bathroom without tweeting about it. I’ve already sent three tweets since the start of this debate!”

             “Let me explain why I oppose making The 1812 Highway into a 6-lane road,” says Suzanna Son. “Where are the additional cars going to go when they reach Rockville Pike on the one end and Natalie Woods Parkway on the other? Rockville Pike is already running at full capacity. Natalie Woods Parkway has plenty of unused potential, but as we are all too aware, Natalie Woods Parkway doesn’t go anywhere! It starts in Oxburg and ends seven blocks short of the backside of White Flint Mall. No wonder no one ever drives beyond Oxburg, north on The 1812 Highway! Zero instant gratification!”

              Finally, I think, someone with a degree of expertise!

             “I say, fuck’um,” jeers Jeeter.

             “Ah, now is that any way to talk?” demands Paulie Marple, the best-connected of the candidates. Paulie knows everybody. He and Jeeter dance across the stage, shadowboxing.

             Marcia Weinglass: “Since the year 2000, we’ve lost 2/3 of our affordable housing.”

              Jeeter Johnson: (still punching the air) “That what I talkin’ about!”

              Suzanna Son: “A third of our roads, all our major arterials, are state-owned and financed. The Maryland Department of Highways controls our streets and our lives!”

              Marcia Weinglass: “We have to use ‘soft power’ in our dealings with Annapolis, since we really don’t have any ‘hard power.’ A charm offensive. We need to remind the state legislature that the Greater Washington area is one of the economic engines of Maryland.”

              David Davis: “Soft power, my fanny! I was once one of those crappy Democrats! We have no friends in Annapolis and it’s time for us to admit it. Local initiative is the only way!”

              You have to give them some credit, they all belong to IFO, one of the few organizations outside the military that is totally honest right from the get-go: the International Federation of Opportunists. Talk about transforming a negative to a positive! Wise beyond their station, heeding the advice of their campaign managers, these clowns up on the stage can now proudly admit to the organization’s motto:

                        “We See An Opportunity, We Grab It!” 

               In today’s cloistered, cluttered world, that proclamation feels like a breath of fresh, mountain air.

             Of course, none of them sing R&B as prettily as Obama.

             Town Council, Town Council, compare these guys to the Republican candidates for president, each madly jockeying for position and constantly embroidering the message to fit what they hope is the opinion of the electorate.

             Ernst Stavro Glickman: “Governor Romney is not the unfeeling, wheeler-dealer corporate raider he is made out to be! He cried crocodile tears of remorse as he fired every one of those people.”

             Marcia Weinglass: “The entire system is warped. These early Republican primaries are in states that want their moment in the spotlight. You can’t tell me that Iowa, New Hampshire and South Carolina are representative of American political opinion. God help us!”

             Paulie Marple: “The best candidates are dropping by the wayside! I grew up with Beverley Hills 90210. I would have voted for Luke Perry in an instant! I’ve seen all his movies, even his made-for-TV movies!”

            David Davis: “To stand here and regret that a B-list actor like Luke Perry isn’t running for president is beyond incomprehensible. That boy wasn’t even born until 1966. He’s only 45 years old! We all know what happened this last time, when we elected a 40-something to the White House! Obama and his wife are the ultimate teenagers. It’s all an act. They’re poseurs. They never grew up. Raised by doting grandparents, little Barry Obama thinks he’s the cat’s meow!”

           Wow! Talk about “The emperor has no clothes.” Half the audience is on their feet shouting, “Wrong! Wrong! How dare you attack Obama?!”

           Taylor Mitchell: “I volunteer at the White House reading incoming mail. 95% of the letters are hate mail, but I don’t let it bother me. Personally, I think Brother Obama has overdone the entire speechmaking thing. He’s become boring. He’s our boy, but he be an earache.” [This is an actual statement by a volunteer.]

            Paulie Marple: “It’s not my fault Luke Perry was governor of Texas. A man with that kind of experience…

             Jeeter Johnson: “…and he an actor! That be important! We already has an actor in da White House!”

             Marcia Weinglass: “Excuse me, the governor of Texas was Rick Perry. A different Perry entirely!

            The silence in the hall was deafening. Scratch two candidates.

            Taylor Mitchell: “The American Israel Public Affairs Committee, AIPAC, ‘America’s Pro-Israel Lobby,’ has become too powerful. They started the whole PAC thing. The super PACs are Israel’s fault.”

             Ernst Stavro Glickman: “Blame the Supreme Court. Hooligans versus Leeds United.”

             Marcia Weinglass: “Wrong! AIPAC isn’t powerful enough. When a government is out of control like this one, you need a strong lobby to maintain the pressure and, hopefully, reduce the damage. Beating up on the Israelis because the Palestinians refuse to come to the table! For shame! I completely lost my respect for Hillary. Keep the pressure on those creeps in the White House.”

             David Davis: “That was Nixon.”

            Marcia Weinglass: “What?”

            David Davis: “Creep, Committee to Re-Elect the President. Under President Nixon.”

            Taylor Mitchell: “He’s mad. Candidate Davis is a madman!”

            Suzanna Son: “We still don’t know the effect of the new ICC, the Inter-County Connector. It could bring big changes to Oxburg. The coming of Metro’s Purple Line will put us squarely on the map. I also foresee an expansion of light rail in Maryland.”  

            Marcia Weinglass: “This is a pivotal time for our community. Oxburg has divided into the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots.’ This town no longer works for everyone. I will always work for you! “

            That’s when we all realize, every man jack in the hall, that the fix is in. Paulie Marple knows simply everybody, but the heavy hitters are putting their money and influence behind Marcia. Granted, she is Jewish. Nationally, we’re only 4% of the population, although in Oxburg, the percentage is considerably higher. I look around. It’s Marcia Weinglass by acclamation! As the meeting breaks up, she’s swamped by Latinos. They know who will be the new voice on the Town Council. As Bob Dylan sang, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” I’m very disappointed! Suzanna Son marchers up to Arthur and asks, “How’d I do?”

            Introducing us, Arthur explains that Suzanna is the precinct captain for Oxburg High. “Kevin, here, let us down in the last election!” Arthur bitches.

            “Arthur does have a beef,” I admit, while Suzanna smirks wonderingly. “I couldn’t poll watch on Election Day because I had so many polling stations to monitor for the Bola campaign.”

            “Well, Arthur, there you have it!” says Suzanna, taking my side.

            Arthur then launches into one of his mindless monologues. Suzanna and I wait the obligatory two minutes and turn away for a private chat. “The others had good intentions,” I point out. “You, additionally, always brought a technical component to the mix.”

            “That’s the consultant in me,” she smiles, eating me up with her staring brown eyes.

            I assume that this is her way of working the room. I plow on: “The special election is going to Marcia Weinglass or Paulie Marple, probably Marcia. I’m discovering that the sad truth is, there’s nothing new in county politics. It’s the same faces endlessly playing musical chairs! I want you on the goddam Council. Get out and canvas doors. Send out a mailer! The yard signs are great, but we have to get your name out there! Buy a full page ad in The Oxburg Sentinel.”

            “You’re absolutely right. I only managed to knock on 1500 doors. But the election’s on Tuesday. No time to even send out a mailer,” she laments.

            “Seats on the Town Council will be contested as part of the general election in November. Here’s my card. I worked on the Bola campaign. We won with 58% of the vote. Not too shabby.”

            “Oh!” she chirps, “We’re exchanging cards!” Giving me hers, she says, “Would you mind terribly? There are people over in that corner of the room I have got to schmooze!”

            “Go for it!” I urge her.

            As she leaves, I wave good night to Arthur, thank Sylvia Sims for officiating and head for the exit. There is a stack of Paulie Marple yard signs leaning by the door. I look around for Paulie. I find him in a huddle with his people. “Paulie,” I ask, “can I take one of your signs?”

            “Of course,” he breathes excitedly. “Everyone, this is Kevin Feingold, the yard sign genius in Anna Bola’s campaign. I wish I had you doling out my yard signs!”

            I smile and quietly leave, discreetly taking the sign home— or as discreetly as you can wield a yard sign. I add it to my collection. What? You thought I was gonna put it in my yard?! Git outta here!

*

            Tuesday afternoon, 5 p.m., I take my 90-year-old mom to Oxburg High to vote. Taylor Mitchell has his supporters everywhere, inside the building and out, sporting his stick-on badges on both sides of their chests. This is wasted effort, people don’t arrive at the polls unless they already know for whom they intend to vote. In state-wide elections, campaign materials, stickers and posters cannot be closer than 50 feet to a polling place. At this intramural town scrap meet, there ain’t no such rules.

             During the last special election, mom almost collapsed for all the traipsing you have to do: One table checks you off the voting list. Another table has you sign a pledge that you are who you say you are and truly do reside in Oxburg. Then you go to a table where they give you a ballot. You fill this in behind the green curtain of a voting booth. Finally, at a fourth table, you shove your vote into a ballot box.

           When she was finished, she complained bitterly to the officials running the show. “Older folks can’t do this!” she seethed.  “People who walk with a cane— like me— or use a walker are being disenfranchised!”

            Having taken this message to heart, today they immediately offer her “curbside voting.” We enter the building, she gets to take a seat by the wall while volunteers bring her a pledge form, peruse her i.d., go inside and check her off the voting list, bring her a ballot on a clipboard, wait while she makes her choice, pop it into an envelope, seal the envelope, and carry it back into the school gymnasium and drop it in the box. She gets to sit through the entire process. “Curbside.”

            “They listened!” she marvels.

            Leaving her sitting out front, I walk down the hall past the candidates and their entourages to inspect the gym. Among the signs spread somewhat randomly throughout the room, I spy a large “Anna Bola For Attorney General” yardy. It’s leaning against a table. “Hey!” I tell Robyn, the stunningly beautiful brunette volunteering at the door, “I was the sign guy for the Bola campaign. See that sign? That’s one of mine!”

            “How exciting for you,” she cracks sardonically.

            “Yeah.”

            We both laugh. Yard sign guy gets a hard-on seeing one of his products in the Town Council election hall.

             Families keep streaming in, a huge turnout, considering it snowed the night before.

            On my way out, I josh with Paulie Marple. “Your robocalls are top notch,” I tell him. “You’ve got the voice! If you don’t win this election, you can always become a radio announcer.”

             Town Council Chairman Johnson J. Johansson keeps flouncing by in his charcoal gray suit, Mr. Executive, in charge of the polling, the heavy hand of the Town Council much in evidence. They have every reason to be scared!

            I have a long chat with Suzanna Son: “If you don’t get elected today and want to have a go in November, I am here for you. We need to get your name out there. You are so far superior to the other candidates, all you lack at the moment is name recognition.”

            “That’s the thing,” she whispers. A first-time candidate, she’s lost her voice from too many speaking engagements.” I don’t know if I want to go through this again. ‘Though all my supporters are pushing me to re-up.”

            “You don’t need to decide right away. Who knows, you may win this thing! Miracles do happen. It ain’t over ‘till it’s over! “

            We give one another a thumbs up. Suzanna is not only someone with ideas, she can actually master a fact sheet. In arguments with Johansson, she’ll be deadly.

* 

             And the winner is…? Marcia Weinglass, the Establishment favorite.

             Nothing has changed!