Body Politic
by Eric Miller
His mother was
a Broadway baby born in a hospital on the
“Great White Way,” and nursed on the
“Big Apple,” the juice of which coursed
through her veins to her final day. She learned
to crawl on a stage, where she later danced as a
hoofer in a chorus line, tapping her feet to the
beat of her heart. Some of that “Big
Apple” juice found its way to his veins, but
the only tapping his feet ever did was when he
was running for political office and side-stepping
difficult questions.
Stumped by
what to do after being gerrymandered out of his
district, he finally decided it was incumbent
upon him to reposition himself and to test his
strong constitution by going out on the hustings
to barnstorm along the campaign trail. He began
every day by first waffling at a coffee shop, and
then by taking one stand after another for the
rest of
the day. He found that the political parties
weren’t much fun, as he really couldn’t
party because he spent all of his time with
shaking hands trying to break free from gridlock.
He thought he could poll vault over the hurdles
and walk right into his new district, but the
political pols went full gear with fear and smear,
and he couldn’t even get on the ballot.
Write-in
became his rallying cry, the rules for which he
recounted to the crowds more times than he could
number. And when the polls closed, so did his
dreams, until he called for a recount. As the
days ticked off, his chances seemed slim. His
back was to the wall, and the writing was on the
wall, as well. When he walked away in seeming
defeat, the
writing on the wall was exposed for all to see,
looking like pages from the phone book. He was
declared the victor, and he prepared to serve his
term.
Alas, the term
he thought he’d serve was not in office, but
in the pen, on charges of illegible penmanship.
Disbarred and behind bars, and with no bars in
which to drown his sorrows, he plunged to a
level lower than a minority member of a
subcommittee. Now, out of sight and out of mind,
his political future had no future at all.
But destiny
plays by its own strange rules, and one never
knows what a new wind will bring. And early one
morning as he lay on a cot which was harder than
hard, he heard keys jangling in his jail cell
lock. In came a guard who said he was free, and
when he walked out the front door and into the
world, a crowd greeted him to take a gander.
His spirits
rose, even though cameras and reporters pressed
against his face. Instead of getting his dander
up as the questions flew, his confidence returned,
and he resorted to pander.
As I recall,
he won his next race, but then had to fight a
recall.
|
