Not that former President Bill Clinton loved Monica Lewinsky or that former Senator Larry Craig loved that undercover male cop. Just that the Democrat and the Republican were each victims, in a sense, of America’s obsession with heterosexual infidelity and homosexual promiscuity. (They were also stupid, but that’s another column.)

It makes for rocky politics and good theater. Fifty years ago, the essayist and novelist Gore Vidal played off the competing themes with his Broadway production The Best Man, which was revived this year to coincide with the 2012 presidential campaign and, serendipitously, an unprecedented voice in support of gay marriage from the sitting U.S. president.

Vidal dared big things for The Best Man, including casting the 1960 president as a black man. But he didn’t dare to believe that American politics would become even more obsessed with infidelity and homosexuality. These themes drive the news to an unhealthy degree. Like, of course there is a problem when a ranking politician tweets a naked photo of himself to thousands of innocent Americans, but what are we when we start digging up private photos of that politician and showing them everywhere? Where is the line between hardball politics and despicable politicking? When is it fine to set aside high-minded values and get pragmatic about winning an election?

That’s the idea behind The Best Man. I attended the play recently with my mother, who was also eager to see the all-star lineup of actors on stage together.

“James Earl Jones plays the president,” I told a friend.

“James Earl Jones is still alive?” he said.

“Apparently. Candice Bergen (aka Murphy Brown) is also in the play, and so is Angela Lansbury, the lady from Murder, She Wrote.”

“Wait, has she come back from the dead?”

The cast is old, to be sure, and much slower-moving than what you usually find on Broadway. But it’s appropriate because the story also portrays an older, slower-moving style of politics than we have today. The plot and dialogue can seem quaint.

“The world’s changed since I was politickin’,” James Earl Jones says in a conversation about religion. “In those days you had to pour God over everything, like ketchup.”

But you still gotta pour religion like ketchup even today. Except now this ketchup is locally made, from organic tomatoes.

The setting is 1960. Days before the Democratic National Convention has to pick a presidential nominee old-school style (the way that Newt Gingrich and Ron Paul pushed for this year’s race to go, but which hasn’t actually happened since 1952), a young upstarter (considered to be a portrayal of John F. Kennedy), played by Eric McCormack, digs up some dirt on a weathered establishment frontrunner (considered to be a portrayal of Adlai Stevenson), played by John Larroquette. The upstarter blackmails the womanizing frontrunner, and the frontrunner is forced to either quit or play hardball: either drop out of the race or accept America’s obsession with infidelity and homosexuality and blackmail the upstart politician with some gossip about a past gay encounter.

What’s the right decision?

John Larroquette initially strikes you as upstanding, his promiscuity innocuous. But in his refusal to play hardball for, arguably, the greater good of the electorate, he comes across as a hypocrite, someone who is willing to selfishly break a vow to his wife but unwilling to justifiably break a vow to his idea of civil political discourse.

It’s also a criticism of Barack Obama’s first year in office: He was too friendly, too acquiescing, too anchored to “that hopey changey stuff,” as Sarah Palin put it. The New Yorker’s Ryan Lizza, in his January article “The Obama Memos,” notes that Obamaism was originally marked by an idea of transformative post-partisanship. Such was ill-fated:

Predictions that Obama would usher in a new era of post-partisan consensus politics now seem not just naïve but delusional. At this political juncture, there appears to be only one real model of effective governance in Washington: partisan dominance, in which a President with large majorities in Congress can push through an ambitious agenda. Despite Obama’s hesitance and his appeals to Republicans, this is the model that the President ended up relying upon during his first two years in office.

Playing nice didn’t work for Obama, and you can guess how it works for John Larroquette’s character in The Best Man. Unlike Obama, who pivoted, John Larroquette’s character ultimately decides he would rather sacrifice his own candidacy than unleash a little incivility. Kudos to him. But if I have to chose my politician, then I’d rather take the guy who will uphold a vow to his wife (a living person with feelings that can be crushed!) but is willing to skirt the edges of civility (whatever that is) when necessary to strike a bargain, find a political solution, and win. Even if that means replaying the infidelity and homosexuality card.

Who doesn’t want to go to Seattle?

karma free

The trick to getting what you want in life is to be as passive aggressive as possible.

seattle craigslist > seattle > community > general community

Car break in at Tamron Ranch last night 5/15 (admiralty way)

Who ever broke into the Kia Sephia would you please just bring everything back, it isnt yours, you had no right to steal personal cds that people had made for me, they actually ment something. I work hard for my money. I wont report you to the police. I wont come after you. If you return everything, your conscious will be clear and you will be karma free. Yin and Yang,

Who steals mix tapes?

(big bag)

There is nothing better than someone who needs to sell everything—not good for them, obviously, but desperate measures lead to cheap crap to fill your home.

Let’s check out the goods . . .

seattle craigslist > tacoma > community > general community

must go asap everything cheap (tacoma)

i have a long list of stuff and all the money will be going tword my chihuahuas c section at the end of the month.

kitchen table $10
couch $20
queen box spring $5 [college students should check this out]
Prom dress $60
evening dresses $30 each or $125 for all [I wonder how many evening dresses are included in “all”]
leather boots $5
comferter $5 [simple spelling mistake]
stuffed animals $1 small $5 large [maybe she has some beanie babies]
pet rat $15 $25 with supplies [wait, what?]
suit case hard case $5 [red case blue case]
mouse carry cage $3 [um . . .]
buttons 5 cents each
beads $1 a cup or $5 for all
scarfs $3
slippers $2
movies $2 each [I wonder if she has the godfather series]
perces $5 [spelling really isn’t her thing, is it]
guitar $7 with case
oft wall doggy carier $10 [what is an “oft wall”]
graduation gown $10
small hand made table $10 [this costs more than leather boots, which are presumably not made by hand]
pillows $2 [did the dogs, rats, or mice use these pillows?]
vaces $3 [these are not difficult words]
computer desk $5
mens pants $3 each
fish bowl $5 $10 with kit
black curten $3 [just one—that’s it]
twin matris cover $4
blankets $4
doggy clothes $5 each
dog leashes $5 [same price as a queen-sixed box spring]
rodent food bowls $2 [is two bucks a good price for a rat’s food bowl?]
no chew spray $5
vintage 1940′s clock $5
large dog kennel $70 (brand new never used)
hair color stripper $5
sun glasses $3
dog bowls $4
no stink cage spray $5 [this assures me the house smells airy and fresh]
wikker basket $3
medium coffee table $10
picture frames $2
pet mouse $5 ($20 with beding,cage, wheel, ball, food/water dishes, and food)
pet rat $10 ($25 with fod, beding (big bag) , food/water dishes, tank, and chew blocks [I am now officially terrified to enter this home]

if you are interested just call or txt me at xxx-xxx-xxxx all prices are nigotiable.

Though her list is eclectic and charming, I think the items would sell a bit faster if she kept the rodent and rodent “suplies” to their own list.

. . . okay, I’ll say it—a chihuahua’s c-section?

.OK.

There are many regionalisms in this fun country of ours: the rubberband/gumband thing, tennis shoes or sneakers, water fountain or a bubbler, etc.

seattle craigslist > seattle > community > general community

I wanted use carpet cleaning mount (seattle)

I wanted used carpet cleaning truck mount on good condition good price .OK. please call o llame al xxx xxx xxxx thank…

Is this a good sampling of the Pacific northwest?

His reasoning is as follows: On May 6, as you surely remember, Vice President Joe Biden goes off-script on Meet The Press—if someone who is known specifically for going off-script goes off-script, can it really be considered going off-script?—and says he is “comfortable” with gay marriage. This, of course, “forces” Obama to come out in favor of same-sex marriage, which leads to the president’s collapse in polls, his campaign crumbling to ash, and, inevitably, the ghost of Mitt Romney’s dog Seamus moving into the Oval Office dog crate while Bo and his owners relocate back to Hyde Park.

The lesson, as always: OMG, everybody freak out! Also, Joe Biden cannot keep his mouth shut and ruins everything. Hillary for V-Prez.

Now, does any of this make sense? Let’s review the evidence. A CBS News/NY Times poll, conducted from May 11-13, puts Romney up 46-43, including 43-36 among independents. Rasmussen (which has a reputation for results skewing slightly toward Republicans) also has Romney passing Obama (Rasmussen also shows Romney opening up an 8-point lead in North Carolina, which voted last week to approve an amendment banning same-sex marriage in the state.) A Gallup poll finds that 26% of voters are less likely to vote for Obama because of his announcement, while only 13% are more likely to vote for him. There are reports that black voters may break away from Obama over his position. Some analysts say Obama has “good reason for panic.”

Okay, fine, Romney will win, we have from now until November to accept the idea of the first robot president, we can adjust— . . . wait, what’s that? A new Fox News poll says Obama would win by seven—count ‘em, seven points—if the election were held today. Just three weeks ago, Obama and Romney were tied in the same poll. From Fox News! Is your head spinning like the head of someone trying to follow Romney’s positions on any matter of substance? For the love of Karl Rove, what is going on here? Can someone just give us a clear answer about what effect Obama’s position on gay marriage will have on the election? Tell us now!

Alas, I cannot. Because no one really knows. It’s possible that Obama’s stance on gay marriage will lose him the election. It’s possible it will win him the election. (Either of those would be hard to prove.) But it’s more likely that it doesn’t really have much effect at all. Here’s the thing about polls. They’re useful, especially the closer we get to an election, and also when we’re able to look at a bunch of polls, taken over time, so that we can see clear trends emerge (like on gay marriage). But it’s really limiting to look at one poll, or a small selection of polls, especially taken in response to a recent news event, and then project those results onto an election which will be held months from now.

Don’t believe me? Here are two examples:

August 29, 2008: The Day John McCain Won The Election. By choosing Sarah Palin as his running mate, of course. On September 3, Palin gives her acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention (found here, for the many of you interested in hearing Sarah Palin speak for 45 minutes). Across the nation, moose run for cover, hockey moms unite, and hearty conservative men sit up in their recliners, giggling at how Obama will wither under Palin’s pitbull assaults. Seriously. Look at the polls!

McCain gets an immediate post-convention bounce, building his largest lead over Obama since early May. And it’s not just a one day thing, either. It’s official: the race has turned! From here, McCain breezes through September and October, right into the White House.

How about another one:

May 2, 2011. The Day Obama Won Reelection. Because we all know that’s what killing Osama Bin Laden meant, right? After the raid, an AP poll put Obama’s job approval rating at 60%, his highest mark in two years. According to Gallup, in May 2011, his monthly approval rating jumped to 50%, six points from his April mark. No shortage of my friends claimed that this meant Obama had reelection in the bag. But if you step back and look at the long-term numbers on Obama’s approval rating, you can see this was just a flash in the pan.

That’s how it goes. Big events produce shifts in the numbers, but they are A) usually within the margin of error and B) only temporary. It’s likely that this election will hinge mostly on the economy. What happens with Greece’s economy will matter more than what anyone thinks about gay marriage.

Photograph by Kim Soles

In our “Writers and Music” series, authors discuss the music that has either been included in their poems/novels or the influence music has had on their work overall.

Hal Sirowitz first began to attract attention at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe where he was a frequent competitor in their Friday Night Poetry Slam. He was a member of the 1993 Nuyorican Poetry Slam team and competed in the National Poetry Slam.

Sirowitz has performed his poetry across the country and on television programs such as MTV’s Spoken Word: Unplugged and PBS’s The United States of Poetry.

He is best known for Mother Said, My Therapist Said and Father Said. Sirowitz is a 1994 recipient of an NEA Fellowship in Poetry and is the former Poet Laureate of Queens, New York. He is the best-selling translated poet in Norway, where Mother Said has been adapted for the stage and turned into a series of animated cartoons. Sirowitz worked as a special education teacher for 23 years.

Pretending

We went to Dan Lynch’s, & listened
to White musicians pretending that they
were Black. And the people next to us jumped
up & down, pretending that they were rock stars.
And I put my hand on your knee, pretending
that I was your lover. You remained aloof. Why
did you have to be the only one who insisted on being yourself?

Riffraf: “Pretending” is set in Dan Lynch’s, a classic NYC club. Have you ever been there? If so, did you go specifically to see a band?

Hal Sirowitz: I was actually at the music bar Dan Lynch on a date. She was a German artist. I put my hand on her leg before the music started. She told me her female roommate was her lover. That was news to me. I took my hand off her leg. She asked me why I didn’t go for men. I told her that men never attracted me. I don’t remember the band much, except for the fact that they were all male and their loud music made it very difficult to continue our conversation, which I was grateful for.

Riffraf: The line “white musicians pretending that they were black” brought several musicians to mind. What white musicians do you think pretend to be black? Why do you think they behave in this manner?

Hal Sirowitz: Elvis Presley purposely sounded like a Black man. He sang that way to make money and meet a need. I always liked the film, “Field of Dreams.” There was a line in the movie. “If there’s a need, people will come.” There was a need for the White race to meet the Black race on different terms. Music reflects what goes on in real life.

The Black Panthers were popular while I was going to college. At Washington Square College, New York University, I was in an honors seminar with Ralph Ellison, author of The Invisible Man. He kept saying that society was going to appropriate Black culture. That’s what Elvis did until he took so many pills and got too fat—he had to wear a girdle—to shake. I don’t mean to put down Elvis. I felt sorry for his later life. He had a bad manager who exploited him—put him in too many second-rate movies.

Riffraf: I was struck by the line “the people next to us jumped up & down, pretending that they were rock stars.” They’re the audience not performers and yet they’re “pretending to be rock stars.” Why do you think some people have such a desire to be on stage? What’s the appeal of being a rock star?

Hal Sirowitz: The appeal of being a rock star is fame and more fame. People think it’ll be easier to meet others if you’re already famous. That may be true. But then again did anyone really know Elvis? He was surrounded by his bodyguards. He had very little privacy. When Elvis got married the first thing his wife did was to make a bonfire to burn his books. She was trying to change him. People change slowly.

I’m famous but my fame is only spread among the poetry scene. I have limited fame. That’s the best kind. When I was in Paris—I went there partly to meet a Parisian girlfriend but ended up meeting an American one—I met a young woman who told me she was going to be famous. I said in what area. She said she didn’t know yet, but whatever it was, she was going to achieve fame. I felt sorry for her. She was too driven.

It reminded me of the Phil Ochs’ song, “Chords of Fame.” There’s a line that goes, “Whatever you do, don’t play the chords of fame.” This woman was strumming them a little too loud for my taste. It’s like Zen. If you strive for fame, you don’t achieve it. You can only get true fame by not seeking it.

Riffraf: Two of the poem’s central themes are pretense and duplicity. How do you think clubs/bars contribute to a person’s desire to be somebody else or something they’re not?

Hal Sirowitz: The music scene is set up for pretending you’re someone else. Look at Janis Joplin—she was a star and yet she still pretended she was popular. If the stars pretend they’re popular, so will the audience. I’ve always liked the Judy Collins’ song, “You make up your memories and think they have found you.” Or like The Kinks wrote, “It’s a mixed-up shook-up world where boys pretend to be girls and girls pretend to be boys.” Bob Dylan wasn’t his real name. Or like the Stones sang, “What can a poor boy do but join a rock & roll band.’ Mick Jagger wasn’t poor. He went to the London School of Economics. In fact, I fantasized about being a rock & roll star along with thousands of other fans.

One of my most memorable moments was when I was told by the owner of an East Side book store that Bruce Springsteen walked in, took my first book from a display, started reading it, then began laughing. Then he bought two copies of my book by check. The owner promised to give me the cancelled check, but he never did. Now the store is closed.

Riffraf: What has been your most memorable live music experience?

Hal Sirowitz: When I went to hear Barry Harris play piano at the Jazz Cultural theatre. Harris used to live in the same house in New Jersey with Theolonius Monk and the Countess who took care of them. Monk was a genius pianist and composer who had severe mental problems. Some days he would wake up and not recognize his wife and kids. He acted like they were strangers. Barry would play Monk compositions, like “Around Midnight.”

I empathized with the jazz world, because they were at the lowest end of the music world, like poets being at the lowest end of the writing world. Barry would play Monk’s songs and it felt like they were touching my soul. I felt close to Monk, even though we were entirely different personalities that came from totally different backgrounds.

Riffraf: What are your favorite spots for live music/performance?

Hal Sirowitz: I’ve been to Webster Hall with a date to hear The Smithereens. They didn’t impress me. They sounded like a modern day louder version of The Monkees—canned music.

I went to Madison Square Garden with a friend to hear Ike and Tina Turner open for the Rolling Stones. I fell in love with Tina. One of the first questions I asked a woman whom I was interested in dating was who did she like better—the Stones or Beatles. If she said the Stones, then she passed the test. If she said the Beatles, I’d ask her who was her favorite one. If she said John Lennon, I’d still ask her out. If she said Ringo Starr, I wouldn’t even bother getting her phone number.

I went to hear Chubby Checker perform at the Fillmore East. I was impressed by his piano playing.

My biggest regret was not going to Woodstock. The friends I was planning to go with chickened out, because they thought they would be busted for drug use. They got paranoid.

I heard Holly Neat and Sweet Honey and the Rock at Carnegie Hall. I remember Holly liberating the men’s bathrooms, telling the women in the audience that they shouldn’t be afraid to use the male facilities. I agreed with her until I had to use the bathroom and had to wait while liberated women cut ahead of me in line.

Riffraf: On Writer’s Almanac, you mentioned your book Stray Cat Blues. Can you talk a little about the title and why you appropriated The Rolling Stones’ song?

Hal Sirowitz: Titles cannot be copyrighted. Therefore, anyone can use them. I have another poem, in which I use a popular song title as my title—“Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.”

“We don’t have anything in common,”/ I said. “We’re two completely different people./ It doesn’t make sense to stay together.”/ But then she started to rub my penis/ through my pants, & I suddenly remembered / that we both did like Indian food.

“Stray Cat Blues” is the title of a poem in my new collection. I like stray cats, though I’m allergic to them, which is one of the themes in my work—the mind is sometimes a step ahead of the body.

In the documentary “Pray the Devil Back to Hell,” Liberian women tell their stories of suffering, surviving, and eventually resisting the civil war. Nearly every woman interviewed had been sexually assaulted. One woman’s husband and son were killed, and then she had to watch as her thirteen-year-old daughter was raped. As a result, the daughter became pregnant. None of these women supported the war, but all were forced to carry its burden.

Mona Eltahaway also discusses how women experience war in her article “Why Do They Hate Us?” in Foreign Policy. Eltahawy herself was raped by Egyptian riot police, though the coverage of the Egyptian uprising that most westerners saw hailed great involvement of Egyptian women. As women’s voices began to enter the public arena (or maybe because of this), sexual assault remained a constant but unacknowledged weapon that had never been phased out. Amnesty International’s 1995 report Human Rights are Women’s Rights states that “The use of rape in conflict reflects the inequalities women face in their everyday lives in peacetime. Until governments live up to their obligation to ensure equality, and end discrimination against women, rape will continue to be a favourite weapon of the aggressor.” Regretfully, we still see that the reality of women’s bodies being used as a battleground is far from foreign in America too.

The U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs has found in its screenings that one in every five women has experienced sexual assault or harassment during their service, according to the Boston Globe article “Helping survivors of military sexual trauma” by Jan Brogan. When women do report the violence committed against them, they rarely have their day in court but instead struggle to find justice in a military tribunal. After the VA determined that sexual assault is an “epidemic” in the military, Defense Secretary Leon Panetta planned to implement a specific victims unit to assist survivors of sexual assault. This action to acknowledge and prevent sexual assault is one of the most vital we can take to support our troops.

What is happening in the military to women in Liberia, in Egypt, and in the U.S., is not equivalent to the political showdown in Congress. On May 15th, a group of Republican women in the House of Representatives drafted a column titled, “GOP is the real party of American women.” In this article, these women state, “We believe that women want to be empowered. We believe that women want independence. We want opportunities. We want an equal chance to succeed—no special favors and no glass ceilings.” The majority of Democrats and Republicans agree with these sentiments, except for the last phrase. As a Democrat, I don’t perceive VAWA, the Fair Pay Act, or Title IX to be handouts but vital legislation to correct historically engrained injustice. My disagreement with these Republican Congresswomen is not whether women deserve certain rights, but how to best achieve those rights. This is a philosophical debate about the role of government, not a war.

But let’s take this as an opportunity to recognize the actual wars on women. In the twenty-first century, women are still vastly underrepresented in government. Congressional women can raise their voices, there are still too few. The United States has never had a female president, and women compose only 16.8% of Congress. Because of this lack of representation, women’s input is marginalized in the decision to go to war, yet their bodies are used and discarded like bullet cartridges. Sexual assault is not purely a physical wound but an act associated with anxiety, PTSD, and depression. The war on women doesn’t end when the war ends. It will continue until we as women, we as a nation, we as a human race consider what we should really be fighting against.

Earlier this week, the Obama campaign previewed its strategy for tying these two points together: feeding Romney’s unpopularity by pointing out that he was the type of businessman who sought quick profits at any cost and is the type of politician who would do nothing to regulate such practices. The Obama campaign released a new ad attacking Romney’s tenure at Bain Capital, and specifically looking at the effect on a steel mill in Missouri that was raided by Bain. The workers in the ad refer to Bain as a “vampire” and Romney as a “job destroyer.” The ad is similar to those run by a pro-Gingrich SuperPac during the primary, and indeed echoes attacks Romney has faced since he first ran for office.

The possible effectiveness of the ad can be seen by viewing it in conjunction with a new ad debuted by the Romney campaign this week, a series of testimonials of good heartland folk talking about how they are suffering in the current economy. For anyone else, this would be without qualification an effective ad. Rightly or wrongly, people blame the president when the economy is doing poorly, and evoking an emotional response about the bad economy is likely to provoke anti-Obama sentiments. But the effect is lessened for Romney because it’s hard to watch the testimonials in his ad and not also think of the testimonials in all the anti-Bain ads we have seen and no doubt will continue to see. The president’s likeability edge and strength on foreign policy make it unnecessary for him to be seen by voters as being superior to Romney on the economy, what’s necessary is for him to lessen Romney’s advantage on that issue.

If Romney wants to effectively neutralize the Bain attacks, his people are going to have to come up with a better response than “an attack on Bain is an attack on capitalism.” That line may have had a certain appeal amongst the “anyone to the left of Reagan (and maybe even Reagan himself!) is a socialist” Republican primary crowd, but voters are smart enough to understand that favoring “free enterprise” does not mean condoning every single predatory or destructive business practice any more than favoring “free speech” means condoning every idiotic or hateful statement a person might make. Nor are people in so much of a mood to be lectured that they just don’t understand how capitalism works, given that we’re still suffering through the effects of those who are supposed to know having made such a royal mess of things.

Romney’s entire campaign is premised on his business background and claim that he will be a capable steward of the economy. While there’s no doubt that Romney knows how to make money for himself and for his investors, if people don’t trust Romney to preside over an economy that will work for everyone, and not just people like Romney, the president will be re-elected comfortably.

After his second layoff in three years Daryl Glans finds a temporary position answering phones for a company with a one-year government contract. Senior citizens mad with loneliness call to find out why their Medicare doesn’t work. Where are my pills? Did the doctor die?—maybe he got emphysema, too. Doctors shouldn’t smoke. I have nobody. I have kids, but I have nobody. Where are my children? Do you know where they are? They must be far away. Are they in Israel?

On the evening of the day before Christmas Eve a tipsy female named Roxy Gunn calls from Sacramento and laughingly asks, after he has helped her solve a minor reimbursement problem, if he mightn’t really be Jesus Our Lord or one of His special angels? No, he says, so far as I know I am not. I’m a man on his third job in four years and this one ends in three months. Then on to the next bullshit. He has no calls waiting and speaks with the woman for ninety-four minutes. She tells him she is eighty-one and has been a widow for many years. Her husband was a philandering psychiatrist named Jack who had a gambling problem and then a king-hell stoke and left her nothing. Though he had trained as a Freudian psychoanalyst he was eventually seduced by the HMOs and at the end was little more than a mule for pharmaceutical companies. I was damn good looking, she says, true brunette with a nice bust—a Cadillac profile, let me tell you! Can you picture it? Too bad he didn’t die when I still had my looks. I would have made out just fine, thank you very much.

His supervisor calls him into her office at the end of the shift. She is an overweight white woman named Nichoe two decades his junior. She had listened to the entire conversation and upbraids him with particular condescension. You know you must limit customer contacts to seven minutes, she says. You know you can’t discuss personal issues—especially bosoms! In the middle of her tirade he jumps from his seat and bellows two inches from her face. Still bellowing he shakes both fists at her eyes and cocks his left as if to strike. Nichoe drops to the floor and covers her head. Feeling invincible are you? he shouts. You are? Are you? Fuck you! I quit!

He expects to find the police waiting for him at home but they never show. That evening, law enforcement being the laughably inconsistent and ineffectual entity it has always proven to be, he decides to rob banks. Why not? He does not mention the incident to his wife, who operates a miserable grimy daycare in the basement, and is forever awaiting the arrival of a parent who is forty-five minutes late and never pays the afterhours fee. Driving in frozen gray overcast through his miserable grimy subdivision, and past the miserable grimy Christian church to which his family has fatally tied itself, he realizes he cannot go on. I will steal money for my family. Lots of money. Then I will buy a plane ticket and fly to Greece. A Greek island in the sunshine. Baklava. Or whatever the Greeks eat. Olives, maybe. And lamb. Mental note: Get passport while you still have a paycheck.

Life sucks. It is a rare night he does not fall asleep without contemplating violence or illegitimate throw-away sex. He knows this is wrong, and attempts the discipline necessary to center his drowsy thoughts on the life and sacrifice of Jesus, but a bra-less neighbor wife in loose housedress intrudes, or any number of mythic adventures that feature, depending on the era, a flashing sword or a .44 magnum with a muzzle-blast like the crack of doom. He speaks languages, exotic tongues, and his companions in these fantasies are astonished as much by his intimate comprehension of alien cultures as by his physical prowess, which is all the more amazing given his spare build and soft features. I’m like an elf except bigger. I swing this sword so fast they can barely see my hands.

That night he sleeps well, figuring if the police aren’t there by 12 a.m. they’re not coming at all—and anyway, now that he thinks of it, he didn’t actually hit the nasty bitch so what can they do? He wonders what Roxy Gunn looked like forty or even thirty years ago, and pictures a classic American beauty in the Rita Hayworth mold, but with her blouse off and nipples the size of teacup saucers. He leaves next morning as always, taking with him his birth certificate, first finding and kissing his wife amongst a score of screaming toddlers in the basement and before the first of many network soap operas. She hasn’t combed her hair in a week. The fatigue in her eyes stings him. He holds his head a few moments in the garage while the engine is warming up.

And then backs out into the cold dim day.

Instead of going west on Highway 10 to Lawrence, he drives east into Kansas City, to the main municipal library. His first book search leads him to the Lonely Planet Greek Islands, which he peruses carefully but does not check out. Bookstore, he thinks. Cash. No tracers. I better figure out where I’m going. Then everything else will fall into place.

Next, he finds a U.S. Post Office and fills out a passport application. He has forgotten the checkbook but realizes he’d have to explain the charge to his wife, so just as well. He finds a bank and takes a cashier’s check, then returns to the post office and gives the clerk the completed application, $135, birth certificate, and driver’s license. Where’s your headshots? asks the clerk, then hands him a list of nearby photographers. He chooses one at random halfway down the page, and when he gets there discovers that the studio is attached to a costume house, where people dress up like Jesse James or Jack the Ripper and take portraits for their Christmas cards. There is a bin full of worn-out black hats and beards for sale, and he buys one of each. It is a sign, he thinks: I have my disguise.

Six weeks, says the postal clerk when he returns with the head shots. We’ll mail it to you.

What about my birth certificate?

Don’t worry, sir. We’ll mail that, too. We’ll mail everything. This is the Post Office.

Then he considers the matter of weapon, which is all-important. Bowl games are on television now, and between a thousand commercials for dancing obese people with diarrhea and Shortcuts to Internet Millions! he’s watched a few: the Chick-fil-A Bowl, the San Diego County Credit Union Bowl, the Meineke Car Care Bowl, the PapaJohn’s Pizza Bowl, the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl. One commentator, quite out of the blue, mentions that Donny Osmond and Ozzy Osborne are close friends. Best buds. In disgust he flips the channel and finds The Christian Worship Hour, a smiling preacher and his faux-earnest gloomy gingham-clad wife, both speaking sincerely from a set meant to imitate a farmhouse kitchen. He flips again: An ad for injury lawyers. Flip: Tacos filled with cheese and bacon. Flip: the dancing diarrhea people.

He declares to himself that his enterprise requires the genuine article, bona fide karma, not the realistic child’s toy he has envisioned. He drives back to the library and on a free computer finds the website for Smith & Wesson. In less than half an hour he’s found his gat, a model that seems to speak to him from the screen. Before noon he’s also found a gun dealer, in Blue Springs, Missouri, and placed his order: Smith & Wesson Model 27, a revolver with a four-inch barrel in .357 Magnum—a steal, so to speak, at nine-hundred and seventy-four dollars. He also buys three boxes of 158 grain jacketed hollowpoints, a pistol cleaning kit, and a little box with two good earplugs.

Two weeks, says the gun dealer. If you pass the background. I’ll call you when it gets here.

Next morning at 7:15 a.m. the phone rings and his wife answers. It’s for you, she says. Your boss.

He takes the receiver and Nichoe asks, Where have you been?

Just leaving, he says, heart beating so loud he thinks his wife can hear.

Are you coming in today?

Why would I?

Please come to my office when you get here.

He considers the indefensible liberty with which others conduct their lives, blasting past his little car in their powerful Saabs and Audis and filling their shopping carts with unadulterated staples and delicacies at Whole Foods. Bitterly, his life lacks that. His family is mired in poverty and fear. Their tithing-gathering pastor says the humble life is the life of the Chosen, though his wife drives a Volvo—an old one, demurs the pastor one day to his flock, we got it from her dad. Looking to God seems only to lead him deeper into darkness. Nor is anything ever solved by appeal to the Bible, which had obviously been designed without moral structure and is useless as final authority in any argument. Rush Limbaugh is a drug addict worth two-hundred million dollars. The banks and credit card companies nail you for everything and charge so many extra fees it’s like another car payment. No savings. Can’t afford health insurance. Thermostat set so low in winter the house is cold as a barn. Screw Limbaugh. He shuts off the program and drives, like he never does, with both hands on the wheel. Shit, he thinks. Who the hell lives in Kansas City, anyway?

2

Where were you yesterday? Nichoe asks. I don’t recall giving you the day off.

Daryl Glans stares incredulously, then peeks out in the hallway for cops.

I have an abusive husband, Daryl, she says almost tenderly, then shrugs her shoulders as if he should understand. Her eyes fill with tears, and she says, Your stupid little life, Daryl! You have a future here. Be my friend. We can help each other.

Daryl sits in his cubicle and visualizes the money he’s making. He does some quick division: $12.50 per hour makes twenty and nine/tenths cents per minute. He imagines the first two dimes and fractional penny clanging into an empty bowl. After the dimes pile up a while the sound is more like “chunk.”

At lunch Daryl strolls back into Nichoe’s office and finds her eating a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken Dinner Classic with her fingers. The room smells terrible and there is a pile of greasy crumpled napkins on the floor. I’ll be gone the rest of the afternoon, he says. Do I have sick leave?

She nods her head, then says with her mouth full of mashed potatoes, Five and one-half hours. Please be on time tomorrow. She licks her fingers and smiles at him. Thanks for asking, Daryl. That’s the spirit!

The church is a tin shed designated Brethren Cathedral of the Victorious Nazarene, a deranged hybrid of Jehovah’s Witness and Opus Dei Catholicism that is heavy on the incense, advocates penance and illiteracy, and allows the leadership, a majority of exactly one, to dress up like the Pope on Easter Sunday. Pastor Rick, in fact, is a defrocked Franciscan who was caught with one hand in the cookie jar and another, so to speak, in the underwear of a parishioner who loved both his easy good looks and his comprehensive grasp of those scriptures that seem to forgive anything. Able to recognize a frustrated woman from half a mile with his eyes shut, he can choreograph a handoff from uninterested mate to the compassionate arms of Jesus, or Jesus’ earthly representative, with nary a false nor wasted step. One husband, in fact, caught him with his face deeply between his wife’s too-lovely, too-long legs late one night after bingo, behind the vestry on a table in a storage room where the wafers and wine were kept. The husband would claim that he had been led in there by the Lord himself and also, perhaps, his wife’s loud moaning. Later, his wife would admit that such rendezvous had only been the latest of many, some much more comprehensive, and he would wonder why the Lord had not pointed him in the right direction somewhat sooner. Being himself a convicted wife-beater with an extensive legal history, said husband decided to give Pastor Rick a pass. Screw it, he thinks. Let the Lord deal with the little shithead, and pass the popcorn, please.

Daryl’s family showed up one Sunday because the church was nearby and advertised heavily in their area. It promised salvation and canned goods for unemployed believers, plus a wholesome environment for children who needed every bit of help they could get to avoid the temptations of homosexuality and drugs. Especially the homos. But also the drugs.

Homosexuals? asked his wife, clutching her small hands to her bosom—What do they look like?

Homosexuals! boomed Pastor Rick one Sunday. Is this the Church of Jesus or the Church of the Elephant?

What’s that? whispers his wife—church of the elephant? Are elephants homos—my god!

InCARnation! booms Pastor Rick. Becomes ExHALtation!

It’s just an example, he whispers back. A church has to be from Jesus. That’s the law. Anything else isn’t right.

But is there really the elephant church?

Good hell, Jean, it’s just an example. Maybe they worship elephants in India, or some damn place. How should I know?

You know what women want? Nichoe asks him several days later, having again called him to her office for reasons more or less completely unrelated to business—I’ll tell you: A man who flosses his teeth and eats a salad once in a while. Why is that so unreasonable?

It’s not, he replies.

Do you floss?

Once a month, he says. If I remember.

What about all the crap stuck between your teeth? They are eating in the lunch room. He is chewing a bologna & cheese Jean has thrown together.

It eventually works its way out.

Are you a beer drinker, Daryl?

My wife gives all the extra money to the church.

Why?

Obviously she expects something.

Does it work?

I’m here, aren’t I? he says, motioning around himself.

What kind of answer is that? she asks.

That night after his wife has fallen asleep, Daryl slides off the bed onto his knees and offers up a prayer, the first in many a day. Among other things, he asks the Lord why their church smells like cat shit and old socks; why human life, the very crown of His creation, is so goddamn cheap and miserable, especially when He, Creator Of All, is also able to make the hawks of the air, the lovely fishes of the sea and the lily of the valley; he asks Him if it is even remotely possible that Pastor Rick is screwing his dear wife, whom he loves from the very bottom of his heart; he asks His blessings upon his bank robbing enterprise, which is in essence taking from the corrupt rich and giving to the downtrodden—namely himself. You owe me this, he says. My life is garbage and it’s Your fault. What did I ever do to deserve this? I promise I won’t hurt anybody but I’m going to take what I need.

Saturday two weeks later Daryl drives west, through Topeka and out into the wide, clean prairie. He drifts north off the interstate and goes from pavement to gravel to dirt, until he is really and truly in the middle of nowhere, grasslands and agriculture as far as the eye can see. He reads, from cover to cover, the instruction booklet that’s come with the revolver. When he’s done he opens a box of ammunition, pulls out a round, and carefully inspects it. He marvels at the tiny hole at the end of the slug and wishes he’d brought along a ham or something so he could see what a hollowpoint can do.

Carefully loading according to the manual, he opens the car door and stands, then cocks the hammer and, without really thinking or intending, or even installing the earplugs he’s brought, holds the weapon over the door, aims at the sky and pulls the trigger. The concussive forces of muzzleblast and recoil jerk the revolver out of his hand; it bounces off the driver’s side mirror and hits the ground where it discharges again, destroying a tire and blowing a headlamp thirty feet onto the prairie.

Julianna Margulies! he shouts. Julianna! Julianna!

He is adjusting his headphones when Nichoe’s soft hand touches his shoulder. Good morning Daryl, she says. Please come to my office.

She is waiting by the door and motions to a chair. When he walks through she closes the door and locks it. She bends to his face and kisses him, then lifts her sweater and bra and releases her enormous breasts upon him. One knocks his glasses off. She laughs, covers herself back up and returns to her chair behind the desk.

So much for the sex harassment seminar, he says, bending over to pick up his glasses. This is wrong.

Wrong? You’re robbing banks!

Pull your shirt up again, he says.

She stands and repeats the exercise, also turning to give him a side profile. Across her ample behind she’s wearing a very tight, very short white miniskirt, green pantyhose and high-heeled black boots up to her knees.

You are beautiful, he says.

Do you want to know how I know?

Know what?

That you’re robbing banks, of course!

I haven’t robbed a single thing.

You will.

Maybe.

You want to know how I know?

No.

You don’t?

No. Lift up your sweater again.

She does this once more, and this time gives him the full three-sixty. He sees that she’s wearing a thong. It is a black thong with frayed edges, and loose black threads tangled together in a ball.

It’s just a matter of time, she says. You and me—she motions back and forth between them. Do you do porn, Daryl?

No.

Really.

I love my wife, he says.

You’re obsessed with Julianna Margulies.

So?

Aren’t you?

If I am?

Do you want to know how I know—about the banks? And Julianna?

No.

Really—

No.

She stares at him for a few moments, then sits down heavily. Do something for me, she says, and pulls an envelope out of a drawer. She leans across the desk and hands it to him. When he opens it he finds eight Walmart Moneygrams for four hundred eighty-five dollars and twenty-five cents each.

What’s this?

They’re counterfeit. From Oklahoma City. Cash them. She hands him a card with an address and a name. This is the Walmart. It’s in Wichita. She points to the name. He’s one of the guys at the service counter. Call him and tell him when you’re coming. We split thirds.

Pull up your shirt again, he says.

This time she pulls her sweater all the way over her head, then does a kind of fatgirl’s striptease with her bra. She walks around the desk and gently bats his face back and forth with her breasts.

Finally! she says—someone to torture in the basement as long as I want.

You’re an animal, he says.

So are you. I’m just the animal that won.

You ain’t won yet, he says and pushes her away.

The first depository Daryl chooses is a little Bank of the West branch office off Shawnee Mission Parkway. It squats brown and ugly just north of a dense residential neighborhood with convoluted roads snaking through the houses. He scopes it out carefully, mapping four alternate escape routes with lots of cars parked along the road in case he has to pull over and blend in for a while. Late evening just before dark he drives there through sprinkling snow. A car directly ahead has a vanity plate that says NOWWHAT. Another car passes with a plate from Mississippi that features a lighthouse, as if Mississippi were somehow a beacon of hope; another pulls up with a yellow plate from New Mexico, which features the Zia sun. It’s a sign, he thinks. Goodbye PaydayLoans. Goodbye DollarStore. Goodbye KC Plasma Center.

3

An old man calls Medicare just after lunch. The area code says North Dakota, and Daryl asks how cold it is up there. Not as cold as Calgary, the old man says, then laugh/wheeze/coughs for the better part of a minute. I’m on O-2, he says. If I laugh too hard, blood sprays out my nose.

They talk briefly about an excessive prescription charge that in reality amounts to small change, then the man asks if he plants a springtime garden.

Don’t know a thing about it, says Daryl.

The old man allows as how he plants vegetables and ganja periodically and smokes a little of the latter himself for pain control. Rheumatoid. Can’t afford the meds anyway, he says, even with the gov’ment. Took the matter into my own hands. If they lock me up at least I’ll get my meds, now won’t I? I’m seventy-seven. What can they do?

He sells his excess to Sioux of the Crips persuasion, but keeps a revolver handy for unauthorized entry. It’s a dirty business, he says. Bad people, ever one. Gangs, even way out here on the rez. You got to be ready.

What caliber, Daryl asks.

Three five seven, the old man says. All you need. Anything bigger’s just a waste.

Hi Daryl, it’s Roxy. How have you been?

She has the comfortable voice of a hardcore tobacco addict. He sees her in his mind’s eye as a luminous being languidly smoking, as close to all-loving and all-knowing as a mortal can get.

O hi Rox. I’m good. How are you?

Same as ever, she says. Still alive, obviously.

How’s the Medicaid?

Fine, fine. Never any problem there. That gov’t of ours . . .

You know, this is gov’t too, he says adjusting his headset. I work on a contract for the Feds. They pay me to find out why they’re not doing their job.

Imagine that, says Roxy. Well, you’ll never be unemployed, that’s for sure. Did I ever tell you I can see the future?

Daryl considers this for a moment. I don’t think so.

Sometimes I’m right on. You’d be surprised.

Then tell me this: My Greek summer—when will it be?

You’re robbing banks, Daryl. That’s dangerous.

What the hell! he says.

Your big fat boss—is she coming on to you?

I’m no great beauty myself, I’ll tell you that.

I need an opinion: Should Israel make nice with Syria. I’m a Jew.

I don’t know how I feel about that, he says. If I knew exactly when the Lord was coming, maybe I could say.

The sermon that Sunday revolved around UFOs and the Bible. It also contained, unbeknown to any parishioner, a generous helping of Scientology. Pastor Rick had always felt free to access verity when and where he found it, and, for a promoter of putative fundamentalist Christianity, he found it in the most unlikely places. Over the years he had quoted entire passages, unattributed, from the Book of Mormon and the Bhagavad-gita. One sermon had centered around the Tibetan Book of the Dead; yet another, around Justine and similar works by de Sade with which, as man of the cloth, he was uncommonly familiar. Messages from God were also to be found in such venues as American Gladiator and Wheel of Fortune.

Who among you knows the late, great John Keats? Pastor Rick asks his congregation.

From amongst the throng, one pale, skinny arm belonging to a high school girl timidly rises.

Pastor Rick takes note.

John Keats was a great poet who died of tuberculosis on February 23, 1821. He was twenty-five years old.

Pastor Rick pauses for emphasis. He grips the podium and hangs his head.

Keats suffered for years. In those days there was no cure. When he got to heaven, Keats says to the Lord: Lord, was that really necessary? You ever had TB, Lord? Do you have any idea?

Upturned faces wonder what happens next. What next? their eyes implore. Where are we going Pastor Rick?

Poor John Keats. O the poor dead great man—all that gift and passion fizzing out at twenty-five! And all those people in Jonestown—what did they ever do to deserve that KoolAid? He spreads his arms: All part of the same Space Opera, my people. Stuff happens. We’re part of it, too. Quarantine the Thetans! But that’s is a subject for another day.

What’s a Thetan? whispers Jean. Is it in the Bible?

Revelations probably, says Daryl.

Are they homos?

I have a question, Jean. It’s real serious.

She turns only her eyes and looks at him sideways behind thick round glasses. By the way she’s blinking he can tell she expects it. She looks like a child. His heart cracks a little.

Pastor Rick: Is he laying hands upon you?

She turns back to look at the pulpit. She sits like this for a full minute, then whispers breathlessly, He says it’s the will of God. I’m supposed to be his Spiritual Wife.

Does he take off your spiritual clothes? Or your real clothes?

He told me I can’t say a thing. She collects herself for a moment. He took my glasses off and told me I was beautiful. That’s all.

Daryl stares into her eyes through his own thick glasses.

It’s between us and the Lord. Please don’t do anything, Daryl. He hasn’t touched me. I’m not very bright, but I’d figure it out sooner or later. Something else—she touches his arm. I haven’t told you: He’s buying our groceries. We don’t make enough to pay rent and bills and tithing and eat, too.

At the Big Bang everything is really jammed together, says Pastor Rick, now leaning over the podium and beginning to hit his stride. As it began to fly apart—he spreads his arms—space was created. We were created. God was created. This—he indicates his shabby tin shed filled with souls and folding chairs—This, too, was created, our sacred space, our cozy little corner of the frozen universe. Doesn’t this feel good, in here all together?

I’m going to shoot this fucker right between the eyes, Daryl whispers to himself, moving his lips slowly.

Fornicators, says Pastor Rick. We are a nation of fornicators. Surrender. We must surrender.

Surrender what? Daryl asks her.

Just listen, she says. He’ll tell you everything.

Monday morning first thing he plops himself down in front of Nichoe’s desk.

I have a problem.

You have many problems, Daryl. Which one are we going to discuss.

A guy named Pastor Rick.

You mean Bastard Rick.

You know him?

I sure do. You want to know how?

He takes his head in his hands and bends to his knees, moaning softly

I’ll just say this, she says: That magic pistol you have?—It may be time to wave that thing around a little.

Experimenting with disguises Daryl learns that the beard will work but the hat will not. It is not so much a disguise as a carnival advertisement, so he throws it in a dumpster behind a grocery store, someplace he is reasonably sure is not under some kind of surveillance. He figures out how the beard functions and what he needs to keep it securely in place, even when he’s running. He takes a pair of abandoned glasses from the lost & found box at work, thick black frames of classic proportions, and knocks the lenses out. He buys a knit cap at the Dollar Store, a box of latex gloves at Walmart, and figures he’s ready to go.

He was married to my sister for five years, Nichoe continues. This was after he left the priesthood. Actually, after he got kicked out of the priesthood. The pedophiles they kept. Rick?—Bam! Right out the door. What does that tell you?

Those Catholics are pretty bad.

That’s not what it tells you, Daryl.

What then?

He was even worse than the pedophiles. For god’s sake!

But we’re talking about Catholics here!

I know some respectable Catholic people. Pastor Rick is a piece of shit. Has he screwed her yet?

Who?

Your wife, idiot.

I don’t think so.

Well it’s just a matter of time. Is he giving her grocery money?

He sure is.

Well he gave me some, too. And then he did what he wanted—which, I have to admit, was pretty amazing. He told me I was beautiful. After he divorced my sister he wouldn’t give me the time of day.

I said you were beautiful, too.

But you meant it.

That’s amazing, says Daryl shaking his head. Truly amazing.

Daryl approaches the bank at five forty-eight pm Friday the tenth of January, twenty days, ten hours and fifty-two minutes after winter solstice. Feeling he must honor the Formless God of Chance, he’d loaded only five rounds into a cylinder designed for six, then spun it and locked it into place, not knowing if the empty chamber was the first, the last or somewhere in between. He’d heard once that the Navajos purposely weave imperfections into their rugs so as not to insult their perfect gods, and he liked the idea. He reflected that his own life in and of itself constituted an entity of such awesome imperfection that it could doubtless serve perfectly as propitiation to any god; but formalizing the offering to a specific deity makes him feel more confident. No telling what he’ll run into. Not wanting to create a video record as the undisguised Daryl, he’s not yet gone into the bank.

A mile from his target he pulls off the road by a little park with picnic tables and a swing set. He smears his license plate with a bag of thick mud he’s got in the trunk so it is unreadable. He tosses the bag into a trash can, then carefully fits the beard in place with spirit gum. He dons glasses, knit cap, and lays two latex gloves carefully on the passenger’s seat.

He gives the bank parking lot wide berth, then finds a spot to pull off on a now-darkening road two blocks away. The temperature is considerably below freezing and light snow sprinkles from the sky. He checks himself in the rearview one last time, pats the gun in his coat pocket, makes sure all the doors are unlocked, leaves the engine running, and steps out of the car.

He gets half a block and realizes he’s forgotten his earplugs, so returns to the car, reseats himself in the driver’s seat, and inserts these, struggling with his cold fingertips to compress the foam just right so it will enter the ear canal.

He gets half a block and realizes he’s forgotten his latex gloves, so returns to the car, again reseats himself in the driver’s seat and slowly puts them on. What else am I forgetting? I can’t come back again. Somebody’s going to see. He thinks about the earplugs for a moment, then removes them and replaces them in their little box.

Shock and awe, he thinks as he walks beneath the gaunt splendor of winter trees. I will stun them with terror, then take what I need.

The entire country is grinding to a halt, says Roxy from Sacramento. Those goddamn Republicans! I worry about you.

I have other sources of income, he says. I’ll be all right.

You’re robbing banks, she says. I know.

You and everyone else. The only ones who don’t are the police.

Isn’t that strange? That’s how life works sometimes, and I don’t know why, even after all these years. My husband, for instance, disciple of Hippocrates. A worse son-of-a-bitch you never met. And then the other day I read about this Serbian prison guard who lost his life saving a bunch of Bosnian women. Snuck them in a truck and drove to the border. When his officers found out they shot him—just for saving these poor women who were being raped and tortured.

I won’t hurt anybody, he says. I have a pistol but I’d never hurt a soul.

.357 Magnum. See—I even know the caliber. Isn’t that amazing?

Not really, he says. For all I know you’re a ghost or an angel. These days I’ll believe anything.

Pastor Rick, she says—Let’s talk about him for a minute.

O my god, says Daryl. O my sweet god in heaven.

4

The bank has one way in and the same way out. He also notices that the drive-up window in the back oversees his escape route, so he can’t run off that way. The lobby is empty when he enters, and no tellers are visible behind the counter. He approaches it and hears voices in the back, then leans over and sees that the vault door is open. It’s a sign, he thinks. He looks once behind himself then jumps the counter and pulls the gun. This is a stickup, he says quietly to two women who are preparing bags of money for the transport service. Get on the floor. He zips the bags, which are almost full, and takes them by the handles. One is very heavy, and he figures it’s coin, so he drops it. He unzips the other and places the gun inside, then clambers over the counter and steps brightly to the door. He opens his coat and, as best he can, hides the bag against his chest. Except for two cars he takes to be the tellers’ the parking lot is empty—he strides due east, and as soon as he’s among houses and trees starts to run. Impulsively he takes an alleyway he thinks is a shortcut, then gets lost and can’t find his car for six minutes. He looks quickly about himself, throws the bag on the floor behind the driver’s seat and leaves with his lights off. He expects a roadblock at each intersection all the way to his house, but does not even see a patrol car.

Julianna! he shouts when he closes his garage door behind him.

The man at the Walmart service counter in Wichita is named Larry and he looks a lot like Pastor Rick.

You look just like someone I know, Daryl tells him. You could be his brother.

That’s because I am. Only I don’t have the meth issue. I was married to Nichoe. I’m her X.

Well this is interesting, says Daryl. So what we got here is more or less a crime family—?

More or less, replies Larry. But it’s a broken family and very dysfunctional. All we have in common is love of money and, once in a while, some craaaaaazy sex.

When Daryl gets home from robbing the bank he sits in the garage for ten minutes. The operation has been more like a withdrawal than a robbery. He sorts his feelings. Disappointment. That’s it. You could almost talk about something like this on Oprah, though you’d have to speak from behind a curtain so the police couldn’t see your face. He had not discharged the hand cannon. He may as well not even have brought it!

He turns on the dome light and pulls the bag out from behind the seat. He unzips it, removes the revolver, and probes carefully, hoping there isn’t a can of exploding dye in there. Nothing but deposit bags, twelve of them, all swollen with cash. He opens the first, pours the contents in his lap and counts: $2,455. When he’s done counting he finds that he has stolen $21,380—Heist of the Week! This is for real! He stuffs everything into the bag and carries it inside as casually if it were his briefcase.

There are no late parents today and Jean is in the kitchen making supper. Their three children sit at the table working on school assignments. How did it go? she asks, as he knew she would. Did anybody see you?

He pulls a chair from beneath the table and sits down. He sets the bag on the floor.

Did anybody see me what?

She motions to the bag. You didn’t shoot the gun, did you?

No.

Don’t ever shoot the gun, Daryl. Don’t even put any bullets in it. It’s OK to take some money, but don’t you dare hurt anybody.

I won’t.

I know about that whore at work, too. Did you touch her?

Not yet.

Not ever, she says.

The next day Nichoe tells him that she’s in a struggle for dominance.

Who with? he asks.

Dark forces.

Is Pastor Rick involved?

Of course he’s involved.

Well then, let the battle rage. You can borrow my gun.

I don’t need a gun, Daryl. I just need to get my fingers under the rock. She makes digging motions with her hands. A little leverage. That’s all I need.

Now financially semi-secure, Daryl takes the next day off work and waits in his car on a side street just beyond the church parking lot. There are wrongs to right re: one bogus-ass philandering preacher and no time like the present. There is a glass church marquee on which is spelled out in large, removable black letters the church meeting times and a spiritual message for the week: “Those Who Judge Have No Time To Love!”

He listens to the student-run radio station from the University of Kansas. There seems to be some kind of musical revival coming out of nowhere, suddenly all this beautiful music—Five Deez, Flying Lotus, Fat Jon, Rainstick Orchestra, Lemongrass. Who the hell are these people?

He drives kwikly to a nearby KwikStop for a kwik kup of koffee, then returns to his spot. Daft Punk, Common, Telephone Jim Jesus, Nightmare on Wax, Meego. He reclines his seat, sips his coffee, turns up the volume. Deep base shakes the cabin:

So when I say I want
Us to be together
Just say you want me too
And I’ll be yours forever

He cries unabashedly. When the track is over he turns the radio off, reclines the seat and covers his eyes with the back of his hand.

A mean new black Mustang bulging with engine and sporting a dealer plate squeals into the parking lot. Pastor Rick and an obvious car salesman step out and walk around the car. The salesman pops the hood and they examine the engine for several minutes. Daryl lowers his window and listens to the conversation. If the church buys it . . . he hears the salesman say. Write-off . . . Pastor Rick laughing. Wow! he shouts. The salesman bobs his head: A real statement, he says. You’re saying something when you pull up in this thing. Pastor Rick claps his hands: Man drives a Japanese car and then tells me I’m not a patriot? I hear that, says the salesman. You’re helping your country. You really are. Far as I’m concerned, that’s what Christian is all about, the good ‘ol USA. Where else!? Plus, every one you bring, there’s three hunnert bucks in your pocket. You got a whole congregation in there should be driving American Fords. If they’re driving one already, it’s time they traded up.

That night he dreams of tall slender women in bikinis. To the best of his reckoning there are ten, walking single file in high heels along a rural road at night. They have tiaras in their hair and some kind of sash over their left shoulders. He pulls up beside them in a Mustang and rolls down the window to ask what the hell they’re doing way out there. They just keep on walking and don’t say a word. Finally, he gets out of the car and approaches one in the middle of the line. Without stopping she turns her head to look at him. Her eyes glow and he sees fire flicker on her lips.

At five a.m. his four-year old daughter climbs into bed between him and Jean. She snuggles against her dad and he pulls her close and kisses the back of her head. She twists to face him and puts a little hand on his cheek. Don’t shoot anybody, she says. You’ll go to jail.

Roxy calls from Sacramento five minutes before noon, and it’s a relief. The old folks have been particularly noisome this morning. If he hears another word about liver disease or colon cancer there’s no telling what he’ll do.

Good morning, darlin’, she says. How are you this fine day?

It’s plenty cold out here on the prairie, he says. Otherwise, I think we’re good.

I had a dream last night. It concerns me. Do you have a moment?

Of course, he says. For you I have plenty of moments.

You having problems at work?

A little.

Woman problems?

Is this about the dream?

Yes it is.

Tell me.

You were driving a black car with a stick shift. These half-naked women were walking down a road in the country. Single file. Kansas, from the looks of it. It was evening, and their eyes looked like flashlights. When they spoke, flames came out of their noses.

My God, says Daryl. How the hell would you know that?

I hardly dream at all, but this one was clear as day. Now, the problem at work—?

My boss?

Does she wear high heels?

Yes she does. She’s also listening in, you can be sure. Did you hear that, Nichoe? I know you’re there.

Be careful with her, says Roxy. I know those women. I used to be one. How do you think I got the doctor?

Jean is watching her murder shows when he arrives home after work: CSI: New York, CSI: Las Vegas, CSI: Miami. Law & Order Criminal Intent. NCIS. Blood and charred remains fill the screen. People are upset and punching each other in the face. He recalls The Sopranos where he first fell in love with the otherworldly Julianna Margulis, heroin addict. He finds the remote and hits the mute button.

Why is my life an open book? he asks. I didn’t open it. Who did?

Probably the Lord, she says. If it’s open, He’s the one who opened it.

Why would He do this?

Pastor Rick says the Last Days are on the way.

I think they’re already here.

It scares me to think about it, she says. On the television screen behind her a coroner saws off the top of someone’s head.

It doesn’t scare me, says Daryl. Not at all. I like our chances. The sooner He comes, the better.

Jesus wants us to buy Fords, Jean says.

Daryl peers at her over the top of his glasses. What did you say?

I think we should buy a Ford, Daryl. It helps our country. This is the greatest Christian nation on earth.

Who told you that?

She looks at her hands and says, You know.

I sure do!

Dinner in fifteen minutes, she says. I made your favorite.

5

The first thing Daryl does at work the next morning is call Roxy Gunn. She’s an hour behind in California, but he figures she’ll be up drinking something and he’s right.

Well hello Hello HELLO!, she says. What a niiiiiice surprise. I was just having some breakfast.

What are you having?

Coffee and whisky, she says. The whole equation. What’s on your mind, sweetheart?

Do you like Sacramento?

It’s a shithole. Why do you ask?

I’m wondering if you’d like to move in with us.

With your family?

That’s right.

Why Daryl . . . !

We both need some help, Roxy. You shouldn’t live by yourself and I need someone to be with my wife. If I can’t get someone to help, I’m going to kill the Pastor.

Ah, the Pastor, she says. How many times have I heard that story? Is he buying her groceries?

He sure is.

Good lord.

Do you think . . . ?

Check her underwear drawer.

I did.

And?

Nothing I don’t recognize.

Then you’re probably OK.

Here’s the crazy thing: She knows he’s an asshole.

But she can’t help herself?

That’s right.

Poor thing. And she loves you. I know she does.

It’s time for action, isn’t it?

It sure is, Daryl. You’ve got to save that girl!

We’ve got a little room above the garage. You’ll like it. It’s a two story house, you know—three, if you count the basement.

I don’t care if it’s a chicken coop. If I’m with you, I’m in heaven.

That’s a nice thing to say, Roxy.

I am kind of an alcoholic. I hope that’s not a problem.

Not for me

I won’t drink in front of the children. That you can bank on.

After he hangs up, he walks over to Nichoe’s office. She’s on the phone, but smiles and waves with her free hand and motions to a chair. He closes the door and sits with his legs stretched out. That’s too bad, she says into the receiver. That’s a shame. I’m really sorry that happened. Uh huuuu. Ummm. Ummmm. This goes on for ten minutes. Then she hangs up abruptly.

Who was that?

A friend. Man trouble.

What about it?

She’s married. Got a boyfriend. Can’t break it. Knows he’s a bastard.

Poor thing, says Daryl.

Well it happens. It’s a terrible thing, but it happens all the time. You’d think we’d learn. I guess biology takes over. Anyway, I get sick of hearing about it. So what can I do for you, honey?

Time for lunch, he says. I’m buying.

The church parking lot is empty when they drive up. He stops where he parked before and turns on the radio. This is the college station, he says. KU. You won’t believe some of this stuff. It’s amazing.

How do you know he’s coming?

I don’t.

So we’re just sitting here?

Relax, Nichoe. He indicates the bag with the burgers—‘Cause when he finally shows, all hell’s gonna break loose.

The last talk I heard him give was about virtuous mortification. Right here. She points to the building. He said it’s a principle.

What is it?

Doing crappy things you don’t want to do so you can feel good about yourself.

Like what?

The example he gave was drinking pee.

Does that make you a better person?

So he says.

Does he do it?

He drank mine.

Daryl makes a face and waves her off.

He reaches across her chubby knees and pulls the .357, a box of ammo, and the Lonely Planet Greek Islands out of the glove box. He slips the book and box in his left coat pocket.

Nichoe, meet Baby. He swings out the cylinder and hands her the gun. She hefts it and points it and makes a little Boom with her lips. It’s heavy, she says. Is it loud?

Second Coming loud!

He pulls out the box of earplugs and hands them to her.

No thanks, she says. I don’t want to miss a thing.

He sees the Mustang half a block away and tells her to duck. After it passes he raises his eyes just enough and watches Pastor Rick unlock the side door. He’s talking on the cell phone, laughing and shouting, and doing everything in slow motion. They can see his dazzling white teeth even from where they hide.

He’s a good-looking bastard, Nichoe says. At least give him that.

When Pastor Rick enters the church Daryl loads the gun, all six rounds this time.

I need to do a walk-around, he says. In case a bullet goes through the wall.

Immense cornfields stretch north and west of the church. The nearest house is three-hundred yards away, and Daryl figures if there’s anyone home it’s old people plugged into TV and high on prescriptions.

How do we get in? Nichoe whispers, even though they’re still in the car.

He pops the trunk from a button on the dash, slips the now loaded revolver into his coat pocket and steps out of the car. He fishes around in the trunk for a minute before he finds a tire iron, then shuts the lid and taps softly on the roof.

The shed is without windows. They avoid the glass front doors and reconnoiter the sides and rear. They figure there is another door on the side away from the parking lot, and after moving catlike around the back of the building, find one they can jimmy. Daryl pulls the jamb far enough from the door that the deadbolt slips out and the door swings open. He carefully pokes his head inside and looks around.

What can you see? whispers Nichoe.

He pulls his head out and pushes the door to. Why don’t we have a little prayer, he says. I wanna make sure we do this right. Go ahead. Say it.

Nichoe offers up her thanks for life such as it is, and asks for guidance and blessings of spirit. She mentions the word “justice” three times.

When she’s done Daryl hands her the tire iron and pulls out the gun. He removes one round, carefully replacing it in the ammo box, which is with the Greek island book in the other pocket. Then he spins the cylinder.

That very morning, unbeknownst to Daryl, or even Nichoe and Roxy, Pastor Rick had made yet another attempt on the virtue of Jean. He had shown up with his Mustang full of groceries and cosmetics and a little package from Victoria’s Secret that had arrived at the church UPS only an hour before.

Why are you doing this? she had finally asked him. If Daryl ever finds out . . .

He won’t, says Pastor Rick.

I think he already knows.

Daryl! he laughs. Why don’t you let me worry about him. He takes off her glasses and gathers her in his arms. She does not resist, but when he tries to kiss her she pulls her head back.

Not yet, she says. I’m not ready for anything else.

He pulls her closer and nuzzles her neck. That little package, he says, nodding to the black wrapping. I’d sure like to see you try that on.

I will, Jean says. But you got to promise to keep your distance.

Scouts’ honor, says Pastor Rick, and brings his right hand to the square.

Jean checks the kids downstairs who are watching a soap opera, then locks the bathroom door and opens the box. The garment inside is so diaphanous and strange that she can’t figure out what’s the front and what’s the back. After she’s undresses she also discovers that she’s not shaved her legs for a week. She sighs and looks at herself in the mirror.

After they enter the dark church, Nichoe takes his arm and whispers, It’s got a cement floor. You have to remember that.

Why?

You can’t shoot him in the foot, that’s why. It’ll ricochet around and kill somebody. Probably me.

Why you? he laughs.

Because I deserve it, she hisses. I’m not much better than he is.

They take off their shoes and creep toward the back of the church where they see a faint luminescence and hear a voice. Rick is behind his desk, still on his cell phone, tapping away on a laptop at the same time. He’s laughing and hearty and very very happy.

I told him, he shouts—How DARE you call ME a traitor when I’M the one driving the AMERICAN CAR! Uh hu. Uh hu. Uh hu. HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW

Daryl backs them off and whispers, We got to wait till he’s off the phone. I don’t want them to hear the gun at the other end.

My god, she says—are you actually going to shoot him?

Yes I am, he says. Right through the nuts.

Nichoe claps a hand over her mouth and runs away on stocking feet, giggling doubled over to the end of the hall. He pushes her into a little room and softly closes the door, then doubles over himself, both of them hooting into their hands and coats.

I got to tell you something, she says, still laughing. You know that phone call—my friend with the man problem?

Yeah?

It was Rick’s wife. She’s having a fling with his brother.

Your X?

Yup.

Jesus Lord, he says and shakes his head. What a goddamn mess.

That’s nothing. I have two brothers and a sister. Wait till I tell you about them.

No thanks!

And—I also have a little confession, she says, wiping the laugh-tears from her eyes. I may be falling in love.

With?

Nichoe smiles at him.

O for god’s sake—

I can lose some weight if that’s a problem—

Nichoe, don’t you think I’ve got enough on my plate right now?

OK, OK, she says, waving him off and laughing again. But you know we’re gonna have to deal with this sooner or later.

Jean gets the thing on backwards and looks at herself. Her small breasts are plainly visible through the fabric. She considers how temporarily fine Pastor Rick’s hands might feel temporarily upon them. Then she changes her mind. I have not done this before, she says firmly to herself in the mirror. I am not going to do it today.

She cracks the bathroom door and says to Pastor Rick who is standing just outside, I’m sorry. I have diarrhea.

O come on! Let me see.

I’ve pooped myself.

No problem. Let me help—

Come back later.

When?

She thinks for a minute. One hour.

You’ll model my teddy?

Promise, she says. She sticks out her left hand and brings it to the square.

OK, he says. I’ll just run on down to the church.

6

When Pastor Rick finally hangs up Daryl walks to his doorway, aims just over his head, and touches off a thunderous explosion. With no apparent effort Pastor Rick levitates seven feet straight up. Daryl blasts the laptop, which flies off the desk and shatters like a beer bottle against the wall behind. Then he vaporizes the pushbutton executive desk phone. God Almighty screams Pastor Rick, and dives beneath his desk, where he scrabbles himself into a tiny ball. Daryl tips the heavy desk over upon the Man of God. The air is full of blue smoke and Pastor Rick is still screaming and Nichoe is shouting, The Mustang’s mine! The Mustang’s mine!

Julianna Margulies! He blows a hole through the wall, and another through the roof and click at Pastor Rick’s head. Julianna! Julianna! Julianna! Julianna!

He ejects the spent brass on the floor where it bounces and chimes like Chinese coins, half-heard through roaring ears. He reloads with six rounds, then takes one back out and spins the cylinder. He steps to where Pastor Rick groans stuck beneath the toppled desk and clobbers him on the forehead with the pistol butt.

He cocks the hammer, aims right between his eyes and yells, Here comes the elephant, shithead! Are you ready?

By now, Jean has showered, shaved her legs, and figured what’s right-side-up with the teddy. She ties little bows where they require tying and snaps little snaps where they require snapping. She walks through the door into their bedroom and looks at herself in the full-length. She reaches into her closet and slips on high black heels she hasn’t worn for ten years. The garment itself is so transparent it’s like she’s wearing nothing. She looks herself over, front and back. I am beautiful, she smiles to herself. No wonder they love me!. She slips an old housedress over everything, finds her glasses, and teeters downstairs to the children.

Roxy Gunn, dreamer of his dreams, has bought a plane ticket for Kansas City and is packing two bags, plus a carry-on. She will leave everything else in the rental and simply disappear. Jack’s paper and personal effects she has already burned in the back yard, a small fire lit exactly in the middle of the grass square. Jack may as well have never existed. Only Daryl, the Social Security Administration and Medicare will know where she has gone. She figures she doesn’t have long to live. That Daryl is one-in-a-million! Don’t kill the Pastor, she prays. OK, knock him around a little and make him beg, but don’t finish him off.

Luckily, the Formless God of Chance is listening. The Formless God of Chance is amorphous and unreliable and utterly uncanny. Of all the gods, he is my favorite. Of all the gods he is most unknowable, the most humane. Of all the gods he is most like me.

(Lyrics by Walter Meego, Voyager, “Forever”)

Letting out aggression is the Craigslist way.

That Is Wood

One of my grandmothers collected chocolates, and the other collected birds.

My mother collects small wooden apples and my cousin collects strange and beautiful pieces of jewelry.

One brother collects accomplishments and the other doesn’t collect anything because he refuses to be weighted down by “stuff.”

My best friend Ryan collects books and my boyfriend collects tools.

I collect collections and Craigslist ads.

wichita craigslist > for sale / wanted > collectibles – by owner

thimbles and house!!!! – $10 (derby ks,)

i have got a house that is wood that hangs on the wall and hold eight thimbles also have got 8 different thimbles to go with it i have 2 kansas,2 elvis presley,1 Colorado,1 white with a pink heart,2 blue colored ones all in great shape will sell all for $10.00 if interested u can call xxx-xxxx ask for kelly or e-mail me back thanks.

I wonder if the four exclamation points were placed in the title in hopes of getting attention or if they give away Kelly’s unabashed excitement for her treasure.

Regular Height

And some people collect chairs.

south florida craigslist > miami / dade > for sale / wanted > items wanted

CHAIRS (MIAMI/KENDALL)

* BARSTOOL HEIGHT CHAIRS
* COUNTER HEIGHT CHAIRS
* REGULAR HEIGHT CHAIRS
* ACCENT CHAIRS
* LIVING ROOM CHAIRS
* DINING CHAIRS
* PATIO CHAIRS
* OFFICE CHAIRS

EMAIL PICS/PRICE
I’LL RESPOND ASAP
I PAY CASH
THANK YOU

I bet it’s some kind of fetish.

Covers You Completely

I learned a new term today: fursuit.

Here are some highlights from the Wikipedia page:

Fursuits are animal costumes associated with the furry fandom . . . Owners (also known as fursuiters) can spend less than one-hundred to many thousands of dollars on one fursuit . . . Many furry fans make their own using online tutorials or advice from newsgroups.

Sexuality
A small portion of the furry fandom considers a fursuit a sexual item.

Maintenance
Some fursuiters spray their costumes with Febreeze, Endbac, Lysol . . . a product that will kill bacteria, rather than just mask odours.

On a completely unrelated note . . .

lexington craigslist > for sale / wanted > general for sale

BRAND NEW BUNNY SUIT !!! – $130 (PAINT LICK, KY)

I have a BRAND NEW BUNNY SUIT ONLY TOOK OUT TO SHOW PICTURE. Will fit up to an X-Large, and is sized BIG… Covers you completely head to toe!!!
First 130.00 takes it… Fun for kids of all ages!!!!!!! call xxx-xxx-xxxx for more information . . .

I wonder what the “more information . . .” will reveal.

(The home décor is giving me a migraine.)

That got me to thinking: what other historical trends do we see coming into the Election of 2012? The above example seemingly points to a Mitt Romney win, doesn’t it? If only once have four out of five presidents been two-termers (and if only once have we re-elected three consecutive presidents), and if for both scenarios we have to reach back to the deepest depths of U.S. history to find them, it seems unlikely that President Obama could break both streaks, right?

Maybe. There are other trends, and they don’t all point to the same result. Below are five Pro-Romney trends and then five Pro-bamas.[2]

Pro-Romney trends

1. See above. Only in the time of the early republic have we had such a run of re-elections. Moreover, there have been obvious changes to presidential politics since then, changes that explain why we haven’t seen that kind of streak since. Take those four two-termers of the first five: Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe. All were Virginians, and each served as the predecessor’s Secretary of State.[3] It was as if each was a chosen successor to the presidency.[4]

We haven’t seen anything like that since. At no point in presidential history was such a predictable succession process in place.[5] More recently, of course, we’ve seen perpetual vitriol between the two major parties. Constant attacks air everyday on MSNBC and Fox News, while the Internet extends the news cycle to 24/7. Correspondingly, both sides feed talking points to their enormous bases, giving them reasons to hate the opposition. The result is that if either party is out of power, their animosity grows all the more. Thus, they’ll do anything to take power back, and usually do.

The days of smooth successions are long gone.

2. Only once in American history has there been a two-term president to follow a two-term president of the opposing party. Of course, that only time was quite recent—George W. Bush following Bill Clinton—which might just show that the American people have become a reactionary, vacillating people. Or maybe we haven’t, I don’t know. No, no, I think we have.[6]

3. No President since 1936 has been re-elected when the U.S. unemployment rate is north of 7.2 percent. Ronald Reagan’s re-election in 1984 marks the only time a president was re-elected with unemployment over 6 percent. The three other times a president tried, he lost.[7] As of April 2012, U.S. unemployment stands at 8.1 percent, falling only 0.2 percent since the start of the year. In other words, there is practically no chance it falls to the low 7s by November. A huge Romney trend to follow.

4. No President who ate dog as a ten-year-old in Indonesia has ever been re-elected President. That we know of.[8]

5. Since 1944—when Gallup started tracking presidential approval ratings—only one incumbent—Lyndon Johnson—has been re-elected with an approval rating under 50 percent. President Obama has been under 50 percent since June of 2011, and currently hovers in the mid-to-high 40s.

Five Pro-bama trends

1. A Mormon has never been elected President of the United States. Someone other than a traditional Protestant has only been elected once.[9] [10]

2. Only four times since 1916 has an incumbent president lost. Each time, it was against a charismatic inspirer. In 1932, Hoover lost to FDR. In 1976, Ford lost to Jimmy Carter. In 1980, Carter lost to Ronald Reagan. In 1992, Bush I lost to Bill Clinton.

In 2012, President Obama faces off against Mitt Romney. Romney is not Reagan or Clinton.

3. Dating back to 1896, only five times has an incumbent president lost.[11] (Meanwhile, incumbent presidents have won 12 times (14 if you count FDR thrice).[12])

• In 1912, Taft lost when a comeback run from Teddy Roosevelt siphoned Republican voters in Taft’s loss to Woodrow Wilson.
• With Hoover, there was the Great Depression.
• In 1976, Ford pardoned Nixon, whose first VP was found corrupt before Nixon himself became embroiled in Watergate. The Republican Party was seen as unethical and even endured a split as Ronald Reagan challenged Ford in the Republican Primary. Ford barely escaped, and the perceivably moral Carter washed out the Republican stain from the Oval Office’s carpet.
• Four years later, a bruised and battered Carter had to hold off a fierce primary challenge of his own from Ted Kennedy before running up against a dominant Reagan.
• In 1992, President Bush had votes siphoned from a Ross Perot run and could not overcome the political force that was Bill Clinton.

In each case, we see forces in action that are nowhere near the 2012 election. Unlike 1912 and 1992, there’s no third party run from the moderate or left to take votes away from the Democratic incumbent. The recession, as bad as it was, is gone, the economy improving (albeit slowly); neither was the case for Hoover in 1932. Finally, unlike 1976 and 1980, there is no primary challenge to the incumbent president. Which leads us to . . .

4. Only twice since 1800 has a president not been challenged in his primary and lost re-election. In one of those times—Hoover in 1932—he was presiding over the worst economic disaster in U.S. history. No Republican wanted to soil their record with a loss and Hoover was left holding the bag as FDR put him out of his misery in November. The other exception—Grover Cleveland in 1888—is actually one of the four times in history that a candidate won the popular vote but lost the electoral college, so Cleveland acquitted himself just fine in his loss to Benjamin Harrison.[13] Ultimately, it seems that an incumbent president with the party united behind him is consistently the winner.

5. No candidate who ever drove 650 miles with his dog strapped to the roof has ever been elected President.

Which trends will continue? Which trends will be broken? We’ll know in less than six months.

Even though I may not adapt to change gracefully at first—or sanitarily—I can’t take all the credit for my failure. My dad, you see, is the sentimental kind who likes to linger in the moment. He sees poetry in the present, and there’s not much more that’s significant than sending your child off into the world—that whole nest and flight thing.

Rather than drop me at the gate and drive away, my dad insisted on joining me at check-in and walking me to the security line. And then he waited, and watched, as I slowly inched farther away from him. As the strangers behind me started to blot out his face, the weight of the moment hung heavily on me. Unsurprisingly, I started to cry.

The woman next to me in line asked, “Is everything alright, honey? What’s wrong?”

“Yes, I’m ok,” I answered, a bit pathetically. “I’m leaving for college today. I’m a freshman.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be exciting?”

She was right. Embarrassed and demoralized, I wiped my cheeks and faced that whole future thing. I didn’t know it then, but my steps through a sleepy southern airport were my first steps as an adult.

These days, I get dropped off at the departures curb. No one follows me inside. When I’m at school, I no longer count down the days to the next break. Home has a new definition, with two sections—Winston-Salem and Evanston. But what I missed in the fine print was what would happen when those two definitions of home would collide.

For the first time, my parents and my sisters and my sister’s fiancé descended on Evanston. It was a long-awaited event, especially since my sisters had never visited me. Since they booked the flights, I dreamed up a scenario where they would meet my best friends and fall in love with them, eat the most delicious meals at Chicago hot spots and see the Cubs win at Wrigley Field.

But in the days leading up to their arrival, I started to get nervous. For three years, I have happily lived with a distinct line, the Mason Dixon, dividing who I am in North Carolina from who I am in Illinois. No, there’s no change in name or accent, it is much more subtle. In college, I am a grown-up. When things go wrong, when decisions need to be made, and then, when things go really, really wrong, I am the only one there. Technology certainly makes the panicked phone calls to mom more possible and frequent, but Apple has yet to invent a way to beam her into a meeting with my advisor to discuss my candidacy for graduate school. (Ok, Skype has, but that would be awkward.) No, that meeting is on me.

Similarly, my family is not around to meet my friends. Years ago, it was unavoidable, especially since it was usually my dad in the front seat, driving my first boyfriend home after our movie date. Now, he can’t keep my friends’ names straight. To him, they are a string of stories with no context. Names without faces.

For me, it is ceaselessly unbelievable that my family and my friends no longer intersect. That is, until they did on Thursday night.

Over sweating glasses of sangria, my family and three of my best friends—Meghan, Shannon and Lynne—met. I listened as Caroline, my sister, chatted politely with Shannon about her plans for graduate school. It is particularly funny to watch two people who you have seen at their funniest, goofiest and drunkest, trade pleasantries, as if either of them is normal. Then, my dad asked if they had any embarrassing stories about me. Laughs circled the table, and I realized these intersecting planes may start ganging up on me. Luckily, my friends didn’t tell my dad what I had done last Friday. Maybe they’ll save the incriminating stories for the next family weekend.

In the hours not spent meeting my friends, my family and I soaked in Chicago. We saw the Cubs win, then the next day, we watched them lose. We floated down the river and craned our necks to glimpse the tops of skyscrapers. We even had our small town moments, showing up at a downtown restaurant without a reservation, hoping they could just “squeeze us in.” It was a four-hour wait. But it didn’t really matter. Even though I was starving, I at least had people to complain to.

In fact, I found myself whining a whole lot more this weekend. As I had started to realize during the Christmas break of my freshman year, when I go home, or when any college kid goes home for that matter, we regress. Rather than act like the adults we must be at school, our brains subconsciously signal that we can still be the whiney pre-teens we once were. Because, guess what? Mom and Dad are there to keep it all together. Rather than show how much I’ve grown, I show how well I still fit into my acid wash jeans and scrunchies from fifth grade. College teaches you a lot, but there is something about family that takes down your defenses.

When they had to leave on Monday afternoon, we said good bye on the L. We spent the day at the Art Institute, and we took the red line north back to Evanston. They needed to get off at the stop before me to grab their suitcases from the hotel before heading to O’Hare. I hugged and kissed each of them. When they stepped off at Dempster, my dad turned quickly on the platform and stared back into the plexi-glass of the train car. He had that same look that he’d ahd when he watched me disappear into the security line three years ago. He smiled and mouthed, “I love you,” and I felt tears well. Then, the train jolted to life and slid away.

A man sitting diagonally across from me, who must have witnessed the elaborate good bye, said, “you are very blessed.” Like that woman three years ago, he was right too.