Sunday, September 27, 2015
The Candidate
“Beginning of Loser Stink!”--he thought he heard, passing
Happy’s office.
A political assistant, Morsel, had got him a rental cabin
for now.
The Fire Chief wouldn’t let him back in the house,
though the snaps from his departmental phone
demonstrated very little damage compared to the
rest of the foothills town.
He drove to the shore confident that the campaign
was taking the weekend off. He’d leave the cell on,
but no action expected.
His opponent would seize the media with his reactions
to the fire. Why not? He held the office.
Stopped at a 7-11 for a few groceries and a six pack.
So, weekend rustication. Gloria, arriving in Paris with a trio of
girlfriends, didn’t have to know for now. Let them enjoy
themselves.
The cabin was a block from the beach. And what he expected.
Atlanta Falcons banners everywhere. And a closet full of clothes
left by previous renters.
He made himself a sandwich and munched Fritos. Finished with
canned pineapple.
The ancient TV had some cable music channels, so he settled
on Classical, Beethoven’s smashing Fifth leading off.
Finished a couple of Bud Lights listening.
It grew chilly and he didn’t trust the battered electric heaters,
so he fetched sweatpants and a sweatshirt from the closet.
Swam in them. A hunt for scissors. In the cramped kitchen, a pair,
in a block holding knives.
At the formica table, cut the legs and arms to fit. Great!
Mustn’t LOOK like a loser!
Labels: election, fire, foothills, loser, losing candidate, political campaign, shore
