Down at the Long Shot
The neighborhood
tavern in East Sacramento was half full on a Wednesday afternoon in November.
Griffin sat hunched over his beer, an empty shot glass on the bar in front of
him, mumbling to himself. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned to see
his friend Raj smiling at him.
“Griff! What’s up,
man? Why so glum, chum?”
“Hi, Raj. Just
thinking about Tuesday’s results. I just can’t believe it.”
“Hey, it is what
it is. Come on over and join us at the table. Karen, Kareem, and Paco are here.”
“Thanks, Raj, but
I’m not very good company today.”
“Ah bull puckies!
Come on, man, we’ll cheer you up.”
Raj tugged Griff
off the bar stool and led him to the large, high-boy table where his friends
greeted him warmly.
“Look who I found
crying in his beer.” Raj laughed.
“Man, that’s never
a good thing,” Kareem flashed a gleaming smile.
“Hey, I think we
have a country song here,” Karen chipped in. She sang the chorus: “Don’t let
the tears fall in your beer / Don’t let the Dems break your heart…”
“Sit down, homes,
tell us what’s wrong.” Paco moved his chair to make room for Griff.
“It’s the damn
election. I can’t believe we lost every battleground state, plus the Senate,
and probably the House.” The knot in Griff’s stomach tightened.
“Yeah, well you
know what they say. ‘Shit happens.’” Raj looked around the table and everyone
nodded—except for Griff.
More mumbling and
averted eyes.
“Karen, certainly
not you—college educated, suburban white woman—we were counting on your vote.”
Griff stared at Karen.
“Relax, Griff. I
didn’t vote for him.”
“Oh, thank God!”
Karen continued,
“I didn’t vote. Period. I stayed home.”
“You what?” Griff
could not believe what he was hearing.
“Hey, I knew
California’s electoral votes were going to Harris/Walz. So why bother?”
“But … but … what
about your congressman, what about down ballot?”
Karen shrugged.
“My rep is in a safe seat, and who can understand all the damn propositions?”
“And what about
you, Kareem? A proud Black man. Surely you stayed with the coalition.”
“No, I did not!”
Kareem wasn’t smiling now. “I voted for Trump. The Dems only want to talk to us
once every four years, and even then they talk at us. The rest of the
time it’s You’re on your own, brother.”
Griff was shaken,
ready to shed more tears in his beer. He looked at Paco with pleading eyes.
“And you, Paco, a son of immigrants, a union member, what about you?”
“Trump all the
way, Bro. No hesitation. Look, my folks came legally from Mexico, worked hard,
became citizens. We don’t appreciate all the illegals pouring in, claiming
asylum. They come to the border and make their problem our problem.”
“Oh, Paco, no—”
Griff was distraught.
“And don’t call us
‘LatinX’ and don’t take our vote for granted!” Paco slammed his empty mug on
the table and signaled for another round.
Griff turned to
Raj, his oldest and closest friend. “Raj, please don’t tell me—”
“Yep, buddy, me
too. Hey, you know what our local guy Hasan Minhaj says: ‘Give us green cards,
low taxes, don’t bomb our home country, and we’ll vote for you.’”
The new round of
drinks arrived, including a shot of Irish Whiskey for Griff. It was quiet for a
moment.
Paco broke the
silence. “Listen, homes, our man Minhaj is totally right about one thing. All
of us folks from Beigeistan are way more practical than we are
progressive. Harris was talking progressive. Not what we wanted to hear.”
Kareem chimed in. “Yeah,
they talk about ‘The rich have to pay their fair share.’ So, what is their fair
share? How are you going to adjust the tax brackets? No answer. Soak the rich
doesn’t sell anymore. We don’t want to soak the rich. We want to be the
rich.”
“Right on!” Paco
added. “MicroSoft, Apple, Google, Amazon, Intel—we work for those companies. We
don’t want taxes driving them—and our jobs—offshore.”
“Look, Harris just
had a lot of baggage to carry,” Karen offered. “Afghanistan. The border.
Inflation. Just enough to lose all seven battleground states.”
Raj clapped a hand
on Griff’s shoulder once again. “Come on, Griff, cheer up. After all, four more
years of Trump, how bad can it be?”
Griff downed the
shot, grimaced as the heat raced down his throat, and looked at his friends
around the table. He burst into laughter … and he could not stop.
_____
The author put the election results in the dialogue of typical representatives of the American population. This is better than polls. I think this is real.
ReplyDelete