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.

 “You guys sure are taking it well,” Griff said. His friends mumbled and sipped their drinks, averting their eyes. “Oh, wait a minute … hold the phone … don’t tell me … you all voted for Trump!”

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.

_____