Smoke and Mirrors Issue 2 - Is There a Doctor in the Car?
Is There a Doctor in the Car?
by Del Freeman
He replayed his friend's suggestions in his mind like fingering an endless string of worry beads. Should he? Should he not? No flower petals to disengage toward resolution of the problem. No eeney, meeney stuff. Only his own "good sense."
"You have a problem," she'd said definitely. "Granted, it may be a problem no one knows about yet, but it is a problem with great potential for revelation. Now, just who do *you* think is in the best position to put a positive spin on it? I say this as your friend as much as a former investigative reporter, Don - take the bull by the horns before it throws you off and gores you to death.
Well, he couldn't deny the good sense part. It could only help him to give his own interpretation - might even be a political asset, as she'd said, although he had his doubts. Still, facts were facts and if they came out - well, there would be nothing for it except to offer lame excuses that would ring as hollow as she said his head was if he didn't heed her advice.
Jeez, what had ever possessed him to run for office in the first place, he wondered, knowing full well the answer. It was that part of his past life that best fed his ego - that time when he was firmly in office almost a decade ago - long before the booze brought him down from his lofty position; down all the way to his knees and beyond. Part of the challenge was to see if he could get there again. Part of it to see if he could resist the temptations which had destroyed him the first time around.
He spoke about his recovery - frequently. She agreed with him that it was politically advantageous to do so. After all, statistics indicated the number of recovering addicts was maybe the only thing on the rise in the waning recession, which still clung to the economy like the aroma of early morning stale beer to a gin joint.
"Hey, America loves a come-back," she said bluntly. "There are enough people recovering from something or other to put you in office with their votes alone, and the ones who've never been down and out will support you because they believe it is the humanely right thing to do. Who among your opponents is foolish enough to stand up and declare that you don't deserve a second chance?"
He'd smiled. She was savvy, his new friend. He was inclined to trust her, despite their brief acquaintance. She'd moved to Miami after Andrew whipped through and left mounds of destruction, following her husband whose pseudo-construction line of work placed him in high demand and high remuneration. He'd liked the two of them immediately, but trust ... well, that was something else again. That she'd been an investigative reporter was an open fact. Whether she still was, was the question that bothered him; caused him to wake bathed in sweat after dreaming that the both of them were in cahoots to do an exposÇ on him. When he'd told her about that she'd only smiled. They both had.
"It's only smart to reveal your shortcomings yourself, presenting them in your own spotlight, Don," she'd urged that morning. "God knows, the other side's spot is pretty intense and unforgiving.
Hell, he knew that. What sort of moron did she think he was anyway? He'd figured all the odds before he'd gotten back into the crap shoot, and thought he had a pretty good chance. He also thought there was a good chance he'd skate through without detection. If he didn't, however, the advantage of presentation would be lost, just like she'd said. He felt like he was being asked to choose between column A, fatal accident, and column B, fatal disease. It was a little like committing suicide while still in perfect health.
"What are you gonna' do lad," he murmured aloud. "What are you gonna' do?"
***
The sunlight fell warmly on his thinning hair, bathing the crown of his head in a heat that caused a light perspiration to mist his brow. He shaded his eyes and looked up toward the podium where his opponent stood. Would he say it? Did he know? If so, it would be impossible to learn who might have told him... anybody could have done so.
"Is that rental property where you live in the Gables, Mr. Harlan? Can you give me the name of your landlord?" The reporter had either been asking an idle question or was a heck of a good actor. Don had casually answered that he was renting a room from his former business partner while attempting to locate an efficiency apartment in the area. The hurricane had placed a premium on housing, as the reporter well knew, and Don thought his answer had satisfied him, but the speaker's words would soon reveal whether the phone interview had been a set-up.
The empty rhetoric went on - droning like a fat, lazy bee. His thoughts drifted to the stunt that had turned this thing in his favor. That too, had been her idea. Of course, she'd presented it like a joke, laughing as she spoke. He'd laughed in response. Laughed, and then sobered. "Alert the media," she'd advised. "It can't hurt you, and it might just be the kick in the pants this campaign needs."
And he'd done it - doubtful to the last. Still, she'd been right again. The media gathered around like zoo animals at feeding time - giving him the opening he'd needed and he'd swooped in for the kill. "That's a bit much, isn't it Mr. Harlan? Don't you think those who are truly down and out might resent this?" "What? Resent a man for carrying a sign saying 'Will work for votes?'" he'd countered. "I don't know why - it's true." "Sure, but everybody in the race is working for votes. What makes you different?"
Ah! Pay dirt! Lord love the inquisitive, earnest-faced journalism graduate. He assumed his most serious expression.
"You're incorrect in that assumption, sir, although it is a natural enough mistake. My worthy opponents are quite content to campaign for votes. Working for votes, however, is a concept totally foreign to the political persona. I think it's safe to say that I am the only one who will work for both votes and the voters."
That had drawn a round of applause, some appreciative smirks. They had seen it coming - the veterans of campaigns of old - but they admired his finesse, just the same.
The crowd's applause as his opponent finished up brought him back to the moment - the revelation obviously hadn't come. Stunned, almost as though he'd been awakened from a deep sleep, he felt himself moving lethargically toward the podium, slowly comprehending the latest narrow escape. Yes, he decided in the split second before he reached to adjust the microphone - yes, she was right. He'd bloody well do it.
***
He looked out at the mass of smiley faces, recognized that of his friend and her husband. The husband smiled. It had been painful. And embarrassing. For a while, he thought he'd thrown away any chance he had. The press had questioned him - grilled him, more like. He'd held firm. She had sold her article, and it had helped as much as anything else. And she'd been right. Everywhere he went, people said they were for him - would vote for him. Hell, if he'd known it would be such a boost to his campaign, he'd have announced his candidacy from his back seat, he thought. Still, who could know the voters would understand a candidate who virtually lived in his car? And that's what it amounted to when it all boiled down. Maybe in another time, one less aware of how fast the good times can turn bad - some time when a killer hurricane and a faltering economy hadn't touched so many lives... . But this wasn't another time.
They'd played it for that and a great deal more, maintaining that the address under which he'd qualified was that of a long-time friend; and a residence where he did occasionally sleep over, shower, shave, eat a meal; he'd also admitted that at least part of the time he lived in his car. And they'd bought it. In a Miami where the vacancy rate was less than one percent for rental property, the public understood and accepted his housing dilemma. In a world of therapeutic treatment for every known maladjustment, they respected his status as recovering alcoholic. The bugaboo had been let out of the closet, dressed in regalia of his choice and introduced to the world by his friend's article - in words he'd helped form. The image was favorable despite its dis favorable limitations.
"See, I told you it could be turned to advantage," she'd said following publication of her article, when the phone at the AA club room had been ringing off the hook. "Who, but someone who's been there, could be as valued to the homeless, once in office? Look at these quotes...". Again, she was right. The newspaper was full of opinions from the man on the street, almost all saying they'd vote for what they considered one of their own. It had followed as naturally as could be - from his front-page photograph holding aloft the "will work for votes" sign as he stood in the middle of U.S. 1 afternoon traffic, to admitting that he, too, was literally as homeless and needy as the next guy holding a sign. It had been as easy as falling off the proverbial log. He looked out at the audience, caught her eye and nodded. And why not? He'd won easily. Thanks to her advice and skillful handling of the story, he was the first-ever homeless commissioner to be elected. He'd turned his addiction into an asset before she came along. She'd helped him turn his homelessness into the winning stroke.
"Candidates will be moving into refrigerator cartons and old cars in droves," he'd laughingly predicted, patting the fender of his ancient Buick. "Unless somebody comes along who lives in a Volkswagon, I'll be in office indefinitely."
"Don't get too smug," she'd cautioned.
"Me?" He'd laughed. "Not me. But I'm going to plant a square foot garden under the radiator; erect a patio awning and buy a hanging plant." He felt like a million bucks. He'd had the best medical attention a would-be politician could hope for: that of a born spin doctor."
-end-
Copyright (c) 1993 Del Freeman
