Sacre’Poutine! Alright, let’s go to it! It’s Monday, no? It must be, or these tickets to Roseland for the Pogues are perte! Nom Dieu, the head, it aches! I am not one, you know, who feels they must, on the weekend to honor Saint P, take on an extra ration of spirits, but, you know, sometimes, I don’t know, you get carried away by the spirit, no?
It was Friday evening; I was in a dark mid-western airport bar; dingy and strong with the smell of what cleans the toilettes; the bar cushioned along the rail, and in places the Naugahyde was cracked and revealing the foam the color of yellow cake. The television was tied to the ceiling with a terrifying combination of metal and twine. On MSNBC, Mssr. Olbermann was personally adjusting the hue/saturation levels to make sure his special guest was not too black, not too white, you know? There came a heavy, no, a world weary sigh from a barstool just two away from my own.
She was older and dressed in yellow. Her moist eyes watched the screen while she stirred a tired cocktail with a chewed over straw. She knew that I had turned my attentions to her and, without addressing me, spoke.
“How can he just get a free ride? Geraldine Ferraro is called a racist, had to have her resignation from the campaign read publicly by the media. Orlando Patterson compared Hillary’s ad to The Birth of a Nation and the pundits nod in agreement. Then, this guy’s Pastor for twenty freaking years is damning America, giving awards to anti-Semites, and all Obama has to say is ‘I didn’t know he was saying these things’, and that’s it? The Reverend is off on vacation and nobody is accountable for anything!”
“Oh, ma cherie,” I said to her, sliding over from my round pleather stool to the next. She had the strong blue, blue eyes of an intelligent woman and the kind of bone structure in the face a man could appreciate well into her sixties, yeah? “I am sure that will not be the case. Americans all over the country, they know of the relationship between a cleric and his people. They will look at this and they will say, ‘How can this be true? Twenty years? The man presided over the nuptials, played the holy waters over the children? The Senator must know more than he is saying. If it is damage of the reputation that you seek, I feel you have but time between you and more, darker revelations.”
“That does nothing for me,” she said, shaking the dying ice cubes of her drink at the barkeep, her eyes following him like a lariat. “For us, I mean. He’ll run off with the nomination before anything comes of it.”
“Now, ange doux,” I told her, my hand coming to her yellow shoulder. I knew she was with Hillary, but until this moment, I was not sure she was with the campaign. I could feel her through the smart suit coat she wore, the way an older woman moves down inside the body, the movement of her heart, her lungs. “I cannot stand to see you despair.”
“He only wants to deal with race on his terms. His whole campaign is based on being on his terms! Anybody else wants to bring it up and, oh, here comes another KKK rally! Why is that?” Now she turned to me, those eyes alit with the blue fire, her breath a bourbon mist. “Can you tell me why, my little French friend?”
“Canadian, actually,” I told her. “Quebecoer, ma puce. And what can I say? Abstractions, the concepts of thinking, they do not lend themselves to the politics, to the dissemination for the … you know, the …sound bite.”
She knew what I was saying. Her eyes, they followed unseen lines up and down my body, followed my arm from socket to cigarette and asked for a du Maurier, which I made the light for, and drinks were ordered; flights were missed. Bon Seigneur, give me the strength of McGowan as I face this night!
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