be mayor, but you come in goddamn twelfth in your own high school. ...”
“No, wait a minute. I don’t wanna be mayor. You want me to be mayor. And you promised I don’t really have to win, remember?”
He waved me off. “Image, Gordie. Image, is what we’re talking about. You know and I know and everybody in this town with half a brain—which our research shows is like forty percent of ’em—knows that it ain’t you runnin’ for mayor, it’s me. See, I had my successor picked, and everybody could see that she was gonna be me. Then she started not working out. So my boy, my grandson, my Gordie, he shows up with his perfect Foley face, he’s in the race, and my loyal constituency, they get the signal. You wanna vote for Fins—which most of ’em want to do—you vote for Gordie.”
I started panicking. “I gotta win ? I knew it, you tricked me, Da. Jesus Christ.” I started flapping my arms and pacing like a zoo gorilla. “I had other plans, Da. This was my big year. I’m already way more popular than I can handle—”
“At four percent?”
“And now what you’re telling me is I couldn’t lose if I wanted to. Which I do. How can I go on the Bermuda trip with the rest of the class if I gotta be stupid goddamn mayor, huh? How can I moon at half-time of the Thanksgiving Day game like everybody else?”
Fins was now waving his own hands, telling me to whoa.
“You don’t gotta win. Remember, we just need to scare your opponent back on course. She’ll be fine. And, no offense, but I need her. She’s good. You... might have some difficulty with the day-to-day that I couldn’t do for ya.”
“Damn right I would.”
I stood there hyperventilating, but with nothing left to argue. Fins knew what he was doing. He always knew... except with those undercover FBI guys; but, live and learn.
“So,” he said smoothly, back in charge. “We gotta fix this school thing. It’s an embarrassment. And as beloved as I am, there are some people who wouldn’t mind having some mean fun at the old man’s expense.”
I sighed. At least I didn’t have a seizure this time.
“That’s right, kid. I’m afraid the school, you’re gonna have to win.”
“Da, I’m sorry to let you down, but I don’t know if that’s possible.”
He folded up his little newspaper and tucked it under his arm. Then he stood and shuffled away toward the door.
“It’s possible,” he said. “Go now, run along and play. Be young. Enjoy yourself.”
For once, we had the same idea.
I watched his hunched shoulders as he faded through the door. And I noticed that my legendary grandfather was looking like a little old man.
DINING WITH THE CANDIDATE
D INNER WITH THE BUCK- fifty-plate club turned out to be more complicated than which-spoon-is-for-the-fruit-cup. Bucky warned me that I was going to have to do a little speech thing. And even though he threatened to pull me right off the podium by my tie—a tie?—if I spoke for more than eight minutes, that was about seven minutes beyond what I figured my material required. So I had to prepare that. And there was still the questionnaire thing.
“You have to help me, Mos.”
“I don’t know, Gordie,” he answered grimly. “Four percent. I mean, you shared four percent. Even I didn’t realize you were that unpopular.”
We were sitting in Mosi’s garage among component rubble. He had dismantled four of his guitars for no apparent reason, scrambled up the strings, pickups, tuning keys, knobs, switches, etc., and was attempting to reassemble them in bold new ways.
“I’m a visionary, you know,” he said as he stared, vacant and glassy-eyed, at the pile of stuff. “I could do something radical here.”
“What exactly were you after here, Mos?”
He started giggling. “I’m a visionary. How the hell should I know?”
He picked up an intact guitar from the arrangement of guitars left standing, and he started to strum. Standing right on the pile of loose
“No, wait a minute. I don’t wanna be mayor. You want me to be mayor. And you promised I don’t really have to win, remember?”
He waved me off. “Image, Gordie. Image, is what we’re talking about. You know and I know and everybody in this town with half a brain—which our research shows is like forty percent of ’em—knows that it ain’t you runnin’ for mayor, it’s me. See, I had my successor picked, and everybody could see that she was gonna be me. Then she started not working out. So my boy, my grandson, my Gordie, he shows up with his perfect Foley face, he’s in the race, and my loyal constituency, they get the signal. You wanna vote for Fins—which most of ’em want to do—you vote for Gordie.”
I started panicking. “I gotta win ? I knew it, you tricked me, Da. Jesus Christ.” I started flapping my arms and pacing like a zoo gorilla. “I had other plans, Da. This was my big year. I’m already way more popular than I can handle—”
“At four percent?”
“And now what you’re telling me is I couldn’t lose if I wanted to. Which I do. How can I go on the Bermuda trip with the rest of the class if I gotta be stupid goddamn mayor, huh? How can I moon at half-time of the Thanksgiving Day game like everybody else?”
Fins was now waving his own hands, telling me to whoa.
“You don’t gotta win. Remember, we just need to scare your opponent back on course. She’ll be fine. And, no offense, but I need her. She’s good. You... might have some difficulty with the day-to-day that I couldn’t do for ya.”
“Damn right I would.”
I stood there hyperventilating, but with nothing left to argue. Fins knew what he was doing. He always knew... except with those undercover FBI guys; but, live and learn.
“So,” he said smoothly, back in charge. “We gotta fix this school thing. It’s an embarrassment. And as beloved as I am, there are some people who wouldn’t mind having some mean fun at the old man’s expense.”
I sighed. At least I didn’t have a seizure this time.
“That’s right, kid. I’m afraid the school, you’re gonna have to win.”
“Da, I’m sorry to let you down, but I don’t know if that’s possible.”
He folded up his little newspaper and tucked it under his arm. Then he stood and shuffled away toward the door.
“It’s possible,” he said. “Go now, run along and play. Be young. Enjoy yourself.”
For once, we had the same idea.
I watched his hunched shoulders as he faded through the door. And I noticed that my legendary grandfather was looking like a little old man.
DINING WITH THE CANDIDATE
D INNER WITH THE BUCK- fifty-plate club turned out to be more complicated than which-spoon-is-for-the-fruit-cup. Bucky warned me that I was going to have to do a little speech thing. And even though he threatened to pull me right off the podium by my tie—a tie?—if I spoke for more than eight minutes, that was about seven minutes beyond what I figured my material required. So I had to prepare that. And there was still the questionnaire thing.
“You have to help me, Mos.”
“I don’t know, Gordie,” he answered grimly. “Four percent. I mean, you shared four percent. Even I didn’t realize you were that unpopular.”
We were sitting in Mosi’s garage among component rubble. He had dismantled four of his guitars for no apparent reason, scrambled up the strings, pickups, tuning keys, knobs, switches, etc., and was attempting to reassemble them in bold new ways.
“I’m a visionary, you know,” he said as he stared, vacant and glassy-eyed, at the pile of stuff. “I could do something radical here.”
“What exactly were you after here, Mos?”
He started giggling. “I’m a visionary. How the hell should I know?”
He picked up an intact guitar from the arrangement of guitars left standing, and he started to strum. Standing right on the pile of loose
Similar Books
