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Body Politic
by Eric Miller

His mother was a Broadway baby born in a hospital on the “Great White Way,” and nursed on the “Big Apple,” the juice of which coursed through her veins to her final day. She learned to crawl on a stage, where she later danced as a hoofer in a chorus line, tapping her feet to the beat of her heart. Some of that “Big Apple” juice found its way to his veins, but the only tapping his feet ever did was when he was running for political office and side-stepping difficult questions.

Stumped by what to do after being gerrymandered out of his district, he finally decided it was incumbent upon him to reposition himself and to test his strong constitution by going out on the hustings to barnstorm along the campaign trail. He began every day by first waffling at a coffee shop, and then by taking one stand after another for the rest of
the day. He found that the political parties weren’t much fun, as he really couldn’t party because he spent all of his time with shaking hands trying to break free from gridlock. He thought he could poll vault over the hurdles and walk right into his new district, but the political pols went full gear with fear and smear, and he couldn’t even get on the ballot.

Write-in became his rallying cry, the rules for which he recounted to the crowds more times than he could number. And when the polls closed, so did his dreams, until he called for a recount. As the days ticked off, his chances seemed slim. His back was to the wall, and the writing was on the wall, as well. When he walked away in seeming defeat, the
writing on the wall was exposed for all to see, looking like pages from the phone book. He was declared the victor, and he prepared to serve his term.

Alas, the term he thought he’d serve was not in office, but in the pen, on charges of illegible penmanship. Disbarred and behind bars, and with no bars in which to drown his sorrows, he plunged  to a  level lower than a minority member of a subcommittee. Now, out of sight and out of mind, his political future had no future at all.

But destiny plays by its own strange rules, and one never knows what a new wind will bring. And early one morning as he lay on a cot which was harder than hard, he heard keys jangling in his jail cell lock. In came a guard who said he was free, and when he walked out the front door and into the world, a crowd greeted him to take a gander.

His spirits rose, even though cameras and reporters pressed against his face. Instead of getting his dander up as the questions flew, his confidence returned, and he resorted to pander.

As I recall, he won his next race, but then had to fight a recall.