Stripped of Office OR Two in the Seat

 

Coyote arrived in DC by private car. He started by dancing the Status

Dance in the parking lot of Applebys. His staff watched from inside,

wondering if they maybe should be paid more, or at least in advance.

After a few minutes, they came out and brought Coyote inside

to the reserved room.

Coyote sniffed them unobtrusively as they introduced

themselves, identifying health, deception and potential mates.

He confidently told them of his plans.

“You know, the chances are they will turn you away,” replied Brian.

“Not with all my limos, I think. We need to soften up the Senate,”

Coyote nodded to his own words.

“Automatic weapons?” suggested Jimmy, the security guru.

“No, just an ally or two, and a favorable news report.”

“I can arrange those, I think,” suggested Glenda, the Press

Secretary. “But, first a few rules about public statements: Please wear

boxer shorts, do not admit having sex of any kind, do not mangle

innocent metaphors, do not be too honest, and do not suggest any illegal

activities as taxable resources. Please!”

“Can I get you some miniburger, sliders, or bunglets?” asked

a short woman, who had introduced herself as ‘Beloved.’

 

“What are you going to do, while you are waiting for the recount?”

asked Glenda.

“All the traditional things, Coyote answered. “The ‘gaggle’

at the White House, the google at the office, the reading of hotline,

the eating of the power lunch, the viewing of the news channel,

the releasing of news on teevee or if that fails, the Stewart Show,

then the planning for fund-raising for the next election, the budget

battles, and the recesses—that’s my favorite part, I get to go home

and mingle with the little people.”

“I have your first interview for now.

We have been cultivating a reporter at the Washington Globe.

Are you up to it?”

Coyote gave a thumb’s up and was introduced

to Courtney Random.

“What do you dislike most about Washington?” asked Random.

“Seattle or Spokane?”

“No, DC.”

“Obviously, the constant concrete

hierarchy, the caste system cemented in place with qwik-set. It’s terrible.

How can I demonstrate my own power if everyone is more powerful?

Think, I am of the lowly trading class, not the scholarly or warrior class.”

“But, still, doubtless the farmers or untouchables,” noted Random

sarcastically.

“I think farmers should have higher and more respect, now that

they are fewer and more elite mechanists and chemists,” judged Coyote.

“And, the untouchables? The invisibles?”

“No, I see them all

the time, running gas stations and speedy marts, but I never ask

their opinions.”

“Like you do the wise scholars?”

“No, just purchased professional

scholars.”

“And, if you are not seated?”

“Life is nasty, brutish and short at this stage of political devolution.

I will merely return to serving my local constituents as a man

of the people.”

“Very noble,” said Courtney, then struck hard, “There

are rumors that you stole a Winnebago, you were implicated in the death

of a rancher, and that you stole some candy from a 7/11.”

Coyote was nonplussed,

“I think we need to remember that 7/11 was a very hard time for all

of us, especially those who lived in Pearl Harbor. I am ashamed

at the candy bars. Hunger. That was probably true,” and Coyote hung

his head in sham-shame.

“Thank you Senator-elect Jones for showing the people that shame

is not dead, that you can feel and express those feelings as honestly

as the low of the lowest of us,” she said dryly.

“Untouchables? I think not,” C said moistly.

“Well, anyway, you have my thanks,” she said cynically.

“Is there possibly another way you could thank me, a way that involved

less clothing?”

“What do you mean?” Courtney asked.

“Ah, swimming,

perhaps, in the Congressional pool.”

“I thought that was a car pool? What are you

planning now?”

“I intend to enroll the kids in St. Albans School, to

perpetuate the entitlements of my family to power and knick knacks.”

“What about the Cabot Lodges and the Kennedys, the Doles

and Rockefellers, the Clintons and Gores, the Bushes and Shrubs?”

“These are powerful clans, make no mistake, but even clans are

replaced over decades, as they seem to get weaker with every generation,

sadly—must be that sacrifice takes something out of the clan—oh, well,

they usually get to keep the money.”

“But, will you have the power to do things to accomplish

good laws?” she asked.

“Not exactly. Anything the people can do, we can

undo, just like anything the people deny, we can affirm. Heh, heh.”

In the Holiday Inn that night, oddly alone, Coyote basked in his

satisfaction at handling the first impressions with dignity and humility.

The next morning Coyote met with his people to plan his grand entrance

into the city.

“There is a movement to not seat you, until the runoff and

recount. What do you need?” Brian asked.

“Status distinctions are made by

the size of the motorcade. That is why I want more,” Coyote answered.

“I want 25 cars, 6 motorcycles and 3 helicopters to announce my arrival

at the Senate.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Yes, I think so. The more flash I have

the less likely I’ll be flushed.”

 

It did not work. Officials at the entrance to Congress refused to accept

the credentials of Itsayaya Jones of Kansas. They counseled him to wait

until after the mandatory recount.

After being barred from the swearing-in

ceremony, Jones took his limos and surrounded the building for a few

minutes to display his defiant posture and public support.

 

Jones’ lawyers asked the Kansas Supreme Court to compel Governor

Tinijoy to sign an election certificate as a final ruling in the race. The day

before, they had submitted a brief to the high court of Kansas to throw

out the recount challenge of candidate Turtle.

 

Coyote was disappointed, but he knew that blind persistence paid off.

He addressed his people, although four or five seemed to be missing.

“We absolutely have to get to work. The first thing is to make

appointments at the White house every week, maybe Camp David a few

times, and the President’s Chicago Condo right away. I need a certificate

and a photo showing me on Air Force One. Then leak that to the press.

Oh, and I’ll need new clothes. See if you can find the Senate Goodwill

store, so the clothes can be expensive, yet rumpled and slightly worn.

Sharp, yet aged and intubated imbued with power.

Set up a manicure appointment. I’ll need to see a plastic surgeon—”

“About what?” Brian asked.

“Maybe add a small jowl, grey hair

in front of my ears,” Coyote nodded.

“You might want to get those surgically

reduced, ha ha?” offered Brian.

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

“I’ll need

a blueberry to keep messages on and to receive praise from my

constituents.”

“Blackberry?” asked Glenda.

“If that’s a more politically correct color, then

yes. I’ll need an invitation from the Cosmos Club. Just tell them I’ve

seen a lot of it.”

“What?” Glenda asked.

“The cosmos, of course. Oh, and I’ll need

a Nobel Prize for Peace or maybe just a suitable academic title from

the Hornblower Institute for Advanced Studies, something like ‘Scholar

of Peace Studies.’ Or, from the American Fantasizing Institute?

Ambassador Bolting would know.

“Will you need a plaque or certificate?”

“Whatever. Backdate it

to the Clinton era. ”