“Well, we don’t actually condone that, but nobody here is going to hold it against you,” said the staffer. “You were provoked . . . So tell me, what makes you want to volunteer for the Miami Republican Party?”
“I’m tired of activist judges.”
The staffer nodded. “Couldn’t agree more. Un-elected, activist judges are always overturning the will of the people.”
“Like the ones who elected George W. Bush,” said Serge.
The staffer stopped and stared. “No, activism became wrong
“It was a joke,” said Serge.
“Oh.” He leaned over a printed form. “So back to what you mentioned earlier. You’re in favor of our proposal to ban flag burning?”
“Thousands of patriots died to defend that flag.”
“Great. I’ll mark the ‘yes’ box in the litmus test.”
“No,” said Serge. “The flag stands for freedom of speech.”
The staffer raised his pencil in puzzlement. “Are you saying you wouldn’t attack the flag burner if you had it to do over again?”
“Actually I’d probably beat the piss out of him even harder.” Serge sat back and crossed his legs. “The flag also stands for my freedom of expression.”
The staffer leaned back in his own chair. “I’m getting a half-and-half take from you.”
“Good,” said Serge. “I hate to be predictable. Next question?”
The staffer appraised Serge for a moment, then leaned over his form again. “How do you feel about guns?”
“Love ’em! Can’t get enough.” Serge formed his index finger and thumb into a pistol and fired at the ceiling. “It’s like my hand isn’t complete without a pistol in it.”
“Excellent, that’s an easy one.” He hunched over the page. “I’ll mark the box that you’re against handgun control.”
“No, I’m for it,” said Serge, blowing invisible smoke off the end of his finger. “There’s a massive handgun epidemic in America. You’d be blind not to see it.”
“That’s contradictory. What about
“I’m part of the problem.”
“So your guns should be taken away?”
“Fuck no! From my cold, dead hands! . . .”
. . . Across the street stood another office. Red-white-and-blue banners strung over the parking lot. On the reception desk were help-yourself baskets of American-flag lapel pins and candidate buttons.
Like Serge, Coleman was sitting across the desk from another partisan staffer.
A pencil tapped impatiently.
Coleman fidgeted and stared at the ceiling with his mouth open.
“Am I boring you?”
“Starting to,” said Coleman.
“I thought you wanted to volunteer for the Miami Democratic Party.”
“That was my friend’s idea,” said Coleman. “He’s across the street volunteering right now.”
“He’s volunteering with the
“Says he wants to stop all this bickering in America and unite the red and blue states so it’s purple mountain majesty.”
The staffer went into we’ll-get-back-to-you mode and shuffled papers. “I’m not sure we have something for you today, but appreciate you dropping in.”
“Great, I was afraid I’d have to do some work.” Coleman glanced around. “Want to burn one?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know . . .” Coleman held a thumb and index finger to his mouth in the international toking sign.
“Well . . .” The staffer checked his watch. “It is almost lunch.”
“Excellent. Let’s rock.”
They ended up sitting on the ground with their backs against the rear of the building just behind the Dumpsters.
Coleman passed the nub of a joint. “The Democratic Party is cool! You guys do weed!”
“Just some of us younger ones.”
“So what happens after lunch?” said Coleman. “Let’s get abortions and give a bunch of condoms to some kids. They’ll think we’re cool!”
“That’s not exactly what our party—”
“Can I meet some hot chicks on the pill?”
“I don’t think you understand—”
“Want to burn another?”
“Sure.”
The metal loading door opened into the alley with a loud grinding noise.
Coleman and the staffer whispered back and forth to each other.
A young woman stepped into the alley and sniffed the air. “I recognize that smell . . . Roger? Are you out here?”
“Oh, hey, Susan. We’re behind the Dumpsters.”
She walked around the bins and smiled coyly. “I know what you guys are doing.”
“Hubba, hubba,” said Coleman. “Are you on the pill?”
“What?”
“Coleman’s a little unpolished, but he’s got some killer weed. Want to join us?”
“Sure.” She took a seat on the ground . . .
. . . Back across the street, the staffer named Jansen leaned over a litmus test with a freshly sharpened pencil. “Death penalty?”
“Love it in theory; hate it in practice,” said Serge. “Screws the poor.”
Jansen set his pencil down again for the last time. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure you have the right place?”
Serge pointed at a sign out in the hall. “ ‘Republican Party Headquarters’? Hell yes! You don’t think I’d go across the street where I sent my friend to volunteer?”
“You sent your friend to the Democrats? Why would you do that?”
