The Republicans in this town closed ranks and denied us our first couple of picks for headquarters. The names and the motives bubbled up as they’re wont to do in a little town slightly beyond the reach of liberal prosperity and its concomitant symptoms of good food, music and fun. It was no surprise to those of us who’ve had to look into the dull eyes of Leigh Woodall at an early voting location, asking us where we’re from, who’s paying us, who’s giving us the endless salad bar at some place other than Dave Newell’s failed country club.

But nobody’s paying us anything except us. We get money for work sometimes. I know it’s a fucking miracle, but if you shift your ass you can shake some dollars out of the people who are naturally inclined to strangle you, and you can funnel those same dollars into defeating the people who seem to be committed, heart and soul, to restricting the flow of cash to a bunch of fuckers whose children spend their days driving speedboats into immovable objects under the supervision of the Duke University Athletics Department.

Let me just say that I, personally, have looked into the eyes of Leigh Woodall. It was in the 2008 election, and it was finally dawning on Republicans that they’d fucked their last dog for a while.

Leigh must have started to equate the stream of black voters coming to the Person County Library to cast their vote with the demons who have been haunting his brain since the implementation of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. He walked up to me and gave me his best rendition of an old white guy trying to be frightening-

Where ya from, boy?

He needed work. A few more improv classes, a little less Sansabelt.

A soul would have helped.

In a way, it’s too bad many of these people will be dead within this decade. Oral histories will suffer the greatest loss.

One day, children will ask me “What was it like to grow up among so much stupid, so much hatred?” And I will be forced to disappoint them, saying “God is all in the forgetting, darling. May we all be forgotten.”

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