John Kerry and I haven't spoken since about December, when we last played our Friday night game of
whist, and the Wife and I beat the livin' tarnation out of him and Terry. It was something to watch that night, as the hands turned against him and his anger steadily increased. Then, finally, the eruption: he violently overturned the card table — "like Simon LeBon in
Hungry Like the Wolf," I remember telling the Wife — and stormed out of the apartment, leaving us to clean up the unraveling California rolls we'd bought fresh at the Star Market fish counter.
That last win capped an unbeaten streak of thirty weeks and pulled us into a 75-75 tie overall with the Heinz Kerrys. So you can see why he got upset: it was becoming increasingly clear that he and Teresa were
not the most formidable maritally-aligned whist partnership in the Bay State. The Wife and I were willing to forgive the tantrum, even though the spilled rice grains clogged the Dustbuster, and we had to buy a new one. Everyone has their blow-ups, and Terry sent us just the nicest note of apology on her personal stationery.
But then, when I phone him to settle time and place for the next week's game, the call gets routed to some phone operator in Delhi who tells me John and Terry can't work in a three-hour game due to the growing demands of his
Presidential candidacy. Oh, I see how it is, John: you can't win a card game, so you get all snotty. This after I sent my regrets to the
Scituate Chamber of Commerce because our weekly game conflicted with their awards ceremony. You were on a hot streak then, and I could have ditched you for a better gig, but I collected my 2002 Man of the Year Runner-Up honors
in absentia.
Earlier this week we got our VW Golf caught up in the Kerry motorcade on the way back from the theater (You wouldn't have heard of the show, but it was a musical comedy that incorporates hit singles by the disco band ABBA, and I predict it will be a big hit once they take it to Broadway.). I tried to flag the Senator down in his limo, but the policemen on their motorcycles motioned angrily at me to keep moving. I suppose this public snubbing means I can't count on him calling while he's in town —
at least, except for that damned impersonal recording I keep getting twice a week. Imagine my excitement when I read "JOHN KERRY FOR PRESIDENT" on my caller ID —
Honey, go get the cards. It's John! — only to pick up and hear that disembodied voice asking me for a campaign contribution.
How about this, John? How about I just forgive the ten bucks you owe me for the ordered-in sushi, and we call it even?
