Have Mercy

It’s the second biggest day of the campaign. The Republican Party is announcing their candidate, and Fox News is covering it. So our people have to watch Fox. They don’t like it, but they’re doing it.

Once again, the party is at Mitch’s. They’re in the big room – the sight of water is so soothing. A giant flat panel has been wheeled in. Nina has a thing for big screens. This one is BIG. It’s placed in front of the windows, so they can still look out.

So far, in this fight, the Republican weapon has been mystery. Nobody knows who the candidate will be. There have been plenty of guesses, by plenty of people. There have been claims by some, sure not to be believed. There have been denials by others that sound just as phony.

The debate has raged over whether it will be a moderate, to please the other side, or a hard-core conservative to please their own. Brenda doesn’t understand why they keep trying to appeal to Democrats. It would be impossible for a Democrat to vote for a Republican. They stand for everything Democrats hate – greed, competition, beating out the other guy, leaving people behind so you can get ahead. They’re bad people. And obviously stupid if they think they can win over any decent voter.

Nina is buzzing about the room with little glasses of iced Irish coffee. She thinks they need a hearty drink. Jason isn’t there. Jason refused to come. He’ll stay home and baby-sit Zeke. They have a TV; they can watch it together; he isn’t going back into that house. Not ever.

So she’s come alone. It’s a small party. Just the regulars. Adele, sweet and charming, helping pass the drinks, Nat without a jacket, but with garters on his long-sleeved white shirt – the man is from another era – Chauncey, his big pink face expectant, happy where he finds himself, with all these smart people, and him nothing but a worn-out jock.

There is one more person present. A man of the house. The younger man of the house: Phoenix. He’s sprawled in a corner of the couch, his leg up over the back to differentiate himself from the adults. As if he needed to. His dark red hair falls jaggedly toward his shoulders. He’s wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt with the words, “Guns Not Roses.” When asked, he says it doesn’t mean anything – he got it at the thrift store. That’s what they always say when they want to shout a blasphemy and not be called on it. Kids are cautious when it comes to free speech. They know how much trouble they can get into.

Wagman is sitting next to Brenda. He’s annoyed at Jason for not taking Nina up on her tantalizing tantric offer. He doesn’t like his wife being turned down, and he doesn’t like the idea of Jason home brooding by himself. He’ll make it bad for Brenda. Mitchell wants a happy candidate, not someone coping with family problems or guilt.

He puts his arm around her to jolly her up. She leans out of the embrace, picks up a piece of celery, dips it, and doesn’t come back. She wiggles forward and away, closer to Phoenix, who pulls back into his corner of the couch.

It’s time. 8 o’clock. Nina plunks herself down on the other side of her husband, picks up the remote and turns on the TV.

The announcement is to come at the end of a huge outdoor supper given by the Republican State Committee. Long tables of people eating southern-fried chicken and breaded shrimp, the Republican notion of real folks eating real food. They look like they’re enjoying it. Brenda’s stomach growls. She didn’t have time for dinner. She fell asleep instead, after a “town hall” appearance on health care. She’s been so tired. But her reception has been good. She’s met nothing but friendly approval. A few tough questions, but she’s learned to give tough answers.

She’s not facing anything like the anger and almost-violence occurring all over the country at other meetings full of people afraid of the death pill, happy with their health care, and beginning to fear their lives will be completely taken over by the government.

Brenda is ambivalent. She wants all sick people to be taken care of, but she doesn’t want that to mean that her family’s health care will suffer.

Someone is stepping up to the podium at one end of the long tables. There are a lot of people there. Far more than there were at Brenda’s coming-out party. This is being covered live on national TV. Nobody knows Brenda. Everyone will know this candidate.

Jack Marsh, the number one Republican in the district is accepting his applause. The camera goes to his hard, handsome face. Marsh works full-time for the Republican Party, for what he calls freedom, which is what Brenda calls oppression of the poor. But whenever she sees him, which thankfully isn’t often, she thinks that if he ran, he could get elected to anything, just on the basis of his carven features.

She’d been looking at him and not paying attention to his words. She doesn’t like to hear Republicans talk. It makes her angry. Fills her with hate. They are so, so wrong, about so, so much. Just about everything. They don’t seem to be able to come up with a correct way of looking at anything.

But now he’s getting down to it, and she’s getting scared. The next person who walks onto that stage is the person with whom she will be locked in combat for the next two and a half months.

“I give you now our candidate.” He does not give a name.

There’s a pause while they and everyone else hold their breath. Then a very tall, black woman, wrapped in a long length of sequined tapestry, with her hair in a fantastical bejeweled cone, comes gliding onto the stage, one hand held out to grasp Jack’s. He swings her around to face the front.

The audience is stunned into silence. They all had their short lists of contenders, all old white men.

The Wagman living room is in shock.

“Ohmigod,” Brenda gasps. “It’s Mercy Alexander!”

From the corner of the couch, comes a wild cackle. It’s Phoenix, his face lit with laughter. This is not nice of him. It’s bad news for his father, and for Brenda, sitting next to him. Mercy Alexander is a philosopher. She’s got her nose in every pie – an opinion about everything. She has a doctoral degree in, well, religion, but she’s entitled to the “Dr.” nonetheless. She doesn’t use it. Or, anyway, she hasn’t yet.

She needs no introduction. Everybody here knows her, in one way or another. But she’s on national TV now, and the rest of the world is watching.

She begins to speak.

“My name is Mercy Alexander. I am a gay, black woman. I’m a Republican, because I value my freedom.”

Phoenix sits up. He values his freedom, and he knows it. Most people value their freedom, but they don’t find out till they’ve lost it.

“I want my government to leave me alone as long as I’m not hurting anyone. And I don’t count making money as hurting someone who doesn’t.”

When she’s through with a very short speech, there’s another surprise. Out steps a blonde woman in an apricot suit. The audience erupts in applause. The long tables stand. They cheer.

“Ohmigod,” Brenda says. “Greta van Susteren. She’s not going to interview her, is she?” Yes, she is, right here, and that’s proof enough to Brenda that the Republicans own Fox News.

The audience has erupted in applause for the star they have garnered. A national star. An international star.

The two women meet stage center and clasp hands – both hands. Mercy is about a foot taller than Greta, plus another eight inches of hair. Greta is smiling that big crooked grin, ear to ear. She loves this ovation. Usually she’s alone in a studio.

They stand side by side, like a vaudeville act, and trade lines.

“Mercy,” Greta says, “as a Black, gay woman, why aren’t you a Democrat? Aren’t Liberals the ones who will protect your rights?”

“Greta, nobody can take away my right to be Black or my inalienable right to be gay. To paraphrase the Lord, ‘I am what I am.’ Liberals support minorities. They’re well-meaning people. But their quest for equality pits them against the very liberty embodied in their name.

“We can either be free or equal, not both. Equality can only be achieved when it is forced upon people, and even then, those who are doing the forcing are always a bit more equal than the others. Like our congress – privileged leaders who legislate our sacrifice.

“Greta, we all want people to be treated equally before the law, but to try to assure that nobody gets ahead of anyone else is futile. Our Declaration of Independence, a most noble document, says that ‘all men are created equal’, but there it must end. Life is striving, and that striving has been the glory of mankind.”

Greta flips her hair back over her ear and says, “Mercy, Americans are better off than most of the rest of the world. Is that fair?”

“The way we’re going, it won’t be true much longer. We are the envy of others because we are the land of the free. Free to discover, free to innovate, free to succeed and, this is important, free to fail. To destroy the system which has given us so much, is senseless. Making us as wretched as the average third world citizen won’t improve the world.”

“A debate is raging over health care,” Greta says, her grin so wide you’d think she just invited everyone for drinks and a turkey dinner. “For weeks now our representatives and senators have been pummeled by their constituents. Do you have anything to say about that?”

“Is there any American who doesn’t? And what each of us has to say is particularly individual, based on exactly who we are, and what are our problems. That’s what medicine is, and that’s what medicine should remain. Government controlled medical care is an oxymoron. Medical care is individual, while government control must ignore our uniqueness.”

“Are you accusing President Obama of trying to force socialized medicine on us?”

“Socialized abandonment of medicine, Greta. And the answer is ‘yes’. We’ve spent a lot of money developing treatments and cures. We’re winning the war against disease. This is no time to cut and run.”

“Mercy, one last question. Do you personally favor gay marriage?”

Mercy laughs. “Personally, if there’s anything I don’t need, it’s to enter into a contract that has a more than a fifty percent chance of being broken.”

Over-exuberant laughter from the audience.

“I know this is the administration of ‘change’, but there are limits. Legislatures can give whatever rights they wish to the people, but they can’t change the meaning of words. ‘Gay marriage’ is an abuse of the language. We should decide what we want and find the words to express it. But just to be clear, I’m all for equal rights.”

“Thank you, Mercy.” Greta turns to the audience and says, “I’m sure we all wish Mercy the very best in her campaign.” There is a standing ovation for the two ladies.

The candidate doesn’t look right, not at all, but she said all the right things. They loved her. They had a champion. A tall black knight in sparkling armor.

And back at the ranch? It’s glumsville. Even Adele has nothing cheery to say. Only Phoenix seems elated. To nobody in particular he breaks the silence with “I like her hair.”