Voter ID - 'Who Dat?' - Up From Slavery, An American Fable

Pharoah Jones grew up in rural North Carolina, the son of sharecroppers and the great-grandson of slaves.  His mother named him Pharoah after Pharoah of Biblical times, the tyrant who kept the Jews in bondage and only when God endowed Moses with the power to part the Red Sea, were the Chosen People able to escape to the Holy Land. 

 

When asked why she named her son after the Egyptian tyrant and not Moses, the liberator of the Jewish people, she said that the ancient Egyptians were black, Pharoah was a powerful ruler, and no little North Carolina black baby was 'gwine to carry a Jew name'. 

Pharoah, now the drug kingpin of Anacostia, the deep inner city of Washington, DC, looked back with love on his days in the piney woods tarpaper shack where he tended the chicken run, drew water from the well, and chopped wood until his arms ached.  That's the kind of boy he was, uncomplaining and full of warm affection for his mother and grandmother and respect for his father. 

This was the way of the colored man, the Negro, and the black man in the South; but for Pharoah it was nothing but background and no different from that of any cracker white boy from the hills.  They were both born barefoot and poor but destined to become Americans - successful, respected, and rich. 

Pharoah had no hatred for the white man or anyone else.  Slavery? That was a thing of the distant past not to be dwelled upon or featured in one's life.  To do so would be to revive or perpetuate it, to continue to be a slave, to live forever in a broken down shack eating cornpone and fatback.  No, the young boy knew that he was not long for the piney woods, and someday he would buy his momma a brand new house in the big city. 

Pharoah was a smart boy, smarter than most, and born with uncanny savvy.  He knew when to yassa the white man, when to scurry back and forth doing his errands, when to stand up and be counted, and when to cut bait and fish in a bigger pond. 

He could turn on the charm when it came to that - he was the boy in the Ebenezer Baptist Church choir that the pastor noticed and took a shine to.  Pastor Williams gave the boy special chores around the church, honed his sense of duty and responsibility, and was more than willing to help him make his way in the world. 

Pharoah, however, needed no help.  Despite his choirboy image, Pharoah was quick to learn a trade - one of the few open to black people from the backwoods at the time.  He learned how to engage, cadge, and filch from the ingenues- those who were taken in by the young man's charm and affection and trusted him - and he soon learned the classic American lesson - 'A fool and his money are soon parted'.  

He soon had more money than his pappy and granddaddy had seen in years, but rather than spend it on corn liquor and women, he decided that he would invest in both; and before long in partnership with parties from Charlotte, he built a reputation as a canny investor, top manager, and brilliant entrepreneur. 

He muscled out the white boys, the backcountry road hotrodders running white lightning, and took over the trade. He assembled a crewe of young men like himself - agile, strong, and determined black men - and soon he was the man to see in North Carolina. 

This, however lucrative and socially appealing, was slim pickin's for the ambitious Pharoah Jones, and before long he made his way to Washington, DC where he apprenticed to Leroy Jackson, the drug kingpin of Anacostia.  Jackson was not unlike Frank Lucas, the Godfather of Harlem, the drug lord of New York, born and raised in rural North Carolina who became the most influential black man in the Tri-State area.  

Jackson not only ruled Anacostia but all the inner city neighborhoods of Washington.  He was versatile and accommodating, and made millions off whatever was the drug of choice - weed, cocaine, crack, heroin, and Fentanyl.  He owned a stable of hundreds of women and managed the business via his loyal managers who were not just pimps but masters of commerce.   

Pharoah quickly learned everything there was to know about Jackson's operation, but remained loyal and faithful to him; and only when the old, revered man retired to Bimini, did Pharoah take over the business.  He was just as savvy and ruthless as Jackson, and made a fortune. 

Now, Pharoah not surprisingly was a man without a face - a man without any official identity. No driver's license, no Social Security, no bank account, no social media, no nothing. It was as though he did not exist.  He left no trace, no telltale signs, nothing. 

This was America, Pharoah thought.  He was a pioneer, a rugged individualist, an off-the-grid master of all he surveyed and had never once capitulated to the confining, defining, corrupting demands of society.

As always, there was no racial bias or hatred in his attitude.  Whether white or black, politicians were as zealous for power and authority as anyone; but because they had the Constitution behind them, arrogation of power was a simple matter. Pharoah might buy politicians, police, and judges just like his predecessor and the Italian mafiosi before him, but he would never capitulate, give up his individualism and join the mainstream. 

Which is why Pharoah laughed at the flap over Voter ID and the patronizing, self-serving, venal attitude of progressive Democrats towards black people whom they assumed couldn't put two and two together let alone get a driver's license.  

Every one in the 'hood from the dopers and johns to the dealers and pimps who serviced them had identification, had bought into the system. As much as these men were social outliers, living on the margins of white society, they still had been co-opted, something Pharoah would never do. 

It was indeed laughable that here he was at the very pinnacle of American success with a treasury of millions, atop one of the biggest enterprises in the DC, Maryland, and Virginia area, but perhaps the only black man within miles around who couldn't show a valid source of identification.  The fact that this official anonymity was his modus vivendi, his signature, and his persona - a deliberate, willful act to remain beyond the clawing forces that were out to unman him - was ironic. 

He was as clean as a wiped I-phone, a non-person but never a non-entity.  Non-entities do not hear cash registers ringing and filling offshore coffers with millions. They rule the roost, command respect and attention.  They are as American as apple pie but just don't show up anywhere. 

Voter ID?  What a joke, thought Pharoah.  What a pathetic, transparent, ridiculous charade. It meant nothing at all, a fantasy, a political chimera while the real business of black people was managed by none other than the invisible man, Pharoah Jones.

The feds knew who he was, but could never find him - he was the elusive chameleon of the ghetto, changing shape and color, the human boson, the quantum physics of probability. He was a genius, local boy made good, the model of the American dream, and all the suits wanted to do was to put him behind bars. 

Never, not in a million years.  True heroes never die. 

What Makes A Good Politician - Patriotism, Honor...Wait, That's Not Right! A Tale Of Political Divinity

Harlan Evans had always been a popular boy.  Girls loved him and boys wanted to be like him. He wasn't particularly handsome, intelligent, or athletic, and yet he was always prom king, president of his class, and chosen the most likely to succeed.  

Harlan had two qualities which made him irresistible - a silver tongue and empathy.  When Harlan listened to you, you felt like you were the only person in the world who mattered, and what he said was the most sensitively chosen, perfectly attuned expression of his understanding, his intentions, and his charm. 

No one could resist him. Young men took him into their confidence as though he were a father confessor, and women felt so respected, admired, and valued that they fell for him head over heels.  And this was even before he graduated from high school. 

Fitzgerald said it best about Gatsby and he could have been writing about Harlan Evans:

He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

 

'You've got a great career ahead of you', said the dean of students who had followed Harlan during his years under his watch.  There was something successful about the boy.  The dean couldn't quite put his finger on it it, but he too was charmed by the boy's interest, patience, and uncommon empathy.  These qualities more than intelligence, intellect, or insight would carry him far. 

As his popularity grew - he was no less sought after and admired in college as he was in secondary school - he came to realize how easy it was to get whatever he wanted with very little effort.  Professors loved his interest in their lectures and graded him far above the quality of his work.  Roommates were generous and affectionate.  He became a member of the university's most prestigious secret society reserved for the best, the brightest, the most well-bred, and the most likely to succeed. 

A strong moral foundation is built through adversity.  Moral choice - doing the right thing - is often difficult and must be parsed a thousand different ways and in the end, whatever the individual chooses, the individual is stronger, more respected, and more responsible. 

Harlan had never had to face such dilemmas in his life.  He had always done what suited him, but did it in a way that eased him through any narrow passages or across rough patches with hardly a notice.  His genial, accommodating, patient ways were tickets to ride free.  He had no moral foundation, no centralizing, ordering ethos, no set of principles. 

This lack of a moral center did not make him immoral.  Far from it.  His easy social success was made possible by never stumbling into the wrong corner, offending someone, stepping on toes, or pushing his way to the front of the line. 

People made way for him, granted him passage, deferred to him, and happily watched him go.  He was successful because he was always on an even keel.  He never ruffled feathers or gave people pause.  Everyone thought that he had their interests at heart, not his.  He, in their opinion, was one of the most generous and considerate people they had ever met. 

The Congressman from his electoral district had heard of this remarkable young man and was anxious to meet him, perhaps invite him to Washington to work on his campaign. The Congressman was as charmed as everyone who had met the young man and with his canny, practiced, and insightful political instincts knew that Harlan was the real item.  He and the people of his district would be proud to have such a promising talent in Washington. 

 

Harlan's political independence at first worried the Congressman.  Independents were notoriously untrustworthy, wavering souls and indifferent soldiers; but Harlan in his typical, ingenuous, patient, and empathetic way easily convinced the Congressman that loyalty was more important than principle in life; and that he would be an unwavering and unerring supporter of whatever policies the Congressman supported. 

Now, Congress is filled with many who believe that a sucker is born every minute, and that you can fool most of the people most of the time, but they get coopted into rabid party politics.  Take the ranking member of one of the House's most influential committees, a man who had won election thanks to a silver tongue and a gracious complaisance; but whose power and authority went to his head and he became a party enforcer, a man of limited vision, spiteful personality, and downright meanness.  He was feared, but the days of being liked were far in the past. 

Partisan politics and the viral instincts therein were a kind of euphoric drug for the ranking member.  He saw himself as a gladiator not a conciliator; a killer rather than healer.  He had reason to the top of the heap and would remain there by hook or by crook. 

The ranking member was nonplussed when he met Harlan. Who was this underling sent to him by his colleague from an unimportant, insignificant Midwestern district?  Yet after only a few minutes with the young man in his chambers, the Congressman had lost all of his military huffiness, his rigid bearing, and his grimace.  There was something likeable about the young man he could not quite define - something attentive, personal, even intimate.  This was not the way politicians were supposed to behave.  One was always on one's guard, watching one's back, and ready to parry and riposte. 

Harlan had been sent into this den by his patron who by then had understood the almost magical effect his young protege had on people; and since favors were needed from the ranking member, why not send in Harlan as an advance team of one?  His simple charm would soften the old man up and make compromise easy. 

The ranking member was so taken by the young man - he could not deny desire - that he approached Harlan's mentor if he might be available for a transfer.  The ranking member would be very appreciative, this an unmistakable offering that his colleague could not refuse. 

From the hems of power to power itself, that was the story of Harlan Evans whose service to the ranking member, his natural political camaraderie, and his instinctive ability to create communities of which he was the center, enabled his rise to electoral victory. 

He was found a comfortable seat in a district not far from his own, was sent out on the hustings, and not surprisingly won a convincing victory.  His policies? They were unnecessary.  His promises and his genuine commitment to fulfilling them was enough. This bait-and-switch was the stock in trade of politicians, but the electorate was usually on to them and demanded more substance, proof, and results. 

Not so with Harlan.  He was treated more like a divinity than a politician.  His words were never inflammatory, accusatory, or untimely.  He spoke in measured, simple, and heartfelt tones.  He was believable, as simple as that; and he joined his fellow representatives in the House with a policy chest as empty as it was before the election.  If there was ever a Representative with such high approval ratings and so devoid of ideas, it was Harlan Evans. 

Of course, he could talk a good talk, and wove personal anecdotes with homey philosophical tales, all embroidered with fancy stitching, but he never boxed himself in, never once betrayed that inimitable ability to say nothing and be believed. 

There were those in Congress who had caught on to this chimera and challenged Harlan to fess up, to admit his shell game and to come clean; but such was Harlan's savvy and confidence that he welcomed these naysayers into his chambers, treated them as royalty, made them feel welcome, wanted, and admired, and walked out with them, embracing and smiling. 

Harlan was a secret admirer of Jesus - secret because he kept any intimations of faith to himself, and because he had none - because Jesus in life and in death was able to win over millions of believers on the basis of promises alone.  If there was ever a man with more natural charm, seductive influence, and the ability to turn the most recalcitrant apostate to him, it was Jesus Christ. 

'Mustn't let that go to my head', Harlan said, smiling at the face in the mirror, allowing himself a bit of levity before the rounds of the day. 

Faith has many colors after all and had a missionary caught wind of Harlan's irony, they would have jumped on the challenge; but Harlan as always kept his own counsel.  Jesus and his equally persuasive, promises only emissary Paul would be his closeted heroes. He kept an original Dore lithograph of The Temptation in the Desert on his office wall.  'Now that was Jesus at the top of his form'. 

What Do Men Want? - Not The Fountain Of Youth, But A Young Lover

 Herman, Abe, and Art were lamenting their lost youth – not the days of their youth gone by but the fact that the young women who had loved them in their later years had long gone.

“She was wonderful”, said Abe, “a real gem.  An early Christmas present.  An unforgettable charm”. 



Laura had been thirty-two when they met, Abe sixty-four, stretching the May-December relationship to its outer limits.  Abe was reaching the end of his sexual shelf life, and she was in full bloom.  He had been surprised that such a woman had any interest in him at all.  Yes, he still had much of his hair, was in good health and good physical condition, but as his doctor had advised him, ‘Numbers don’t lie’.  

In other words it was about time that he began to look more seriously at his end-of-life priorities.  Even the best actuarial estimates gave him only relatively few more years, so he had better turn his attention to more important matters.

“Why bother”, Dr. Kaplan had said when he first heard the news. “What will she give you that God won’t?”

It was obvious that Kaplan had never strayed from his marriage of forty years, let alone with a younger woman.  Those who had been more adventurous or fortunate knew that they had been extremely lucky.  No one wanted to relive their youth – who would want to repeat the adolescent bumbling, the adult mistakes, missed opportunities, and downright shameful episodes of the past? Better done, gone, and forgotten than sifting through the discards to see if there was anything worth retrieving, anything worth  a second look.

In Abe’s case, his life had been satisfactory enough – a successful career on K Street, a good marriage, well-placed and respectful children.  He never saw cause to wish the genetic cards his son and daughter had been dealt had come from a different deck, or to have chosen a more beautiful wife; or even to have had more affairs.  At 70 he was sitting pretty, atop a considerable retirement fund and investment properties, a home in Boca Raton, and good friends. 

Yet everything in his life seemed predictable, tired, and worn.  A life of no regrets did not mean a life with a happy ending.  Encroaching old age was ugly, dispiriting, and frightening.  He did not envy the young people around him.  He had had his day and it was their time.  Nor did he wish that there were some wormhole through which he could be sucked into the past.  

Youth was overrated, especially when one saw the depressing consequences of disappointments, un-achieved success, illness, bad choices, and bad luck.  The years took their toll, and since one could neither go back and fix them, what was the inherent, innate value of youth anyway?  Little more than a stop along the way. 

Konstantin Levin, a major character in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina saw great irony in God’s having created man - an intelligent, creative, insightful, intuitive, and enterprising being – allowed him to live for a scant few decades, then consign him for all eternity in the cold hard ground of the steppes.  If there was no point to life, reasoned Abe, then there was certainly no point to youth.  Other than reproduction and carrying capacity of course.  On an existential plane, youth was wasted on everyone.



Laura Peterson came into Abe’s life unexpectedly, a work meeting, drinks, a conference in Cairo; dinners, and finally sex.  The scenario was not new to Abe.  He had always had affairs, but because of circumstances, they were all ‘commensurate’.  The women were like him all professionals, travelers, within a few years of age, happily loosed from the fetters of marriage or partnership.  There was nothing remarkable or particularly interesting in these short-term relationships.  They were almost de rigueur, part of the business traveler’s benefit package, a no-strings-attached rider to one’s contract.

Abe’s love affair with Laura, however, defied the actuarial odds and the lottery.  An old man was not supposed win big.  He was designed to lie down and take it easy or die in his traces, not get back in the saddle.  He knew that eventually she would give up on him for a more expected life; and more importantly would no longer be able to overlook his stoop, his ailing hip, his older children, and his futurelessness.  

Since Abe had as little enthusiasm for the future as the past, and since consequently the present was the only tasty morsel in the buffet, he gorged himself.  His affair with Laura Petersen was right out of a ladies’ library romantic novel.

"Shh," he said, pulling her up so they were face-to-face again. He slid his hands between her legs, positioning fingers and thumb the way she'd taught him. Except that wasn't right. She hadn't taught him. They'd figured it out together, how to make her come. He nuzzled against her, his lips on her neck, nibbling and kissing his way up to her earlobe, where she'd always been ticklish. "Ooh," she whispered. "Ooh! Oh, oh, oh," she sighed, as he worked his fingers against the slick seam . . . and then she forgot to pose, forgot about trying to look good, and lost herself inside her own pleasure. Andy watched her squeeze her eyes shut as she clamped her thighs against his wrist and snapped her hips up, once, twice, three times before she froze, all the muscles in her thighs and belly and bottom tense and quivering, and he felt her contract against his fingers (Jennifer Weiner, Who Do You Love?)

He wished he could have felt instead like Cormac McCarthy:

Lying under such a myriad of stars. The sea’s black horizon. He rose and walked out and stood barefoot in the sand and watched the pale surf appear all down the shore and roll and crash and darken again. When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different (The Road)

The problem is that with Abe, like all older men in an affair with a younger woman, it was the pulp fiction that said it all.   There were no existential thoughts, no God, no kindness and compassion, just adolescent wet dreams.  The rotten prose captured the pure physical responsiveness of the sex act; and that was all that mattered.  It was the only reliving of the past that made any sense.  It wasn’t reliving a particular event or recreating a circumstance – staying in a familiar hotel, eating in our restaurant – it was playing the part of a youth as an old man, and voila la difference.

Phillip Roth’s character, Coleman Silk, says in The Human Stain, describing his affair with a woman half his age,  “Granted, she's not my first love. Granted, she's not my great love. But she is sure as hell my last love. Doesn't that count for something?” Abe was Coleman Silk.  “It’s all about the sex, isn’t it?”, asks Silk’s friend; but although Silk denies it and criticizes his much younger friend of his own romantic notions and unfilled sexual demands, it is indeed about the sex.  The book has a happy ending only in that Coleman Silk dies without ever having to give up his woman.  His last memories are of her body.



“Too soon old, too late schmart”, said Herman after hearing Abe’s story.  “You’ll never learn.  The putz is not the way to figure things out.”

“Who says I’m trying?”, said Abe.