“Comeback Kid” the sequel

Iowa 2004 is in the books, write that one down. And out of the dust and haze of a few trampled cornfields all that is left standing akimbo on the prairies is the lanky effigy of the latest self-annointed politico, the one, the solamente – “Comeback Kerry.”

At least this is how I understood what the TV was beaming my way last night.

My perch in the Ruby Tuesday bar is a rickety cocktail table wedged in the far corner – the kind of table, mind you, that takes a good drink coaster folded firmly in half and placed under one of the legs to provide the proper stability for vigorous sketching, otherwise the table rocks back and forth with the slightest touch of an elbow.

I tried to maintain the balance further with a well placed highball glass directly in front of my sketchpad – filled to capacity with the remains of squeezed lime wedges. This was when I spied the news. The TVs at Ruby’s blare no sound but rely on the constant stream of closed-captioning to convey their message. And then I saw it – Kerry did the deed, victory in Iowa, the over -hyped and mostly useless proving ground of Iowa and now he is the “comeback kid” of 2004: Bubba eat-yer-heart-out.

The news took some time to sink in; my mental processing facilities often take a few extra seconds to interpret anything read via closed-captioning, a tragic, yet necessary mechanism to getting it all CORRECT amidst the ceaseless chatter and visual clutter of bar-room information gathering. (AKA “gettin a buzz on” in Tennessee parlance)

But I read on, and laughed aloud maybe once. This is frigging ridiculous I thought while trying to scrawl in the slowly rocking page of my sketchbook. Suddenly my pencil lurched across the paper, its metal tip ripping into the smeared surface, taking out a damn fine chunk. The bartender (“Red” as we called him, swarthy ex pro-wrestler that had once partied and trained with Jimmy “Super-fly” Snooka) had SLAMMED down a highball full of Jack D. Single Barrel whiskey that quickly soaked into the paper fabric of my current rendering. I could only glare in horror….

The news continued to stream in, making a story out of any vagary that might bear relation to the caucas. Then the New Hampshire projections began: Kerry pulling tight towards second there, neck-in-neck with Clark. On the TV adjacent to the one I was trained on Mola Ram and Indiana Jones were trying to rip each others hearts out as they clung to the swinging bridge. A portent, it seems, for the General. We’ll know soon enough.

Across the room I noticed a man in a frayed rattan golf hat, a close cropped beard, and no moustache. I am not sure but I think I heard Red call him Ray. Immediately I closed the pad and scrunched several loose sheets inside. Time to go. I slurped down the rest of a warm brew and scurried my way through the double doors. No time for glory Dr. Jones…….