written August 5, 2012
As a child I loved the poet Shel Silverstein. My favorite of his poems, ironically, dealt comeuppances to erratic, irresponsible characters. I could see myself in their crises, I suppose. The long-overdue library book that elicits fear of punishment, or the grisly end of the pushy Pamela Purse. Today, the balmy lines of “It’s Hot!” are apt, as St. Louis remains an historic Gobi-like furnace. Even shod of the skin it would unbearable.
There is no reason for a knock at my door. May remains the only St. Louisan I really know, and we haven’t yet reached the point of casual drop-ins. I cannot be blamed then for jumping a foot when late this morning my front door with rattled by blows. Given the high mercury, I was lounging in my own sweat at this time, clothed only in shorts. Not able to see the visitors from over the railing, I ran to the bedroom, pulling on the first t-shirt I saw. Good enough for an investigation of Whoever.
Opening the door, two men in business casual greeted me. Shaking both outstretched hands, I immediately recognized the man on the left, whom I had met in late April.
“Good morning, I’m Mayor Francis Slay, how are you today?” I mumbled something back as I pressed myself in the crevice of the entryway. Surely I had some form of shmutz on my face.
Mayor Slay introduced his companion, Martin Casas*, a Democrat running for the 79th Missouri District.* He launched into his doorstep stump speech. He wanted to make me life better and loves America enough to name apple pie as its own food group.
“Do you have any concerns?” the mayor asked.
“Mm. No, not really.”
“Well, we hope for your support,” they finished, turned to find a livelier constituent.
“Right. Yes. Looking forward to it.” Public servants really should call ahead.
* Martin Casas was defeated by Michael Butler.