Chapter Twelve: Vinny

Toby stood over Vinny’s grave at Germantown Cemetery in Maryland, fifteen miles north of Washington DC. There was no last name, date of birth, or age listed. Nobody had known. The gravestone simply said he died in December of 2066. Toby guessed Vinny had been around fifty, his own age now.

Toby tried to visit the cemetery once a year. It was an uncomfortable place for him, with the graves of his parents, his first wife, Lindy, and of Vinny.

He visited his parents first. Both had died about ten years ago. He stared down at the matching gravestones for a long time. They’d never known how successful he would become. He was glad they hadn’t been around when he took over the Dubois campaign.

He moved on to his wife’s grave. Had it really been thirty years? She’d died from rare complications during childbirth when Lara was born.

He couldn’t remember what she looked like. He pulled up a picture on his TC and stared at it for a few minutes. Lindy had been the second love of his life. Their daughter, Lara, had been the third. Later he’d married Olivia, the fourth love, but somehow she never was at the same level as his first wife and daughter. But his fourteen-year-old son Tyler came out of that marriage, the fifth love of his life. And yet, always in the background, stealing time from them all, was his first and foremost love: politics.

Toby had become eligible to vote when he turned sixteen in 2066. He was already a political hack. The world was a different and simpler place then, he thought, before the rise of the TC, floating cars, and irritating French presidents. He’d volunteered to help that fall at Liberal Headquarters in his hometown of Germantown, Maryland, going in each day after school. His parents had been so proud.

Mayor Jones was from the Liberal Party in a city that slanted conservative. He’d gone moderate in the previous campaign and barely won. He faced a difficult re-election battle. Toby felt part of a team as he joined forces with others to make sure Jones won re-election.

They put Toby to work stuffing envelopes in the archaic practice of sending hard materials directly to voters. That was where he’d met Vinny.

He vividly remembered Vinny’s bald head and mottled brown face, clean shaven except at the end. Vinny had said that too much time outdoors had turned his skin a hundred years old.

* * *

“The orange one goes on top,” said the thin man with the mottled brown face, the worn-out clothing hanging over his frame like a scarecrow. He and Toby sat on opposite sides of a large table. Stacks of flyers and envelopes in front of each. The copy machine’s folding and envelope stuffing feature had broken, so the work had to be done manually. Political posters for Mayor Jones covered three walls of the large, dimly lit room, with the fourth wall the glass storefront. It was late at night and still early in the campaign, so the two were alone with the smell of old coffee and stale pastries.

“Does it really matter?” Toby asked. He’d been trying and failing to keep pace with the man, whose fingers sailed over the flyers like a pianist as he stacked, folded, stuffed, and sealed. It contrasted sharply with his old-man’s slouching walk.

“Makes a big difference,” the man said. “The orange one is the hook. The blue one is the sale. The green one closes the deal and asks for money. We could send these things electronically, but people like something in their hands, makes it more personal. Did you know people are more likely to read an orange or yellow flyer than any other color? That’s why that goes on top.”

“They study things like that?” Toby asked, wondering if it were true.

“Definitely!” The man grinned. “Paper flyers will always be a part of politics, and as long as that’s true, it’ll be the subject of science and art. My name’s Vinny, and you must be Toby Platt, the new kid. Glad to know you!” He extended his hand and they swapped low fives. “Let me explain how this works.”

That’s when Toby’s real education began. Nothing in the flyers was left to chance. The orange cover letter was directed at the mayor’s political base. It focused on wedge issues, twisting the opponent’s ideas into a psychedelic nightmare that outraged anyone with common sense, with the mayor’s ideas brought in to save the day.

The second page, a friendly, soft blue, personalized the candidate with background info that turned him into something between a saint and a superhero, with a clever mix of heroic deeds he’d done and great ideas he’d use to save humanity and the local voters.

The third page, a pointed green, asked voters for their support, and told of the wonderful things they would get if they sent sums of money to the candidate.

The flyers included flattering pictures in carefully posed candid shots showing the candidate building shelters, ladling soup to the poor, and shaking hands with various celebrities.

“Most voters are registered as either Liberals or Conservatives,” Vinny said. “Donkeys or Roosters. Our primary job is to remind the Donkeys who to vote for.”

Toby found this troubling. “People vote for whoever we tell them to vote for, just because of their political party? Don’t we need to do more than that?”

Vinny flashed him the “you have much to learn” grin that he’d get to know so well. “It’s more important that we give them an excuse to vote for their party than we give them an actual reason. The easiest way is to get them mad at the other guy so they vote for our guy. If we do our job, most voters from our party are going to vote for whoever we tell them to vote for. Most of the rest is just showcasing.”

“Germantown is half ebony,” Vinny explained. Mayor Jones was an ebony, the politically correct term for those of African ancestry. Toby soon learned all about demographics. “To win, Jones needs at least seventy percent of them, to make up for the non-ebony vote, which’ll mostly go against us.”

“You think,” Toby asked, “white people like me won’t vote for him, while ebonies like you will?”

“That’s the racist truth. And I’m no ebony—like most white guys, you can’t see past the skin color. I’m a true white man.” At Toby’s incredulous look, Vinny flashed white teeth at Toby. “My ancestry’s equal parts ebony, white, yellow, and red. When you mix all the colors of light, you get true white. That’s me.”

The large Hyundai car factory in Germantown had closed a few years before, killing the local economy. It had also led to a major homelessness problem. These problems had helped elect Jones mayor. To be re-elected, Vinny said he needed to show he was fixing the problems.

“People expect their leaders to fix the economy for them,” Vinny said. They were sorting another mailing by zip code, since someone had gotten them all jumbled together. “In the short term, economics is all voodoo and luck. Since voters always vote on short-term interests, elections are won when the economy goes your way, and lost when it goes against you and you can’t change the subject. Since the economy’s falling apart right now, Jones thinks he needs to focus on the homeless problem to change the subject and win the election. He raised local taxes on the wealthy to pay for it. And he’s going to lose the election because of it.”

“What do you mean?” Toby asked. He’d seen the growing number of homeless over the past few years, although he’d never really looked at them, averting his eyes like most people.

“You don’t win elections by helping a small number of poor people who aren’t likely to vote, while forcing an equally small number of wealthy but more politically active people to pay for it. It’s the right thing to do, and it’s the wrong thing to do.”

Toby’s eyebrows asked the obvious question.

“It’s the right thing because the homeless need the help. It’s the wrong thing because he’s going to lose the election over it, and then things will get a whole lot worse for the very people he’s trying to help.”

“So to help people, you have to avoid helping them?” It was right about here, Toby later realized, that he entered the rabbit hole of politics, a world far stranger than anything Alice ever encountered.

“Welcome to politics, kid!” Vinny said. “Doesn’t mean you don’t help them. But only in moderation. Jones has only so much political capital, and he’s overspending it, playing to a liberal base that’s not large enough. Haven’t you seen all the signs and mailings going after Jones for about fifty different things?”

“Nobody believes that garbage!” Toby protested. “Most of it’s made-up lies.”

“Everyone says they don’t take the garbage seriously,” Vinny said, “and yet unanswered charges tend to stick. The garbage accumulates.”

“So Jones should respond to the garbage?”

“You can’t,” Vinny said. “That’s the whole point of going after Jones on so many things. You can’t defend it all, and if you try, the focus of the election becomes your supposed shortcomings, and that garbage begins to smell. There’s only two ways to beat it.”

“I’m guessing being a great mayor isn’t one of them.”

“It helps,” Vinny said. “But only as a tie-breaker. The rubbish bin of history is full of great leaders who got voted out of office to the latest chump who, with great sincerity, will say and do whatever it takes to win. No, the only response is to attack back with even stronger garbage about the other guy.”

“You said there were two ways.”

Jones shook his head. “Too late for the other way. To lock up a primary, you have to pander to your base, and that’s what Jones did, way too much. Now he’s riled up the opposition base, and that’s why there’s so much anger against him. If he’d stayed in the political center, he’d have still won the primary—incumbents almost always do—but the opposition wouldn’t be out for his blood. Instead, he pandered to his liberal base with his homeless shelters, and got himself bagged and tagged as ‘too liberal.’ His only way out of that box is to spew garbage right back.”

“So why doesn’t he?”

“If he did,” Vinny said, “he’d lose my support, though I’d still probably vote for him. Jones is a good man doing the right things. Just not a very good politician. Leadership isn’t about cramming your views down the other guy’s throat. It’s about compromise and moderation, and he just doesn’t get that.”

Lessons like these sunk in on Toby during the weeks they were together. Usually they worked at campaign headquarters. Other times they’d work the streets, putting up pro-Jones signs or setting up meetings where they’d promote Jones. Vinny could stand in front of a group and rattle off all the great things Jones had done, beaming such a smile that listeners never noticed when he switched to criticizing the opposition, riling the listeners up and bringing in votes. Vinny never resorted to the type of venom used by Jones’s opponents. His arguments were so strong and logical that Toby couldn’t imagine Jones losing.

And yet, as election day neared, polls showed Jones trailing. Toby couldn’t believe people were so stupid; surely they’d see the light. Jones had to win.

Some of the volunteers and staff, such as Vinny, practically lived at Liberal Headquarters. The campaign served food and drinks for the volunteers and staff at mealtimes. While Toby tired of the repetitive plastated cabbage sandwiches and soups, which supposedly mimicked the real taste and texture of meat, Vinny treated each meal as if it were fine French food, often savoring the smell for a moment before dining.

One day Toby asked Vinny what he did for a living.

“I was a history teacher,” Vinny said. “Back when teaching was done by real people, instead of those robot things that turn kids into those frightful zombies we call high school graduates. I got laid off when the economy fell apart.”

“But what do you do now?” Toby asked.

Vinny looked down at the table, stacked full of flyers and envelopes. “I put pieces of paper inside other pieces of paper, and whatever else is needed in the Jones campaign.”

“But that’s all volunteer work!” Toby exclaimed. “Don’t you need to make money to live on? For food and rent?”

Vinny silently stuffed a few pieces of paper inside an envelope before answering. “You know the new homeless shelter on Wisteria Drive? Why don’t you come by there tonight, and I’ll show you.”

Toby didn’t have much homework that night, so after he’d finished his volunteer shift at Liberal Headquarters he walked to the shelter, about a mile and a half away. He’d been in his parent’s car when they’d driven down Wisteria in the past, but walking it was far different than a quick drive through with the windows up.

At the start of the walk, the streets were lined with businesses: restaurants, retail stores, a laundry, dental and doctor offices, and so on.

Then he came to a residential area, with middle-class houses like his own. As the sun set, he crossed under the very bridge he regularly walked over on his way to school.

On the other side, the houses were smaller, more rundown. It seemed strange that these homes were so close to his, and yet he’d never seen them on foot. Fences were falling down and overrun with weeds. Chipped paint and grime covered the houses. A few dogs barked at him. He held his breath the final block from the overwhelming smell of rot and decay, and finally reached the shelter.

It was surprisingly well kept, compared to the broken-down houses—shacks, he thought—on either side. Two men in grimy clothing were painting the front a fresh white. Toby went in the open front door, passing under the Germantown Homeless Shelter #4 sign.

Inside was one gigantic room, dimly lit by bare bulbs hung from the ceiling. The smell was worse than outside, and Toby only allowed himself short breaths of the pungent air that smelled of urine and sweat. Rows and rows of bunk beds covered the floor, with only a few feet between each. Just inside the door a woman behind a worn-out desk looked up at him.

“I’m trying to find Vinny,” Toby said. “I think he works here.”

“Don’t think anybody by that name works here,” she said. “Just a minute.” She paged through a notebook. “There’s a Vinny at bunk 126A.”

After figuring out the numbering scheme, Toby found Vinny lying on a dirty sheet in the bottom bunk in the middle of the room. He was reading a book, with a stack of others next to the bunk. Two small children raced back and forth playing tag. A baby cried nearby. Farther off a man and a woman squared off in a shouting match, with residents of the shelter crowding around to watch.

“Vinny!” Toby exclaimed. “I thought you worked here.”

Vinny put down the book and sat up. “You asked what I did for food and rent, and now you know. There’s not much demand for history majors in this economy. I get my food at Liberal Headquarters and wherever else I can scrounge it. My rent is free, thanks to Jones and his homeless shelters.”

Toby looked about. The man and woman were fighting on the floor as others cheered. The crying baby shrieked; its mom lay in bed next to it, holding the baby and staring off into space.

“How long have you lived here?” Toby asked, his heart racing, his shallow breathing more rapid.

“Since it opened earlier this year,” Vinny said. “Before that, I was on the streets. You used to walk right by me all the time and never saw me.”

Someone was shouting something, but Toby ignored it. “You argued against Jones opening homeless shelters, said he was pandering to his liberal base!”

“It’s all a matter of degree,” Vinny said. “Tell me, Toby, what do you consider yourself, liberal, moderate, or conservative?”

“If helping the poor makes me a liberal, then I’m a proud liberal.”

Vinny tilted his head slightly, giving Toby that knowing grin. “Should the government only focus on the poor?”

“Of course not, just enough—”

“Should the government give nothing to the poor?” Vinny asked.

“Of course not!”

“Then you are somewhere in between,” Vinny said. “Congratulations. That makes you a moderate.” He tapped Toby on the chest. “Never forget that.”

A moderate, Toby thought. Somehow it didn’t sound very impressive. He knew what liberals and conservatives stood for. What did moderates do? He was an idealist, and wanted to make things better than they were. How could an idealist be anything but a liberal?

“Jones went the liberal route,” Vinny continued, “and watch what happens next month in the election. He did the right thing, and he’s going to pay for it, like all good leaders eventually do.”

The stench—not just from the air—was too much for Toby. He bent over and threw up.

“Welcome to my world,” Vinny said as he cleaned up the mess.

* * *

Election day arrived. Vinny and Toby manned a booth outside a voting precinct, where they handed out flyers and buttons, and discussed issues with people who came to vote. The conservatives had a similar booth.

At first Toby eyed the conservatives suspiciously. There were three of them. The enemy. He was surprised when Vinny went over to chat with them during a lull. After a time Toby joined them as well, and even exchanged political war stories and jokes. He’d heard all of Vinny’s, but was fascinated by some of the conservative tales.

So the conservatives were human after all. They simply were wrong on the issues.

Vinny’s prediction proved correct as Jones lost the election by ten percent to the conservative challenger, Reginald McGivers. The post-election party at the Jones campaign headquarters was a dreary night as staff and volunteers argued “what ifs” over leftover sandwiches.

Late in the evening Jones himself came by. Toby had seen him at a few campaign events, but it was the first time he knew of that Jones actually came to his campaign headquarters. “A campaign headquarters is no place for a leader,” Vinny had once told him.

With his baritone voice, Jones thanked everyone for their help and support, and then left. Toby never saw him again. Liberal Headquarters was cleared out within a day, reopening a month later as a dental office.

Toby visited Vinny regularly at the shelter in the weeks after the election. And then one day there was a “For Rent” sign on the locked door, and the Germantown Homeless Shelter #4 sign was gone. Through a window Toby saw the room was empty, the bunk beds gone. Where was Vinny?

The weather was getting cold, and he worried about his friend. But he was busy with school, and gradually forgot to look for Vinny.

Toby walked over the bridge to and from school each day. One time in December, while walking home, he glanced down while passing over the bridge next to the rundown area near where the shelter used to be. A group of people loitered at the base of the bridge. He looked away and continued walking. A gust of wind hit him, and the overpowering stench of the poor area hit him. He glanced back down again, and realized one of the people below was staring at him.

Vinny!

He raced around the side of the bridge and down the embankment. It was a bittersweet moment; Vinny looked horrible, thin and stooped and holding a thin coat with a broken zipper over himself as he shivered in the cold air. He wore a bright purple scarf around his neck.

“You finally noticed me,” Vinny said, to Toby’s chagrin. Vinny had been down here all this time, and he’d never seen him. It wasn’t completely his fault; Vinny had grown a beard that covered much of his face. It was encrusted with dirt and bits of food.

Vinny’s new home was a large cardboard box under the bridge. Inside was a thin blanket and Vinny’s books. Seven others also lived under the bridge, each with their own box.

They took a walk together, and passed by where the shelter had been. It was now a second-hand clothing store. Toby checked his wallet, but only had a few dollars. He’d come back the next day with food for Vinny and money from his savings to buy him winter clothing.

When Toby left for school the next morning, he realized with horror that a freezing cold front had moved in, drastically dropping the temperature. With only a scarf, thin coat, and thinner blanket, Vinny must have had a bad night. Toby knew he’d be late for school, but he veered off the bridge to go to the new clothing store. He saw Vinny’s cardboard box, but decided he’d surprise him.

He bought a thick coat with a hood, a knit cap, thick socks, and long thermal underwear. He’d get Vinny’s shoe size and come back later to get him boots. This was all just temporary stuff; he was determined to talk his parents into letting Vinny move into their guest room. He was already planning out his opening arguments.

He returned to the bridge with the clothing and his school lunchbox, where he’d packed extra sandwiches for Vinny. He knocked on the top of Vinny’s cardboard box, breaking off an icicle as he did so.

There was no answer.

“Vinny, you in there?” he asked, dropping the bags of clothing and the lunchbox. Finally he lifted the flap entrance and peeked inside. Vinny lay there, face up, still. Too still.

Toby yanked at Vinny’s feet and pulled him out.

“Vinny!” he screamed at the open eyes, all that was visible above Vinny’s beard and the purple scarf wrapped around his lower face. Other homeless people exited their boxes and gathered about, shivering in the cold. Someone called paramedics from a public phone.

A woman tried CPR, but gave up after a moment. “He’s gone,” she said, eyeing the bags of clothing. A siren announced the arrival of an ambulance.

Toby reached down and pulled the dirty scarf free from Vinny. He stared at it for a moment. Then, scarf in hand, he began to run, as fast as he could, in any direction as long as it was away.

He’d been running ever since.