Minute Debate

Yesterday evening, Joe the Plumber rendezvoused with me at work, for the very important purpose of driving to get ice cream cones at Gunther's Ice Cream Parlor.

I had just locked up and turned towards my car when a passing, bespectacled young man muttered with something of a snarl: "He's going to LOSE!" Surprised, it took me a few seconds to realize he was referring to my boldly-lettered "Obama For President - 2012" bumper sticker. I turned towards him, and his demeanor abruptly changed, and became almost too nice - treacly, in a way. (We all live in fantasies where we use heavy-duty weaponry to deal with our political opponents, and having shown a glimpse of his private mental space, he was wise to abruptly shield it from view.)

"I just want to speak with a liberal," he said. Genuinely-bewildered, he asked: "How can you support that guy? He is a BAD man, and a terrible President!"

I hesitated. Joe was doing a U-Turn in his vehicle so we could drive off in tandem for the very important purpose of getting ice cream cones at Gunther's Ice Cream Parlor. I could afford only a brief minute for a political debate.

"He's a fine President," I replied. "he inherited a big mess."

Despite his hunger for an extended exchange, the stranger caught the necessity of keeping the political debate brief. He approached, declared his intention not to harm me, declared his status as a military veteran, and checked his pockets to be sure where his money was located. He proceeded:

• Obama has no birth certificate;
• Obamacare is a disaster;
• Treasury Secretary Geithner is former head of AIG, and a bad man.

I replied:

• Obama has a Hawaiian birth certificate;
• Obamacare is just getting started;
• The Treasury Secretary has to come from the world of finance - look at Hoover's Andrew Mellon!

The fellow continued: "What about the health insurance mandate? How can they force people to buy insurance?" "There are many mandates in society," I replied. "The mandate for drivers to buy auto insurance, for example, or the requirement to register with the Selective Service." (Although I may have hurriedly said 'Secret Service' instead.) The fellow nodded thoughtfully and said: "You do have a point there."

By this time, Joe the Plumber had turned his halogen flashlight on to 'strobe', and was insistently and impatiently flashing my face from his vehicle. It was time to bring the conversation to a close.

"Nice car," he said, looking at my Saturn. I looked at the worn car, with the side mirror still duct-taped on after the collision with garbage cans last month and silently disagreed, but mumbled a pleasantry in reply. We shook hands, and parted ways.