LITTLE ROCK — I could sense it in Barney. A certain listlessness. Angst. He was more unfocused than usual, which is quite something for a guy who normally has difficulty sitting through an entire episode of Mayberry RFD.
Joanne and I invited him and Barbie over to the house last Labor Day when TV Land ran a 24-hour Mayberry marathon with minimal commercial interruptions, which meant a blood pressure pill ad, adult incontinence product placement, and a Medicare supplement insurance spot running every seven minutes instead of the usual five. Our video viewing began at 6 a.m. over bagels, Egg McMuffins, waffles and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
We were only into our ninth episode, the one where Opie got into a fight at school and Pa was puffing his chest, preparing to impart his predictable paternal wisdom, when Barney (our Barney, not Mayberry’s) jumped up from his seat on the sofa and announced that he was going outside for some fresh air.
It was then that I realized something was eating away at him. Or maybe it was indigestion from the five Egg Mc-Muffins he had been eating away at. So, after Opie was properly chastised by Pa (Aunt Bee already stuck in her two cents) for getting into a fight, I went out to the patio where Barney was puffing on his third Marlboro.
“What’s up, buddy?” I asked him as I pulled up a rusty wrought-iron chair with its paisley cushion long since shredded by Fluffy. “Had enough Mayberry already?”
He exhaled a blue cloud and stared straight ahead. “Oh, it’s not that. But . . . I don’t know, Bill. Lately I feel like I want to do something more with my life. Don’t get me wrong, McDonald’s is a great place to work. And the benefits are good. I mean, I did get those 20 Egg McMuffins for free this morning. But sometimes I just think there’s more out there for me.”
I was completely taken by surprise. This was a side of the devil-may-care, bouncing Barney I had never seen before. I had no idea that he had ambitions that went beyond the golden arches.
As we sullenly gazed at the pile of rotting old tires in the corner of my backyard, watching Fluffy diminish a recently found chunk of roadkill to bone shards, from out of nowhere, it hit me like a ton of lightning bolts—a plan that would help Barney realize his ambitions. A job that would complement the customer-care skills that he had honed over all those years of serving french fries and Big Macs, smiling at finicky fixed-income seniors, tickling saliva-slickened baby chins while their moms frantically fidgeted in the diaper bag for 11 cents, and handling complaints from beerbellied truck drivers whose Quarter Pounder weighed only 3 ounces.
“Barney,” I shouted, nearly toppling my 22-ounce coffee mug, “the elections are coming up soon. You should run for office.”
It was like a light bulb suddenly flickered to life in the cold black night. Something exploded inside his head. Neurons fired and synapses synapsed. Call it inspiration or revelation. But whatever it was, Barney was on it. He was going to run for office and he would be somebody. An elected public servant.
His wife Barbie, who had been practicing law for 15 years, handled all of the document-filing and legal issues. Joanne, who had recently done a valve job on a Caprice for the ad-sales guy at Channel 7, took care of media relations and negotiated one heck of a rate for Barney’s ads. Most were only 30-second spots that we shot in his kitchen with Barbie’s iPhone. Any longer, and he couldn’t remember his lines. The only catch was they had to air between 2 and 4 a.m. But hey, Joanne came in under budget.
I was in charge of public relations. Which is just a fancy way of saying that I made all of the cardboard yard signs. My favorite one was “Elect Barney.” It was fresh and original, and it had a nice ring to it. I thought of it in the shower one morning.
We worked hard for six grueling weeks. Barney delivered speeches (and gratuitous Big Macs and fries) at events all over town: car-wash grand openings, preschool coffees, church bingos, and even a motorcycle rally in the parking lot of an abandoned church that had been converted to a biker bar. I loaned him my red, white and blue stars-andstripes tie with the exploding firecracker in the middle that I usually reserved for the Fourth of July.
With only a week to go, public opinion was starting to swing in his favor. The polls had him a distant second, but there were only two candidates. But, as fate would have it, the John Edwards effect kicked in. His opponent’s campaign went negative when they dug up dirt on Barney that none of us saw coming. I don’t know how they found out, but we heard that their campaign manager played rummy every Tuesday night down at St. Teresa’s parish hall with Barney’s mom.
They got to gossiping (like ladies will do when they’re all wired up on unlimited free cafeteria coffee from the industrial-sized urn). It turns out that Barney is afraid of dogs. Always has been. His mom blabbed it all over the hall that when he was 6 years old, some old man’s mongrel (half pit bull, half Chihuahua) chased him down the street and shredded his Keds like bubble gum. Not a big deal, you say? He was still wearing them. Once the media latched onto that, it was game over. Connie McIntire crushed him in the polls.
I guess Barney just wasn’t destined to be our next municipal dogcatcher.
—–––––
Bill Rausch is a freelance writer from Little Rock. Email him at williamrausch25@yahoo. com.
Editorial, Pages 17 on 10/27/2012