Political Satire: Having trouble surviving these times? You’re not alone. Join us in columnist John F. Di Leo’s exploration of an alternate universe, where we imagine the impossible:
An idealistic teenager, living in the 51st ward of a fictional city in middle America, volunteers at the local party headquarters, and learns a lesson or two about modern urban politics.
Little Pavel Marches On
By John F. Di Leo
After a long day walking precincts, Pavel was last to return to 51st ward headquarters, arriving just as the Boss was closing up shop. Looking more frazzled than usual, Committeeman Bill Marcy was just putting on his customary tweed jacket and locking up as Pavel handed him his poll sheets and said “Over a third of them were home today, Boss!”
“How was the response?” the older man asked his newest volunteer.
“Same as it’s been all summer. Some happy, some non-committal, some furious. You know. Pretty normal.”
“Time was, son, they were never furious.” The Boss sighed. “In the old days, they wouldn’t dare be furious. If they were rude to our volunteers, we could withhold garbage pickup, shut off their water, write tickets for parking violations… Now they act all superior. Refusing to open the door to my volunteers… Time was… oh, never mind. Thanks for the work, kid.”
“Thanks, Boss. Where’s Pockets? He’s usually here to close up.”
“Pockets left early. Wasn’t feeling well. Got a call from his sister about an hour ago, and just said he had to go. Said if we needed him, he’d be at the Prancing Pony.”
“That’s on my way home. I’ll check in on him.”
Pavel headed down to the Prancing Pony, a corner tavern, and searched the room for the old man. Seeing Pockets off in the far corner, he bought a diet cola at the bar and headed over.
He found Pockets nursing a beer at a corner table, with four empty shot glasses in front of him, holding an old photo in his hands. “Hey, Pockets, how’s it going?” he asked. “Can I join you, or is somebody sitting here already?”
Pockets muttered “No, nobody… have a seat, Paully.”
“Good day in the precinct. Lots of people home, nice day for walking,” the youngster reported. “Lots of motivated people; lots of people saying they can’t wait to vote.” Then, more softly, he added “Not so much our triple-Ds, though…”
“Good, good,” mumbled Pockets. “You work so hard, Paully.” He took a slow sip from his beer. “You deserve some rest. Why don’tcha go home, son? I’m no company tonight.”
Pavel had never seen him so sad. “What’s wrong? Anything I can do?”
Pockets shook his head in the negative, softly saying “Not unless you can pilot a mail plane from Asia,” then signaled the bartender for another shot.
“Sorry, Pockets, I don’t understand, what’s wrong?”
His mentor sighed as he resigned himself to the fact that Pavel was obviously going to keep after him until he explained. “It’s… it’s kinda complicated. My sister-in-law called tonight. Her grandson’s best friend just won a primary to run for some office in Wisconsin… that’s where he’s from… and she called to give him the good news and to ask if he’d requested his absentee ballot yet… it was hard to get through to him ‘cause they didn’t know where he was… took a few days to reach him…”
Before Pavel could comment on how Pockets had never mentioned that he had a brother, the bartender delivered Pockets’ next shot of whiskey, and Pockets drank it down in a single gulp, then motioned for another beer. Pavel quietly asked the bartender if they could get a bowl of pretzels before he walked away. A big bowl. The bartender agreed, and set out for it.
He turned back to Pockets. “Sorry, Pockets, I don’t follow you. Had your sister-in-law lost track of her grandson? Or is he just on vacation or something?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s in the service.”
Pavel thought he understood. “Oh, so he can’t volunteer to help his friend’s campaign, huh? Well, he shouldn’t feel bad about that; his buddy’ll understand. You can’t walk precincts when you’re out of town.”
“No, not that, Paully.” He took another slow sip of his beer. “See, he’s in Afghanistan. Dunno exactly where.”
“Oh. Wow. Well, you must be very proud of him, right?”
“Yeah, of course. Good boy. Good boy. On his second tour now.” Pockets looked back at the wrinkled old photo for a long while before continuing. “It’s just that… when she called to give him the news about the primary, she said, ya know, ‘well, you can’t help him get elected, but hey, you can win the award for being the longest-distance absentee vote for him, ya know?’ Tryin’ to put a good spin on it. Good gal. Always was a good gal. So hard…” Pockets drifted off a moment, and had another sip of his beer, as the bowl of pretzels arrived for them.
“His first tour, he was injured. Wasn’t bad… a shot through the leg. Healed up okay. Limps a little now, that’s all. He coulda stayed home after that, but he said it wouldn’t be right. Said thousands of his buddies had it worse, it wouldn’t be right to leave ‘em. So he went back. This is his second tour now.” He chewed a pretzel a moment.
“Afghanistan, ya know. Did I mention he’s in Afghanistan?” Pavel nodded that he had. “Awful place, Paully. They shoot at ya from everywhere, pose like they’re friends, take jobs as a chaplain, or translator, or driver, then when they’ve got your confidence, drive a damn truck into the camp and blow it up. Rotten. They strafe the jungles, put those poisoned bamboo shoots in the path. Horrible things…”
Pavel was worrying about him more now. Gently he said “I don’t think they have jungles and bamboo in Afghanistan, Pockets, do they?”
Pockets shook his head. “Right, sorry. Yeah. I was thinking of… Anyway, yeah… Bombs, IEDs. Awful. But our boy’s tough, he went back again! He’s tough, that boy. Good boy. Good man.” He took another sip of his beer.
“Umm, your sister-in-law?” Pavel tried to steer him back to the issue at hand.
Pockets continued. “Yeah, well, see, when they finally talked, he asked his grandma to please call about the absentee ballots, because he’d heard all sorts of mixed messages about it from his buddies. And when they put two and two together, well… it’s just not fair!” Pockets held his head in his hands.
Now Pavel understood. He’d seen something in the papers about it, but hadn’t paid much attention. It was the scandal of the military vote; a scandal that the press has either unconsciously, or perhaps consciously, denied any coverage to speak of.
Pockets looked back up, and seemed more composed, so he could go on. “See, over the years, forever really, there’s been a problem with overseas votes. Absentee ballots go out, and people fill ‘em in, and they mail ‘em back. It takes time; airmail is slow, ya know? And sometimes the voters themselves don’t hurry, so they push their luck that way. So, lotsa times, a lot of military votes don’t get counted. It’s not just the soldiers and sailors; it’s their families on overseas bases, and the folks in submarines and remote posts… and, and when we’re at war, the guys behind enemy lines. They vote, but maybe the mailbags don’t arrive ‘til after the election, even ‘til weeks after the final certification.”
“Have such late mailbags ever changed the outcome of an election, Pockets?”
“Sure. I mean, I don’t have any statistics, but yeah, lots of elections are close, so a few thousand here and there can really make a difference, ya know? Especially in presidential years…”
“I see. But I guess there’s nothing you can do about it, right, Pockets?”
“No, there is, Paully. There is. There has to be.” Pockets took a draw off his new beer. “They passed the MOVE Act, to make the states do it.”
“The MOVE Act? What’s that?”
“Stands for Military and Overseas Voter Empowerment Act. Congress passed it, specifically to tell all the states that they hafta take measures to allow enough time, and to add speedy extra processes if necessary, to make sure every military and overseas vote gets counted on time. The Feds ordered the Department of Defense, and the mails, to set a deadline so all the states would know the last date the absentee ballots would hafta be on their way out, and still have time to guarantee that they’d be back in on time. Makes sense…”
Pockets munched a pretzel and continued. “So the feds settled on 45 days. 45 days before the election. Every state’s gotta have their absentee ballots on the way by then… or ask for a waiver to get the feds to work with ‘em on a special process to expedite it.”
Pavel asked “But what’s the problem? The primary was in February! Our ballot’s been settled for months! How could anybody be late?”
Pockets shook his head. “Pay attention, son. Our Illinois primary was in February. Yeah, we’ve had plenty of time to prepare our ballots and send them out. And we’ll still probably botch it here and there, because some of our counties’ll be late. But everybody has their primaries at different times, remember?”
Pavel slapped his own forehead with the palm of his hand. “Right, of course… Alaska in August, Rhode Island in September… that’s cutting it close, huh?”
“You’re telling me. There were about seventeen states with August primaries, and another dozen in September. Including Wisconsin.”
“Shouldn’t that still be enough time?”
“No, Paully, it takes time to get everything ready for a general election. See, you’ve got to do the count, and check provisionals, and allow time for a recount, and wait for all the absentees to come in… you can’t certify the election for at least a coupla weeks. All that hasta be done before ya can even print up your general election ballots. We allow plenty of time in Illinois, but you look at Wisconsin and Delaware and New York, with a September 14 primary… there’s just no way to be ready fast enough.”
“So why didn’t Washington just force them to move up their dates?”
Pockets explained “They’d probably like to, but they can’t. Congress doesn’t have the right to set a state’s primary or caucus date. That’s a state’s right. So what the feds did was, they set a deadline that would allow them enough time – 45 days – and then told the states to make sure they met it. When the states realized that it was impossible, they’d just hafta move up their primaries on their own. They’d be forced, without exactly being forced. It’s how Washington has to do it.”
“I see. So didn’t some of the states get the message? Did it slip through the cracks or something?”
“No, Paully,” Pockets almost whispered, with a feeling of embarrassment. “I’m afraid our guys did it. We refused to move up our primaries, and in some of our states, we didn’t even ask for the waivers they offered. And then when some asked, the waivers were denied. We really just didn’t try.”
Pavel couldn’t believe it. “I don’t understand. They had to try; you must mean they forgot, or couldn’t come to an agreement with the Republicans on what date to move it to, or something, right?”
“No, Paully. Lemme tell ya about Wisconsin. They’ve got this Republican state rep up there, Jeff Stone… he’d been pushing a bill since last year to get the general assembly to either apply for a waiver and see if they could find a compromise way to get Defense and the Post Office to make the usual primary date work, like the MOVE Act requires, or to move up the primary to an earlier date that would work for sure. Just do something, ya know? And he couldn’t get his bill out of committee! Our side – the People’s party – bottled it up. Buried it. Wouldn’t let the bill move, wouldn’t let the assembly deal with it at all… then they intentionally didn’t ask for a waiver until after the deadline to apply, so the DoJ could deny the application on a technicality.”
Pockets started to take another sip of his beer, then changed his mind and put the cap back on, reaching for another pretzel instead. “This has been happening all over the country. Maybe the August ones’ll make it, but… those dozen states with September primaries… I just don’t see how they can certify their elections, print up their ballots, and get them on their way in time, especially if some of ‘em never even applied for the waivers… In the old days, ya could just say ‘that’s the way it goes,’ ya know? But not now, not now that they passed a law and had time to fix it. There’s just no excuse.”
Pavel was relieved that Pockets had stopped drinking, and pushed the bowl of pretzels within easier reach for the old man. “Is there any other option at this point, Pockets? Or is it too late?”
“Well, the Justice Department – ya know, Eric Holder, our Attorney General – could do something. The MOVE Act requires the DoJ to do stuff, to make sure it’s enforced. But he hasn’t done anything.”
“How do you know, Pockets? I mean, to accuse the attorney general of disregarding an issue like this, that’s going pretty far, isn’t it? You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Pockets said with disgust. “Senator Cornyn, the Republican from Texas. He’s been firing off official letters all year trying to get the DoJ to answer him, to confirm that they’re trying, to file reports, to do something, anything… but he gets stuff in dribs and drabs. Holder’s DoJ is stalling him, totally. They won’t get anything out of Holder unless they subpoena him, and he’d probably find some way to avoid talking then too.” Catching himself a bit, Pockets added “Don’t get me wrong, he’s one of us… it’s just that, well, they don’t care about this issue. No, that’s not right. They do care, they must care. This can’t be by mistake, this hasta be on purpose. Doesn’t it?”
Pockets seemed to be pleading to his young friend for support, for an answer. “How can you not want your soldiers to vote, Paully? Your soldiers?! How?”
Pockets bowed his head, as Pavel said “Especially since we work so hard to get others to vote. We make sure that people vote who’ve moved, or died, or never existed in the first place; we let illegal aliens vote; we have buses carry people from polling place to polling place, voting under five, ten, twenty names, however many stops the bus can handle in a day… and then we keep the polls open longer so they can make a couple more stops.”
“Yeah.” Pockets continued. “We sure make it easy to vote… for everyone except the boys laying their lives on the line for the rest of us.”
Pavel was touched that this actually struck a chord with Pockets, a man for whom the stuffing of ballot boxes had been a vocation for decades. “Couldn’t you offer to call a friend in Milwaukee, and have then just fill in a ballot for him, as a favor?”
Pockets shook his head. “No, I don’t think they’d help me by filling in a ballot the way that he’d want to cast it, Paully. Not that she’d approve of that anyway. That’s the thing, when… when my sister-in-law called, see, she just started yelling at me about what we’d done – what our side has done – in Madison and Washington, trying to suppress the military vote, trying to keep our servicemen from voting, or from their ballots arriving on time to matter. She, she knows what I do for a living, ya know? I tried to give her the party line, but… I couldn’t, Paully, not her. We’ve never talked politics, in all these years. I just sat there and took it. And then… then I came here.”
Pockets half-heartedly tried to pick up a pretzel, but couldn’t make himself eat. “They risk their lives for us every day, and our own party is doing everything it can to keep them from voting… or to make sure their votes arrive too late to be counted. In the old days, you couldn’t help it; that was just the way it was. But not anymore. Not anymore.”
Pavel felt sorry for the old man, for pushing him so hard. Maybe he’d gone too far, making him talk about it. When Pockets’ wife arrived to walk him home, Pavel said his goodbyes and headed home himself.
Later on, discussing the evening with his parents, Pavel said he felt guilty about it, that maybe he shouldn’t have made the old Democrat operative feel so responsible, himself, for the actions of his party. But his parents reminded him of the concept of tough love. His mother put it this way:
“You don’t make a person better by letting him live in a dreamworld, by always giving him an out. You don’t make him a better person by allowing him to avoid responsibility for his actions. Let him stew on this awhile, son; maybe it’s time he understood what kind of people he and his machine have been serving all these years.”
Pavel’s father then asked “Did he ever say anything about his brother, the soldier’s grandfather?”
“No, not much, Dad. At one point, Pockets said ‘I was lucky, see, I was between Korea and Viet Nam, so I didn’t see combat. I did my two years and I was out. My brother wasn’t so lucky.’ I asked him the boy’s name, his brother’s grandson’s name, and he never told me. He just said ‘he’s named after his grandpa.’ And the last time, when I asked again what his brother’s name was, he just kept looking at that wrinkled old picture in his hand, and said ‘It’s on the wall now, son. His own grandson can’t vote for his best friend, and… he’s just… his name’s on the Wall.’”
Copyright 2010 John F. Di Leo
This is a work of fiction, and any similarity with any person, living or dead, is unintentional. The Tales of Little Pavel were originally published in serial form in Illinois Review, from 2010 through 2016, and the full collection of stories about Little Pavel and the denizens of the 51st Ward is available in paperback or eBook, exclusively from Amazon. Republished with permission.
John F. Di Leo is a Chicagoland-based international transportation and trade compliance professional and consultant. A onetime Milwaukee County Republican Party chairman, he has been writing a regular column for Illinois Review since 2009. His book on vote fraud (The Tales of Little Pavel) and his political satires on the current administration (Evening Soup with Basement Joe, Volumes I and II) are available only on Amazon, in either paperback or eBook. His latest book, “Evening Soup with Basement Joe, Volume Three,” was just published in November, 2023.
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