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 Rents a Room
By John F. Di Leo
Pavel hadn’t set foot inside Headquarters since the November election.
A high school senior, young Pavel Syerov Jr. (Paul to his friends) had spent the summer volunteering at 51st Ward Party Headquarters, learning the ways of Chicago as no book or community college course could ever teach.
When the election turned out as it did, he couldn’t get out of bed for days. His parents said it wasn’t his fault, but he blamed himself. “I helped them, don’t you see? I helped them do it!” he’d repeat over and over again.
Finally he got over it, but he still couldn’t go back right away. He sent Christmas cards to Pockets and the Boss (Pockets reciprocated; the Boss didn’t), and he said he’d say hello in the new semester.
Well, the new semester finally came, and with it, the news from the Illinois Supreme Court that Rahm Emanuel was found to have retained his Chicago residency despite having moved seven hundred miles away for two years. He knew it was time to go back.
When Pavel arrived, the office was in a tizzy. “Paully!” shouted Pockets, from his desk in the corner. “Welcome back! Good to see ya, stranger!”
“Hello, Pockets!” replied the boy. “Good to be back!”
The Boss was just escorting a policeman into his office; all he could manage was a nod to Pavel, which the boy acknowledged with a smile and a wave of his own.
“Pockets,” said Pavel, “I’ve never seen the office this busy, not even on election day. What’s up?”
Pockets motioned him to be quieter. “It’s the Rahm Emanuel thing, son. All day and night, ever since the court’s ruling came down, it’s been a nightmare around here.”
Pavel couldn’t see why. “But he’s their guy, and he won the case. So why’s that a surprise?”
Pockets sat back in his chair and sighed. “This’ll take awhile. Wouldja get us coupla drinks, Paully? I could use a grenade.”
Pavel said “Sure” and headed back to the refrigerator, getting back a longneck for Pockets, a diet cola for himself. As he passed the committeeman’s office, he heard yelling. Odd… that office was soundproofed. That policeman must really have been shouting.
Pavel handed Pockets his beer, and then he reached into his bag for the honey wheat pretzel logs he’d brought with him – the old man’s favorites. Pockets was the deputy committeeman of the 51st ward, and Pavel had enjoyed many a heart-to-heart with him over the summer, as he learned the intricacies of Democratic “election enhancement techniques” from the old master. Pockets had come to think of himself as a mentor for a future Congressman or Senator… maybe the kid’d even make Alderman one day…
As Pavel sat down in Pockets’ “visitor’s chair” (this was new!), the old man took a long swig from his beer and began to explain. “See, here’s the thing, Paully. Some of the boys like Emanuel; some of us don’t have an opinion yet… and of course, some of us know him, and are terrified of him gettin’ in. But a lot of us figured that the residency thing would keep him off the ballot, so we weren’t worried. The Supreme Court’s opinion was a shocker.”
Pavel asked why, when the party is known for being able to fix everything in Illinois. Pockets explained “No, we fix the quiet things… the things we can do under the radar. We fix the parking tickets, the tax bills, the permits… but once it’s on the front page, we usually don’t meddle. Getting caught in public, blatantly rigging something, could get us a lot more attention. Right now, the ward organizations don’t get much press; folks barely know we exist. We like it that way.”
“Okay, that makes sense. But why is the Supreme Court’s ruling so disturbing to this organization? I still don’t get the connection.”
Pockets took another long swig before continuing. “The people think of us as their middlemen, the folks who can help ‘em with their troubles, right? Well, anybody with a city job is now furious with us, because we changed the rules for one guy – a guy that, frankly, nobody really likes – and we won’t change them for anybody else. And it’s a rule that really matters.”
Pavel asked for clarification, and Pockets continued.
“Election campaign challenges are usually about the numbering of the petitions, or whether enough signatures are of people really registered in the district, or whether every required form is present. And we’ve long been masters at that in Chicago. We can knock a guy off a ballot for anything, because the petition process has so many specific rules. And the key here, Paully, is that it’s all stuff that nobody outside politics ever encounters in his daily life.”
Pockets munched on a pretzel for a minute before changing his tone. He got visibly frustrated as he moved on: “But that wasn’t the focus on the Emanuel challenge. They attacked him on residency. The law says you’ve gotta reside in Chicago for a year before the election, and he didn’t move back until October. Open and shut, Paully, open and shut, in the eyes of the public.”
Pavel objected to this. “But I’ve heard lots of people on both sides… I’ve heard people say that the law is unclear, that there’s a federal service exception, that the idea of banning a recent Congressman from running for mayor is silly… radio hosts talking about how the whole residency rule is outdated…”
Pockets snorted. “What do they know about Chicago? What do they know about what matters to people? Morons, Paully, a bunch of morons. We’ve got a firestorm here and they don’t even realize it.” He stopped just long enough to take a drink, and went on.
“Look, Paully, I’m not a lawyer… but what Emanuel didn’t realize is that if he does win the mayor’s office, his own campaign will be the reason for the biggest problems of his mayoralty: the next four, eight, twelve years of public contract negotiations. Think about it, son. What does Chicago have going for it? What keeps at least some of our neighborhoods safe from the incursion of the gangs, from the blight that’s destroyed other neighborhoods? It’s the residency requirement.”
Pavel had an uncle who was a Chicago teacher, and who had talked about how he wanted to move, but couldn’t. He perked up his ears as Pockets continued.
“We’ve had this deal for years – for decades – if you want a city job – police, fire, teacher, parks, whatever – ya gotta live in the city too. The residency requirement is in our contracts, and it’s the one thing that we never budge on, and it’s saved the city. In some neighborhoods, every block has a cop or a fireman on it. They’re good neighbors; they help keep the gangs out. It doesn’t save the whole city, but it’s kept a lot of neighborhoods safe and good that would otherwise have gone the other way.”
“Okay, Pockets, but the mayor will have to move here when he wins, so what’s the difference?”
“It’s not that… it’s what the courts did to the concept of residency. Remember, Rahm lived in Washington. He lived there until October. The law says he had to reside here for a year before the election to be able to run. So they hadda come up with a creative way of saying he ‘resided’ here even when he was living seven hundred miles away. And they came up with a doozy.”
Pavel objected to this. “But he had a house in town, right?”
“But he didn’t live in it, Paully. He rented it out. When he came back to town for the weekend, he hadda stay in a hotel. So he didn’t really live here.” Pockets polished off his beer and pounded it on the desk for emphasis. “If ya can’t sleep in the house, it’s not a residence. Everybody knows that. If they had based it totally on his working in the federal government, that mighta been easier to handle, but they redefined ‘residency.’ Dontcha see how that affects our constituents? It’s sayin’ the rules really are different for the elites; and for once, it’s on an issue the people understand, or at least… they think they do.” Pockets sighed, and sat back in his chair, silently.
Pavel recognized a subtle hint, and got up to visit the refrigerator again. Passing by the Boss’s office, he noticed that the yelling had subsided. The committeeman must have succeeded in calming down that policeman, somewhat.
He returned to give Pockets another longneck, and sat back down. “What do you mean about redefining residency, Pockets? I’m sorry, I just don’t understand.”
Pockets finished munching his pretzel, and cracked open the beer. “The courts declared that residency is a state of mind; that even if you’ve left temporarily, it’s up to you to determine that it’s temporary. Even if you’ve moved away, you can now say ‘I never intended to leave Chicago, this was a temporary move. I still think of myself as a Chicagoan.’ At least,” continued Pockets, “Rahm Emanuel can say that. What our constituents are now asking us is ‘If he can do it, why can’t I?’ And frankly, Paully, we just don’t have a good answer for that.”
The Boss’s door opened, and Committeeman William Marcy walked the policeman to the door. He waved to the old ladies at the collating table, asking “How’s the coffee, ladies? Okay? Good, good. Thanks for helping, you’re great!” They could have been department store mannequins and he would have said the same thing; he had a lot on his mind.
But the Boss stopped at Pockets’ desk… worn out by a day of complaints, he asked “Mind if I join ya, guys?”
“Sure, Boss!” said Pavel, rolling over a chair for him, and pushing the bowl of pretzels in his direction. “What was all the screaming about, dare I ask?”
The Boss unbuttoned his tweed coat … and his vest too… and he sat down and sighed. “Joe – that’s the officer who just left – is a union steward for his station. His wife lost her job two years ago, and finally got one in Aurora.”
“So she got a job. What’s the problem?” asked the boy.
The Boss gave him a look. “Keep listening. If Joe didn’t work for the city, they could live halfway between his job and hers, like lots of people do. They could move into DuPage County, and they’d each have a half hour commute. But because he’s a cop with a residency requirement, they have to live in Chicago, so he has the ten minute commute, and she’s stuck with over an hour each way. She sometimes has to work weekends. So that means some weeks, she’s spending sixteen, eighteen hours or more on her commute, and he’s still got his cushy ten minutes. It’s causing trouble in their marriage.”
Pavel asked “But that’s one person in a city of millions! Surely they understand that the rules can’t be changed for one guy”… and his eyes darted between the two old pols, watching for their reaction.
Pockets was first to speak. “That’s what I’ve been telling ya. They did change the rules for one guy… they changed them for a millionaire, a connected millionaire, the most connected guy in Chicago. But they don’t change the rules for a regular Joe.”
The Boss added “…and it’s not like our case is just one guy, either. Joe’s a union man; the middleman between the union and his members. Joe says in his precinct, he’s got at least three other guys in the exact same predicament. The husband’s a city cop with no commute, and the wife works an hour away. It’s become so common nowadays; people think they should get a break. They can’t be picky about their jobs, like in the old days when unemployment was at 5%. Now, they have to take whatever they can get.”
Pockets joined in. “And so they come to us to ask for a break, to intercede for them. The firemen, the teachers, the park supervisors, the janitors, the drivers, the repairmen… How many people have come in to see us, Boss? There’ve been people in and out, every hour this week, especially since Thursday, from open to close.”
The Boss explained a little more of the background. “Remember, this isn’t a new issue in Chicago. We’ve always had a problem with the residency requirement. But we’ve always been able to make the point that one of the reasons we can afford to hire them and pay them well is that we get some of it back in sales taxes and property taxes by their living here… we flatter them by telling them that they make the city a better place by living here amongst us, bringing up the average by being such good neighbors, good citizens, part of the community. So I’m used to having people drop by all the time requesting a waiver. We’ve always had a good case for saying no – have to be consistent; wouldn’t be fair to the teachers to waive the cops, or vice versa. You know.”
“But no longer, Paully,” Pockets interjected. “Not since this Emanuel case.”
The Boss explained further. “A lot of our city employees own apartment buildings. Two-flats, three-flats, six-flats. They’re not rich; that’s just how their parents raised them to invest their money. Especially the kids of immigrants – your Ukrainians, your Poles, your Italians. They save up and buy a three-flat; save up again and buy a second one. They’re not in the stock market; they own land. They’re proud of it; it’s not just their livelihood, it’s their life.”
Just as Pavel was about to ask what this had to do with the subject at hand, the Boss continued.
“Let’s look at Joe this morning. He’s got two buildings, a three-flat in the city and a three-flat in Downers Grove. They live in the Chicago one, and one of the apartments in Downers Grove has been vacant for several months. It would be so easy, they live in the Chicago one now, that would be easier to rent out; they could just move into the Downers Grove one. He still wouldn’t have a bad commute, and hers would be better than halved. But they can’t because he’s got to live in the city.”
Pavel asked if this was really a common problem.
“You’d be amazed, Paully,” answered Pockets, through a pretzel. He brushed the crumbs and said “Sorry… but yeah, you’d be amazed. Lots of couples bought their places twenty years ago when the traffic wasn’t so bad, but with Chicago’s roads being so clogged now, what used to be a short commute is long now. And Joe’s situation is more and more common.”
The Boss nodded, and looked genuinely touched. “At one point in my office, after he calmed down, Joe’s head just dropped, and he said ‘and on top of everything else, now I’ve got bills for marriage counseling. I’d like to bill the Supreme Court. Or Rahm Emanuel. The bums.’ I just couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Big tough cop, breaking down because his marriage is falling apart, and what seems to them like such a simple solution, we just can’t offer to him. But we gave it to Rahm.”
“Well, why doesn’t Joe go ahead and move out to his other place?” asked Pavel. “Who’d be the wiser?”
The Boss answered instantly “Oh, they’d know. They always know. They send the police around to check on employees of the other branches… they hire private eyes, even, to spy on their people. I’m not saying it hasn’t been tried, just that they’re always caught. You can have a second home, sure – the mayor has a second home in Michigan; lots of folks have second places in the suburbs or in Wisconsin. But you’ve got to have that one real residence in Chicago where you spend at least half your time, or you can be fired.”
“Until now,” said Pockets. “Until now.”
The Boss grunted, and went on. “Now that they’ve defined residency in Illinois as a state of mind, a way of thinking of yourself, they’ve lost their case for supporting the doctrinaire way they’ve always enforced it. Emanuel’s in exactly Joe’s situation – he had a house in Chicago, but he rented it out, so he couldn’t actually sleep in it at night. Joe wants to rent out his Chicago apartment and move into his other place, so he’ll still own property here, just like Rahm did; he’ll still pay taxes here, just like Rahm did… but he knows he’ll lose his job if he used that argument. They cut a break for Rahm, but they won’t for Joe.”
Pockets jumped back in. “And they’re furious, Paully. Of all the people in this situation, they all know Rahm is the one who could’ve afforded to get out of the trouble. When he rented out his house, he could’ve rented a cheap apartment for $800 a month (which you and I could never afford, but he could), so he just had a place to crash when he came back from Washington for the weekend. Way more expensive than a hotel, sure, but he made millions on Wall Street; he could afford it. Of all the people who need – deserve – a break from the residency requirement, he’s the one guy who didn’t, but he got it anyway.”
Pavel nodded in understanding. “So the regular Joe, the hardworking cop, or teacher, or fireman, has to endure a rule that isn’t applied to Rahm. His wife has to live with an insane commute (which is our fault too, because our party is causing this recession), and pay a mint as gas prices skyrocket (also our fault because our president keeps shutting down domestic drilling)… Wow. You must be taking a beating from the folks on this. I never realized.”
The Boss just shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it, Pavel. The owner of a Chicago apartment building is in there every other day, even if he doesn’t live there. He’s painting the halls, fixing the plumbing, collecting rent checks, patching the roof… Some weeks, I’ll bet Joe would be in an apartment building he didn’t live in, more time than the mayor spends in a house he does. But Joe would lose his job in a second if a moving truck was spotted transferring his stuff to his other apartment building.”
Pavel asked “So, are they going to have to put the issue on the table in future contract negotiations?”
“I don’t see how they can, son,” answered the Boss. “This city would turn into Detroit in thirty seconds if our city employees were allowed to move out. We can’t afford it. But the contract negotiations are going to be a nightmare now, that’s for sure.”
“Heck, Paully, the Court even predicted it!” added Pockets. “Justices Freeman and Burke wrote an opinion that basically predicted a nightmare in personnel relations as a result of this decision. They didn’t have the courage to dissent, but they at least acknowledged the truth of it.”
Pavel shook his head. “Just incredible. How one candidate’s campaign could cause so much trouble. Let’s just hope the voters don’t hold it against us on election day, huh?”
“Voters?” the Boss asked. “After all this, I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll have any voters left. Next election, it may just be the three of us left in all Chicago.”
Pavel reached down, drawing out his second bag of pretzels and handing it to Pockets, as he stood up to zip his coat back up. “I’ve gotta get on my way. Thanks, guys; it’s great seeing you again. My folks expected me home ten minutes ago.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell them that he had to head home because he was joining his parents for a drive up to Wisconsin. His cousin, a realtor in Milwaukee, was to show them a few houses today.
Copyright 2010-2024 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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