The food line at the St. Mia Farrow Shelter for starving artists and underpaid academics is staffed by socially concerned lodge members of the Fraternal Order of the Grand Misconception (who are usually just there to avoid having to go home to overbearing spouses) and other civic minded members of the community (who are usually just working off community service sentencing requirements).
Often, during election cycles, opportunistic local politicians will align ill-fitting paper hats over expensive haircuts, force their public-service fattened fingers into latex-free gloves plop runny mashed potatoes onto disposable plates for the duration of a few clicks of a camera’s shutter and then hustle off to the next photo-op. However, every once in a while, a civic-minded volunteer will come along who actually wants to offer their services in a way that will help the community.
This was not one of those times.
“The name is Walter Rego,” announced the volunteer with a rehearsed smile and an outstretched, glove encased hand.
Walter Rego did not need to introduce himself. This was his third tour of duty and the head hash slinger, Hannibal King, recognized him from their previous encounters. “Aren’t you the guy…?” Hannibal began, as he slowly surveyed the glove handed gentleman.
“That came here to offer your starving artists jobs painting graffiti on the wall that I was going to build?” continued Walter, as he finished Hannibal’s sentence.
Walter had previously billed himself as a Master Wall Builder, specializing in international perimeter enhancement technology. His plan was to build a wall along the Canadian border, curtailing the illegal cross-migration of hockey and maple syrup fanatics. He had come to the shelter intending to hire starving artists to cover the Canadian side of the wall with graffiti, in an effort to make the wall appear to have been in place for quite some time. The expectation being that, should the wall’s existence and purpose be challenged by one of our open-minded northern neighbors, Walter could point to the “aged” graffiti and say, “This old thing? Oh, it’s been here forever. No big deal.” He counted heavily on the Canadian propensity to shrug things off.
“How’s that wall project coming along?” smirked Hannibal.
“If I made it out of reams of paper held together with red tape, it would be done by now,” lamented the jovial Walter Rego. “The only thing left to do, now, is get started and then get finished. Other than that, we’re right on schedule.”
“Glad to hear it,” lied Hannibal, in a way that didn’t sound like he meant it. “What brings you back to hash slinging?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Walter responded, even though he didn’t care one way or the other. “A new opportunity has raised its ugly head.”
“I’m afraid you are going to have to tell me more,” Hannibal said, unsure about ugly headed opportunities and definitely afraid Walter would feel he had to tell him more.
“Presidential politics has popped a huge pimple of career possibilities,” laughed the venereal Mr. Rego. I’m going into the excuses industry. I’m looking to hire underpaid academics to write believable and moving excuses. My guess is they’ve seen a few good ones.”
Hannibal wanted to blurt out, “Excuses Industry? What in the name of chiffon and sequins are you talking about?” But, he didn’t want to appear too interested in anything Walter Rego had to say, and demurely replied, “That will never work.”
“With candidates like that woman that keeps losing her emails about bad-mouthing her husband’s girlfriends, and the billionaire that keeps saying all the wrong things to all the right people about all of his girlfriends, and the stoner guy from New Mexico that probably forgot where he put his last girlfriend, the market is ripe for someone that can come up with some really believable excuses.”
Hannibal considered Walter’s new scheme for fame and fortune. “I’m right. It won’t work. That woman got to be her party’s candidate by saying, ‘So what? You can’t prove anything.’ The billionaire got to be his party’s candidate by saying, ‘So what? The media hates me so who you going to believe?’ And the stoner from New Mexico got to be his party’s candidate by saying, ‘Sssooo…what?’ I don’t think any of them are looking for any excuses.”
Walter considered Hannibal’s observations. “When this election is over, I’m going to sell bumper stickers that read, ‘Don’t blame me. I voted for Arnold Tobin.’”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.