The Minnesota Candidate

by Nicholas Antinozzi

  “Are you blind?” asked Shari. “That’s payola from our new president. We’re not taking it, Tom. Do you hear me? Look at them, all dressed up for Levitz. They make me sick.”

  “Settle down. We’re not sure what they have.”

  Sam and Chona were smiling and they practically skipped up the sidewalk. Tom could see Shari was becoming more agitated by the second. The doctor had wanted Shari to quit her job to avoid the stress, but even away from work, they couldn’t seem to get away from it. There was a knock at the door.

  “You answer it,” said Shari. “I don’t trust myself.”

  Tom walked to the door and opened it. Lugging the suitcase, Chona brushed past him. Sam followed, right on her heels. “What the hell?” asked Sam, “I thought I asked you to get dressed?”

  “What the hell is right!” spat Shari, pointing to the suitcase. “What the hell is that?”

  Chona laughed as if the question was the funniest thing she had heard in a decade. “You first,” she chuckled, pointing to Sam. “Oh, this is just perfect!”

  Shari marched up to Sam and tore the plastic bag out of his hands. She then dumped the contents out onto the living room rug. An orange pillow dropped to the floor. “Hey,” she said, squatting down to retrieve the pillow. “I recognize that.”

  “That’s right,” said Sam. “Tommy borrowed it to me when I was sleepin’ under the bridge. You don’t want any charity and we’re all done offering it to you. We came over here to set the record straight. You don’t want nuttin’ from us and we don’t want nuttin’ from you.”

  “You drove all the way over here, at six in the morning, to bring back a pillow?” asked Tom. “Are you nuts?”

  “Look,” said Shari, “we know who is out in that truck. That’s Levitz, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me. We know what he wants and we’re not selling it to him, not at any price!”

  From upstairs, a door crashed open; it was followed by the sound of stomping feet. Doris appeared at the top of the stairs, haggard-faced and dressed in a rumpled nightgown. “Do you people know what time it is? Shut the hell up! Now, get the hell down in the basement, there are people trying to sleep up here!”

  “Sweet Jesus,” whispered Sam, “it’s Medusa.”

  “I heard that, Sam!” bellowed Doris. “I’m going back to bed. If I hear another sound, Tom, you and Shari are out of here. Am I making myself clear?”

  “As a stump,” said Sam.

  “Stop making fun of me!”

  “That’s enough,” said Tom. “Mom, we’re going downstairs. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

  Like teenaged children, the two couples slunk down into the basement. “I can’t take it anymore,” said Shari. “I can’t live like this.”

  Chona, who was still carrying the suitcase, turned to Sam. “Can we just get this over with?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” said Sam. “I’m just getting warmed up. So, nice place you got here.”

  “Shut up, Sam,” said Shari. “We’re doing the best we can.”

  “Please,” said Tom, “try to keep it down. You know how Ma gets.”

  Sam shook his head. “Tell her to blow it out her ass. You don’t need to take her shit.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Shari, “but we do live under her roof.”

  “And a beautiful roof it is, if I don’t say so, myself. Too bad the insurance money didn’t cover finishing the basement. This place is a real dump.”

  Tom stepped between Shari and Sam, without a moment to spare. “That’s enough, Sam. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming down here and criticizing our home. You know how hard it is to start over. I want you to apologize to Shari.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to do that, Tommy. I really would. But under the circumstances, I just can’t do it. Shari accused me of stealing from her. Maybe the two of youse forgot that, but I sure as hell didn’t. That hurt me, Tommy. That hurt me real bad.”

  “He’ll never get over it,” said Chona.

  “But I’ve apologized,” groaned Shari. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

  “Just one more time,” said Sam.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I was crazy and didn’t know what I was saying. You’re a good man. There, are you happy?”

  Sam smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. Shari, I forgive you. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Please,” whispered Tom, “Let’s try to keep it down.”

  Chona and Sam exchanged a look and they both roared with laughter. From two floors up, returned the sound of stomping feet.

  “Oh, this is just great,” said Shari. “Now we’re going to be kicked out into the street. Thanks a lot, guys.”

  Once again, Sam and Chona began to laugh. “Can I show them?” chortled Chona. “I can’t take this, anymore.”

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “Go ahead and open Door Number Two.”

  With the Bigfoot monster stomping above them, Chona unzipped the zipper. She then opened the suitcase. Tom stared down, expecting to see bundles of payola, but all he saw was a folded up blanket. “Do you recognize this?” asked Chona.

  “That’s the blanket that Tom borrowed Sam,” said Shari, “big deal.”

  “We’re probably going to need it,” said Tom, staring up at the unfinished ceiling. “I’ll bet it’s going to be cold… living under that bridge.”

  “So,” said Chona, “you really have no idea, do you?”

  “Idea about what?” asked Shari. “I’ve got a pretty good idea that Doris is about to throw us out of here. Are you happy?”

  “Shari,” said Sam, “I’m tickled to death. Let that old bat throw you and Tommy out of here. You guys just follow us.”

  “This isn’t funny, Sam,” whispered Tom. “You heard my mom, she meant it.”

  “Sorry Tommy, but your ma is really a bitch.”

  “I heard that!” roared Doris, who now stood at the top of the stairs. “Tommy, pack up your shit and get the hell out of my house! I warned you!”

  “You can kiss my ass,” said Sam. “Tommy and Shari are coming with us. Chona, grab the suitcase.”

  “What did you say to me? That’s it, all of you, out of my house!”

  Tom looked up at his mother. She stood halfway down the stairs, her face the color of spaghetti sauce, pointing up to the door. Spittle ran down from the corners of her pinched lips. With nothing left to do, Tom led the way up the stairs. His mother stood to the side and waited for everyone to pass. “Excuse me,” said Chona, brushing past her with the suitcase.

  “What’s in there?” asked Doris.

  “None of your damned business,” said Sam. “We’re outta here.”

  Dressed in their bathrobes, Tom and Shari exchanged a worried look as Doris slammed the door behind them. The morning was cold and frost covered the new lawn. Tom patted Shari’s bump and tried to smile. “Everything will be alright,” he said, trying to sound as if he meant it.

  The doors to the Suburban swung open and two large men stepped out into the cool morning air. Like Sam and Chona, both men were well-dressed; unlike Sam and Chona, the men were obviously Native American. One man was much older than the other, and he reminded Tom of a character in an old west painting. He looked as if he were a hundred years old. The younger man helped the older man walk over to the back of the Ford. The old man pointed to the suitcase and said something to his escort.

  The younger man nodded his head. He then motioned to the suitcase. “My grandfather wants to know if we have a deal.”

  “Who are you?” asked Shari.

  “That is unimportant,” replied the younger man. He spoke with a thick tongue, as if English was a second language to him. “Do we have a deal?”

  “We don’t understand,” said Tom. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Navajo Nation wishes to buy back our blanket. I thought you were aware of this.”

  “That old thing,” said Shari. “Why would you guys want that?”

 
The younger man smiled. “That old thing, as you put it, is a First Phase Navajo weaving, A Chief’s blanket, and the finest example of Navajo weaving that we have ever seen. Do you have any idea what that old thing would fetch at an auction?”

  Shari covered her mouth and shook her head. Tom wrapped his arm around her.

  “A similar blank just sold for one and a half million dollars. The Navajo Nation’s offer is two million dollars, cash money. We would prefer to buy it from you than to risk paying more at an auction. We must have it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” whispered Shari.

  “Nope, we’re not,” said Sam. “Ya see… I had this friend who lived down by my bridge, homeless guy, a professor. Well, he took one look at that blanket and I thought he was gonna shit his pants. He cut off a couple of fibers and gave them to a buddy of his. I was gonna tell you about it, but then you went off about that stupid gun and I kind of forgot. Anyhow, yesterday, I go down to say hello to the boys and to drop off some of Chona’s soup, when who do I see? Right, it’s the Professor. Sam, he says, tell me that you still have that blanket. Well, I told him that I did… and then he tells me to sit down. To make a long story short, this Chief guy caught wind of it and left his number for me to call him, day or night. Can you believe that shit? My jaw hit the floor when he said two million bucks.”

  “Do… we… have a deal?” asked the old man.

  “Oh my,” gasped Shari. “Yes, of course we do! Thank you so much!”

  “Hey!” shouted Doris from the front door. “Get the hell off of my sidewalk! Do it now or I’m calling the cops!”

  “What a… bitch,” mumbled the old man.

  “Yeah,” said Sam, “she’s really somethin’, ain’t she?”

  Later that night, inside their suite at the posh Millennium Hotel in downtown Minneapolis, Tom sipped wine while Shari sipped apple juice from a champagne glass. After taxes, they had netted a cool $1,200,000.00. Tom argued that they could afford a night of luxury, and reluctantly, Shari agreed.

  “I just can’t get the look on your mom’s face out of my head,” laughed Shari.

  “I know,” said Tom. “That was priceless.”

  “What should we do tomorrow?”

  Tom sighed. “I don’t know. Sam and Chona want us to look at building sites, but I think we should just buy a little house. We don’t need anything brand new.”

  “Oh Tom, I was hoping you’d say that. Do you think they’ll be mad?”

  Tom shook his head. “They know what we’ve been through. They also know that you’ve got a bun in the oven. We don’t have the luxury of time.”

  “What about the ray gun? Don’t you think it’s time to start using it?”

  Tom took his glass over to the window and he stared down at Nicollet Avenue. Despite the late hour, there was still a demonstration going on. Tom didn’t have to read the signs to know what was printed on them: Death to those who insult Islam. Behead the unbelievers. 911 was only a warning. The protests had grown increasingly violent as counter protests sprang up in support of the American way of life. Tom turned to face Shari. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But where should I start?”

  Shari sipped her apple juice. “Washington,” she said. “You might as well start at the top.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Shari nodded. “You have to see Levitz.”

  Tom sighed and nodded his head. Down below, with fires burning in steel trash cans, a revolution was brewing. Tom, armed with his secret ray gun, was determined to stop it. Or he was prepared to die, trying.

  The end