John Edwards has ended his run for the presidency, and considering that he’s now 0-for-2 in nomination at-bats, it’s unlikely he’ll undertake a third trip to the plate. (How’s that for a baseball/politics metaphor?) In short, there’s no chance he’ll ever be Bubba One, or whatever might be the Secret Service codename for Southern-born presidents.
But enough about him. Let’s talk about me — specifically, about the fact that I now have to look for real work.
There will be no job for me, or anyone else, in an Edwards administration. While I realize that I hadn’t done any heavy lifting on Edwards’ behalf to earn something like a Cabinet post — I was thinking of a cushy job along the lines of ambassador to Barbados — there were many local people who worked hard and diligently on his behalf. They’re now getting the same thing I’m getting: a steamin’ pile of squat.
Actually, the people who worked on Edwards’ campaign all have serious liberal/Democratic credentials and could have made a strong case for some kind of job. Me? Well, I would have been a tougher sell.
I had too much fun with Edwards’ $400 haircuts, for instance. And when the Wall Street Journal reported that the champion of the little man had invested in, and drawn a fat paycheck from, a New York hedge fund that was foreclosing on the homes of Hurricane Katrina survivors, I likened his situation to that of a family-values Republican being caught boinking outside the sanctity of his marital bed. Worst of all, I once wrote that the fact that Edwards built a new, multimillion-dollar home in Chapel Hill (and thus employing a significant number of tradespeople) suggested that he must secretly believe in the conservative principle of trickle-down economics.
Any one of those ill-advised observations could have scuttled my chances to serve. Still, I clung to hope all along. I told myself that Edwards would come to appreciate my independent thinking. That he would see the value of having somebody around who wasn’t a yes-man. That someday, the phone would ring and I’d hear Edwards say, “I need a man like you in Barbados. Can I count on you?”
You could have, Johnny. And if you don’t mind, maybe you could pass my name on to Hillary.