2016 Postmortem

Emerging from the darkness of the rooms beyond, a young woman suddenly appears at the door and says to Sanders, “Oh, hi!” as if to an old friend dropping by for a beer. She has the same pale, almost pink, blond hair as the kids on the sidewalk, and she’s extremely pregnant.

In a spluttering burst of words with a pace and curl that are distinctly Brooklyn, Sanders announces that he’s the mayor and this is Alderman Thabault here and they’re out tonight visiting the people in Ward Five just to talk to the folks and see how things are. “We’re here to listen to complaints. But we also want to hear about the good things, too,” he adds, passing her a thin smile. Abruptly, he stops smiling and waits for the woman’s response.

“I recognized you from TV,” she says, and she visors her eyes against the setting sun with her hand and takes a step back, as if to get a better look.

Sanders says, “So we’re just here to find out if everything’s okay, if, you know, there’s anything in particular you want to talk about with us.” He pauses. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she says. She turns around and hollers to a figure in the kitchen behind her, a shirtless man at the table. “It’s Bernie Sanders! The mayor!” The shirtless man doesn’t answer or move.

“So ... everything’s okay?” Sanders repeats.

“Yeah, sure, Bernie.”