Looking up from polishing her mother’s silverware, Mabel confessed.

I don’t want to crash the Friendly Sons’ dinner.

Aw, c’mon, Zerelda said.

Let’s boycott instead, Mabel said.

Casey already left to spike the COVID Miracle Cure with LSD for our number one Friendly Son, Zerelda said.

Mabel pulled a fresh bottle of Paddy Irish whiskey from under the couch cushion.

Instead of hacking into the online virtual banquet and video bombing those snakes St. Pat drove here from Ireland, why don’t we just stay home and drink?

You told me I could paint a protest sign across my chest.

Yes, dear, I did, Mabel said.

I already painted them.

Let me see.

Zerelda lifted her shirt to show the words “THE FRIENDLY SONS ARE BOOBS” written in orange, white and green body paint across her bosom.

I beat you to it, Mabel said.

Mabel lifted her shirt to show her protest message that read FREEDOM OR BUST.

Those pale penis people will faint, Zerelda said.

Especially the bishop, Mabel said.

At least he’s allowed to bring his boyfriend, Zerelda said.

Mabel opened the bottle, took a healthy slug and passed the whiskey to Zerelda who took two slugs.

You’re right, young woman, Mabel said.

Showtime, Zerelda said.

When the event went live, the camera showed Lackawanna County President Judge Stanley “Stash” Dombroski sitting at the center of a long table. Wearing a dashing black tuxedo with a brilliant green bow tie, his eyes seemed glazed as he stared at the leafy shamrock centerpiece that graced the dais.

The master of ceremonies’ voice echoed in the background.

Good evening gentlemen, he said. Welcome to the 115^th annual Friendly Sons banquet, a grand gala affair that brings proud Irishmen from hard coal country into the same room for our time-honored traditional no-girls-allowed-to-be-members hooley.

Canned applause played softly in the background.

This year because of the Chinese we’re relegated to a computer celebration but we’ll be back, by God, next year, hopefully with that one-and-only scrappy kid from Scranton Joe Biden as our featured speaker.

More applause erupted as the video picture froze. Mabel now appeared in the picture although nobody knew it was Mabel because she wore a black fatigue jacket and matching balaclava mask with the eyes, nose and mouth cut out.

Listen up you pack of dicks, she said.

Zerelda, also wearing a combat field jacket and mask, now glided into the picture.

Yeah, listen up. Women gave birth to you male chauvinist Paddy’s pigs and women’s liberation will one day be the death of your primitive ideas, you pack of weenies, she said.

Judge Dombroski, immersed in a psychedelic cloud of jiggling hallucinations from Casey’s LSD, seemed taken by the two political statements. Man of clout that he was, the judge knew power politics as well as anybody. Not able to control himself he rose and proceeded to offer a rousing standing ovation.

Unfrozen now, the camera turned on him.

Despite the lovely fashion statement he made in his bow tie and tails, Dombroski wore no pants and had painted his dangling private part a deep emerald green. At that, Mabel and Zerelda pulled open their jackets with the ease of Green Berets pulling the pins on hand grenades.

Kiss me I’m Irish, the judge screamed.

Look, Mabel, Mr. Potato Head’s waving his shillelagh at us, Zerelda said.

Ah, it’s a great day for the Irish, Mabel said.

Leftover painkiller bottles from dental work, statins, blood pressure, cholesterol medication and baby aspirins provided the plastic pill containers former Scranton Mayor Harry Davies filled with 100 percent Scranton tap water.

The big spenders with all the cash get the first servings of my Miracle Cure COVID Tonic, he said.

Gino shook his head.

You really believe they’re dumb enough to think it’s really a COVID cure and not just water?

Harry Davies gave Gino one of them what-are-you-nuts looks.

OK, never mind, I just answered my own question, Gino said.

Twenty bucks a pop, Harry Davies said.

You dump that truck load of hijacked vaccine on them Injuns?

They’re not Injuns, Gino, they’re Indians, like from Pakistan.

How they gonna sell it?

In their convenience stores like Timmy Kelly was saying, right up front on the racks with the synthetic spice marijuana and beef jerky. And if the cops get involved and the Indians rat, which they won’t, I’ll blame that old coot I hired to deliver the newest merchandise.

Don’t you feel guilty taking advantage of the elderly?

What did they ever do for me?

Your mother is elderly.

Mothers don’t count, Harry Davies said.

So who gets the first miracle doses?

Judge Dombroski just got out of the loony bin and I saw in the paper he said he’s feeling good enough to celebrate Paddy’s Day by going to the Friendly Sons’ virtual dinner. Those stupid Micks made him one of the featured speakers, so we’ll slide him the first couple of shots. He can talk up the COVID cure during his speech. Then we’ll dump a few on that hillbilly Earl. Maybe that crazy Zerelda and the old bat, too.

I’m afraid of that gang, Gino said.

Don’t worry about them or the old bird doing the delivering.

Earl said he believes the earth is flat. Then he named some planets I never heard of. Told me to prepare for the Ascension, Gino said.

Going up?

Yeah, he said like when Mr. Trump came down the escalator that time to start his campaign for president. This time we’re all going back up with him to heaven. We can take our pets and see deceased loved ones and stuff.

Ex-wives up there, too?

Yeah, but Earl says there’s no trouble in Paradise. We’ll have all the free ammo and guns we can carry while the Democrat pedophiles are burning at the stake in Hell around the clock and we’re sucking on all the chicken wing bones we can eat and drinking all the beer we can drink and never getting so drunk we pass out. We can sing along to the radio in tune rather than off-key when we’re screaming country songs coming home from hunting in the truck.

Earl said all that?

He’s got answers for everything, Gino said.

Sounds like Earl needs to get miracle cured, Harry Davies said.

Gino wouldn’t shut up.

Earl says he’s a recovering alcoholic who can’t wait to drink in heaven.

So our ex-wives won’t hassle us up there, huh?

Nope. And we can have all the wives we want in heaven, Earl says. Jesus even got wives up there.

What color are they?

Whatever color you want, Earl says.

Can I live in a white neighborhood if I want?

Earl says so.

No Italians, either, right?

Gino felt like he walked himself right into a corner. Earl isn’t the only public menace who needs cured, he thought.

Permanently.

Steam lifted from scalding mugs of tea as Mabel, Casey and Zerelda took time to talk and sip.

The Three Musketeers used to say “all for one and one for all,” Mabel said.

Zerelda seemed embarrassed.

Who?

Mabel took a soft tone.

Alexandre Dumas wrote a famous book in which the three main characters stood by each other through thick and thin, she said.

I don’t read very well, Zerelda said.

We can help you with that, Casey said.

He, too, took on a soft tone.

Mabel dropped three sugar cubes into her tea.

Casey clapped his hands like a 10-year-old at a birthday party.

Use all the sugar you like, Ma, I’ve got tons of cubes in the cellar, he said.

Mabel took both Zerelda’s hands in hers.

We can be like the Musketeers, dear, loyal to each other and while remaining individuals, believing each other’s abilities, unstoppable when we’re together.

Casey settled down.

Yeah, unstoppable like you crashing next week’s Friendly Sons dinner, he said.

Mabel cackled a laugh that made her pet parakeet squawk.

That dirty Joe Biden never answered my letter asking him to be my dinner date, she said. Neither did his kiss-ass staff. So Zerelda’s going to escort me.

We’re going to Zoom bomb that virtual dinner and boil a few potato heads, Zerelda said.

Casey jumped.

Whoa, did you see that?

A shadow, dear, Mabel said.

Looked like a leprechaun, he said.

You got Irish on your mind, dear, Mabel said.

Do I ever. I can’t wait to spike some of that COVID miracle cure vaccine Mayor Harry Davies has me delivering to a few of his Friendly Sons buddies. After a few hits of my homemade LSD they’ll be taking their trips to the old country without ever leaving Scranton.

Now Mabel clapped her hands.

We all in?

We’re all in, Ma.

All for one, Zerelda said.

So let’s get down to business, Casey said.

Shoot, Zerelda said.

No guns, Mabel said.

Again Zerelda looked embarrassed.

Earl likes guns, Zerelda said, I was always afraid of them.

It’s OK, honey, Mabel said.

Casey started to fume.

You see that stiff Joe Biden on the TV last night promising the country would be dancing the Pennsylvania polka for the Fourth of July? They’ll probably hold a big barbecue block party up in Green Ridge at his old homestead.

Not smart to hold a super-spreader event, Zerelda said.

With all those variants flying around, Mabel said.

Zerelda looked like she might cry.

Why can’t people just wait? Too many people in Scranton still don’t wear masks. Now Biden’s promoting special celebrations like America’s back to normal, Zerelda said.

That’s when the new problems start, Casey said.

Problems started in that lace curtain Greed Ridge swamp long before they brought that little bundle of fibs home from the hospital, Mabel said.

Casey began to pace.

Just one question, he said.

Zerelda and Mabel waited.

What about my infrastructure?

Zerelda and Mabel exchanged looks.

So Casey said it again.

I said what about my infrastructure?

What do you mean, dear?

My pipes! And I’m not talking about bagpipes. Where am I supposed to pee? When a man my age got to go, a man my age got to go. Ask Joe Biden. All dribbles don’t take place on the basketball court. I just know they won’t have public toilets at the Green Ridge Independence Day block party.

Now I understand, honey, Mabel said. Wee wee isn’t just for the French.

Urine trouble now, Joe Biden, Zerelda said.

I bet Joe goes all the time, Mabel said. Bet he wears a rubber hose stuck down his suit pants that leads to a hot water bottle strapped to his leg.

Like one of those snakes St, Patrick drove out of Ireland, Casey said.

Everybody laughed.

Sounds like a good reason for a pee-pee protest march at Joe Biden’s homestead, Mabel said.

But you’re out on bail, Ma.

At least I’m not wearing a hose and a hot water bottle strapped to my leg, she said.

They looked alike, father and son. Both adults wearing scraggly beards and suspenders with baggy work jeans, from their outward appearance they sure didn’t look like the kind of guys to own labradoodles. On walks the big black dogs bounded this way and that as the pair tried to keep them under control. The dogs seemed more intelligent than their masters, but not by much. Like father, like son.

I spotted them through the living room window when they stopped at the corner where I live.

Sure enough, Dad let the clumsy mutt jump around before he settled in to squat on our tree lawn grass covered with dirty, icy-crusted snow that would hopefully disappear in the next few days. The meteorologist on TV said temperatures would rise into the high 50s.

I try to take care of my corner. This winter I shoveled snow on seven different days, two hours after the biggest storms and an hour each time after that. I also shoveled from the back steps to the gate and dug out the Subaru, actually clearing a space for the car after pulling it forward and moving it back.

The landscapers handle summer work, cutting and seeding the grass in the front and sides of the house, raking and hauling leaves, spreading mulch beneath the rhododendrons which they trim as well as clipping the Japanese garden in the back. I used to do the work but they’re professionals and I like their look better than mine. Some nights I stand across the street after they finish and look at our house. I’m happy here, comfortable and secure.

I don’t know where Dad and his boy live but I believe they’re nearby. I’ve seen them a few times on our walks, when my wife and I hike through the neighborhood to mindfully stretch our muscles and consciously breathe the air. We live in the Hill Section of Scranton, a historic and supposedly civilized place.

I didn’t wait to see the dump, so when I got out on the porch I tried to de-escalate the conflict with reverse psychology.

I appreciate it when people pick up after their dogs, I said, not shouting or accusing them directly.

Dad must have thought I witnessed his transgression.

Diarrhea, he said.

I couldn’t and didn’t want to see evidence.

A confession would do.

I try to take care of my corner, I said.

The men started to walk away. I had to say something.

You can’t do that. You should clean that up. It’s against the law.

The adult son looked pained. They kept walking.

I can file a complaint if you want, I said.

File a complaint, Dad said.

The son looked more pained.

If I went to the magistrate they’d lose. They’d pay a fine. They’d be inconvenienced. But I’d have to go to the magistrate’s office and expose myself to coronavirus and who knows what other kind of societal upheaval.  The first time I went out during the pandemic a woman pulling out of a McDonald’s slammed into my car and drove me into the center passing lane. Nobody suffered injuries.

Why couldn’t people just leave me alone to live in peace?

Because a labradoodle has the runs, that’s why.

You’re a bad neighbor, I said.

File a complaint, Dad repeated, I’ll pray for you.

In the old days that would have set me off. But, at almost 70 I’m a new man.

Somebody needs to pray for you to show some kindness, I said, sounding like St. Stephen.

Dad must have had second thoughts. Looking again through the living room window, I saw the son trying vainly to clean up the mess. Then he left alone, talking to himself and holding a bag of waste as Dad awaited his return on the corner. He came back shortly and they eventually left together.

The stain on my now filthier snow-packed tree lawn is bad enough.

The smear on neighborliness by a couple of shitheads is worse.

“PRESIDENT JOE BIDEN’S FIRST SCRANTON PRESS CONFERENCE” would kick off at noon.

Untested presidential impersonator Timmy Kelly wallowed in visions of fame and fortune as he spent all day Friday tacking up notices throughout Biden’s old Green Ridge neighborhood, even dropping off flyers at the blah Times Tribune newspaper and at the one local television station with an office downtown.

Timmy Kelly flirted with the TV station receptionist.

Our Joey’s back in town tomorrow, he said.

Joey who?

The president.

Of what?

Of these United States.

Whatever, she said.

Thank God that hillbilly hater Earl released him, Gino and Harry Davies. Timmy felt like Patty Hearst. The next thing you know he’d be wearing a beret and going to the bank carrying a machine gun. Harry would figure out a way to deal with those white power bulletheads at Earl’s church.

Timmy had more important things to consider.

By 11:45, 11 people including a TV reporter and her cameraman gathered in front of Biden’s old homestead. Two white uniformed police officers (one beer-bellied man named Pat and one beer-bellied woman named Patty) stood on the sidewalk in front of the comfortable middle-class house in the still-lace-curtain Irish neighborhood.

Class marked the difference between Scranton’s lace curtain Irish and shanty Irish. Lace curtain descendants often attended privileged Prep high school and went on to Catholic colleges and universities. Too many became lawyers. Shanty Irish gravitated toward local politics, the police and fire departments or worked clerical jobs in health care or higher education. Some of their kids went to college, too. Too many became lawyers, as well, usually from lower-rung law schools. As a result, Scranton boasted more lawyers than feral cats, and so many diseased cats prowled city streets they even had their own non-profit sanctuary in Nay Aug Park where animal lovers gave them more thought than they did abused children.

Rather than calling himself a lapsed Catholic, Timmy Kelly called himself a collapsed Catholic, a faithless heathen unable to cope with the rules of the Church no matter how liberal they became. He hated altar girls, guitars in church and didn’t believe in God, anyway. He feared death like millions of Irishmen and their descendants but did nothing to change his drinking, smoking and eating habits that might extend his life expectancy beyond 61. Strokes, heart attacks and drunken driving accidents dominated as the leading causes of death among Scranton men his age.

Timmy Kelly stepped to the mic.

Ahem, he said.

A homeless guy carrying a quart of beer in a bag laughed out loud.

Thank you for having me, Timmy said.

The homeless guy laughed again.

Removing his aviator shades and flashing his best uncapped toothy smile, Timmy dug deep into character.

It’s good to be home, he said.

When you elected me president I promised we’d win the fight for the soul of America. For you poor old souls waiting for vaccinations, I have good news. My pal and former mayor Harry Davies has founded a local vaccine company to help the people of Scranton. I have personally approved his government contract. No needles needed. All you do is swallow a sugar cube.

Timmy Kelly pointed to Harry Davies standing beside a U-Haul truck parked beneath the new Joe Biden Way street sign. The mayor bounced around, raising his hands over his head like Rocky dancing on the Art Museum steps. Harry planned to make a killing by selling the hijacked truck load of real vaccine to a couple of Indians who ran illegal bingo games. As for his latest scam, he planned to hand out doses of Scranton tap water and call it the miracle cure. By the time anybody caught on, the worst of the virus would have ended and Harry could retire to Clearwater Beach, Florida, after applying for all the federal Medicare reimbursement money he could invent. He made Timmy Kelly a full partner in the venture but, of course, had no intention of cutting the goof in on any profits.

Timmy Kelly’s voice quivered with excitement.

Give the mayor your name before you leave and he’ll personally deliver your vaccine to your door first thing in the morning, he said.

The homeless guy cheered.

Make mine a six pack, he said.

The cops moved in his direction.

Timmy Kelly was on a roll.

It’s one thing to have the vaccine – which we didn’t have when we came into office, he said.

Of course that was another scripted direct quote right out of the real Joe Biden’s mouth that Timmy stayed up all night practicing. Of course it was a lie.

The homeless guy swayed and slurred a raucous question.

How’s your buddy Barack, Mr. President?

Timmy Kelly flashed his choppers.

Still mainstream African American, still articulate and bright and clean, still a storybook, man.

Quick on his feet and more impressed with himself than ever, Timmy Kelly pondered his future.

I can see it now, he thought, my name in lights. All I want is a nightclub audience for my act, a shot in the arm, so to speak, that will propel me to a gig or two at the Jersey shore and maybe one day a summer residency in a casino or nightclub in the Poconos. Forget about running for mayor. This new gig could last four years or however long it takes Biden to keel over from all the stress of having that Black colored woman vice president behind his back waiting to take over as soon as he chokes on a huge hunk of hoagie.

The TV crew packed up and left. People lost interest and straggled away. The homeless guy sat on the curb trying to play Hail to the Chief by blowing over the top of his beer bottle. Timmy spotted Mabel and Zerelda headed his way.

But who was that spooky-looking stalk of a man with them? Bushy sideburns stuck out from both sides of his head. Long sleeves of a red, yellow and purple tie-dyed t-shirt hung over his fingertips. Frayed bell bottoms on torn and worn blue jeans dragged on the street. His hair blew in the wind like unruly weeds that sprouted from the grounds of an abandoned insane asylum. With a goatskin wine canteen slung over his shoulder, he chewed gum and blew avocado-sized pink bubbles. Wearing a beanie cap with a spinning propeller on top, he walked like a man on a mission.

When they got close Timmy wrapped up his speech.

God bless America and God bless our troops, he said.

The freak spoke.

Dude, I hear you’re looking for somebody to help distribute the vaccine, Casey Weatherhogg said.

Petrified of Zerelda and Mabel, Timmy nodded toward Harry Davies.

Talk to the boss, he said.

Tell him Joe Biden sent you.

Menace pumped up the volume in Mabel’s voice.

Somebody better let me out of this closet soon or I’m peeing all over this nice American flag folded in a triangle and stored in this damn closet, she said.

Earl jumped up from the table.

Goddamn, that’s the flag from my daddy’s funeral.

Mabel squealed.

Oooh, here’s another one, a Confederate stars and bars, she said.

Sumbitch, that’s my great-grand-daddy’s rebel flag that’s been in the family ever since his grand-daddy headed up the KKK down there in Luzerne County.

Yeehaw, I’m going to burn this one, Mabel said.

Earl tore open the closet door and grabbed Mabel by the front of her red flannel shirt just as Zerelda walked in.

Mabel, what are you doing here?

I brought you a nice chocolate cake I baked for you being so kind to me, Mabel said.

Zerelda gave Earl the dead eye.

Where’s the cake?

Timmy Kelly and Harry Davies both used both hands to wipe devil’s food crumbs off their mouths.

I didn’t have any, ma’am. I’m trying to lose weight, Gino said.

Gino wanted out. These nuts would get him killed or locked up with the same kind of yahoo convicts he used to guard at the penitentiary. Retirement was supposed to be nice, comfortable, sunny and bright. What about his dream of reeling in catfish in the South Carolina twilight? What about standing on the beach casting his line into the surf? What about fish fries and French fries and Southern fried tomato pies? Why bother losing weight at 50, anyway? These guys were worse than an outlaw motorcycle gang. These guys weren’t his brothers.

I’m sorry about the cake, Gino said.

Zerelda fired off a scalding gaze.

I’ll run down to Joe’s Kwik Mart and get a replacement, he said.

Timmy Kelly perked right up.

You cannot go to a 7-Eleven or a Dunkin’ Donuts unless you have a slight Indian accent. I’m not joking, Timmy said.

You really do sound like Joe Biden, Harry Davies said. That’s right out of his mouth. I’m impressed.

Zerelda swung a jam-packed bullet belt, caught Timmy in the back of the head and knocked him off his chair.

It was meant as a compliment, he said.

Nose-to-nose with Earl, Zerelda’s whisper sounded like hellfire hissing in a snake pit under siege.

You ate my cake. You locked my friend in the closet. You assaulted her and disrespected me.

Balling his fists and puffing out his chest, Earl refused to back up. Who did this uppity woman think she was, Michele Obama? Embarrassing him in front of his new recruits was going too far for any woman, especially his woman.

This old bag is an enemy of the people, Earl said.

Zerelda closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to keep from striking. She purposely slowed her breathing like the woman in the yoga videos she secretly watched told her to do when life seemed just too hard to handle.

Harry Davies moved to the rescue.

Hey, c’mon, pastor, that’s no way to talk to a senior citizen or to the little lady, for that matter, he said.

Stepping toward Mabel he spoke in a gentle tone.

We mistakenly thought you were some kind of terrorist, he said.

I am some kind of terrorist, Mabel said.

Harry waved her off.

Let me make it up to you, he said.

Running out to the car and back in two minutes, Harry Davies placed a box big enough for a microwave on the table.

Roll up your sleeve, grandma, he said.

Mabel and Zerelda threw each other quizzical looks.

Get your COVID vaccination while it’s hot, Harry Davies said.

I’m not just another pretty face, Mabel said.

You stole vaccine, Zerelda said.

I know a couple ex-Mafia guys who hijacked a truck, Harry Davies said.

Timmy Kelly looked up from the floor where he was afraid to move.

How much you got?

Enough to fill a 15-foot U-Haul truck.

Zerelda already knew the whole QAnon, UAnon, ScrewAnon  church would soon crash and burn. She better get out while she still could.

Mable might help.

Mable was smart.

Mabel wasn’t afraid.

But Mabel had her own idea of freedom.

Mabel mulled over murder.

These boys definitely needed to go – even that polite, pudgy Gino

Countless white women in Scranton, PA, long ago gave up fighting sexism or never cared enough to begin with.

One of Northeastern Pennsylvania’s largely unspoken questions in today’s battle for equal opportunity is whether Black women in President Joe Biden’s birthplace will take up the cause.

Will a Black woman be the first woman to attend the annual all-male dinner hosted by the Lackawanna County Friendly Sons of St. Patrick that Biden’s great-grandfather organized in 1906?  Will a Black woman publicly resist this segregated group’s white power where Biden has appeared three times as the featured dinner speaker?

Or will frequent dinner guests such as Democratic U.S. Sen. Robert P. Casey Jr. and Rep. Matt Cartwright continue to support denying Black women a fair chance to succeed?

Staff for Biden, Casey and Cartwright refused to respond to my recent inquiries about the president’s, senator’s and congressman’s positions on Friendly Sons’ bigotry.

Banning women from a public gathering the way the Friendly Sons have banned women from their dinner from the beginning defines a blatant form of discrimination. Barring Black women from the traditional Irish-American event stacks an odious layer of racism on top of the Sons’ already cruel bigotry.

When Biden’s great-grandfather formed the Friendly Sons, a woman’s place was where men placed her. Without male supremacy at home and in the community, women might one day even want to vote. If given the chance, who knew what Black women might want?

If white men in Scranton kept their own families’ white women in line, they could easily prevent an independent Black woman from challenging established white power.

Slavery requires obedience.

White men’s long-term suppression of white women might even create a norm among their oppressed victims to willingly accept the gender stranglehold with arguments such as, “I don’t want to go to the men’s dinner, anyway.”

Scranton women eventually did establish their own St. Patrick’s Day dinner after more than a century of exclusion. Men can attend the Society of Irish Women affair but few do. Male political candidates often attend both galas to meet voters, raise campaign funds and do what politics requires of current and aspiring public servants.

Truly a confederacy of chauvinists, the Sons have gathered each year for 116 years for the event that currently draws about 1,500 political and business leaders, including tuxedo-clad federal, state and county judges, congressmen, state lawmakers and other high-powered public influencers.

They make myriad connections at the dinner that propel them, their sons and grandsons into a privileged existence. Generations of these men have used this gathering to solidify and enrich their lives and financial portfolios.

Described as “gentlemen” in Friendly Sons’ President W. David FitzPatrick M.D.’s Jan. 4 letter soliciting applications for membership, the group poses a serious threat to human development.

Banned from the dinner from the beginning, too many women have seemingly accepted their subordinate position and refused to push for inclusion. To the best of my knowledge, in the 25 years I’ve covered this issue no woman has seriously challenged the Sons’ prejudice. Years ago one well-respected female attorney considered trying to break the green glass ceiling but eventually succumbed to fear of retaliation.

No discrimination lawsuits have yet been filed.

Since the Sons’ membership roll is private, I have no idea how many, if any, Black men are dues-paying members or have attended the dinner. Likewise, I have no idea how many Black women attend the women’s dinner. One fact is certain, though: No Black woman has ever attended the Friendly Sons’ gathering.

To the best of my knowledge, no Black woman has ever held elected office in Scranton, either. Mayor Paige Gebhardt Cognetti, the city’s first woman mayor, has made a point of opening public service to women of color. As hard as it is for a progressive white woman to get elected here, for a Black woman to succeed politically in Scranton she must at least have the basic access to power and money men enjoy.

The Friendly Sons stand in the way of such civil rights.

Perhaps that’s one sad reason why the most famous Black woman in Scranton history might be Brenda Williams, whom three white city police officers shot five times and killed in 2009 when they said the 52-year-old naked mentally ill Air Force veteran threatened their lives with a kitchen knife. State police and the district attorney cleared the officers of any wrongdoing.

Racism and sexism continue to govern this overwhelmingly white, tribal city of immigrants’ descendants from Ireland, Italy, Wales, Poland and elsewhere in Western Europe.

Still, Biden has created Scranton as the center of the political universe, citing values he learned “growing up” here for about the first decade of his life as honorable rules of behavior to guide American progress.

Sexism remains one of those stunning Scranton values.

Racism also thrives.

When it comes to fairness, no Black women need apply.

Awakening from his nap in a cold sticky sweat, Casey rolled off the couch and called for his mother.

Ma?

Ma?

Where was she?

Feeling older every day at 75, Casey’s dream images from his nap remained stuck in his head and more vivid than the Day-Glo paint he sometimes used to draw tribal markings on his face.

Today would have been Lily’s 75^th birthday. Mabel would have loved her, Casey thought.

But mother never knew.

At 95, Mabel still didn’t know.

In his mind Casey saw Lily’s face in 1966 when she saw what he brought home for her 20^th birthday and heard the tiny wolf puppies whimper as they scampered around the room yelping at the Jefferson Airplane black light posters hanging on the wall.

Casey groked at the memory the same way he did when the joyful happening actually took place. To grok meant to merge with experience, to be and always be. Like it or not, bad trips got groked, too.

On that beatific day, though, Lily shivered with joy.

Where did you get these babies?

A Hells Angel in scuffed motorcycle boots gave them to me, Casey said.

Why?

Man slid his Harley off the road and I pulled him out of a ditch.

Did he name them yet?

One’s Bob, the other’s Dylan, he said.

They are so cute it hurts my teeth when I laugh, Lily said.

With that, Casey & Company, as he called his growing family, settled in to eat mashed potatoes and fresh broccoli Lily made for dinner in the communal kitchen and fell asleep early in each other’s arms. Casey dreamed about orange gum drops and red candy apples. Lily watched giant redwood trees slow dance in the sunset. Bob and Dylan kept their dreams to themselves.

More than 50 years later almost nothing sweet survived in Casey’s dreams. Indelible, dark, horrible visions, these everlasting images refused to go away and release him from their grip, instead spewing poison, death and doom into his subconscious like a wood screw tearing into a log. Night after nightmare night, he watched smoke pour from the broken windows of the abandoned factory, streaking the gum ball blue sky with thick plumes of black and gray lines that reminded Casey of zebras. Tripping did that to him sometimes when harsh reality took on different circus shapes, creating happiness nudged by chemical osmosis in the brain. Now sad slow motion took over the zoo.

Firefighters poured water into the three-story building that once served as a shirt factory, a massive assembly line where mostly Filipina women labored long hours seven-days-a-week sewing French cuffs and pastel collars on fine men’s clothing. Capitalists all over the world wore these stiff, starched shirts to work disassembling fairness around the globe. Bankers and other model citizen businessmen preened like albino peacocks caught in corporate cages.

Casey, Lily and about three dozen friends squatted in the crumbling structure as a hippie band of free spirits during a preamble to the summer of love that supposedly dawned as the Age of Aquarius. Casey, Lily, Bob and Dylan shared a tight room with a view of Moo Gum’s Chinese restaurant. At night they drank Cribari red wine and ate brown rice with sunshine-showered cauliflower for which they traded home-grown weed with young Mexican farmworkers who came to town Saturday night to party in America after crossing the border to cut vegetables in nearby fields.

When Casey’s belly growled the wolf babies always responded in kind, as they did the night he and Lily played with them on the water bed until their sharp claws punctured the mattress and a waterfall went from the third floor to the ground in about five minutes. The whole commune gathered on the first floor to watch the wet display. Five Groovers (that’s what members of the group called themselves) sat cross-legged beneath the flowing deluge, letting the run-off spill over their heads like they were meditating in the shallowest part of the Pacific Ocean on a stormy day at Stinson Beach as swells washed over their heads. One seasoned freak later explained how he became one with the water, merging major aqua that flowed through his body with the cascading flow of H2O from above. Casey and Lily laughed as Bob and Dylan lapped up all the water they could drink.

Water’s life, Casey said.

Life’s water, Lily said.

Water’s what we mostly are, Casey said.

Water, water, everywhere, Lily said.

Then Casey’s family disappeared.

First responders pulled the remains of 36 people and two tiny pups from the building where up-to-code wiring never existed even when the sweat shop operated around-the-clock. The building’s owner paid bribes to city inspectors and took kickbacks from tenants to let people stay, but never reciprocated with anything even remotely resembling a safety standard.

Casey would carry his loss forever. Existence would never get better. Mabel now posed his only cherished responsibility. Standing alone and stoned in his long underwear with the flap unbuttoned in the back, Casey wondered where his mother went.

Then he asked himself the question he and Lily often asked each other before she went away.

What’s on the other side of forever?

Scribbling notes in red pen on a yellow legal pad to keep up with the judge’s hallucinations, the psychiatrist grimaced.

Your visions don’t seem to be going away any time soon, she said.

Lackawanna County President Judge Stanley “Stash” Dombroski giggled.

You’re a tulip. I’m a mint julip, he said.

Yes, your honor, life’s a flower garden of sorts, the doctor said. And the Kentucky Derby is a wonderful event I once attended as a young woman.

Dombroski yelled.

And they’re off!

Up like a shot and racing from the couch before she could say Seabiscuit, the judge broke into a full gallop around the therapy room. Reacting like the versatile college volleyball player she once was, the doctor immediately gave chase.

My money’s on him, said a long-time third-floor psychiatric unit patient looking up from his jigsaw puzzle. A buddy playing an imaginary piano pointed at the doctor.

Put me down for twenty on the old gray mare, the piano player said.

The judge whinnied.

Your honor, please, the doctor said.

With the other patients cheering him on, Dombroski crossed the imaginary finish line and fell back onto the couch breathing loudly through his nostrils, exhausted but victorious. The judge collapsed beside him, deeply pondering his case.

Do you have a history of seeing things?

Dombroski got agitated.

Do you have a history of your nose melting off your face? Because that’s what happening right now and you better catch that big old beak of yours you old witch before you can’t smell the roses anymore, the judge said.

Unflappable, the doctor probed deeper.

Is it possible somebody slipped you something? Like maybe dropped a mickey in your drink? After all, you are a law and order judge and some people might not like some of your rulings.

The judge’s eyes widened.

 Look! Look! A Polish falcon’s perched on top of the coffee maker.

A figment of your imagination, the doctor said.

That bird just flipped me the bird.

Now, now, your honor.

Goddammit, he did.

What’s the falcon doing now?

Singing in Polish.

Can you make out the lyrics?

Let’s name the baby kielbasy.

The doctor checked her watch.

OK, time’s up.

Back in her office the doctor took a call.

I see, she said.

The voice on the other end of the line explained some of Judge Dombroski’s predicament.

I see, the doctor said.

Then she hung up.

Returning to the treatment room, she set up chairs for group therapy. The judge took his seat quietly humming a polka. Taking a seat beside the judge, the doctor gave him an injection of supercharged Thorazine plus and a gallon jug of orange juice.

Drink this, she said.

The doctor leaned in to whisper in Judge Dombroski’s ear.

A strange man called to tell me he sabotaged you with LSD more potent than anything Timothy Leary ever cooked up. He said he’s part of a guerrilla environmental army fighting to save Scranton. He said you better get ready for more happy hallucinations, that everybody better get ready for more happy hallucinations. I have to call the Scranton police anti-terrorist tactical team. The cops won’t be happy.

The judge started to get groggy.

Now turning her attention to the group she spoke in soothing tones.

We must always be honest with each other, she said.

No one in the group spoke.

Would you like to begin, Stanley?

The judge seemed befuddled.

Where am I?

Safe among friends, the doctor said.

The unhinged piano player tightly folded his arms across his chest before blurting out his feelings.

I don’t care if he won the Kentucky Derby or not, he’s still a horse’s ass to me, he said.

Next time somebody tells you how important local journalism is to democracy I’d like you to think about my first and maybe last experience with President Joe Biden’s White House press team.

In a Jan. 21 email I asked White House regional communication director Seth Schuster three simple questions.                

I wrote, “A recent story in the local daily paper raised questions about President Biden’s religious background. I’m writing a column to hopefully clear up any confusion about the president’s roots in the Catholic Church.

Did Joe Biden get baptized in Scranton? If so, where and when? Who are his godparents?

Thanks for your help in this matter.

I look forward to a good working relationship in the future.”

On Feb. 3 I contacted Angela Perez who responded to my first White House inquiry and directed me to Schuster, who handles media inquiries from Scranton. I said I had not heard from Schuster and also had another question.

I wrote, “The Lackawanna County Friendly Sons of St. Patrick is a male-only organization where the President appeared three times as the featured speaker.

Will President Biden continue to endorse this group’s ban on women? Will he attend a future dinner if he’s invited? Will the president support Vice President Kamala Harris and all other women who might one day want to attend this discriminatory annual dinner where about 1,500 men, all political and business leaders, attend, campaign and do business?”

Perez got back to me at 1:10 pm the same day.

“I will flag this for him, again,” she wrote.

Schuster got back to me at 4:44 pm the same day.

He wrote: “Apologies for not getting back to you. It’s been an absolute flood over the last few weeks and some inquiries have regrettably slipped through the cracks. I’m glad you reached back out to Angela to get ahold of me.

As for your request – I don’t have any information on that matter right now, but if I learn of anything, I will circle back.

Be sure to contact me on any further inquiries and I’ll do my best to help. Thank you.”

Schuster never circled back.

I asked Schuster in an email the same day, “Will you obtain answers to my questions? If so, when? As I told Angela, I will be writing regular columns that relate to the President and his connection to Scranton.

 The baptism issue matters because of history.

The gender issue matters because of human rights, the President’s commitment to equality and the gender of the Vice President.

Many people in Scranton take these issues seriously.”

One scrappy kid from Scranton to another, I hoped Biden would understand the value of a response from him and his staff. After all, he issued a statement about his crack press team shortly before taking office.

“Restoring faith in government by speaking honestly and directly to the American people will be a hallmark of my administration,” Biden said.

“Our communications and press staff are integral to this effort and are committed to building this country back better for all Americans. I’m proud to have them serve the American people in the White House.”                

Schuster never responded with answers to my questions.

I tried again.

In a Feb. 16 email to Schuster with a copy to Perez, I wrote, “No need to immediately respond to my questions concerning the simple details of President Joe Biden’s baptism in the Roman Catholic Church. The big picture historic context of this issue still matters but pales in comparison to my most recent inquiry.

Does President Biden still endorse the sexist Lackawanna County Friendly Sons of St. Patrick all-male dinner where he has appeared three times as featured speaker?

Does President Biden believe Vice President Kamala Harris should be banned from this dinner as a featured speaker simply because of her gender?

Does he plan to send a video to this year’s March 17 dinner? Has anybody from this organization that discriminates against women asked him to say a few words on the group’s behalf?

Fighting and defeating sexism and discrimination are crucial cornerstones of President Biden’s vow to heal the soul of America.

I can think of no better place to start than Scranton.”

We even have a new mayor who is the first woman mayor in the city’s 165-year history.

Again Biden’s White House press staff ignored my concerns about sexism.

A week ago, on Feb. 17, I sent Schuster and Perez a reminder that Biden had made Scranton the center of the political universe. I said I would be writing regular “Greetings from Scranton” columns centering on the president’s relationship with those of us who live here and voted for him.

Again, nobody responded.

On Monday I wrote my last email to Perez at the White House.

“I read with great interest recent news of the White House Gender Policy Council.

This initiative is one reason I contacted you and Seth Schuster on Feb. 16 with questions about President Biden’s position on the Lackawanna County Friendly Sons of St. Patrick annual all-male dinner.

I’m perplexed why you have not responded to my inquiry.

President Joe Biden made his hometown of Scranton the center of the political universe. All public policy roads lead here. Yet, gender discrimination pervades Scranton’s political and business culture.

Here’s my Feb. 17 column about the Friendly Sons’ sexist attack on equal opportunity.

Casey & Cartwright Scorn Women

I plan to focus on President’s Biden’s position on this crucial matter in another column later this week.”

That’s the best I can do for now.

Scranton doesn’t matter as much to Biden and his staff as he and they would like us to believe.

Build back better?

C’mon, man.