Idling outside the bar, the yellow Scranton School District bus sat driverless and empty. Each morning the driver stopped for a bottle of Miller High Life and a shot of Old Grand-Dad bourbon whiskey. After delivering the neighborhood Catholic hooligans safely to their teachers he always made the same statement

Little bastards, he said.

Earl first met the driver at the saloon that opened at 7 sharp each morning while on a recruiting trip for his armed militia and church. The driver was good material since he hated all people of color.

This morning Earl had a plan.

That one’s on me, he said.

The driver beamed, as in Jim Beam.

Get him another when he’s ready, Earl said.

Praise the Lord, the driver said.

Then Earl excused himself to go to the men’s room. Instead, he slipped out the side door and jumped behind the wheel of the bus. Adjusting the mirror he checked his teeth and winked at himself.

U.S. Capitol here I come, he said.

The militia should already be waiting outside the church for pickup. Earl spent most of the night cleaning the guns, grenades and a used World War II flamethrower so the tactical gear would be ready to throw in the bus for the trip to Washington. The congregation should be willing to die for freedom although Earl told them they’d emerge from this mission as winners.

Earl could no longer contain himself so he screamed.

Yeah! Storming the Capitol! Yeah!

Nobody waited as he pulled to the curb in front of his ramshackle church. A stray dog trotted up and peed on the front tire. Earl fumed. Running into the building where he once saw God he grabbed the flamethrower, strapped a bullet belt across his shoulder and stuck the three grenades he bought at the farmer’s market from a deranged West Side National Guardsman into his fatigue jacket pockets. He grabbed a shotgun and a Glock, and a family-sized bag of Pennsylvania Dutch potato chips for the drive down. No Fritos for Earl. Earl hated illegals.

As he entered the Interstate 81 on-ramp and headed south, Earl envisioned the coming firefight. Screaming like Daniel Boone at the Alamo, he’d slam the bus at high speed into the fence. Coming out like Al Pacino in Scarface, he’d open up on the ill-equipped guardsmen or guardswomen or transguards or whatever politically correct woke libs call themselves these days. Rolling the first grenade under the first cop car he saw he’d yell “post time” as he crouched like one of them Chinese kung-fu fighters. Check that. He hated Chinamen for giving America the lab flu virus. He’d spring into action like a one-man Panzer division, Rommel the Desert Fox himself going after Chuck Schumer and his lap dogs that only eat kosher dog food.

Earl growled.

Grrrrrr.

Then he’d open up with the flamethrower, clearing his way all the way to the Capitol steps screaming, “Fire in the hole!” as he ran through the door looking for the Senate to take over on behalf of his nation yearning to be one nation under God invisible with liberty and justice for just us.

Screw that Zerelda, too. She stood him up. Didn’t make the bus trip. Too smart for her own good. Not nubile enough. Goddamn woman! Screw God, too. His boy didn’t motivate Earl’s congregation enough to make the trip and defend the country, so what good is either one of them long-haired freaks? Do unto others? He’d do onto others. What’d God name the kid Jesus for, anyway? Name a Jewish baby after a baseball player from the Dominican Republic? Sure, that makes sense. Earl, Travis, Clayton or Wayne would have been better.

Around Hazleton, a one-time coal baron capital for capitalist coal barons, Earl slowed the bus. Flashing orange lights on a Pennsylvania Department of Transportation sign warned him to reduce his speed. Earl stepped on it. No government sign was going to tell him what to do, how to live, who among his cousins to marry.

Fifty turned to 60. Sixty turned to 70. Earl laughed. Yeeehaw! God bless America. Check that. Earl bless America. Joe Biden’s wife wears combat boots. Scranton Lives Matter! That last line stuck in Earl’s head ever since he heard Timmy Kelly yelling it when he was drunk and campaigning for mayor. Had a nice ring to it and since Earl now lived full-time in Scranton his was a life that mattered. All lives mattered, but Scranton lives mattered most. White Scranton lives. Christian Scranton lives. Male Scranton lives. Let my Scranton people go lives.

Now the lights warned Earl to slow even more. Seventy turned to 80. Road out, said the sign. More lights, red this time with bigger black letters that said, “ROAD OUT!”

Earl turned up the radio and sang along with a man with a rebel accent belting out a tune about loving his pickup truck more than his wife, more than his mother, even. He warbled about drinking warm beer with his blind hound dog. About how deer season was better than heaven and that there’s everything right about marrying your dead brother’s divorced sister.

At 80 Earl broke through to the other side, crashing through wooden sawhorses and going off the edge doing about 90. He didn’t miss a lyric as the descent began. About 100 feet before impact it dawned on Earl he was in trouble.

Oh, shit, he said.

Police found Earl’s denim jacket dangling from a tree branch. After the explosion, all that remained of his dream was a little flag in the left breast pocket he planned to wave for the TV cameras once he took over the Capitol.

The flag said, “Trump Lives.”

In 2005 a man we’ll call Artist X never missed a day in court during Michael Jackson’s four-month-long child molestation trial.

Picking up his pen one day in a California courtroom, the artist opened a reporter’s notebook to a clean lined page. Never taking his eyes off Jackson who sat pale as a grim zombie, Artist X began to sketch. When he finished, a ghostly image stared back.

Artist X foresaw the death of Michael Jackson. Four years later Jackson died. The legendary pop star would never reclaim his luster. Today all that remains of Artist X’s premonition is that lone dark sketch, the Michael Jackson Death Mask.

Jackson personally posed for the sketch whether he knew it or not – and he knew the eyes of the world were on him in all his tortured glory. Unlike legendary courtroom artist Bill Robles and other professionals who sat in that courtroom, Artist X never before sketched anyone. Other than tracing comic book covers when he was a child about 60 years ago, this stark drawing was his first. He vows it will be his last.

Artist X has never publicly shared this story. Now he offers the drawing that looks like a cross between a Picasso and a John Lennon lithograph. Now he offers a one-of-a-kind picture of life and death that captures a cultural icon unlike any other.

The original sketch is missing. About eight or so copies he created on an office copying machine are missing as well. Only one print remains. That portrait breathes. Michael Jackson exists in those vibrant black lines.

The search continues for the original as well as the missing copies. Circumstantial evidence indicates they all might one day be found. If that happens, the owner will possess all that remains of the mask. If the items go mislaid, the mystery grows stronger.

Either way, the owner of the sketch stands to benefit from any and all displays of this sacred image. Like the Shroud of Turin, the Michael Jackson mask holds meaning for true believers. Even now it’s fair to say the late King of Pop still possesses more true believers than does Jesus.

Marketing for everything from bath towels to t-shirts, posters and mugs will grow from this eerie likeness. A greater investment than the sequined glove and red leather Thriller jacket, the power of this supernatural image lasts eternally to be copied over and over again.

Artist X is parting with his work because the burden of this creation is simply too much to bear. Artist X plans to retreat into deep reflection as he writes and ponders his own mortality and the existence of the planet.

Michael is gone but his spirit lives forever.

I am Artist X.

One million dollars secures all rights for this nostalgic work of exquisite, raw art. To view the sketch, potential buyers should contact me at steve.corbett51@gmail.com

Celebrating the Friendly Sons’ banquet crash over whiskey sours at the dining room table, Mabel held up her glass in a toast.

I always said I wasn’t going to wear a bra to the dinner, she said.

You sure showed them, Zerelda said.

In more ways than one, Mabel said.

The women hugged.

When Casey came home from a reconnaissance mission to Lake Scranton they finished the whiskey. Then they smoked a joint. Then they watched a Cheech and Chong movie and smoked another joint.

Casey broke up the fun with a serious question for his mother.

Are you relieved the judge sentenced you to community service in court this morning instead of jail?

Yes, dear, but poor Judge Dombroski seemed fuzzy and distracted in court, Mabel said.

Casey had an answer for that.

People gossiping in the courtroom said the police almost had to lock him up in the vegetable bin again after his loony performance at last night’s Friendly Sons’ dinner. My far-out homemade acid hit the spot, he said.

Mabel’s eyes looked like the green shooter marbles she used when she knuckled down as a girl and beat all the boys in the neighborhood.

It was on the news that a couple of other judges had to talk him down from the chandelier and paramedics took him out hog-tied and wrapped in a green tablecloth, she said.

I’m surprised he was back on the bench at 9:00 for your hearing, Casey said.

A dedicated Scranton public servant, hungover or crazy, the show must go on, Mabel said.

That man is a clear and present danger to himself and others, Zerelda said.

Aren’t they all? Mabel said.

Community service isn’t so bad, Ma. If you remember I did a couple of them myself, Casey said.

Mabel beamed with pride.

You were such a role model prisoner they let you off early for good behavior, she said.

Now Casey beamed.

A role model political prisoner, he said.

I was surprised the judge agreed I could plant pretty flowers around Joe Biden’s homestead for my sentence, Mabel said.

Zerelda loved flowers and grew excited at the news.

What kind of flowers are you going to plant, Mabel?

Reaching into the pocket of her apron Mabel pulled out a handful of plump pot seeds ready to burst with potent mind-blowing THC.

These babies seem perfect, dear.

Meanwhile back in the Irish Minooka section of Scranton, tears the size of baby sweet peas welled in Timmy Kelly’s eyes.

What do you mean I can’t run for mayor?

Former Scranton Mayor Harry Davies smirked.

Even I knew I had to file petitions with signatures to get eligible, he said.

Timmy Kelly panicked.

What petitions?

Harry Davies double smirked.

See what I mean?

The filing deadline had come and gone a few weeks earlier. Had Timmy Kelly known even the night before he would have filled out the petitions himself and made sure they got to the clerk on time. But, of course, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about running for office except how to announce he was running for office which he did with flair and the usual stage-Irish gusto for drama that defined too many no-account men in his Irish-American neighborhood.

They can’t do that to Joe Biden, he said.

You’re not Joe Biden, goddammit, Harry Davies said

Desperate, Timmy Kelly tried to defend himself.

Ask Major Biden if you don’t believe me, he said.

Now Harry Davies seemed disoriented.

Who’s Major Biden, some distant Biden relative in the army?

Major Biden is my faithful German Shepherd, Timmy said.

The punch took Timmy Kelly off his feet, knocking his aviator glasses across the room.

When he awoke, Harry Davies was gone.

Timmy Kelly swore he’d get even.

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.