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.