[Newspoetry] How we got Bill's Hat Back

[William Gillespie]

Nader Chooses Bill's Hat as Running Mate: Popularity Surges

Washington D.C. (associated Poets)

I couldn't believe Futrelle had put me up to this! My hands, cold,
sweating, opened and closed as I neared the head of the line where Ralph
Nader was signing copies of his book at a white table-cloth covered
table. The women in line before me - two loyal members of the CCHCC -
were whispering about how handsome Nader was. He wore a navy blue suit,
a yellow tie, and a floppy, colorless hat pulled down over his ears.

Unable to afford a copy of Nader's hardback, I instead planned to ask
Nader to sign my CORPORATE ROCK STILL SUCKS tshirt. Just to stall him
and give me a chance to I reached the front of the line. When Nader
looked up and recognized me his face went slack. I handed him the black
tshirt and a bottle of whiteout to write with. As he bent over the table
and labored to spell out his name with the tiny brush, I spoke to him.

"Nader, I hissed, "Give me the hat."

"The hat," Nader said, "is my running mate."

"It's Bill's hat," I protested.

"The hat," Nader said, "is mine."

.....

A week later, in Chicago, on a rainy cold Saturday at ten PM, a purple
van was parked across from the Harold Washington Public Library.

I shivered against the cold wall of the dumpster and pulled the
newspaper tightly around myself. In the van there was a flash as Your
Aunt Barbara lit a cigarette - our prearranged signal.

The rainy alley with its walls of brick suddenly went bright from
headlights as a limo pulled into the alley.

Now it was time to make our move: Operation Green Hat.

"...Fearing..." my radio crackled inside my coat "...this is McGrath.
Operation Green Hat is go, over."

A door in the side of the library opened and Nader stepped out with his
entourage, a short African American man in an Armani suit, a
Euro-American woman with red curly hair wearing pumps and a white fur
coat, three clowns, and Nader himself.

Ice gripped my entrails. In the shadow of the dumpster I stood up,
letting the newspapers fall to the ground, and flattened myself into a
doorway.

"...Go..." came the signal. I heard the engine rev across the street. I
stepped out into the limo's headlights, hoping my fake goatee hadn't
been loosened by the rain, and shouted as loud as I could.

"Oh my God! Keith Richards!!!"

Then I took off running, right past Nader and his startled campaign
committee. As I slogged past I heard Nader cry "Keith Richards! Shit!
I've got to get his autograph."

So. It was working.

As I skidded around the corner I caught a glimpse of Brian Hagy, pressed
against the wall poised to lower a large butterfly net. The van squealed
into the street and did a U-turn. The door opened and I piled inside,
hearing shouts, and then Hagy was right behind me with the net. With a
scream of rubber, the van lurched off  toward the Dan Ryan.

And that was how we got Bill's hat back, and saved the Nader campaign
from certain embarrassment.