Why Mike Pence Will No Longer Allow Booper or Me to Help Him Campaign

This story is entirely fictional. To our knowledge, the real Mike Pence has never had any run-ins with Augustus Cobbledick.

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Given that there is a heated presidential primary breaking out, many people have contacted me and asked how my good friend Mike Pence got into politics; the story is a good one.

It all started with a call from Booper. He’d been arrested, for neither the first nor last time, for attempting to scale the outside of a women’s dormitory in an attempt to gain entry by way of upper floor windows. His one phone call, as always, was to Mike, who picked me up in his woody van on his way to the jail.

We bailed him out, of course, and put his dejected self in the back of the woody.

Booper, Michael said, I will never understand why you keep climbing up these buildings!

Well, Booper said, with shame in his voice. I like fracking.

Booper, Mike said, what in the H-E-Charles-Kuralt does the extraction of our precious natural resources have to do with climbing up the outside of women’s dormitories at night?

Ha! I never thought of it as a natural resource, Booper said, brightening.

Michael, I said, he’s not talking about the fracking. He’s all mixed up. Not right in the head. That’s not what he means.

Well, what does he mean?

Hauley-pully? Booper offered.

What?

Amorous conversation? I said.

I still fail to understand you fellows, Michael said, with a note of exasperation in his voice.

Michael, he’s referring to the—one could say—conjugal act, I said.

The van came to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road.

I will not have such things discussed in the sacred confines of my woody, Michael declared. This is a place of reasoned discourse, honest discussion and occasional G-rated hijinks, it’s not some bawdy van of ill repute!

We three fell silent, Mike fuming and Booper and I to varying degrees ashamed.

I’m sorry, Michael, I do feel very low about all of this. Very low, Booper said.

I was exasperated. I’d had enough of Booper and his thoughtless schemes, the every one of which devolved into some escapade to rescue him from the consequences of his actions.

Ah, go piss up a drainpipe, ya idjit, I muttered.

I did, Booper said.

You did what? I said.

Piss up a drainpipe. I was three floors up when nature called. I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

So you wet ‘em? I said, aghast.

I did and I did and I not only wet ‘em, Booper said in a sad, embarrassed puppy voice, there was other unpleasantness.

Well, Michael said. That would explain the smell.

I do feel very low, Booper said. Never lower, Michael. I am very sorry. Very, very sorry.

Sounds like you’re the Mayor of Buck Town, Booper, Mike said.

The what of the what now? Booper asked.

Where I’m from, Booper, Mike said, when you’re at your lowest low and you feel like you’re down to your last buck, we say you’re in Buck Town.

Oh, I am in Buck Town, Booper said. Maybe not mayor. Registrar for prostate, maybe. At best.

Boo— I began.

Just leave it, Bryan, Michael said. I have an idea that may benefit us all. Let’s get out of Old Indy for a while and cool our heels somewhere more serene. Am I correct that you both have passports that are current? I’m thinking we should visit my ancestral summer home on Île Grande Miquelon.

Well, Booper began.

I interrupted.

Summer home? On an island, Michael? Do you tell me so?

I do, Mike said. I am, on the distaff side, descended from a long, proud, hearty line of Basque fishermen.

Basque fishermen? Booper said. But I thought you abhorred the whale fishery!

I have no idea what you are talking about, Booper, Mike said, putting the woody into gear and turning on his indicator to merge cautiously with the non-existent traffic.

Booper McCarthy, you’re an idjit of gargantuan proportions! I said. He said Basque, not beluga.

Oh, ha ha! said Booper. Am I stupid!

Anyhow, Michael, I said, is that how you came to be fluent in the Basque?

Indeed, Bryan. Nire lagunak oso ergelak dira, baina maite ditut! But what of your passports?

Michael, Booper said, there was a series of unfortunate—if humorous—circumstances the result of which was that me passport and I were, shall I say, legally separated.

Ah, that is understandable, Booper, Micheal said. More understandable than you may appreciate. Thankfully, I’ve another plan in my head that we may find even more profitable.

Thus, Michael, instead, drove us to Stinesville, the smallest town in Indiana.

But why Stinesville, Michael? I asked.

Well, friend, he said, there’s an election there for mayor, and it is so far uncontested. I thought I’d try my hand at politics and throw my hat into the race.

No, Michael, I said, no. You can’t do that! Politics? A man that you know and that I know, one Booper McCarthy by name, is the very picture of the typical American voter!

I? Booper said. The typical American voter? Do you really mean that, Bryan?

I do, I said, nodding.

Why, I’m touched, Bryan, I truly am.

Michael and I exchanged looks.

Well, what issues are important to you? Mike asked, clearing his throat and turning to Booper.

Booper screwed up his face.

I don’t folla, he said.

Mike searched for another way to crack the nut.

Are you a member of a political party? he asked.

Why, yes, the Sinn Féin, of course, Booper said.

Mike smiled, thinking he was getting somewhere, no doubt.

So what draws you to Sinn Féin, Booper?

Why, me da was a member. And his da before him. And you know me love of the fireworks, of course.

That is well known, Mike said, his eyes clouding again.

Fireworks? Booper those were acts of terrorism!

They were? I don’t folla the news, as you know. I hereby renounce the Sinn Féin! Booper said. That was a close one, Michael.

Booper, I prompted, tell him about the voting.

Oh, the voting! I’m a great man for the voting. Never miss an election. I’ll tell you what I did the last time ‘round, I will. I got me ballot and stood there in your man the booth with his nibs the curtain drawn behind and me black marker in me hand just like the proper voter and wouldn’t you know it I couldn’t decide! They all the candidates had such lovely sounding names, they did. I tell you what I did, I voted for alla them. I did, indeed! I took me black marker and I filled in alla the circles. Now, some of your men the candidates were outside the polling station and I said to them, I said, “Never fear, you got at least one vote! Booper McCarthy voted for you each and all!” Why, I enjoyed meself so much I went back later in the day to do it again. But the lady with the cards she says, “Now you listen here, Mr. Booper McCarthy,” waggin’ her finger in me face, she was, “You can only vote the once!” “Well,” says I, “What a preposterous system. Elections only come ‘round so often! All I was tryin’ ta do is exercise me franchise.” But she insisted, she did. Even had a constable come over to explain the thing! “Booper McCarthy,” said he, “I’ll have to take you to jail, I will, if you vote more than the once. I’d hate ta see ya in prison!” Well, I don’t want that, neither, no sir. Most disappointing, the whole situation. Me very crest was fallen.

This, Michael, said I, is your man the voter.

Now, Bryan, said he, I’ll not join you in so low an opinion of our fellow men as all that!

Fair enough, fair enough, I said, but you’ll need skilled help if you’re to campaign for public office, Michael. I suggest that our man Booper and I would be just the help you need to get you across the proverbial finish line.

Thank you, Bryan, Mike said. I appreciate the help, of course, but I am unfamiliar with any proverbs about crossing finish lines.

Not proverbial, then, I said. I meant metaphorical. It was metaphorically proverbial in a non-literal way, tangentially speaking.

Bryan, how many of those words do you know the definition of?

I gave the question great consideration.

Why, several on their own and others in company, I said.

Luckily for me, at this point we had arrived in the scenic little burg of Stinesville, Indiana.

Our first job is to size up the competition, Mike said, pulling into a driveway. In the middle of it sat, in a tired lawn chair, a grizzled man with a beard, a can of beer in his left hand and a shotgun resting in his lap. He was smoking a dilapidated cigarette.

Hello there, fellow hoosier! Mike said. I’m a new resident of Stinesville. I’m educating myself about the candidates–or candidate, as it may be–for mayor of this our fair city. Are you, in fact, Augustus “Scooter” Cobbledick?

Who’s askin’? the man said with a scowl.

Well, I am Michael Pence and I’m considering a run for mayor.

The man grunted.

What’s your platform, friend? Mike asked.

I just want to be left the hell alone, Scooter growled, the cigarette wagging like the tail of an excited terrier as he spoke.

Booper elbowed me.

You don’t think, he said to me sotto voce, that this customer is one of them marijuana smokin’—what d’ya call ‘em?— libraratarians, what with their antiquated notions of civil liberties and the objections to your men in the Bureau of the Alcohol, the Tobacca and the Firearms engagin’ in routine animal control and search warrant operations? Your man Scooter is probably full of the alcohol, the tobacca and the firearms as we speak.

Now, Booper McCarthy, said I, why are you so afraid of your men the libertarians?

The libertarians? he said. The men that you know and that I know with their occupational licensing reform and their non-aggression principle? They’d kill ya as soon as look at ya, they would.

Kill? I said. Non-aggressively, I presume?

Alright, alright, Booper said. Passive-aggressively. The point is they’d kill ya for so much as lookin’ at ‘em.

Finished with his interview with Mr. Cobbedick, Mike led us back to the woody.

I think we should split up, he said. Why don’t you two print up some signs and place them around town chatting up any locals you come by, while I go and register at City Hall and canvass the neighborhood.

That we did, and we met back at City Hall that evening for the debate, which was to be followed by the vote itself.

We found Mike at the back of the auditorium. There were three podiums—podia?—on the stage. Behind one stood Scooter Cobbledick. Behind another stood a man in tweeds and plus fours wearing a bowler hat.

Michael, I asked, eying the man suspiciously. That fella at the podium. Who’s he when he’s at home?

Oh, him? Mike said. He’s a surprise development. This is now a three-man race, my friends. That man’s name is Chaloner Ogle.

Ogle! What a lovely surname, Booper tittered.

How did the canvassing go, gentlemen?

Well, I met a man who was very concerned about the crop circles, I said.

And what did you tell him?

I told him you’d have the police department investigate.

Okay, Mike said, seeming somewhat perturbed. And you, Booper?

I had signs printed up, Booper said, but what I did is, I had them printed backwards and I put them on the wrong side of the road, so that when motorists see them in their rear view mirrors they’ll read, “Michael Pence for Mayor. Take Stinesville in a new direction!” The printer asked did you intended to make everyone drive on the other side of the road. Now, Michael, I’ll admit I’m not always nimble on me feet. I hadn’t thought of such a thing! But it seemed like such a grand idea, I gave an enthusiastic affirmative and said you would!

Mike looked upset.

Would you have preferred “Mike” instead of “Michael”?

No, Booper, I’m in a bind. I don’t know that I can get elected on a platform of driving on the left and extraterrestrial investigations.

Whatever will you do? I asked.

There’s only one thing to do, gentleman. I must follow the Politician’s Creed.

And how does that go, Michael?

“I am a politician,” he recited, his right hand upon his heart, his eyes fixed in the middle distance. “I shall be at all times honest, accountable, transparent and forthright; I shall serve my constituents faithfully and to the best of my ability; I shall serve only so long as I am of use to the voters; I shall never engage in crass self-promotion, nor shall I seek the attention of the press for my own benefit; I will never seek to profit financially from the sacred position the voters might grant me the honor to serve them in. I am a politician.”

Powerful stuff, Michael, I said.

This is no small favor I ask of the voters, Bryan. It is a calling.

They announced his name over the loudspeaker and he strode up to his podium for the debate like he was Seneca himself.

The moderator began.

Mr. Cobbledick, he said, how would you like to be left?

The hell alone, Cobbledick said, leaning into the microphone.

Mr. Ogle, the next question is yours. What are your first priorities, should you be elected mayor?

Crikey, guv! I ‘spose it’d be better workin’ hours for the chiminey sweeps an’ a cap on cab fares.

Hey! Someone shouted at the back. He’s English!

Ogle looked panicked.

Mr. Ogle, are you or are you not in fact an American citizen? the moderator pressed.

Ogle put his face in his hands.

I ain’t, sir. I ain’t no such thing, he said and he ran off the stage.

Mr. Pence, is it true that you intend to have drivers in town travel on the left-hand side?

While that was not my intention, I am ultimately responsible for the promises made on my behalf by my campaign.

Is that a yes, Mr. Pence? the moderator asked.

Yes, Michael said. It is.

As for the police investigations–

Mike went to speak, but the moderator went on.

–Are you aware that the entirety of our police force is a retired malinois named Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink?

He played for Celtic! Booper gasped.

I, Mike began, I was not.

The audience was dismayed and there was a call for the voting to begin. After the votes were tallied, Mike, Booper and I joined Chaloner Ogle, sitting dejectedly on the curb outside town hall. All the votes but four had gone to Cobbledick. Mike and Ogle had split the remaining votes evenly.

I feel very low, Mike said. The only election I’ve won is to be the mayor of Buck Town.

Buck Town? Olge said.

Yes, said Mike. Where I’m from, when you’re at your lowest low and you feel like you’re down to your last buck, we say you’re in Buck Town.

We sat silently, listening to Scooter Cobbledick’s supporters cheering and firing guns into the night sky.

I thought you were going to win, Chaloner, Booper said. Such a lovely surname: Ogle.

Ogle whimpered.

I guess I’m feeling rather low myself, chums, he said.

Well, my British friend, Mike said, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. It sounds to me like you might just be the next mayor of Pound Town.