(HOST) Every once in a while commentator Philip Baruth loses himself in a fictional character, when his everyday self proves too limiting. Today he tells the story of John McCain’s 2008 Presidential bid from just such a character’s point of view: Philly, a deli owner in Winooski.
(BARUTH) Look, there’s a couple a things you gotta know about me: #1) I run a deli in Winooski I took over after my old man passed, and I don’t fool around when it comes to sandwiches; and #2) my family was voting Democratic when Roosevelt was in diapers. But even with all that history, I always liked John McCain. He spoke his mind, you know, and he had this rascally kind of grin. Spent five years in a POW camp, don’t forget.
So when McCain came through in 2000, he did an event down at City Hall, and because I got friends downtown, I get the nod when it comes to catering. This was right around the time McCain went on national TV and called Jerry Falwell an “agent of intolerance.” Beautiful.
And so when it came time to make McCain’s lunch, I actually invented a new sandwich just for him: the Johnny B. Goode, a foot-long sub laid out with all the top end meats, the roast beef, the prosciutto, and some 12-year-old smoked cheddar they only make down in Ferrisburgh. Hot peppers, all the veggies.
Best sandwich I ever made: John McCain himself said so, after everyone cleared out. He comes walking over, still working on the tail end of the sandwich, and he shakes my hand. “That’s the best sub I’ve ever had, my friend,” he tells me, “Don’t ever change it.”
And just for a second, I think, “I might be voting Republican this time out.”
‘Course, in about two weeks, he’s road kill under the wheels of the Bush machine. And that’s that. Until last week.
I’m unlocking the front door for the day, and the phone rings. It’s McCain’s people. Of course McCain’s running for President again, and he’s gonna be in New Hampshire to meet with some local big-wigs the next day, and he wants me to make up 100 Johnny B. Goodes, and drive em over the state line to Hanover.
Did I say yes? You gotta ask?
And so the whole day I go into overdrive: I’m stockpiling the 12-year-old cheese, I’m prepping the proscuitto, and making sure the rolls are fresh-fresh, not just fresh. But about two in the afternoon, the phone rings. It’s McCain’s new spin doctor. He wants to know if I mind if they say the food came from a deli in New Hampshire. “Look,” I say, “I’m not gonna lie.” So the guy thinks a minute, and he says, “Fine. Drive the subs down, but leave them open-face until you cross the state line, see – then we close em up, and the campaign can say they were made in New Hampshire. You believe that? If I didn’t have a counter overflowing with foot-longs, I’d say take a hike.
But I do, so I don’t.
It isn’t until next morning that the phone rings again, and you gotta believe me when I tell you, it’s McCain himself. He sounds kind of hassled, and he apologizes, but they gotta cancel the order. Big donor in New Hampshire’s gonna cater.
“But you’ll get paid, Philly, not to worry,” McCain says finally.
“Oh, I’m not worried about the money,” I tell him. “What I’m worried about is your voice.”
“My voice,” he says, confused all of a sudden.
“Yeah, your voice,” I say, “for some reason, you sound different this time around, Johnny.” And that’s when I hang up the phone.
Philip Baruth is a novelist living in Burlington. He teaches at the University of Vermont.