Thrown-away Child

folksy, he would perch atop the desk on half his formidable rump, dangling a leg off the side and chatting with his audience. On formal occasions, such as announcing for reelection, he would stand rigidly in front of his desk with his tree trunk arms flapped out from his sides, fat fingers in Churchillian V-for-victory formation.
    Today’s format was folksy. Hippo sat for the press in his striped shirtsleeves, responding to the last of the raised hands.
    “Say now, Hippo,” one of the reporters in the audience asked, a smirk covering his florid face, “what you got to say about these here complaints you been overly familiar with the girls on your campaign staff?
    “Who that been complaining on me?”
    “Oh, you remember, Hippo. All started back last jsjew Year’s Eve at your fund-raising bash?”
    “Look here, all’s I said was something a little risqué-like in a whole room full of folks. You know, just something to keep the party rolling. ‘Up with skirts, down with pants!’ What’s so bad about a fat man saying a fool thing like that after he’s had a belt? Come on, it ain’t like I inspired everybody to some big old Roman orgy... though from looking down at all your sad-sack pusses, most of y’all would be considerably more sprightly if you’d have such an unholy experience—”
    A roar of male laughter.
    Alderman Giradoux resumed the entertainment. “Why, my own dear missus, Ava LaRue, she like to bust a gut when I say what I said. And best I further recall, it was lusty giggles all ’round from members of the fair sex, ’cepting some little gal went off crying. Might’ve been her time of the month, you know?” Male laughter kicked up again. But then a woman rose from her chair, a TV reporter with her cigar-free hand waving in the smoke-laden air, shouting for recognition.
    Claude Bougart recognized her, even way off from where he was in the outer office. Janice Flagg, little sister to Ruby Flagg. Back in his school days, Bougart had a brief crush on Janice. This was to be eclipsed by his later devotion to Ruby.
    “Mr. Alderman, Mr. Alderman—!”
    “All right, girl, all right.” Giradoux pointed to Janice. “Ain’t you the cutie from the morning show on WDSU?”
    Klieg lights flipped on, heating the air. Janice Flagg pepped squarely in front of the camera and, like the beautician she once had been, patted down some errant hair. Then she asked the lens, as if the lens were 'Hippo himself, “Alderman Giradoux, are you saying to the women of New Orleans that you are not sympathetic to feminism?” She turned to face the alderman which was his cue; reporter and politician knew well their co-dependent roles. Hippo likewise looked past his questioner, straight into the lens. When the red light clicked, he delivered forth a sound bite.
    “Missy, you’re obviously a very smart and pretty African-American lady. And so dang young it hurts me. It’s because of your youth that I’m obliged to overlook the frivolity behind your question. Now, I can’t help it, I just don’t understand men calling themselves feminists. No more than I understood when old Hubert Humphrey was down here running for president back in ’68 and telling your people he was a soul brother.”
    “But, the women’s vote—” Janice sputtered. “Don’t matter none who’s filling out the ballots, honey. Only way old Hippo’s ever going to get voted out of office is if I wake up in bed some morning with a dead girl or a live boy.”
    Thunderous laughter drowned out Hippo as he asked the camera lens, “Now ain’t I right?”
    Under cover of laughter, Hippo whispered to a nearby aide, “Tell that pretty black TV gal to come see me after. I’ll give her a little exclusive—ought to please her.”
    Addressing the crowd, Hippo asked, “That going to be about all, ladies and gents?” He stood up from his desk and blew kisses to everybody, this being the customary gesture that drew an end to the proceedings.
    Over the heads of the departing reporters, Hippo spotted a uniformed police officer in his outer office-“See y’all next week, folks,” he said to the reporters, as if offering up a benediction. “Until then, keep your eye upon the doughnut and all that sort of happy horse crap.”
    When the press corps had shuffled out, most with bourbon bottles tucked under their arms, Officer Bougart walked through the archway into Alderman Giradoux’s auditorium of a private office. Giradoux resumed his place behind