The Old White Guy
"I'll tell you what's gonna happen," the cabbie volunteered. "That old white guy's gonna win."
This surprised me.
"You mean to tell me, you think the New Orleans' black vote will go to McCain?"
"Is that that old white guy's name? Let me tell you, no (he used the "n" word) is going to vote for Obama. We'd vote for Hillary, not him."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I thought you writer's were smart. You been here in this city very long? You been to the Lower Ninth?"
"Yeah," I said. "It looks like a cow pasture. Just a bulldozed field along the levee."
"You got it, sister," the other guy volunteered.
"Obama ain't one of us," cabbie said. "He's all slick and polished, the guy's a fake. Come to one of the black bars with me. You wanna hear some conversation. You'll get some."
I was still detoxing from one night on Bourbon Street, so that plan was out of the question, but I wanted to know more.
"So, what don't you like about Obama? You think he is inexperienced?"
Oops, personal bias had just entered my exit poll. An unfortunate leading question, but I needn't have worried.
"Hell, he ain't black. He's an elitist. His wife is a member of that Trilateral Commission. That group wiped us out down here."
I pointed out that Michelle Obama was a member of the Chicago Council on Foreign Relations, which hardly qualified as a conspiracy theory, but perception is everything.
The other guy had been silent, but muttered something about New Orleans being better off if Bush would just leave it alone as one of the Suburbans sped past on the shoulder, nearly taking the guy out. I was spared when the cabbie grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me toward the cab. I had a fleeting moment of paranoia that maybe Bush was trying to take us out.
