WHITE MALE JANITOR

Like Michael Moore, Pandolfo Whistlebroom grew up in the Flint, Michigan area.  Moore was raised in the suburbs, Whistlebroom in a working-class neighborhood near the Fisher Body plant on the south side of town, where folks blew their noses country-style, without a handkerchief. 

“Moore has to pretend to be a slob,” Whistlebroom told me over beef stroganoff at Rasputin’s.  “I don’t.  I have a strong urge to eat this mess with my fingers.  Why do I have two forks?”

He dug into his shrimp cocktail with a soupspoon.  Patrons throughout the restaurant were staring at him, but not because of his ill manners.  Pandolfo Whistlebroom was famous.  He had authored a runaway bestseller, Stupid People of All Races and Genders.  He was on TV all the way to the space station.  His picture was on the cover of half the magazines on the newsstands.  Even though his message had a scary intellectual feel to it, he had struck a chord with the masses.  He had excluded no one in his pithy commentary on American society.  

“Everyone can pick up your book and find something in it that he or she agrees with,” I said.

“Or wants to nail me to a tree for,” Whistlebroom laughed.

“Even Michael Moore has said that he likes your book.  May I call you Pandolfo?”

“Michael Moore likes selected sentences from my book.  You may call me anything but Pandy.  My mother tried that once.  She ended up calling me Mister Whistlebroom for a month.  You know, this two-fork thing is a good idea.  I can eat and get out of here twice as fast.  I don’t like all these eyes on me.  I feel like a snake in a mongoose colony.” 

“Mister Whistle.  Pandolfo.  Why did you pick me, an unknown freelancer, to do a book of interviews with you?”

Pandolfo tore off half of a soft roll, wiped up the remains of his stroganoff with it, and tucked it in his mouth.  Chewing carefully, he waited almost until he had swallowed to speak.

“Honestly?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That’s one reason, your pursuit of the unvarnished truth.  There are three more.  You’re black, you’re a woman, and you’re gay.  I want someone who represents multiple minorities.  My book didn’t sell that well outside the mainstream.  I’d like a wider audience for my ideas.  The questions you ask me will be coming from at least three different cultural directions.  That alone will make it a better book.  You’re not identified with any one group.”  

“I’m not?  Have you ever heard of ALL, the Afro-Lesbian League?  I’m the President.”

“Of course, you’ll get top billing.  Your picture will be on the front of the dust jacket.  It helps that you’re photogenic.”

“How do you know that?  Maybe before I have my picture taken I’ll put in some red contact lenses and spike my hair.  Pandolfo, I’m a bit insulted by your assumption that because I’m a triple minority that, somehow, our book will turn out better.  If we come up with a good product, it’s because I have a doctorate in journalism from Northwestern, not because I’m some sort of trifecta you’ve hit.  I have a name.  It’s Barbara.  Can you tell I’m ticked?  It really burns me that you old white men get to design the boxes that everybody else is crammed into.  Where do you get off tying me up with a nice, neat bow and slapping me on