by Jess Howe

Created on: March 10, 2009

The beggar woman reminded me of my brother who travels on trains. Well, he says he does: Lou says he does a lot of things that he doesn't do. I've never seen or heard of him on a train, per se. He prefers to hitchhike.

It's an era when people are getting turned out of their homes more and more, and so there are more and more people like him and her running around the country. They hunker down in box cars and under railway bridges, or they like her stay in their cities moving from shelter to shelter, and occasionally getting themselves into a seedy motel or so just outside town, when they can beg for enough to do so.

I should know, because I put him - and her, and anyone else like them - into that situation. You see, I'm the President.

Or else I was.

I saw the beggar woman sixteen days ago, when March Madness was just starting on television and the cherry trees were getting set to bloom. I'd gotten into the White House via a landslide, because of my clever campaign manager who'd managed to turn around my opponents' rude comments about Lou and his lifestyle into something that was hopeful. "The previous administration put him and everyone else like him in that position," my campaign manager directed me to say though I knew it wasn't true. He had me go out and get my ass seen at soup kitchen after soup kitchen, shelters, flop houses, and so on, talking to every crazy he could get his hands on. But Lou isn't crazy; so my campaign manager wanted him to "disappear". He thought if he paid Lou off, he could get him to stay in a nice home, and to give a wonderful interview all about how his sister was going to change the world. He was so wrong.

I saw the beggar woman on the train tracks, when I'd managed to get my ass into the White House and I hadn't heard from Lou in a month. He'd laughed at me on the phone last we spoke, about how I'd end up like the rest of them, I'd see. I'd felt hurt but kept to my ground; I've learned since childhood when he used to pull my hair and sneak out of the house to drink with his buddies, that it makes more sense to Lou for a woman to not act like a dumb blonde. I'm a smart blonde, dammit! Anyway, I saw that beggar woman by the tracks and she looked at me like she knew me. You wonder when you run for President whether or not everyone doesn't.

"You that byotch in the White House," she said. No bottle, no shopping cart. I'd learned from my term in the soup kitchens and what-all, that like most Americans, homeless folk come in all shapes and

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