A CANDIDATE WITH NO SKELETONS

"Damage control. That is the issue before us, ladies and gentlemen."
The Chairman's tone was grave, half-insistent, half-just plain depressed. No one had seen the Boss so down since the incident with that damned calf.

"One by one," the Chairman restated the obvious, "they've succeeded in sliming our most viable candidates. Shot 'em right out of the saddle. A little tryst here. A little youthful indiscretion there. Penny ante stuff, y'know. Forgive-and-forget stuff, right? Wrong. Issues? Hah. Position? Not unless it's missionary. Just rattle those skeletons. Give 'em a scandal. Get 'em drooling, and . . . BANG!

"Now look," the Boss punched at the air with his craggy finger. "We have an agenda, and we have a platform. It's not enough. It isn't even a start. I want someone electable. I want someone who makes Mother Theresa look like a hooker. Bring me a candidate with no skeletons!"

No one poured coffee. No one reached for a doughnut. A stomach growled. Someone discreetly popped a Maalox. The Chairman clenched his lips, exhaled with a hiss, steaming, waiting.

"What about Noah?" Michael finally broke the silence.

" Right. Noah. A recovering alcoholic. Right." Gabriel shot back sarcastically.

"Abraham, then."

"Abraham? Booted out his wife and kid. The feminists would have a picnic."

"Jacob?"

"Two-timed his own brother. Real Springer stuff.”

“Moses?”

"Too impulsive. Loses his cool. I can hear it now: 'Would you want his finger on the switch?' Shades of Goldwater and McCain. And besides, his thing with that Cushite woman . . . We'd lose the South in a heartbeat. Hell, his own brother and sister didn't even support him!"

"What about Aaron?"

“Wussed out. Remember the calf?"

"Goddamned calf . . . David?"

“ . . . and Bathsheba?"

"Amos?"

"Outsider. Misanthrope. Beyond the Beltway."

“Ezekiel?”

"Weird dreams. Under control, I understand. But, we'd be vulnerable on the Prozac issue."

"Hosea?"

"Wife used to be a call girl.”

”Yeah? No kidding?”

"Enough!"

"I hear that Nazareth guy is a real comer," offered Michael. "A long shot. A relative unknown. But a good, honest guy."

"Then you haven't been reading the same dossiers I've been reading," Gabriel flashed. "Don't get me wrong. Nazareth is squeaky clean. But there are obstacles, and Geraldo would pick him ‘til he bled. I don't know if he could stand it."

"Like what?"

"Well, first of all, that 'virgin birth' line will never fly."

"We can deal with it." The Boss started to perk up, even vaguely excited.

"Then there's the lingering suspicion about him and a lounge singer, Mary, er, uh, Mary Magdalene."

"We can answer that."

"But I've saved the toughest for last: Surveillance says that Nazareth is actually a closet Jew."

The Boss was silent for an eternal second. "I guess you're right,” he finally sighed. "They'd never stand for it. Maybe we ought to take an hour for lunch. But think, for God's sake, think. Someone without a skeleton. No skeletons.”

"Funny," I heard the Boss mutter wistfully as we shuffled our papers. "I could have been perfectly happy with any of those guys. I guess what I think just doesn't matter any more."