Political Science 101

Chapter One

MITCH SAT at the long, rich mahogany bar, quietly sipping his light brown mixed drink of Captain Morgan and Dr. Pepper — his infamous drink aptly named the "Kirk & McCoy." This, of course, was not a real drink, but years ago, Mitch and his best friend decided to give their favorite mixed drink a fitting Star Trek title: Captain Morgan and Dr. Pepper became Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy, which was shortened to "Kirk & McCoy."

Mitch knew he could ask one of the regular bartenders for a "Kirk & McCoy" and get a mixed drink of Captain Morgan and Dr. Pepper. However, since they were regulars here and the bartenders knew them so well, asking for this particular beverage at any other bar would only be met by a confused look from the barkeep. But this place was different. This was Mitch's regular bar — Penny Lane Brewery — and there was comfort and stability in being known as a "regular" there.

The owner was obviously a Beatles fan.

As Mitch stared up at one of the televisions above the bar, a high-definition flat screen TV above a colorful line of varying illuminated liquor bottles, he was trying to internally tabulate whether he was drinking his sixth or seventh drink; he added up the price accordingly. Mitch lost count two or three drinks ago as he sat and pretended not to listen to the atmosphere which engulfed his existence.

He sat within hearing distance of the small ballroom to his left; a unique commodity of this quaint little sports bar where he was spending his Election Night. On any other night, the thirty-seven televisions around the bar would have been tuned to an array of sporting events intent on capturing the attention of nearly any brand of patron.

But tonight was different.

Tonight was Election Night.

Televisions which usually displayed ESPN, ESPN2, Fox Sports, CBS Sports, and ESPN Classic were, tonight, airing the likes of MSNBC, CNN, Fox News, CBS, ABC, NBC, and even the Spanish Channel. Each network cycled between endless streams of interviews, pundits, electoral maps, b-roll, and various candidate victory celebrations. Mitch knew the bartender was a Democrat; of all the broadcasts airing, MSNBC was given the honor of holding the bar's only projection screen and the network's audio was flowing freely from the establishment's extensive audio system.

Mitch glanced to the opposite side of the sports bar. There was a corner with two chest-high tables but no chairs; on either side of these two tables alternated three video games: On the far left, an early-1980s stand-up coin-operated "Galaga" machine; in the middle, a mid-1980s pinball machine, "Pinbot;" and on the far right, an early-2000s cue-ball operated bowling machine called "Silver Strike." Mitch grinned, then grimaced momentarily as he cast a slowly sweeping glance across these three machines; he grinned because he remembered how much fun it was to play these games as an adult, but he grimaced at the amount of money he could only estimate he'd hazily shoveled into these machines over the years.

He loved "Galaga" ever since he was a kid. Growing up, it was his favorite game at the arcade (back when arcades existed), so he played it relentlessly.

He loved "Pinbot" because the simple game of pinball was the first thing he and his father bonded over (also at the old arcade) when he was a kid as well. On the days when Mitch walked to the arcade — the only one within walking distance at the mall — he played "Galaga;" when he went with his father, they played pinball, and their favorite game was "Pinbot."

These two vintage games bonded Mitch to his youth, and he loved to reminisce about his younger years when things made more sense, because — in his youth — he didn't know anything about life.

Ignorance is bliss.

And he missed his father, having lost him to cancer during his first year of high school.