Nobody expected Barney Frank to show up at the event. He came by because it was in his district and he'd been in his district all day, and he had time to come meet some people, and he'd donated a couple hundred bucks to the event, and they'd used it to buy meat.
It was one of those halls that seem to be available for every event in any working-class community. You can have your wedding reception there, and your baby shower, or a meeting of your political supporters, or your dart league's annual banquet and installation of officers. The walls are generally covered in thin paneling from the 1970s, and if the hall belongs to a veterans group, there's a pair of crossed rifles on the wall. The drinks are cheap.
It was a fundraiser, though not for Barney, and tickets were $10 each because it was more than 30 years ago, and that got you unlimited hamburgers and hot dogs and access to the cheap drinks bar.
Some officer in the organization got up to speak and he thanked "the ladies in the kitchen" for doing the cooking.
And then, in a more humorous vein, the speaker made a joke.
"These are Barney Frank hot dogs," he said. "So, if you don't like 'em, you can stick 'em..."
You can finish the sentence. You can finish the punchline. Everyone in America can finish that punchline.
Barney Frank, who died this week, was gay. He came out before the beer and meat event where no one expected him.
And Barney's face never twitched at the joke. He went into the crowd like a seal diving into the ocean off a big rock. His hand was out; his smile was genuine.
He told the guys in the veteran's caps what he wanted to do for veterans. He told the older people he wanted to protect Social Security. He talked about the money he'd gotten to patch roads, and about a new school.
Barney worked the room. And, when they asked him to say a couple words, he said how happy he was to be there, with his constituents.
I was a reporter, and I tried once to ask him about that night, but he said he was running late, and I knew he'd be running late again if I asked again.
And why not? The guy who told the joke was a vote. So were the other people in the room.
Barney was gay and he was a Jew. Politics is a tough game. Life is a tough game.
Barney was a tough guy. A significant portion of the American male population doesn't think either Jews or gays can be tough. They like flower arranging is what they like, or books, not combat. They go to a fancy college, and they never work a day in their lives.
But Barney, whose face never twitched at the joke, went into the crowd because there were votes in the crowd, and because the old people needed to know about Social Security and the veterans needed to know about benefits.
People like best to make the jokes when guys like Barney aren't around. The jokes are funniest behind the back.
Today, a lot of us think the jokes are "freedom of speech," which we exercise on Instagram and Facebook, behind the back where the jokes are funniest and it's safe.
People like me have been writing all week about Barney's great bravery in coming out, and his being a progressive who didn't back down, and his wit, and I heard some of that, and I saw some of that, and I interviewed him maybe half a dozen times.
But far away from the legislative chambers, and the parliamentary procedure and the understanding reporters on the big papers, out there where the walls of the hall are covered in cheap paneling, out there, you have to take as good as you give, and tears aren't an option if you want to stay in office.
Barney dove in smiling, hand out to shake, explaining his positions, listening, looking for votes, a professional in a professional game.
To find out more about Marc Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his best columns, is called "Mean Old Liberal." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle and iBoks.
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