So What Do They Get? Notes From a Liquor Store Before the Debate , by Marc Dion

A couple weeks before the first presidential debate, when legions of commentators were hoping for the unscripted moment, the sharp retort, the fluster or the bad suit-and-tie combo, I was standing in a liquor store, on my way back from covering the meeting of a small suburban governmental body.

At the meeting, they'd discussed turning off some streetlights in town to save money, darkness in a middle-class suburb being the perfect metaphor for 2012 America.

On my way back to the paper to write, I stopped and bought a quart of beer, to drink when I got home. I had 90 minutes left in my shift, just enough to write 750 words about darkness in the cul-de-sacs. It was 8 p.m. on a Monday.

I find myself in this particular liquor store maybe every two weeks. Once every couple of months, I arrive in the middle of what I call "drunk night," which means that there will be six other people in the store, and four of them will be drunk and, of course, buying more beer.

I've never been able to sync drunk night to any particular occurrence, though it's a little more likely to happen when the Patriots are playing (I live in Massachusetts).

The woman whose bra-less tank top look was a bad choice, who slurred at me: "I looove your hat. It's awesome." I was wearing an Irish tweed cap.

The man in his 50s, eyes red with small veins, boots caked with plaster dust, inquiring of the clerk as to which vodka half-pint was the cheapest.

The quart of American beer I bought was $3.50. In the parking lot, there was a pair of lacy thong panties lying in a small rainwater puddle.

I got back to the paper, stashed the quart of beer in the office fridge, made a cup of green decaffeinated tea and wrote my 750 words about a suburb where some of the lights are going to go out soon.

I got home. I drank the beer. I ate some cheese. Sleep.

And as the campaign ads roll on, each one a message approved by the candidate, I see only the governing body of that suburb, each one of them looking at a list of streetlights assembled by a police lieutenant, lights the lieutenant thinks can be shut off to save a buck.

As the debate neared, I saw "drunk night" in an urban liquor store, and I wondered how the big decisions filter down to the small people in the form of liquor taxes and budget cuts.

Maybe the guys in the suburb were spendthrifts in the good years. If they hadn't been, they wouldn't have installed so many streetlights. They're bums.

Half of my "drunk night" crew is probably on public assistance, and the guy in the plaster-caked shoes probably called in sick with a hangover the next day. More bums.

I bought the $3.50 quart of beer. If I had put that money into venture capital stocks, I could have made my fortune, the way our masters do. I'm a bum, too.

I drove home that night, and I could see the lights of the hospital where my 84-year-old mother was recovering from surgery, draining our country dry through the twin Ponzi schemes of Social Security and Medicare. During the Second World War, my mother worked the "Victory Shift" in a factory that made tires. The "Victory Shift" was the night shift, 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. If she'd had better jobs in her life, she might not be a bum today. You'd think she would have tried harder.

One night. Some drunks in a liquor store. Some earnest men trying to decide whose street would be dashed from the light. One old lady with a bandage on the wound in her stomach. Some drunks. A store clerk. A working reporter with big plans for cheese and beer. There will be an election soon.

Easy to call other people "bums." Makes you feel better, at least until they shut off the lights.

So, what do the people I saw that night want? What do we get out of the messages approved by the candidate?

One thing is certain. If we get less light, we're gonna need more liquor.