"I want mine well done," I told the bartender at The Exchange, right next door to the State Department, bang opposite The Treasury, barely a block's walk from the White House.
I had descended on G Street from my north of DC suburb the day after the Ballot. It was a quiet day and the streets empty. Offices in the CBD had asked their staff to take the day off... just in case... November 6 turned out to be January 6 redux. Now, there was no one around, other than the beat cop, minutes before Ka-ma-laa was to blow her goodbye kiss to the Howard GeNex, a couple of miles away.
I asked for a lamb burger, before darting my big question: "Which way did you choose, what's cooking?
"Your is yours, my mine. And my ballot's a secret," said the bartender.
'I want mine well-done," I said, not sure if the lamb, rare-medium, with a patch of red flesh in the middle, would taste as good as half-cooked beef in my bun.
Tom, the 'tender, was shying from revealing his card, a good 12 hours after the America's loudest Trumpeting win in years.
For far too long the all-White American has shied away from admitting that his vote really was where his heart really is: Ballot-24 was meant for Trump and trump alone. And there's nothing remotely wrong with that.
For the best of Biden's first three years, Harris had been an unseen, unheard write-off before the exuberance of expectation suddenly changed course in her 100-day daring dash for office. Oval Office!
The Whites always knew exactly who was coming. But they just left it at that, just that. Much the same way that most Hindus back home in India hate to be called a Sanghi, but end up voting for Modi's BJP nevertheless.
So, why did White votes turn Red?
American media, weighed down by heavy ideological anchor, is yet to lift the veil on its agony well after the ballots have been counted, digging right for wrong, wrong for right, instead.
Did the 'respected' Ed at WaPo resign in haste days before the ballot, taking with him, some say, up to a quarter million cancelled subscriptions? Because the publisher refused to endorse a candidate in the "iffy" imaginations of the world's "free" media. Well, on hindsight, Baron Bezos seems to have known his bet, while his scribes got busy rolling the dice unmindful of the turns.
Whattagamble!
And they say the weathercock is a strange animal!I turned to the Man in Black at the near corner of the bar table. Perplexed!
Was he a cop? The fourth person about town, other than the bartender, the barber, and the hooker who should know.
"This was a vote for returning America to its good old values. Everything about the past was not good. But this is as good at it gets," said the man in black.
The scent of well-done glazed meat wafted into my nose.
"This looks like kebob served on naan bread, well-dressed," I looked askance at Tom, taking a swig of my coffee.
Tom laughed aloud.
"This is Burger."
This is a good as it gets!
ps: Tom wasn't Tom to protect his privacy.
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