Chapter 1, the dream.
Barry Obama was thinking about himself, thinking about the future. He had just graduated from Columbia a few days ago and knew he needed to finalize a decision about what to do and where to do it. He took another hit, coughed and lay back against his couch.
Thinking always tired him out; sapped his energy. It was like fueling his massive brain sucked the energy from his limbs and he just fell limp. He relaxed, and in moments, he was sound asleep.
[Scene: Imagine blurry, misty visions of assorted stuff to indicate that this is supposed to be a dream – then dissolve to a bright, cheery Container Store]
Barry was waiting just inside the door. He was happy – almost glowing, and eager to greet the young woman entering the store. “Good morning miss, how may I help you?”
“My place is a mess and I need help. My mom is visiting tomorrow and she’s a neat-freak. I need to straighten up my apartment, especially my closet.”
“You’ve come to the right place, I, Barack Hussein Obama am the Messiah of The Container Store and I knowI have the change you are hoping for.” A quick snap of the Obama fingers and they were in the elfa® closet accessories department.
“Sit back and enjoy, Miss Schauers (somehow, he just knew her name), I know just what you need.” He motioned for her to sit. She slid into the overstuffed leather recliner and it engulfed her, welcomed her body like a lover’s embrace. She had never felt so completely content before; her legs tingled.
Barry snapped his magical fingers again and parts of a closet display began to move about, slowly shifting and rearranging themselves, until finally they stopped and a soft glow emanated from the finished elfa® Platium closet setup.
“Voila!” “The voice seemed to come from the closet itself, “I am the change, the change that you’ve been hoping for, April.”
“Oh my,” she beamed. “It’s beautiful – and the clothes … wait, are those my clothes?” “Those are my clothes!” “It’s all done and it is beautiful, but I’m sure that it is much more than I can afford.”
“Not to worry April, you don’t have to pay for it, someone else will pay for it.” It pleased Barry to help people and besides, money was plentiful in Barryland. In Barryland, he could give everyone new closet organizers and taxpayers would pay for all of it.
April didn’t even ask - there was no question that the entire setup, clothes and all, would somehow, magically, transport itself to her apartment. She just knew that it would be there when she got home.
April was in heaven, her mom would be so proud (she was really picky). She hugged Barry and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a wonderful, wonderful man – I couldn’t have organized my closet without you.”
Barry loved adoration, he wore it well. “I know,” he said wisely.
“BUT WAIT,” Barry thought. “What was that she said, “organizing” – that’s it! I was born to be an organizer.” “I can organize the world, one shoe box at a time.”
[Scene: blurry visions of stuff to indicate that Barry is waking from the dream.]
We find our hero sprawled on the floor, a little drool at the corner of his mouth. His eyes flash open – “Organizer, that’s what I’ll do – I’ll organize stuff for people, lots of people, even whole communities!”
Now invigorated and enthused, Barry began to plot his next move.
Barry found himself thinking to the tune of “Green Acres.” “Chicago is the place for me, organizing is the life for me, communities are spreading out so far and wide, keep Manhattan, just give me Chicago’s South side.” He would move to Chicago.
Chapter 2, the first day.
A month later, Barry was in Chicago. He’d found a place deep in Chicago’s south side – exactly where he felt the need to be.
It was a small apartment off of E. 130th St., nothing fancy but clean. “It’s a start,” he thought, “today, E. 130th St., tomorrow, a deluxe apartment in the sky – I’m movin’ on up!”
This morning, he decided to begin going door-to-door in a shabby neighborhood a couple of blocks away. There ought to be folks here that really needed change, he hoped so.
At the first house, a really large woman answered the door.
“Good morning, ma’am, my name is Barack Obama and I’m here to organize your curio cabinet, your silverware, or your lingerie, I’ll just bet you need organizing.”
“Don’t go talking that sexchul talk to me, ni**er, I’ll kick yo a** down the street.” She slammed the door hard, the wind blasting him backwards. “Maybe I should’ve asked about her master suite’s closet?” he thought.
The next house went better. Another large woman in a robe was more polite, she invited him in. “You look thirsty honey, I’ll fix you a nice cold drink.” Her robe accidentally slipped open a little – a little was enough, there was a lot that was trying to get out. Fighting back a flight reflex, his instinct was a little too slow and she set a glass of clear liquid in front of him. “Drink up honey,” she cooed. “You’ll like it and we can … talk.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a ‘dew me,’ she smiled, Mountain Dew and Everclear, it’ll perk you right up.”
“Uhhh, ma’am, ahhh uhhh I uhhh do you need uhhh organizing?”
“Oh Lordy, do I evah, Ah needs organizing real bad.” She moved towards him, the robe slipping a little more, a lot more coming out.
That was enough. Barry bolted for the door. His feet didn’t touch the ground until they hit the asphalt of the street. He covered the next 100 meters in record time. He’d rather be the main event at a Klan rally than organize that woman. This “organizing” thing wasn’t going to be easy.
He decided to try one more before he lost his nerve.
Another knock - another screen door squeaks open. This time it’s a large man (“aren’t there any small people here?” he thought). “Good morning, sir, my name is Barack Obama and I’m a professional organizer, is the lady of the house at home?”
The man scowled. “Aha, so you is dat uppity ni**er been doin my woman, I’m gonna cut you.” He pushed the door open and reached for Barry. But this time, Barry was ready, he jumped from the porch and went for the gold. He outran three cars and a motorcycle before stopping at the next street.
Breathless and dejected, he walked slowly, head down, until he happened upon two kids, they couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. One was sitting on a battered “Big Wheel,” the other was leaning against a rickety fence, staring at Barry.
“Hey, why you dressed like dat?”
Barry was wearing his brand new lime green Costco suit, complete with faux silk tie. “Because I’m a professional organizer, little brother.”
“I ain’t yo brother, ni**er,” and he grabbed his crotch and shot Barry the finger. At the same time, the Big Wheel kid rammed the bike into Barry’s knee from behind, knocking him to the ground. They both piled on and relieved Barry of his wallet and the six dollars it contained. They were gone by the time he regained his senses and got up.
Barry was now disappointed, disillusioned, and … mugged.
As a last resort, he stopped at a church. Not a particularly religious man, what could it hurt to sit for a spell? Inside, he sat down in the cool quiet and rested, revisiting his futile attempts to organize anything so far. His first morning was an utter failure.
“Troubled, my brother?” The voice came from behind Barry. He turned and found a smiling black man dressed in an African Dashiki. “I’m the pastor here, Reverend Jeremiah Rhong.”
Barry spilled his guts. He related his dream, his move to Chicago, and his first morning trying to help people, and being mugged by two nine-year-olds street toughs. He was distraught and close to tears.
“It’s not your fault, my brother. “Don’t give up.” “There’s plenty of things that need organizing here.” “You could help me organize last Sunday’s take, … er … collections – you know, count the money (or should that have been Count de Monet?). “You could organize radios and rims for Jermaine – he has a “parts” business.” “Or, Little Willie could use some organizing of his “herbs and powders.” “There’s lots that needs organizing, I won’t let you give up – you gotta have hope if you want to change.”
Reverend Rhong was wright right! He had a God-given gift for organizing; he was especially talented when arranging knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, and curios – you know, really important stuff.
”You’re right, I’ve got to fight the good fight, like the ant moving the rubber-tree plant – I’ve got high hopes.” “Thanks, Reverend – I’ll be sitting in my own pew on Sunday.”
“Baadaye” “That’s see you later in Swahili.” Rev. Rhong said as Barry left.
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