Deep veep heap too steep?
Would it have been all that hard to put me on the short list?
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not bitter. Not at all. Bitter’s the last thing I am. To be bitter, you have to be disappointed, and to be disappointed, you have to be expecting something.
I wasn’t expecting anything. Anything other than what I got, that is:
Another election, another rejection.
I’m just saying.
I’m just saying it wouldn’t have cost anybody anything to have me on the short list, at least for a little while. It wouldn’t even have had to be the short-short list—the medium-short list would have been enough. It would have been plenty. I wasn’t looking to get chosen—I was simply looking to get considered. Mentioned.
But no. A complete shutout—again.
I actually thought I might be in the running this time. After all, when people first started talking about the short list, and who was on the short list, all the people who were supposedly on it kept saying they hadn’t heard anything from anyone, or from anyone’s staff. I hadn’t heard anything either. So I figured I was just as much in the running as they were.
But then the people who were supposedly on the short list started changing their tune. Instead of “I haven’t heard anything,” it was “I can’t tell you anything”—you know, like they might have heard something, but they’d been sworn to secrecy.
I hadn’t been sworn to anything. That’s when I started thinking it was going in a different direction. (Again.)
Not that I gave up altogether. I knew that one of the most important traits in getting onto the short list is somebody who never gives up altogether. Who’s a fighter.
Besides, I also knew that every once in a while, somebody who wasn’t on the original short list suddenly gets added to the short list, and everybody smacks their head like it’s a V8 commercial and says, “What were we thinking? Of course he should be on the short list!”
So I kept hope alive, if you’ll pardon the expression. But then I noticed two things. Or actually, I didn’t notice two things. I didn’t notice anybody asking me to turn over all my personal and financial data so they could go over it with a microscope. And I didn’t notice anybody calling up all my friends and asking them all sorts of embarrassing things about me.
That’s when I knew.
And I was OK with it.
Not right away, but after I thought about it for a little while, I was OK with it. I mean, it would be fun and an honor and all that, being on the short list, but who has the patience for all the other stuff that goes with it? All the other stuff you’re supposed to put up with?
You get people sticking microphones up your nose every time you’re out in public. You get reporters camped out in your driveway flinging questions at you every time you leave the house, and every time you come back.
If you decide to take pity on them, and pick up some coffee and maybe some bagels for them, then it’s “I wanted decaf!” and “Where’s the sesame?” Trust me—you can never satisfy them. Who needs it?
And I’d have to get a driveway.
Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist. You can write to him at firstname.lastname@example.org.