Not My Grandpa's Democrats

As always, I was awakened by a sudden draft through the closed windows, saw the curtains ominously stirring and sensed instantly that someone was in my bedroom. Without even looking up, I knew it was my long-dead grandfather, an immigrant of socialist leanings and what he would call common sense. Wearily, I went through the drill.

"Grandpa, is that you?"

"You were expecting maybe Lucy Lohan?"

"Lindsay," I corrected.

" 'Scuse me. Where I am we don't get People magazine."

I tried to get to the point. "What brings you down this time?" I asked.

He was holding a newspaper, always a dangerous sign.

"What's happened to the Democratic Party?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? What do I mean? Listen, college boy, in my day, the Democrats stood for the little man. You know the little man, boychik?"

"Yes, Grandpa."

"He's the working stiff. He's the guy with a lunch pail. You think it's right he pays a higher rate of taxes than those hedge-fund managers?"