Ray St. Louis
10/4/08
BETWEEN THE LINES
I wove my way through the parking lot full of Harleys and pickup trucks and stepped through the door of the
modest little workingman’s bar situated near the railroad tracks at the edge of town.
Inside a thick crowd drank beer from bottles and watched a NASCAR race on a handful of flat screen TVs. A
cluster of small signs behind the bar sported messages like “I still miss my ex, but my aim is getting better.”
“What do you need hon?” a lady bartender in short skirt and skin-tight t-shirt asked.
“I’m looking for Joe Sixpack,” I said. “Is he here?”
“Corner table, hon,” she answered.
I was excited to be near the end of my quest. At the first three bars, when I’d asked if anyone there was Joe
Sixpack, I’d only gotten dirty looks.
“Which one of you is Joe Sixpack?” I asked as I approached a group of men sitting around a table, each with a
beer in hand.
“That would be me,” one of the men replied. Right away he was not what I expected. He looked like your
average working guy; I had thought he would look more, well, rednecky.
But who was I to judge. This was the famous but elusive Joe Sixpack, the most sought-after interview of the
election season.
“Gosh darn it, Joe, I’m pleased as punch to make your acquaintance. You’re hard to find, doggone it.”
“Why are you talking like that?” Joe Sixpack asked.
“I thought that was how you ordinary beer-drinking working guys talked.”
“I don’t know anyone who talks like that, except maybe Ned Flanders on the Simpsons.”
“Sorry; guess I’ve been watching too many candidate debates. Joe, everybody in the country wants to know
what’s on your mind? You’re the talk of this election.”
“Yeah, suddenly I’m real popular.” Joe Sixpack took that moment to introduce his friends.
“This guy next to me is Joe Lunchbucket. Those other two guys are Joe Blow, and Joe Schmo. You know, they
got opinions too.”
“Sorry Joe, but you’re the man of the hour. Those other Joes are old news.”
“Yeah, it’s like every politician in the country wants to be my friend.”
“So Joe, when did you become the working class everyman? What’s your story?”
“Some big city newspaper reporter came up with the name back in 1970. I guess he got a lot of flak from the
Irish and Polish people for a term they thought was an ethnic slur.”
“No kidding? Well, no one seems to object now.”
“No one but me! How would you like your entire identity to be linked to drinking beer? I mean, I’m a diverse guy.
I like my beer but that’s not all there is to me.”
“Good point. So what are some of your other sides, Joe?”
“Well, when you’re a compendium of working class attitudes like I am, you have a lot of sides.” (I made mental
note of the fact Joe Sixpack had used the word “compendium” in a sentence.)
“People think I’m all about guns and beer and NASCAR,” Joe continued. “Yeah I like those things, but I’m also
about jobs and healthcare and paying the mortgage. I’m not just your everyday country redneck. Parts of me
can be quite sophisticated. After all, I represent everybody from truck drivers to computer programmers.
“Like I said, I have a lot of sides. Right now, I’d say the one thing most of my parts agree on is that we’re
nervous about the economy.”
“The experts say that would cause you to lean toward Obama.”
“Yeah, but that Palin woman keeps bringing up my name and winking. I think maybe she’s got the hots for me.”
“The other night, she suggested you and the hockey moms could solve the financial crisis if you just showed a
little more restraint – stop running up those credit cards and signing up for those risky subprime mortgages.”
“Excuse me for wanting to own a house and feed my kids.”
“She seems to think she’s got your vote, that she’s your candidate for VP.”
“Well, I might have my own ideas about that. I’m thinking that I might even run myself one of these days. Heck, if
she can do it…you know what I mean?”
I told Joe Sixpack I knew exactly what he meant. Then I bought him and the other Joes a beer.
On the drive home I decided Joe Sixpack was far more complex a guy than I’d originally thought. Anybody who
took him for granted might be in for a surprise.