Irv Leavitt

I popped the trunk of Joey Doubles’ cab to see if he had an aired-up spare, and saw something that gave me a bit of a start. 

The trunk was half-filled with campaign literature headlined, “Epton for Mayor — Before It’s Too Late.” 

Since I had been managing a cab fleet, I’d found a lot of unusual things in the cars. Big Jim had a hatchet he liked to wave at people who made threatening noises. Another guy had a caged finch. And Ahmad Hussein had bottles of Dr. Tichener’s Peppermint Mouthwash, 70 percent alcohol, stashed all over. 

Joey Doubles’ trunk was different. Here was a previously nonpolitical person apparently passing out flyers with the most cringe-worthy, racist campaign slogan anybody in Chicago could remember. And I actually liked this guy. 

The flyers advertised the candidacy of Bernie Epton, the Republican candidate for Chicago mayor. He was an unusually brainy politician who had been embraced by some sore losers after incumbent Jane Byrne, favored child Richie Daley, and South Side Congressman Harold Washington all ran in the Democratic primary, and Washington came up with more votes than either of the two white people. 

Joey Doubles was one of the more easy-going guys I knew. His brother, Bobby Doubles, sometimes known as Bobby the Burglar, had a hint of menace to him, but not Joey. 

Joey drove his cab from early morning until noon, at which time, in season, he’d usually drive out to Sportsman’s Park or Arlington to visit the horses that ran around there. 

A single father, he would often take his son — Baby Doubles, of course — with him. Joey said the kid seemed to enjoy meeting the jockeys, since they were about his size. 

Joey was short, but too heavy to ride. His weight was all in his gut, but he didn’t seem to notice. Most of his shirts were so tight that a few square inches of Joey would show through between two or three of the lower buttons. 

As I turned the key in the trunk, I heard Joey say to someone, from across the parking lot, “Aw, spit, he’s lookin’ in there.” 

He was instantly at my side, having moved faster than I’d ever seen him go. 

He gave me a lecture on the First Amendment, which I explained did not apply unless I was representing the government. 

“This cab doesn’t belong to you, and we have a great deal of sway as to what you can do when you’re in it,” I said. 

He reminded me that he leased the cab, which gave him a certain amount of control an employee would not enjoy. If I did not like that, I could certainly pay Social Security tax and workman’s comp, and then he would be open to filling his trunk with literature celebrating the NAACP, Operation PUSH, the Afro-American Patrolmen’s League or anything else I wanted. 

I handed him the keys. 

It was mainly the unseemliness of the Epton campaign that I felt bad about. I could certainly understand anyone unenthusiastic about voting for Harold Washington in 1983. 

He had been a no-show for much of his short career in Congress, due to absences for the purpose of ensuring re-election in 1982. That way, he could run for mayor as a winner, and also have a job to go back to after the Chicago election if he wasn’t a winner anymore. 

Another of Washington’s negatives was having skipped filing income tax for 19 years. He had spent a few weeks in the Greybar Hotel for that. 

And he lived with a woman without benefit of marriage. That wasn’t so much in vogue then. 

Most of our cab drivers could identify with these shortcomings, having histories of questionable relationships with the IRS, local law enforcement, and spouses, and a habit of not showing up when anticipated. 

They, and some other people, however, held politicians to a different standard than themselves. They were used to many of the gents they voted for winding up incarcerated, but they were confused by candidates who had achieved that status up front. 

One particular neighborhood character who was much opposed to Harold Washington’s candidacy was a laborer named Robby or Bobby or some such, one of those sharp-looking gents who got a haircut twice a year whether he needed it or not. 

Robby-Bobby talked about Ed Kelly, who ran the 47th Ward, as if he were his favorite uncle, though they were unrelated and he lived in the 49th. I eventually figured out that for years, he had been working elections (hence the haircut schedule, one each for primary and general) in service to Kelly, who was also the superintendent of the Chicago Park District. 

The reason for all that political work was that he’d been promised that at some time, he’d get a job in the park district, just like hundreds of other guys in the 49th and a few others of Kelly’s favorite wards. 

Kelly liked those wards so much that in 1982, he was compelled to sign a federal consent decree to spend more money in wards elsewhere in the city, especially those where there weren’t any white people to speak of. 

Kelly said then that was no problem, because he was already a real fair fellow. Washington said that was a very bad answer, and if he were elected mayor, the park district would be run by somebody not named Kelly. 

So Kelly wound up one of those Chicago bosses who for the first time in their lives worked very hard for a Republican. This work did not bear fruit. 

Washington won, and in three years, Kelly was out. Robby-Bobby’s hair was down to his shoulders. 

The aftermath of the election was weird. Epton said he had been, and was still, ticked off about the campaign the white Democrat bosses had ginned up for him. He had worked in the civil rights movement, so he would have preferred getting his butt kicked, like most Republican mayoral candidates, to looking like a racist. 

Unfortunately for his credibility, he postponed expressing his distress until the votes were counted, and he didn’t have quite enough of them. 

During the campaign, I was also reticent. I had avoided chatting with Joey Doubles. After it was over, we kind of pretended it never happened. 

There are a lot of things that happen in life that we avoid discussing. We don’t talk about the time Deirdre decided the bathroom was too far away, and opted to puke in the antipasto tray instead. No one mentions anymore how Jack was absolutely sure that the undercarriage of his pickup truck was high enough to clear his dog, sleeping in the driveway. 

Everybody is bad at making some kinds of decisions, and we forgive them, because nobody’s perfect. Sometimes, they’re stupid about politics. Just another thing. 

There are so many things we don’t know about our friends, and don’t want to know. Why not add a few that we do know to the list? If we can’t do anything about whatever it is, we might as well pretend it never existed. 

Eventually, we may actually forget. 

After all, if I hadn’t checked Joey Doubles’ spare, I might never have known about his sudden interest in the Chicago branch of the Republican Party. 

It’s kind of like today, when we all usually find out about each other’s politics not in person, but on Facebook. If Facebook had existed back then, I would have squinted and clicked away from anything from Joey Doubles, so it wouldn’t drive me nuts. 

After the mayoralty, Joey and I started going to the track together. Toward the end of the meeting, I was about even, and had learned a lot about the horses that loitered at Sportsman’s. 

Reading the form one day, I realized that I was familiar with every horse in one of the races. One horse was by far the class of the field. Another was much better than all the others, but not quite as good as the first. 

So I made a plan: I would bet those horses one-two, and also two-one, and wheel the rest of the field in the trifecta. Unless the race was rigged, or there was an injury, I thought, it would be very hard not to win the trifecta, though I’d have to make a show bet on every bum horse in the race, twice. 

“I see what you’re thinking,” Joey said. “And it might work, but you got no idea. Even if it comes in, you’re not going to get much, because you’re spending so much dough on the tickets. You’d probably lose on the deal.” 

By the time that race came up, I had decided against it. 

The two top horses finished one-two. The numbers went up on the board. 

“Oh, oh,” Joey Doubles whispered, as he started inching away. 

I looked at the little white light bulbs. If I hadn’t been touted off my grand plan, I would now have enough money for a large car or a small house. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t listen to me,” he said. 

“Don’t talk, Joey,” I said. “Just get in the car. Drive home. 

“Before it’s too late.”

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