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heard the news, Delrios went absolutely batshit. The sort of crazy you’d probably see if the Bucs ever won another Super Bowl, which kinda surprised me. It was the start of a 48-hour grown-up version of “ding-dong-the-witch-is-dead” in much of the country, particularly in the so-called Red states. But Florida isn’t decidedly Red or Blue, it’s more Purple, although certain parts fall decidedly into one camp or the other. I had never stopped to think about the politics of the locals who hung out at my favorite taproom before that moment. To this day, I’m not sure whether they were really anti-Summers or just happy to have an added excuse to tie one on.
    The news that night temporarily sobered me like the site of a flashing light in your rearview mirror. While I kept sipping beerand Carl worked on Miss Tubetop, inside I was feeling pretty shitty—and it wasn’t just from too much booze. I felt sorry for the guy. I really did. I had a vague recollection of Summers once telling one of the talking heads, maybe Diane Sawyer, that he’d rather be a really good one-term president than a mediocre twotermer. I figured he meant it. Which only made me feel worse. The former senator from Wisconsin had inherited a disastrous economy and was forever trying to sell a stimulus agenda in an era of austerity. That made it easy for many of us to peg him as a big-spending liberal, just the sort of thing that kept our P1s glued to their radios and ready to buy survival gear.
    Then Carl lined up yet another round of kamikazes, sharing one of his with the dental patient, so I quickly decided I’d drown my guilt. This, I later decided, was the equivalent of getting wasted in Times Square on VJ Day while secretly wishing the Japs had not surrendered.
    The next morning I was an even bigger shit. I could’ve still blown a 2.0 on a Breathalyzer when I went on the air and rejoiced in the death of “American socialism.” I’m sure listeners misread my drunkenness for exuberance. Or maybe they knew I was shitfaced and chalked it up to celebration, which they also would have approved. Still, I delivered all the talking points, even after having read the transcript of the president’s eight-minute speech from the night before and concluding that Summers was sincere. On the program, I even went so far as to play his words over a music bed of the Soviet anthem with an enormous crowd cheer at the end.
    â€œI can think of nothing more selfish than for me, in the midst of this economic morass, to now spend the next year fundraising and traveling the nation campaigning,” he’d said.
    I wondered whether Summers would have regrets. He was a young guy, only 56. It seemed a bit impulsive. And clearly, itwould completely destabilize his own party, the Democrats, in the upcoming presidential race. But even though the president’s words cut me to the quick, they didn’t stop Stan Powers from celebrating his political demise with callers.
    â€œHello, caller, you’ve got Morning Power on WRGT.”
    â€œStan, good morning, you are a real American.”
    â€œThank you, you are a real American.”
    This was our usual circle jerk, only this time, we congratulated one another and acted like we were Founding Fathers who’d just toppled King George III.
    Rod Chinkles, my technical producer, was absolutely euphoric. If I didn’t know he was a holy roller, I’d have sworn he’d smoked or ingested something that morning to give him the buzz that showed in his face. Standing there in his tortoiseshell glasses and pressed white shirt, he would awkwardly fist pump whenever a caller made reference to the news. I felt like he was staring at me while I worked the call-board, weighing whether my enthusiasm for the bloodless coup was legit. Fuck him.
    Rod was never my guy. Not even my hire. He was a technical producer, or “board op,” a job usually reserved for the