Guy walks into a bar . . . and meets the next mayor

I walked into a bar-restaurant on Broad Street on New Year's Day looking for an old friend and instead I found our new mayor sitting by himself, surrounded by people who didn't recognize him and had never heard his name.

Jim Kenney looked perfectly at ease in his anonymity at a place called Bliss.

He sat at the elbow on the far end of the bar that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows along Broad Street and framed the passing string bands and fancy brigades like a huge-TV/video-screen tuned to the Mummers Channel. What Kenney could see, mostly, were the backsides of spectators pressed against police barricades cheering the visible upper 10th of the feathered spectacle slowly floating southward like an iridescent iceberg.

He made me from across the room, and gave me a Second Street smile, a tight-lipped half grin, half smirk, that seems to say, "You again." Only as I walked toward him did I realize he was, indeed, alone among strangers, or at least among out-of-state tourists.

Obviously he had chosen that seat at this bar to establish a safe distance from which to enjoy unnoticed watchful public solitude, perhaps for the last time. In two days he would become Philadelphia's 99th mayor and from that day on, for the rest of his life, not just four or eight years, people would call him Mr. Mayor.

My first thought was that I should leave him alone. My second thought was . . . Nah! But I wanted to be sensitive to whatever preinaugural existential doubts he might be experiencing.

I also wanted to say something that would sound as if I were smart enough to have gone to St. Joseph's Prep. After exchanging Happy New Year's, I asked: "Are you having a private Gethsemane?"

And Kenney responded, "I don't want to end up like that!" To which I assured him, "Every mayor gets crucified sooner or later."

I ordered a Rolling Rock and Kenney signaled the bartender to put it on his tab. A guy with a Boston accent sitting to Kenney's left asked his opinion on the firing of Eagles coach Chip Kelly. "I'm glad he's gone," said Kenney. "The guy's a d-."

I laughed, not because of indelicate language used by the city's chief executive - during his eight years in office, Michael Nutter broke new ground challenging the PG rating of mayoral utterances.

I laughed because Kenney had nailed it. He had identified the heretofore elusive X factor, the catalyst behind Kelly's sudden dismissal, his inability to deal effectively with players, coaches, media, fans, the owner, and, in general, human beings of any sort.

Kenney told a story to back up his declaration:

"When Kelly first arrived in Philadelphia, he took an apartment in Old City not far from where I lived. We were neighbors.

"It was during his first season. The Eagles were losing a home game to Tampa Bay, but late in the fourth quarter they came from behind to win. Later that evening I'm in the local grocery store and in walks Kelly.

"There are only three people in the store; me, the owner, and Kelly. We're next to each other in the aisle and I said, 'Big win today, Coach. Congratulations.' Without a word, without looking at me, Kelly walked past me and out the door.

"As he walked out the front door I shouted after him, 'At least Andy Reid would have said hello!' "

After about 20 minutes, word spread among Bliss' dozen customers that Philadelphia's mayor-to-be was among them. A guy from Boston was the first to break the ice.

"I hear you're the new mayor," he said. Kenney introduced himself and asked the guy what he did for a living. "I'm a plumber," he said. "I'm here visiting my girlfriend."

"Joe the Plumber," Kenney dubbed him.

Pretty soon Joe and his girlfriend were posing for photos with the no-longer-anonymous Kenney.

Afterward, Joe asked Kenney if he had a business card.

"I don't carry them," Kenney said.

"Well how can I reach you if I want to contact you?" the visitor continued.

The next mayor of Philadelphia replied by giving the man his personal email address. And he repeated it slowly as Joe wrote it down.

What would you call a guy like that? "Mr. Mayor" works for me.

Clark DeLeon writes regularly for Currents. deleonc88@aol.com