I purchased a farmhouse in Connecticut in 1923, during the Harding Administration.  Things were fine till the Great Depression.  I lost the farmhouse and moved to New York.  I lived on the streets, begging for dimes.  “Brother, can you spare a dime?”  That was my byword.  I survived the 1930s, then the war came and I was drafted.  I served in World War II, the big one.  I landed in Normandy on June 6, 1944.  I survived the landing and fought in northern France.

After the war, I struggled with depression.  My life was an endless trial.  Things started to look up during the Eisenhower Administration.  I went to college on the GI Bill.  I got a degree in Philosophy at Harvard.  I lived in Boston during the 1960s.  Those were wild years.  I did fairly well as a professional philosopher.  People liked my philosophy: Live and Let Live.

Then the 1970s came along and I lost everything during the Carter Administration.  I moved  back to New York and lived on the streets.  I begged for dimes.  “Brother, can you spare a dime?”  In 1981 I wrote a letter to President Reagan, begging for a job in the State Department.  I never got an answer.

Things looked bleak.  But then, the cold war ended in 1991, and suddenly my career as a professional philosopher took off.  The 90s were a great decade for my Live and Let Live philosophy.  It was a great time for laissez faire.  Capitalism was on the ascendency and all was good with the world.

In 2001 I thought that George Bush would save the world.  He didn’t.  The shock of 9/11 took its toll on my psyche.  I succumbed to a profound melancholy.  Throughout the Bush Administration, I had a foreboding: a sense that the good times could not last.

In 2008, with the economic crash, I decided to end it all.  I couldn’t take it any longer.  If George Bush couldn’t save the world, who could?  That’s what I reasoned at the time.  In 2008, I was confined to a mental hospital.  The doctors had never seen a case like mine.  They said I was hopeless.  I was despondent.  I missed the Harding Administration, those blithe days when I lived in a farmhouse in Connecticut, when the future seemed so bright.

If only the people would elect a black president, I thought.  I told my psychiatrist about my hopes that a black president would lead America out of its malaise.  My psychiatrist was convinced I was deranged.  “America will never elect a black president,” he said.  The doctors put me in a straitjacket, so convinced were they that I was incurable, what with my laissez faire philosophy and my dreams of a black president.