The Last Hurrah

by Edwin O'Connor

“He seemed pretty unbelievable. I don’t think I really understood just why he was given the keys to the city.” “A courteous gesture towards the distinguished visitor. A time-hallowed custom,” Skeffington said urbanely, “although the word distinguished now takes in somewhat more territory than it did years ago. A necessary concession to the spirit of the times; even the British Government has been forced to give in to it. Their last knight over there was a jockey. Our problem is essentially the same, only instead of handing out knighthoods, we distribute keys. We used to give them to General Pershing, Lindbergh, Gertrude Ederle; now we give them to Fats Citronella. We’ve lowered our standards. Also,” he said, “the quality of our keys. We’re distributing a very poor grade of keys these days.” Adam laughed. “I see. Do they open anything at all?” “Not a blessed thing. If they did we’d all have to head for the hills. I’m perfectly willing to honor our distinguished visitors; it’s another thing entirely to trust them.”