(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of The Augusta Press.)
There are 120 days left in Mayor King Hardie Davis’ reign. Thank goodness!
I want to talk about having COVID-19 and how awful it is, but first I want to thank The Augusta Press Publisher Joe Edge for stepping in and writing two fine Sunday columns while I was wasting away in various states of delirium, during which the local Augusta news became a never-ending nightmare.
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Opinion
Actually, Joe’s columns were a little too good, so although I am not completely well, I thought I’d better get up and get back to work before he gets to liking writing a Sunday column too much.
I also want to thank you my loyal friends and readers for your expressions of concern and get-well wishes, especially columnist Michael Meyers who wished me a speedy recovery and asked, “What is Augusta Media without a Sylvia Cooper column?” That was nice, but if I get Covid again, I guess he’ll find out.
An ER Passport Will Get You a Big Ol’ Yawn
I woke up the morning of Saturday, Aug. 13, feeling bad and knew I had what Ernie had come down with two days before. As the weekend progressed, I felt sicker and sicker. Monday, I called my regular doctor and found out you can’t see your doctor when you’re sick. You have to wait two or three weeks for an appointment, in which case, by then you’d probably be well or dead.
So, I went to Piedmont University Health Prompt Care in Grovetown where, after a short wait, a nurse “worked me up” and said I had Covid. She gave me a sheet of paper that said, “ER Passport” and said I should go to the ER. I asked whether I could go to the one in McDuffie County since the hospital there is part of Piedmont. I felt too bad to go anywhere right then except home, so I did and went to the ER the next morning and showed them my ER Passport, which didn’t seem to impress anybody there very much.
First Do No Good
The triage nurse came out after awhile and led me back to an office. I asked her whether they could do anything for me there at the hospital. Like, give me some medicine or something. She said no, but that I could stay there, and they could “work me up.” I said, “They worked me up at Prompt Care yesterday. Why would I want to get worked up again?”
She didn’t seem to have a good answer, so I left. If I had felt better, I would have asked her to at least sell me one of their $200 aspirin, but I wasn’t feeling like joking around. So, I went home and overdosed on Tylenol again. The next day I went back to Prompt Care and said, “I want some medicine,” and they prescribed some. I had to go back two more times for something stronger, but that was a start. And I must say that Prompt Care, and I suppose the other walk-in clinics, are a godsend when your regular doctor can’t see you, and the ER doesn’t have anything for you even though you do have a Passport.
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Two Weeks of Delirium, Fever and Nightmares.
When my fever went up, I dreamed that former Augusta Commissioner Sammie Sias’ attorneys appealed his criminal conviction, and it was overturned on a technicality. He was reinstated to his District 4 commission seat, but when he showed up for the next meeting, Commissioner Alvin Mason was sitting there and wouldn’t move. So, they got into a wrestling match and had to be removed by marshals. They were barred from commission chambers until the first of the year at which time Sias’ term would be over.
Meanwhile, I had nightmares about the commission meeting every day to vote on whether to raise property taxes or roll back the millage rate, but neither side could get the necessary six votes, so they kept on meeting. And I had to toss and turn through every one of them, as delirious as I was, until I brought them a doctor’s excuse, which I couldn’t get because I couldn’t get in to see a doctor. It wasn’t until after I was better that commissioners cut some kind of deal and voted for the rollback.
The next wave of nightmares coincided with a new prescription for some stronger cough medicine I “obtained” and Davis invoking his right not to incriminate himself in his divorce proceedings. He was asked to identify anyone other than his estranged wife, Yvett, that he’s engaged in hanky panky with.
Davis responded, “I assert my rights under OCGA and 24-5-505 to not testify to matters inquired into in this interrogatory.”
And so the questions went, all asking for times, places and descriptions of such conduct in detail. And the answer was always the same. I wanted to get out of there, but it was like Groundhog Day. I was trapped. It was the same thing over and over and over.
While Yvett Davis claims in court papers that Davis has been carrying on romantically with his Atlanta area consultant for years, Davis said Yvett tried to defame him and assassinate his character and work against his leadership in the church and at home. (You know, that character and leadership that prompted him to spend taxpayers’ money to hire a poll dancer to come to Augusta to teach women and young girls how to move.)
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So, there they were in court where Yvett’s lawyer told the judge Yvett thought Davis was hiding money and assets. (Talk on the streets is that it’s probably in an offshore My Brother’s Keeper’s account he set up when he vacationed in the Caribbean.)
Davis flew off the handle at that, and the judge warned them that if either one lied under oath, they could go to the county jail for 30 days.
It was all pretty tame under the circumstances until Joe Edge began talking to Yvett Davis who noticed that Hardie was taking their picture. So, Joe whipped out his phone and took Hardie’s picture; whereupon, not to be outdone, Hardie took another picture of Joe up closer this time, and Joe took Hardie’s picture as Hardie was backing away snapping Joe’s picture again. Hardie escaped into the jury box with Joe in hot pursuit, both taking one picture of each other after another until the judge banged his gavel and yelled, “Order in the court! Bailiff, these two like photography so much, take them both to jail and get their pictures taken.”
About that time, I woke up in a cold sweat, reaching for my cough medicine. After a couple of big glugs, I fell backward onto my pillow and drifted back into delirium. Would I never get any rest?
No. Next, I dreamed that commissioners scrapped the nationwide search for a new administrator and voted to hire former Tax Commissioner Steven Kendrick as city administrator for $300,000 a year and furnish him with a city vehicle. And since Tax Commissioner Chris Johnson lost his bid for tax commissioner and was out of a job, Kendrick hired him as assistant city administrator like Johnson hired Kendrick as deputy tax commissioner after Kendrick stepped down to run for mayor of Augusta. Johnson also got a city vehicle to sweeten the deal. Then Kendrick hired Davis as assistant to the assistant administrator and as lobbyist. And Davis gets to keep his city SUV without the city decal.
I dreamed this all took place behind closed doors after which they trouped down to Probate Court Judge Harry James’ office to be sworn in. They really didn’t have to be sworn in, but since James swore Kendrick and Johnson in after they swapped jobs when Kendrick stepped down and appointed Johnson tax commissioner, they thought it would be good luck.
It was just a dream anyway.
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Understanding Avoidance of Ethical Behavior Could Come in Handy
The worst Covid-induced nightmare I could have had, though, wasn’t a nightmare at all. It was supposedly true that Davis had been hired as an adjunct professor at Georgia Tech to teach ethics.
Scott Hudson, senior reporter for The Augusta Press, called to tell me about it.
“Are you lying down?” he asked.
“Yes, Scott,” I replied. “I’ve been lying down for two weeks now. I haven’t done anything else but lie down.”
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “Hardie Davis is going to teach ethics at Georgia Tech.”
“Are you sure somebody’s not pulling your leg?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve already checked it out,” he said.
“Hardie Davis teaching ethics at Georgia Tech, huh?”
“Yeah. You couldn’t make this s— up,” Scott said.
“No, you couldn’t make this s— up,” I said, reaching for my cough medicine.
Sylvia Cooper is a columnist with The Augusta Press. Reach her at sylvia.cooper@theaugustapress.com
