Many years ago, there lived an emperor who was so excessively fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on them. One day clever swindlers came to town promising to weave him the finest garments. But they never did. Instead, they tricked the emperor into believing himself finely clad as he paraded naked through town. His subjects, afraid to speak out, praised his invisible suit, until a young child finally told the truth: "The emperor has no clothes." But the emperor marched on.
-- Hans Christian Andersen, The Emperor's New Clothes
Like a preening tom turkey, chest puffed out and tail feathers held high, Marion Barry struts into the auditorium. As the TV lights flash on, he glances up, a smile curling around his puffy face. But the crowd does not smile back. Instead, it quietly studies his imposing 6-ft. 1-in. frame, burdened now by a slight paunch and a balding pate. A hint of disdain darkens some eyes. Though the mayor of the nation's capital arrived at this town meeting to discuss safety barriers on a bridge, he acts more like an emperor holding court. Or, some might say, trying to hold his court together.
; Rebellion is in the air. Midway through the debate, an architect blurts out, "Is Marion Barry going to take the heat? Who calls the shots here? Nobody else." A stony silence ensues. Searching for words to cap the crowd's venom, the mayor hesitates, then answers, "I'm a heat taker. I'm of the Truman philosophy. The buck stops at my desk. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen."
Once a man of soaring eloquence, the Barry of 1989, under fire, can muster only cliches from Harry Truman. His retort reveals the magnitude of his decline after ten years of calling all the shots: he is exhausted, unimaginative, besieged. Yet he has got one thing right: these days, his kitchen is hotter than hell. His clout is ebbing, and he teeters on the brink of a palace coup.
What prestige remains he relishes. When he departs from his sumptuous office near the White House, he strides down the hall as if he owns it. Security guards and harried aides tag along as he munches on a bag of junk food. He nods slightly to his lieges, who nervously stand aside.
Barry is one of the nation's most powerful black politicians, overseeing a $4 billion city-government budget and almost 50,000 workers. And although a City Paper columnist dubbed him "Mayor for Life," a mocking comparison with Haiti's corrupt Papa Doc Duvalier, Barry, 53, is no tyrant. He just knows how power works. Says an insider: "He is a consummate and quintessential big-city boss."