Speech – Building A Nation

         

             “Good morning, ladies and gentleman of the American Armed Forces. You mustn’t smoke, but feel free to drink coffee.

              “It is popular today to question why American troops are in Afghanistan. I will tell you why. It’s because we sent them there. Yes, that is correct, most American troops are over there on America’s dime. Although I can imagine American contractors going to Afghanistan, using their own money, to hire themselves out as mercenaries, I just don’t see that happening among the troops. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think I speak for the entire Command when I say we’re proud to have each and every one of you inside the tent pissing out, rather than outside the tent pissing in!

             “But enough about me. If we lose the next election, it will be because of hubris, so I try not to speak about myself.

              “I see those troops stationed in Afghanistan acting as antibodies in the body politic’s fight against the insidious infection of Communi—oops! I almost said Communism. The spread of Islamic radicalism is what I meant, of course. We can’t let that happen.

             “To use another analogy, those troops are the fuel additive added to the gasoline of American diplomacy to prevent engine knock in the Afghan vehicle.

            “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Is victory attainable in Afghanistan? Let me rephrase that question: Nothing is ever 100%. That toy train you wanted as a child never went fast enough. That ice cream cone was never big enough. This is the human predicament. Nothing is ever going to be quite enough. We wouldn’t be human if it were otherwise!

           “Having said that, a limited war with limited goals will someday be followed by a limited peace with limited results. THIS IS NOT A BAD THING! As in strip poker, as long as a single shred of clothing remains on the body politic, America’s dignity remains intact!

            “Historians will look back on this time and think they have lost their place in the history book they are reading. NO, NO, NO, this is NOT Vietnam! We are not caught in a quagmire, fighting a local insurgency among the indigenous people of the region who insist on going their own way and fashioning lives in their own style, as profane and different as they may be from the American ideal. A thousand times NO! This is not happening.

           “What we have here, is a failure to communicate.

            “When we pump money into the local economy in these remote provinces, it totally disrupts the status quo.

             “When we send in aid workers, they are in need of military protection. Without it, they’re sitting ducks. Having learned from bitter experience, we discover that the military presence of our troops ALSO draws fire. It’s a no-win situation.

             “I am calling for the following remedies. The fertilizer factory in Pakistan providing most of the amyl nitrate used in roadside bombs is being bought out by an American conglomerate, who have promised to convert it to quaalude production. A clinical relaxant, quaaludes can be added to the water supply in the most violent provinces. By local consent, of course. As a public service. If the Afghans themselves want them.

           “The point is, those people need to decide for themselves regarding their future. We can build, but we can’t destroy. Or we mustn’t destroy, at any rate, which really comes down to the same thing.

            “The election coming up in 2012, where the very existence of my administration will be called into question, in no way influences my policies, I can assure you. Fighting for our lives… well, it would be intolerable of me to lecture you about fighting for your life.

            “By a happy quirk, the Constitution makes the President also the Commander In Chief. You know, George Washington was a fantastic general, so the framers said, ‘He’s so good, why not let him wear two hats?’

             “I respect that. It didn’t turn out so well with a paranoid president like Richard Nixon, but generally, the system works. This gives me the prerogative to send in American fighting power whenever and wherever necessary. As a temporary measure, of course. Since Congress has the final authority over declaring—you know—war. It certainly was never a problem under Gerald Ford.

              “I like chili, but that doesn’t mean I would hesitate for a moment to use American power—sparingly, of course—if that country ever were threatened by Communist insurgents or a radical Muslim take-over. You have to use moderation in these things. Shock and awe, certainly, but then, get your butt outta there.

             “Which is what we’re doing in Afghanistan. Slowly, methodically, hunkered down in a crouch, but with heads held high, so to speak. You get my point. I don’t ever want to be accused of putting American soldiers in harm’s way. On the other hand, I can’t control other people’s behavior. People say all kinds of things! So, as an alternative, I simply won’t let it bother me. Water off a duck’s back. Sticks and stones can break my bones. Yada, yada, yada. See ya later, alligator.

              “My opponents in the political field will make hay over the lack of progress in Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Syria, Yemen and anywhere else they can find to nitpick. The American people are too smart to fall for their facile arguments and hopeless comparisons!

              “God bless you and long live the United States of America!”

                                       – President Blackie Diamond in my upcoming novel

*

The Wash D.C. School of Journalism

 

             Occasionally, because of its name, The National Herald is mistaken for a church publication. Such is not the case. At those moments, only its reputation as a 120-year-old newspaper of great repute rescues it from calumny. You don’t expect The New York Times to be a compendium of train and bus schedules. The Chicago Tribune covers more than the courts. The Los Angeles Times, flat broke, still lists other items in addition to sunrises and sunsets.

            Several years into the new millenium, to celebrate Valentine’s Day, The National Herald’s magazine Hark! ran a short story contest based on a photograph. A voluptuous strawberry blonde—anonymously presented from the back—lies half-naked on a bed, clutching the receiver of a telephone.

            Your job, Bob, shall be to make up a romantic story based on this photo. Should you or any of your team be captured or killed, my secretary will disallow that individual’s expense account!

            My creative writing teacher at Moosegrave College once lectured us, “Boys and girls, young adults, please don’t ever begin a story with the sentence ‘Frank sat on the grass in front of the frat house.’ Nothing could be more mundane, pernicious and absolutely reeking of inconsequentiality. A story that begins like that loses the reader’s interest before you have even begun.”

            What a challenge!

            Here is that story.

                                         Tell Laurel I Love Her

            Bob sat on the grass in front of the frat house.

            “Hello?”

            “Laurel, it’s Bob!”

            “Good grief, Bob, what time is it?”

             “Never mind what time it is, Laurel! I LOVE YOU!”

               “Bob!” she yawned cavernously. “It’s sweet of you to call on Valentine’s Day, honey, but a little early—“     

               “It’s 10 a.m. I’m sitting on the grass in front of the Alpha Sigma Pi fraternity house here on campus in sunny Hollywood, Florida, thinking of you, Laurel, thinking how I love you! Let me count the ways. There’s—“

               “Bob, honey, it’s way early!” she said, all but dropping the phone. She couldn’t really be angry with him. Bob forgave her every little misstep. That was his strength, he was non-judgmental. Even when she took up pole-dancing to supplement her salary as a waitress, Bob hadn’t complained. Jim, Paul and Richard all felt pole-dancing was out of line. People completely missed the benefits of pole-dancing! It was wonderful exercise. Many of the movements were similar to cheerleading. No one criticized cheerleaders. Ergo, why criticize pole-dancers? True, she pole-danced in a titty bar, but that wasn’t her fault. Given a choice, she gladly would have pole-danced in Town Hall.

           Even when she slept with her boss, Arturo, sweet and considerate Bob had understood. He used the opportunity to score some coke from Artie.

        “Laurel, the sky is filled with purple haze—!”

        “Bob?” she asked, beginning to tire of this conversation. “What are you talking about, Bob? Have you begun ingesting methamphetamine again, Bob?”

        “I’m clean, I swear!” he gasped into his cell phone. “There’s a bright, silver light filling the sky, Laurel!”

        “Because, Bob, long-term abuse of crystal meth can cause—“

        “My God!” he screamed. “It’s a f—ing spaceship!”

        “Bob?”

        On the lawn of the frat house, yellow with morning sunshine, alive with the buzzing of bees and twitter of birds, the eight-ton alien spacecraft roared to a stop amidst a pool of flame. Slowly, slowly, the metal door slid open and hundreds of little green men the size of crickets infested the lawn. Firing tiny rayguns, they felled students on every side. Pinging and banging, their guns mowed down the young people like the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

        Clamping his iPod Nano more firmly to his hip with his right hand and holding his cell phone with his left, Bob sprinted toward the safety of the corner.

        Over the phone, Laurel could hear the wop-wop-wop of military helicopters. I guess this is what it’s like to serve in Iraq, she thought, on the edge of sleep. The soothing wop, wop, wop had the rhythm of a pole-dance. As she drifted off…

        “Hello! Ma’am?”

        She was awakened by an authoritative voice. She must have dozed off holding the phone. “What? Yes, who is this?” she asked sleepily. Turning to look at the wall clock across the room, she saw it was 11:15 a.m. “Jesus!” she mumbled crankily. “What does a girl have to do to get some sleep?” Poor Bob, she had used up 75 of his anytime minutes.

        “This is Ralph Rolfe of the 33^rd Medical Detachment, ma’am,” said the voice. He sounded surprisingly virile.

        Laurel began to wake up! “Yes?” she asked.

        “You must be Laurel, ma’am,” said the deep, consoling voice of Ralph Rolfe.

        “Well, yes, I am,” she said, sitting up in bed and running her hand through her hair. “Do I know you?”

        “Not really, ma’am. I’m a medic with the 33^rd,” Rolfe told her apologetically.

        “Because I’m not that far north of Hollywood. I mean, Florida isn’t such a big state, geographically.”

        “That’s true,” agreed Ralph Rolfe. “I know your name because the last thing this young man, whose pale lifeless head is cradled in my lap, said before he died was, ‘Tell Laurel I love her!’ Just how far north of Hollywood are you, ma’am? May I call you Laurel?”

        Oh, well, she thought philosophically. It is Valentine’s Day and dear, sweet Bob wouldn’t have wanted me to be alone on Valentine’s Day! The very fact that he called—

*

            Unlike the university age editors of the Moosegrave College weekly, the grown-up professionals at The National Herald had no complaint about the narrative style nor the length of my piece, which stayed within the prescribed limits. Although they agreed that, technically, it was a short story focusing on the various aspects of love, by their reckoning, what was missing was the sting of Cupid’s arrows. They felt my contribution failed to fulfill the spirit of Valentine’s Day.

            Rather ungraciously, they told me to take a hike.

*

            Alas, I live with the rancid remnant of early success. Once upon a time, having just graduated from college, I won the golden horseshoe at this self-same National Herald. They took a reasoned, lengthy reply I made to an article about the Dutch Vondelpark outside Amsterdam and published it as a bonafide news story.

            I was a newspaper writer!

            They sent me a check for $25!       

             Beginner’s luck fresh out of the gate, I have spent a lifetime trying to duplicate this one case of correct info and perfect timing. 

             Like many a denizen of Greater Washington, over the years, I too have sought employment at The National Herald. I have applied to work editorially on the Night Desk, electronically on the national blog or even organizationally within the Data Archive Division. A simple B. A. in Communications—journalism, radio, TV and film—I get fully dumped upon by people with Master’s Degrees who already have 30 years’ broadcast and writing experience for major news outlets near you!

            “Why are you applying for a nuts and bolts position at The National Herald if you’re already a senior editor somewhere else?” I actually asked a fellow applicant at the publisher’s Open House job fair.

            “Transferring laterally allows me to move up the career ladder without waiting for someone above me, where I work now, to retire or die.

            “Although I’m not at all sure that I want to commit to a new company at this time.”

            Fee, fye, fo, fum, I’m trying to land a job, and my competitors want to embellish their résumés!

            In this new millenium, I have rec’d. only an occasional nibble from The National Herald.

            At The National Herald, it’s not the quality of your writing that counts. Everyone writes stupendously! Nor is encyclopedic knowledge particularly rewarded. There are researchers to ferret that stuff, every reporter has a string of knowledgeable contacts, and Google works as well on their WiFi network as anyone else’s. No, the sad fact is, in an ever-shrinking environment, it’s your reputation that separates the gainfully employed from the dudes on line at Social Services. If you already have your set of keys to the building, mazel tov! If not, seek thy fortune elsewhere.

              I have since attempted to remain an impartial observer of the newspaper scene, noting the unmantling and demise of one news sheet after another. “Getting screwed?” I gloat triumphantly, in spite of my best efforts to the contrary. “It couldn’t happen to a more elitist, arrogant, puffed-up, self-aggrandizing collection of self-congratulatory egomaniacs!”

               I mean, happily, I’m not bitter or anything, right?

*

 

Multiple Lizzies

 

            Reading through a hard copy of my blog, I realize that “Yikes! We’ve never even been properly introduced!” Like an Icelandic volcano, I just started spewing ash, smoke and lava at you! (Does this mean that every sentence I write hereafter will end with an exclamation point?!)

            My name is Kevin Feingold. I grew up in Oxburg, Maryland. I live with my 90-year-old mom, which kind of gives the game away: If she’s 90, I must be, like, really old, man. Feeling, acting and looking like I’m 40, I lead a chameleon existence. Only when pushed to anger, do I remind people who are disrespecting me that “I am 63 years old and, actually, retired from the military! Some of those precious freedoms you are enjoying, have been protected by me!” I always regret myself, wishing I hadn’t said that. It has never, ever swayed anyone in the slightest. People who like me continue to like me, people who think I’m a prick continue to abuse my presence.

             The point is, yes, I’m giving three days a week to the campaign of my dear, personal buddy Anna Bola, but that’s only a hobby.

             I’m a screenwriter. Retired from the military in 1999, I floundered a bit, until reconnecting and teaming up with my high school buddy Bruce. (At some point, I’ll get his permission to give you his last name. In the age of Google and Facebook, I’ve become very leery about giving out other peopIe’s vital statistics.) Almost immediately, I rechristened him “Boopsie,” which is what we called him at Oxburg High. When I get really angry or excited, I call him “The Boob.” He and I opened our writing bureau in 2007. Our glass-fronted office is in a strip mall, in what used to be a convenience store. The vacated premises next door once housed a video store. Am I coming through here? This is one desiccated property. Harvey Weingold (no relation), who owns the mall, has said quite honestly, “It’s a terrible time to own commercial real estate, especially mine, which depends on the retail trade. People ain’t buying squat, and the shopping arcades are emptying fast. Even after this so-called fantastic bailout, you can’t find new start-ups among retail establishments. Nobody’s stupid enough to open a business in these perilous times.

              “I don’t like you, I don’t need you, the goddam building can just as well stand empty for all I care! I’m that bummed out!

              “However, in the interest of decorum and good business practices, I would rather have you in my building than not. As a hedge against vandalism. To present a glimmer of commercial life, a semblance of a functioning mall. Thank God my dad never lived to see this day! A taquería and two Hollywood script writers my only tenants.

             “Enjoy, enjoy! Renovations, expansion, I am open to suggestion.

             “Just don’t do anything without telling me or I’ll throw your sorry asses out on the street before you know what hit you!”

              We love Harvey. Our rent is astronomically low.

              Let’s just say our section of Rockville Pike isn’t what it used to be. If it ever was.

              Three days a week at the campaign, four days a week at the office, when do I get a day off? Aha! Excellent question. At least once a week, I blow my stack at my mom over absolutely nothing, ranting, “Goddam it! When do I get a goddam day off around here?! I’m tired! TIRED, you hear?! I’m fucking exhausted. Screw this, I’m going to bed.”

              You can see that hanging around in June to play games with Miss Handjob, Carrie Ann Winslow, entailed more than time away from home. It also meant a total leave of absence from work work, from my profession. Playing hooky, for which I am rightly ashamed. When I’m not there, Boopsie works alone, but he doesn’t like it. Research takes many hours, from early morning until late at night. Screenwriting is the original all-consuming passion. I can only compare it to Latin monks transcribing books by hand or Torah writing. Tedious, exacting and forever. So my letting Carrie get her hooks into my soul like that weren’t too cool.    

              I will be glad when Anna’s campaign ends and I return to only a six-day work week. Anna’s husband Frank, an economics professor at U. of Maryland, mentioned his intention to retire now that Anna is heading to a position in Baltimore. “Don’t you dare!” I counseled him. “You won’t have a moment’s rest. The biggest mistake of my life was retiring from a full-time job. I’ve been chasing my tail ever since. At least with a 40-hour work week, you have something called leisure. Time off. Take that away, every day is a work day!”

              He thinks I’m being histrionic. I have not, however, heard any more talk about him resigning from teaching.

             As for screenwriting, this simply means that specific individuals at several major film studios trust us enough to give us a stab at writing or improving properties, to which they own the rights. Yes, in the Old Days you had to go out west to do that. Whether or not it was a Golden Age, that megillah ended with the arrival of telex machines. Since then, faxes, floppy discs, Fed-Ex and, of course, the Internet have dispersed the work load in all directions. If you have an arcane specialty—or know someone who does—Hollywood can probably use you in some way, shape or form. Having written treatments regarding “needle Nazis,” wolf urine and Tibetan horns, I can attest to how arcane Hollywood scripts can get.

              Boopsie and I also do our own production, on occasion, in the field of documentaries. Welcome to my world!

                                                                *

               The yearly Filmmakers’ Awards dinner is not your seminal event. J-Lo and Anistan rarely attend. We get no coverage on “Access Hollywood.” No one can even agree if it should be called the Filmmaker’s Awards or Filmmakers’ Awards, that’s what happens when people spend too much time in the cutting room editing out single frames of film. We’re not just focused on detail, we’re focused on details within the detail. Film grain. How do you make a high def, Blu-ray copy of a film like Top Gun, with its purposely prevalent use of grain and pushed film speed?

               This topic speaks volumes to Boopsie and me, the “documentary filmmakers” who’ve never learned proper lighting technique. “Throw a spot on it,” is Boopsie’s first and final suggestion when setting up. The Washington Monument? “Throw a spot on it.” The Hudson River. “Throw a spot on it.”

             “Boopsie, how do you throw a spotlight on the Hudson River?”

              That’s what they write shooting scripts for, so he can bury his head in the shooting script and not have to answer knotty tech questions.

             “I see our third shot entails nudity,” he’ll say, “making a statement” to cover his faulty skill set.

              You gotta laugh. “Boopsie, the Statue of Liberty is not a nude.”

              “The way I film it, it’ll look naked,” he insists. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

              Pul-lease. Nobody ever pays us big bucks.

              We is at the awards din-din to (1) hear the presentation on conversion of back catalog to HD and (2) ostensibly to receive an award for our short Mirror Band, a doc that follows the angry, depraved wanderings of our receptionist Jacqueline—or “Jackie”— and her latest punk configuration.

             Naturally, since we don’t do lighting, the category of our award is “available light photography in a color presentation.”

              I told you, this is a group that focuses on the details.

             “Definitely one of the most oppressive films of the year,” Dwight Smith, the white-haired, red-faced Chairman of the Filmmakers Union, assures us. Dressed in a fine suit and swaying back and forth at the lectern, he shakes his shaggy, white hair at us. Even his tie says “Dapper Dan.”

             “He means impressive,” Boopsie tells everyone at our table. Turning to the surrounding tables, he calls out, “He means impressive!”

              “A film so oppressive,” Dwight continues, seemingly oblivious to Boopsie’s correction, “I took my young nieces to see it.”

             “See, he means impressive,” the Boob demands, all but jumping out of his seat.

             “You have to calm down your film producer friend,” Scott McCormick warns me ominously, leaning across our table and removing the flower display to the floor with a single brusque grab of his hand. Hey, you don’t fuck with Scott.

            “I can only try—“

            “Because,” Scott continues emphatically, “we all know what old Dwight is trying to say. ‘Impressive,’ ‘oppressive,’ who cares? Dwight was moved by your film.”

            “See, Boopsie,” I say, pulling on the tails of his tux. “Shush! Everybody knows Dwight gets a little gaga when he’s been drinking.”

             “Who’s been trinking?!” Dwight booms from the stage, all but toppling onto the nearest table. I guess my voice carried.

              “Did someone say ‘Lady Gaga’?” one of our compatriots calls from the crowd.

              “Here, here!” someone else shouts and begins to clap. He is quickly followed by almost everyone else in the room. If we can’t shut the Chairman up, we’ll drown him out with our applause.

                You’ll notice there aren’t any women there. Wither the women filmmakers of Washington, D.C.? Out working, while we laggards sit sweating in the ballroom of a swanky downtown hotel, blowing our annual dues on overpriced crab cakes with quiche Lorraine.

                                                                *

               “Where is your dear Jacqueline? Didn’t she accompany you?” Paul Raoul Sanchez asks us afterwards as we loiter in front of the hotel, waiting for the valet parking attendants to bring forth our vehicles.

              “Smoking dope in Brazil,” replies Boopsie, the worse for wear.

              “Nah,” I reassure Raoul, who after all is a friend, “that’s cool. They’re actually playing a gig. I’ll give you her regards.”

            “You’ll give who… my…?”

            Oops, Raoul’s English isn’t that good. “I’ll give her your regards.”

             “Playing a gig out of town?” he asks, pressing his mottled face against my shoulder. The crush of humanity on the sidewalk is fast becoming impossible. I wonder if Raoul is going to be a pest.

             “Actually, she’s performing at The Graveyard,” I tell him, instantly regretting the lapse. I try never to give away concrete details.

             “How quaint,” exclaims Raoul. “We must go there!”

            “We mustn’t go there,” I breathe in his ear. “I have to get Boopsie home to his lair before he demonstrates single-handedly the colloquial phrase ‘fighting drunk.’” Already, I am in the process of wrestling the glass award trophy from my business partner’s hand. I can distinctly hear him growling at the crowd.

              “We’ll do that,” says Raoul in the clipped tones of a European. It’s moments like these that endear him to us plebeians. He’s got his smart phone out, looking up the address of The Graveyard, like one of those dorks in the TV commercial. “My treat, my tab, my pleasure,” he insists, getting pushed into on-coming traffic.

            “Raoul, you naughty man,” I sigh, pulling him back from sudden death. “You have more moolah than you know what to do with.”

            Indeed, a very rich South American, he is even now tipping the Latino car attendants, the doorman, even the “Executive Manager” who is seeing us off, a black dude in an enviously high-end gray charcoal suit that puts most of us to shame. Raoul stuffs a $20 bill in each pocket in turn. The attendants smile toothily, say “Aw-right!” and run around in even bigger circles. Eventually someone goes to find his and my car.

            “Where is this graveyard of yours?” asks Raoul.

            We manhandle Boopsie into the front seat of my car and I take him home to Maryland. Raoul follows in his Maserati. By the time I reach the correct block, the Boob is comatose. I am glad to have Raoul’s help in lugging the man up the stairs to his second floor apartment. We dump him, unceremoniously, on the bed, lock the door on our way out and push the key through the mail slot.

            “The Graveyard is way over in Rosslyn, in Virginia,” I warn Raoul.

            “So?”

            “What?” I whine. “You want to go there?”

            “I insist!”

            “Roire jär lada.”

            “I don’t know what that means.”

            “Loaded and raring to go.”

              Looking at his watch, he pauses and adds, “Unless, of course, the show is over.”

            “Raoul, it’s The Graveyard. They don’t even open the doors until 11 o’clock at night.”

            We drive there in his Maserati, of course, watching vague shapes flit by in the inky black of a summer’s night. I feel like I’m lying in a bathtub, the car sits so low. Distracted by the sloping windshield, I am pressed back into my seat every time Raoul accelerates. Zero to 60 in 3.8 seconds, I’m told.

            And, of course, the rock club is a madhouse. I would never have gone there on my own. A sea of young people and college students populate the sidewalk, smoking. “Excuse me,” Raoul asks at his most diffident.

          “Huh?”

           “I’m sorry. We are entering this establishment.”

             The doormen eye his Giorgio Armani suit, his Gucci loafers with the trademark tassles, his hair, the $100 sunglasses. The $20 bill discreetly handed to each of them assures us quick entrance.

              Inside, a raucous crowd drinks beer in steins from one end of the wood-paneled room to the other. The chrome bar, buried in humanity, seems unattainable, but—Moses at the Red Sea—Raoul surges forward and I bump along in his wake.

              Many exceedingly touchable young women eye my companion. I am, as usual, virtually invisible.

              “Oh, shit,” I mutter.

              “What’s the matter?” Raoul calls over his shoulder, always solicitous.

              “I know the bartender! That’s Gary Price. We studied television technique together at the local public access station around the corner. Long story.”

              “O-kay,” Raoul replies, his arm wrapped affectionately around the shoulder of a panting, perspiring, smiling vixen. “What are you drinking, dahling?” he drawls. “And can I freshen it for you?”

             “Vodka tonic made with Kettel One,” she instructs him primly, running her ruby-red fingernails through his coal-black hair. A walking advert for the Latin Lover, Raoul’s clothes and accessories scream “Money!”

              Within minutes, he is drinking with Monica as if they’ve known one another a lifetime, his elbows anchoring the bar. I stand and eye the stage through the kaleidoscopic gloom.  

             Tired but resolute, I want to be home in bed.

             Raoul is just getting started.

             “You again!” Gary joshes, siphoning me a plain ginger ale with his handgun. “I’ll need to see an I.D.”

            “Yeah, right!”

             The bar area is a melee of madly thirsty customers, wet dollar bills of various denominations floating across the counter in a steady stream. Everyone shouts to be heard, chattering drunken innuendoes. Some girls have one of those flat, cherry-red, shirtpocket cameras out, video recording the scene.

           “What do you like about Explosive Plastic?” they ask me.

            “Me?” I answer, surprised. “You mean the band?”

             “The band playing here tonight. I hear they’re awesome!”

              “Well, I do know the singer. I’d have to call them noisy but tight. This is the third incarnation of this band. They change drummers and names once a month. I don’t know why. How old are you guys?”

              “We’re journalism majors at Moosegrave College… Why are you laughing?”

              “I was a journalism major at Moosegrave. Great school!” I shout. With the decibels reaching truly sonic heights, everything has to be spoken at Scream Level 3. I finally take pity on my poor hearing, rip up a napkin and stuff tissue in my ears. It doesn’t stop me from continuing the conversation.

              “When did you go to Moosegrave?” the girls ask, returning to me after carefully meandering up and down the bar, camera in hand. A tracking shot.

             “Back in the Stone Age. Black and white television. Analog transmissions. Mono recording. Teletype machines. All that good stuff!”

            “What’s a tell-a-type machine?”

             “Nothing you need to worry about,” I counsel them.

              They’re nice. Fresh, excited bundles of energy, smiling in a nano-second, waving their hands daintily while quaffing beer like sailors, they are caught in that awkward phase between waif and buxom: They have the angular faces of teenagers but the pudgy waistlines and wider buttocks of adults.

               Interpreting my appreciative glance, the dark-haired beauty tells me, “We’re not here to hook up. We’re just here to see the band.”

                Whoa!

                “Don’t bother with Clarisa,” her buddy interjects, physically placing herself between us. “She’s butch. No man can provide what she wants.” Red-haired, green-eyed and freckly, she smiles ruefully and jokingly shoves her hand down my trousers.

                 Whoa!!!

                 “Anybody home?”

                  It’s a relief when they get distracted by the appearance of the band!

                 Jacqueline is, as always, majestic. The black-eyed, evil temptress, she toys with the audience, howls, sings and prowls the stage. A thick, black microphone cord slinks after her like a tail. Retro, Jackie is all leather hip boots, frilly black blouse, leather vest, neon-colored plastic bangles on both arms, fingerless black leather gloves à la Michael Jackson and face paint à la Kiss.

             She also knows how to sing.

            The band is good. Maybe not mainstream Top 40 radio and record company good, but exciting. The new drummer stays sharp and percussive. The guitarist lays endless riffs on us, spiking the melody with rumbling flourishes that seem to say, “Anything less would be a waste of your time and mine!”

            Yngve Malmsteen guitar playing.

            A tight set, they nail it.

            The band is selling copies of their first and only single, of course, “Bathroom of Pain,” a 3-song e.p. for $5 each. Raoul immediately buys 20, stuffing a $100 bill adroitly into the young sales lady’s shirt pocket, avidly caressing her breast in the process. She smiles at him, accepting his frank admiration. “And your name?” he asks, shouting to be heard.

            “What?”

            “What.. is.. your…name?”

             “Mine?” she asks, surprised. “I’m J.C.”

             “Hello, J.C.!” he declares, stuffing a $20 bill in her blouse pocket as a tip, smiling shyly, and turning away before she can protest.

              She looks at me looking at her. “Is he your friend?” she asks. “He’s worse than Santa Claus. Everybody gets presents.”

              Walking slowly, making his way toward the stage, Raoul hands out free singles to all takers. I don’t need one. We used our office equipment to burn the copies on CD-R recordable discs.  Most of the kids are dancing. Confronted by Raoul, some shake their heads “no,” believing he’ll ask for payment.

            “All gone!” he smirks, minutes later, returning to join me by the bar. “Good band. Nice crowd, too! It’s not Caracas, but it’ll do to be getting on with.”

            The set ends. I applaud until my hands ache. “Let’s skedaddle!”

            “I want to stay!” Raoul protests.

            “Everyone’s leaving! Let’s skedaddle,” I say, no longer able to stifle my yawns. Still, it takes another 15 minutes to separate Raoul from the bar.

            We walk back to his car. There, half on the sidewalk and half on the street, stand J.C. and her friends. A whole squad of gay young women, they smoke cigarettes and admire Raoul’s Maserati. After all, it is canary yellow.

            “I knew it was you!” J.C. bursts out laughing at our approach.

            “I have to give the young lady a ride in my car,” he tells me.

            “Raoul, they’re gay.”

            “I have to give the young lady a ride in my car,” he repeats, frowning mischievously. “I am an equal opportunity heterosexual. I seduce all women regardless of sexual orientation.”

            A girl named “Ankhi” gives me a lift in her car. We follow J.C. and Raoul in the Maserati. I can’t believe it, but he lets her drive! Talk about liberated. Or perhaps just admirably insured.  We drive to an all-night diner that doubles as a pizzeria. Five car-loads of us. Worse than a flash mob, Raoul, the girls and I flood the place. “Pizza! Pizza!” they shout, hopping on the counter top, climbing on the chairs, marching in and out through the swinging doors to the kitchen. “We want Mario! We want Mario! Where is Salvatore?!”

            “Hokay, hokay already,” a heavy, bearded, very dark Sicilian announces, coming through the doors from the kitchen holding an enormous wooden spatula. “You wreck mah place, I hitchu wid dis!” He waves the spatula threateningly.

            “Booo-ooo-oo! ‘Ray-y-y-y!” the girls razz him.

            “Shaddup an’ sit down, little ladies, I bring you pizza!” he declares.

            As obediently and quietly as sheep, they sit at the tables, although they do throw the paper napkins on the floor and spill salt on the table tops.

            “We’ve been here before,” J.C. assures us, smiling tartly.

            “Do tell,” I say.

            “They know us.”

            “Apparently.” I take the opportunity to count heads. An astonishing 17 of us fill the tables. Raoul and I are the only guys.

            “My treat. My tab!” insists Raoul.

            “No way, José!… Don’t put your con on us, gent!… That’s so Old School! Try another one!… Boo-oo-oo!” they chorus.

            “I don’t think you’re going to get to pay,” I tell him, as the Sicilian runs back and forth to the kitchen bringing us tray after steaming tray of piping hot pizza.

            “These are too hot to eat. Let’s go outside,” the girls decide. In the lot behind the diner, there is a basketball court. J.C. and her crew know where the light switch is and where the b-balls are stored. Waiting for the pizzas to cool, they play a pickup game.

            “You see the way those guys left the diner?” Raoul asks, smiling but sweating, watching the game. “The other customers. You see that? Mass exodus.”

            “I think our crowd kind of frightened them off.”

            “Yeah, whatever,” Raoul marvels. I suddenly realize that this is a whole new American experience for him.

            “The Lizzie scene really isn’t my thing,” I tell him.

            “I’m impressed, is all. Very tough, competent ladies. They are not like I expected, at all.”

            “Fuck it, I’m going in for pizza,” I say and leave them to their game.

            Burning my tongue, I am soon joined by the gang, who troop back into the diner, raid the soft drink cooler and devour everything in sight.

            Raoul goes into the kitchen and arranges payment. None of us say anything, but the girls look happy, grateful and satiated. It’s late. We all wear tomato sauce moustaches.

            “What does that guy do for a living?” one of them asks me. I like women individually, but in these numbers, I don’t know where to look.

            “His family owns, like, half of Argentina.”

             “Oh.” She shrugs.

              Impressed? Unimpressed? Can she pinpoint Argentina on a map of the world? They are in their 20’s, but except for frequenting punk clubs, storming eateries, playing night basketball and being gay, I don’t get these ladies at all.

              “You guys are way out of my league,” I tell her.

               “Oh.” She shrugs, busy with a crumpled napkin, wiping away tomato sauce.

                Screw this. My brain shut down an hour ago. Everything and everybody looks green and in high contrast under the fluorescent lights. Eventually, we say good night to the ladies and Raoul drives me back to Maryland.

               Wild summer nights.

*

Author’s Note

            There’s a certain panting quality to my narratives, as if I’m running home between occurrences to record the tale. Which I am. As the plot unfurls, so go I. “Life as literature” sounds hopelessly pedantic. “Fucking up and writing about it” is more my style.

            A journalism major at Moosegrave College in 1968, I had a weekly column in the campus newspaper Moose Call. Entitled “Luckless Cream Cheese,” I wrote about poor Mike Hargrove and the terrible (“Sob, sob…”) time he was having with mean girlfriends, campus rivals and his disappointment with American politics.

            Hmmm.

            Why does this sound vaguely familiar?

            To round out the donut, I wanted to spend my penultimate year in college writing (9 months x four weeks =) 36 columns, and end up with a 36 chapter novel. Easy as writer’s cramp.

            My narrative style did not sit well with my college-age editors. “We don’t understand your column,” they complained. “Write essays.”

            “Are people reading my column?”

            “That’s beside the point—“

            “But do people read it?” I asked.

            At this point, Big Kahuna Editor-In-Chief Randall Blake himself intervened in our little office debate. “Everybody reads your fucking column,” he explained, “which is wholly irrelevant. We don’t understand it! Get me, young’un? We don’t get it and we don’t like it.

            “You should write political essays like Kowa Bonga. Write sociological essays like Stephanie Pratt. Do a goddam gardening column, for all I care. Just write something that belongs in a newspaper!

            “We’re a newspaper! Your column reads like chapters in a novel,” he howled, deeply offended.

            “Kowa’s one of my best friends,” I told them, “but he already provides you with Black Power credibility. Steph’ and I sit next to each other in three different classes, but personally, her columns bore me. I hate gardening! Although I do have a good tip: Intersperse mint plants among your marijuana seedlings and you will grow naturally mentholated pot.”

            “Are you going to write essays?” the three editors asked in unison with the finality of an axe chopping wood.

            “No.”

            They discontinued my column.

*

            This is the gunfight at O.K. Corral! Okay, Randall, it’s 43 years later. God knows where you are and what you’re doing, but I fully intend to write a sufficient number of intriguing blogs to constitute a book’s worth. Fictionalizing my endless screw-ups, I will re-edit my material, heightening the tension, beefing up the language, turning up the emotional volume.

            If Barack Obama and Sarah Palin can write books, anybody can! Reading Palin’s Going Rogue: An American Life, it’s like getting cornered at a cocktail party by a babbling brook who insists on telling her life story. Every five sentences, Sarah makes some little dig at liberals, Democrats or her personal adversaries. Acid barbs sprinkled in mindless chatter, I got my copy, used, from the library for $1. Unfortunately, it stank so much of cigarette smoke, I finally had to throw it in the recycling container. You couldn’t give it away.

            This is my manifesto: If I am successful, I shall crank out a novel as portentous as Norman Mailer, ribald as Henry Miller, spooky as Anne Rice, didactic as Kowa Bonga and boring as Stephanie Pratt.

            (I went on to a military career. Stephanie, bless her, published her first short story collection a year after graduating from Moosegrave. My dear old friend has just published her sixth short story collection! Way t’go, sweetie! A “serious, established author,” her stories still bore me to tears.)

            On your mark, get set… Wish me luck.

            Publisher inquiries welcome!

*

 

Infatuation

 

 

                        “I found you can deal with a lot in a five star hotel.”

                                                – British songwriter Ben Hudson

            Remember Carrie, mein blondes baby? A sidestreet flirtation, she has blossomed into a summer romance, as all-consuming as her namesake in the movies. If I’m trimming the hedge in the backyard, which I detest, the last thing I expect to hear is her sing-song voice calling “Ke-e-e-vin!” and her tumultuous body come swinging up our driveway, sashaying onto the grass. Those legs! Them hips! That face. That golden hair. Her piercing blue eyes! Those microbump breasts yearning to break free.

          Gulp and double-gulp!

          “Whatcha doin’?” she whines.

          “Trimming this dosh garn hedge!”

           “Screw that! Let’s go for a drive, Kevy!” she says, walking right up close, reaching her left hand over my shoulder and massaging the bump at the back of my head. The skin is sore from her constant ministrations! “C’mon! Co-o-ommme on!” she chants, laughing, physically dragging my stumbling bod after her. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            I drop the pruning shears and follow as obediently as a lapdog.

            Who wouldn’t go with her? I’d go to the ends of the Earth with her!

            She drives us everywhere in her little, beige Japanese import. “Got your credit card?” she asks. Buying gas at $4 a gallon. Coffee at $4 a cup. Cocktail dresses, shifts, blouses, designer jeans, designer T’s, endless pairs of shoes, Louis Vuitton knock-off luggage. Her new wraparound sunglasses are all-inclusive. Like a beaver gnawing at a tree, Carrie whittles away at my savings.

           “Let’s buy friendship rings,” she suggests in the dark, 11 p.m., sitting in her car after a rock concert in Potomac, Maryland. She has turned in the driver’s seat to face me, her left hand jiggling me insatiably. On the verge of passing out, I just manage to pull tissues from the back pocket of my pants. Ever helpful, Carrie holds the tissues in her right hand while stimulating me to orgasm with her left. This is a very dedicated lady. Only… dedicated to what, exactly?

          “We love each other,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “That’s what happiness is all about, sweetie!”

           She overloads my cell phone with voice mail and text messages. She demands my daily schedule. Should my mom even consider going to play bridge, Carrie arrives within minutes. Parking half a block away, she simply waits until she sees my mom leave, then roars into our driveway. Nose in the air, she gives the neighbors hostile glances, sticking out her tongue and mewling at them. My rep in the neighborhood was already zilch; now it sinks to 40 below. And for what? Always ready to grab my crotch, massage me through my pants with her knee, rub against me with her fanny, Carrie rarely if ever actually kisses me. Quick to run her hand over my face and down my cheek, pinch my nose, playfully slap me across the face, pull at my ears, we spend an inordinate amount of time not making love. Whatever it is, it’s as bad as I expected!

             We listen to music, but that’s just a chance for her to preen, laugh, and then ask, “What are you staring at, snarky?!”

           She’s provided me with a photo, a full-sized color studio portrait, staring, staring into the camera lens, her eyes enormous, her look angry, bitter, hard.

        “Jesus Christ! What did the photog say?”

         “At first he didn’t like it,” she admits. “He wanted me to look like a sweet, young thing. I took him into the darkroom…” she continues, choking on her own laughter, “…and convinced him that he likes me just the way I am!!!

        “You like me just the way I am, don’t you, Kevy?”

         “Who wouldn’t?!” I admit. “Everybody loves you, Carrie!”

         “Put my picture on the night stand by your bed,” she says bossily, making circles in the air with her hands. “I want to be the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you see at night! I want you to dream about me!”

         My mom assumes I’m out biking—or whatever—the many hours I’m away from home. I tell her I’m in a bike club. I make up some boys’ names and give them quirky personalities.

         Whenever mom starts with her catechism, “I may go shopping after bridge, but I really don’t have anything to buy. We don’t need anything and none of the sales interest me that much,” it means she’s going to buy out the store! She expects me to be home to carry her many, many bags of groceries into the house.

         Mom uses the plastic grocery bags to line her kitchen garbage pail. She prefers the white ones, with red lettering. For aesthetic reasons. They look cute. That they rip and fall apart is less importante. She throws away the brown plastic bags, balling them up and stuffing them in the recycling container.

        I prefer the brown ones. Tougher, they rip less often.

        Nobody ever listens to me, of course, especially my mom.  

        We manage to eat our way through most of her purchases. Whenever the County Food Bank institutes a drive, she unloads three plastic grocery bags of canned goods on them.

        My mother may not know what’s going on with Carrie, but whatever it is, she don’t like it none!

         And it’s scary what an enabler can do for a young lady of sadistic persuasion. Carrie becomes a physical show-stopper: I see it all the time in the shopping mall, the way she sways her body in front of me and how people stare at her smiling face and look askance at her cackling laughter. I see it again when she plops herself down on the bench in the park facing the front entrance to my bank. Pumping her leg, laughing riotously, splendidly gorgeous in a frilly green frock, her self-assurance incredible, she leaves the whole town gawking.

         I’m in the bank getting that $1,000 in cash Carrie so rightly claimed no one ever gives her. Why should they? Why should I?

        “You can if you want to,” she says in a small voice, looking at me under a fringe of blond hair, chin tucked in, eyes staring up at me.

         We’re sitting in her car. No witnesses.

         Of course I want to! “Carrie,” I gulp. “Of course I want to!” Handing her the stack of fifty dollar bills, all twenty of them, my penis all but ripping through my pants, I’m glad I worked hard, saved and slaved for this moment. “I love you!”

        “I know,” she answers forlornly. Folding the bills carefully, she stuffs them adroitly into her purse. “C’mere!” she commands and gives me the most chaste little peck on the cheek. “You… are… such a sweet man!”

         That’s the sum fun I get for my $1,000. It disappears into the enigma that is Carrie’s lifestyle. She lets me off at my house with specific instructions: “I want you to go upstairs to your room and stare at my photo for one hour! Think only of me. Don’t talk to anyone or, like, do anything else. Don’t listen to your music ‘cause that will just fuck with your head. Listen to my voice. I’m talking to you, Kevy! Keep replaying the sound of my voice. In your head. Think only of me. You and I are so happy and grateful we’ve found each other. You’ll do anything for me! I’ll do anything for you! We love each other. Now kiss my ring!”

        She holds up her friendship ring and, of course, I kiss it. The taste is metallic. I’m hard as a rock, but I don’t get the significance of kissing the ring. Still, I have to give her credit: I go straight to the photo of her in my room and spend all afternoon sitting in my chair staring into her eyes. I mean, whatever she’s doing, it sure works!

       Just as I feared, there’s a price. Hanging out with Carrie does begin to affect the rest of my life. I’m edgy. Nothing seems to work at the political campaign where I volunteer. Why is there Beck’s Beer in the refrigerator at Anna’s house and why does it bother me? Why does the pretty mulatto intern who is so good with numbers need to take periodic cigarette breaks? Why does delivering yard signs begin to annoy me?

                                      Anna Bola — the Democratic answer

for Maryland Attorney General

         Suddenly, people don’t want our signs! “It’s such a small street,” they tell me. “I don’t want to antagonize my Republican neighbors.”

          At a home tucked away at the far end of a cul-de-sac, I come upon three college-age boys sitting on their flagstone patio at 2 o’clock in the afternoon. The air is sultry, the heat stifling. Their collapsible lawn chairs are equally spaced in relation to an enormous hookah standing on a fancy stone table. Yikes! What are those gray chunks of ash? Cans of Stargaze Tobacco litter the table. The kids are so glassy-eyed, I fear for their freedom should the police even come sniffing around for a moment.

        “Hey-y-y-y, man!” they say, lolling out of their chairs. “Whassup?!”

        “You guys are heavily stoned!” I mention, laughing.

        “We’re buzzed, man! You got to try some of this,” they beseech me, pawing at me, actually grabbing my arms and pressing me toward the hookah. “This will frazzle your buttocks!”

       “Oh, shit, no, man! No way,” I protest. “It’s taken me years to clean up my act!”

        “This will smooth you right out!” the sandy-haired boy with sideburns assures me, as babyish, warm and cuddly as a teddy bear. He begins preparing a pipe. “Y’ can stay and watch if’n y’ want to.”

        Once they get the pipe going, they lunge to take turns, inhaling the smoke greedily. “It’s a hookah,” they admonish me. “One toke won’t kill ya! Stone smoke now. We don’t want to disinclude ya from anything.”

       I feel like I’m talking to Nim Chimpsky.

       The New Kevin, with trembling hands, I take the long, cloth-covered hose and pull a mouthful of smoke deep into my lungs.

      It burns all the way down.

      I have an endless coughing fit.

      The guys laugh understandingly and say things like, “Long time since you toked, huh?” They go out of their way to get another pipe going and get me high.

      So high, I’m as wasted as them. I can’t drive, I can hardly see straight. “That is mean shit,” I mumble, giggling. Pulling out my cell phone, I call Carrie. “Oh, baby! Oh, baby!” I shout when she answers after the sixth or seventh ring.

       She absolutely hates voice mail and is forever disconnecting hers. “Who is this?!” she demands angrily.

      “Is me, Kevy, Wevy, Wavy, Crazy. It Kevin,” I say, stumbling over the syntax.

     “What’s the matter with you???”

     “We had a li’l toke’s all.”

     “Where are you?!” she asks icily, absolutely furious.

     “Is a cul-de-sac, but I dunno if’n yo’ c’n fin’ it.”

      “It would help if you could give me a fucking address!”

        That’s when I get a brainstorm. I have the computer printout with me! It’s laying on the ground by my chair. Fumbling with my reading glasses, I look up the address and read it to her.

        “Don’t go anywhere! I’m coming to get you,” she seethes.

        “I c’n go anywhere if’n I wanned to,” I assure her, collapsing on the patio.

         The boys have stripped naked and are playing Frisbee amidst the lawn sprinklers.

       I throw up, of course. I get a splitting headache. I feel like I’m gonna die.

      Eventually, my lover comes and rescues me, screaming obscenities at the boys and overturning the stone table and the hookah.

       “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!” we all protest, but none of us is in any shape to do anything to stop her.

        After that incident, Carrie keeps me on a very short leash, indeed.

 

*

 

       People are calling us the “Anna Banana” campaign because we’re very good at what we do, but we don’t do everything. There is, for instance, no spokesperson. Anna does all her own P.R. If she’s busy with affairs at the Town Council, that’s just too bad, another opportunity missed.

       Worse, there is no contact phone number! Eric has a smart phone, but he’s only one human being and all messages and decisions filter through him. He hasn’t even printed up business cards, you know, “Eric Brown, Campaign Manager, Anna Bola For Attorney General, telephone, email, yada, yada, yada.” WE DON’T HAVE THEM! It’s insane.

         Handing out yard signs, people ask me questions. I’m not just throwing a sign their way. At that moment, I am the face of the campaign. “How do I get in touch with you people?” our supporters ask. That sends me hiking back to my car, where I write, by hand, on a slip of paper the telephone number to Eric’s smart phone. In ink. With his name and title. But why am I having to do this by hand? Each time, I make up my mind to design a card on heavy stock, on my own, and hand those out when confronted by these requests.

       I always forget.

       Not everybody has issues, but the ones who do, expect answers. Since I hate to walk around uninformed, I pull from the recycle bin in our office a letter Anna has written to the big donors. It’s so informative and exact, I add it to my traveling kit. Twice in one day, I need that letter. One lady has asked for a yard sign, but in conjunction with an explanation of where Anna Bola stands on the issues. “I won’t display a sign on my property for someone whose views are a mystery to me,” she complains. The next time issues become an issue, it’s a butch dyke standing out in front of her house smoking a cheroot. Her partner has requested the sign. She supports the other guy. “Anna Banana,” she chides, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “What is her position on abortion? Where does she stand on gay rights? What is her view of gay marriage?”

       She’s a very different person, but she’s asking the same three, key questions.

      “I’m really not authorized to speak on Anna’s behalf. I’m just a volunteer,” I say. “But I do have a letter in my car that explains all that.” Lickety split, I hustle after it.

      “Can I have the letter?” she asks.

       I have to explain that we haven’t really geared up sufficiently. “I pulled this out of the recycled paper bin.”

       No matter. I read her the letter:

       “I believe in a woman’s right to choose…”

       “Gays have the same inalienable rights as anyone else.”

        “I believe in the sanctity of marriage between loving individuals, regardless of gender.”

        When I return to Campaign HQ, I write out both ladies’ names, addresses and telephone numbers. I give this info to Eric’s assistant, math whiz Judith. I explain what transpired. “Let’s send them one of these here letters, lady,” I crack in a bad imitation of James Cagney.

      “Oh, it’s unsigned. Where’d you get that?” she wants to know.

      “It was in your recycle bin.”

       “Mine? Well, it’s very comprehensive. Can I have this?”

       I mean, get a fucking copier! What is this? Everybody wants my goddam letter. “No, I want to keep it,” I tell her.

       She promises to send campaign material to both these women.

       Lunch time, Anna’s husband Frank, teaching college economics and cold as a brick, sits with me at the kitchen table. He’s eating soup. I’m devouring a steak sandwich. Mom made steak. Lucky me! Frank tells me exactly what went wrong in 1992 with the Clinton health care package. He should know, he was a Congressional staffer at the time, right in the thick of it. “Senator Wicker was prepared to work with the White House on the measure, but they insisted on doing it all by themselves. By the time they presented it to the Senate, there was no buy-in. The Clinton people made the bill so complicated, not even the White House could understand it!

       “Ted Kennedy always said his biggest regret was not supporting the health plan proposed during the Nixon administration. At least America would have had a comprehensive, universal health care system.

        “Instead, today, we’re fighting the same battles and having the same debates. And making just as little progress.”

       Back on the trail in the afternoon, I deliver another pile of signs to 16 additional households. The heat and humidity are making me sick.

        About 7 p.m., after I’ve showered and eaten dinner, I get a call from Fluffens, no less.

       Typical for a campaign treasurer, Fluffens wields a lot of power. Raised by Carmelite nuns, she lives across the street from me. Her real name is Margaret Meeks, a spiderwoman renowned for her venomous touch. I’ve known her for 20 years. Executive assistant to the current A.G., who is retiring, Margaret has latched onto the Anna campaign as a way to guarantee herself future employment. Pink as a rabbit, the neighbors affectionately call her “Fluffens.”

        I do, too, but with less enthusiasm.

        “Judith called me,” she brays over the phone. “I understand that you have been using proprietary material that belongs to the campaign in an unauthorized fashion. That material is not for general consumption. I’m coming over with some campaign materials,” she declares in her most tremulous, accusatory tone of voice. Her righteous indignation oozes through the phone line.

        Ah, shit.

        I have worked on campaigns where the treasurer’s main complaint was the volume of popcorn charged to the campaign.

       When I volunteered on the Myrtle Beech campaign, everyone hoped our lady would reach the White House. Each of us jockeying for position, the press jokingly called us Myrtle’s Flying Trapeze Artists. With 80 paid staff, 160 interns and 60 volunteers, even if Ms. Beech had been elected, there wouldn’t have been enough slots to offer every single one of us a job.

      Talk about being low man on the totem pole!

      This is something else.

       So I have to sit on my front steps and receive the same bland, boring, nondescript campaign brochure and flier we hand out at parades! “Just use this!” Fluffens insists, not the most flexible of coworkers.

       “This won’t cut it,” I protest, waving the brochure.

       “Anna’s entire program is outlined in there.”

      “It says that she’s a breast cancer survivor. No one wants to read that.”

       “You—you always do this, Kevin! You always twist everything. You are a sick individual—”

         I turn to her husband. He, too, is a college professor. “I just hand out yard signs,” I explain. “But if people have issues, I am the face of the campaign at that moment. I can’t just blow these people off! They’re our supporters.”

        “I understand,” he says, “but try to use the materials at hand.”

        Chalk up another one for the rigid orthodoxy of the politically correct.

       The next morning, I bring up this incident with Eric and Judith. “If you have an issue with me, Judith, don’t involve supervisors or officialdom. That only escalates the pressure. Discuss the problem with me. If it turns out to be unsolvable, then you can call in the big guns. Above all, don’t ask Margaret Meeks to intercede!”

       “Wait a minute,” Judith says, white in the face. “I never told Mrs. Meeks to do anything. She was here auditing the books and asked about the list you left, with the two ladies’ names and addresses. I told her how you didn’t have campaign lit with you, but improvised, using that letter. I certainly never authorized her to talk to you or anything!”

        “Well, she did talk to me. She telephoned me at home and then marched across the street, campaign brochures in hand, to set me straight. I’m using proprietary material not meant for general consumption. Her exact words.”

       “It’s a corporate donor letter,” Eric exclaims. “We’ve sent out hundreds of those. It’s a corporate donor letter! How general can you get?!”

      “Now you know why I don’t trust Margaret Meeks.”

     “You know, she’s executive assistant to the current A.G.—in Balto,” Eric points out.

      “And it’s summer and she’s home here in Oxburg,” I agree. “Everyone knows she’s jockeying to become Anna’s executive assistant. The lady has sharp elbows…”

       Eric and Judith both smile, nodding their heads.

      “… and she will try to drive everyone else from the campaign. So her job application will be the only one left on the table.”

      “No one said anything about Mrs. Meeks becoming Anna’s exec,” Eric declares. “Anything can happen, but I just don’t see that in the cards.

       “Thanks for telling us what happened,” he continues. “You’re a key player, Kevin. Nobody’s asking you to vacate the premises. On the contrary, I thoroughly enjoy the three days a week you are here at the campaign!”

       So, at least I feel appreciated. My position as an unpaid volunteer remains secure. This is a victory???

       Of course, the front page color photograph in The National Herald of people sunbathing on the streets of New York knocks all our best efforts into a cocked hat. How can anything we do in little Maryland compete with thousands lying on yoga mats, meditating, in Times Square?

            I smoked my last cig on December 18, 2005. Since then, my bod has developed allergies to both tobacco smoke and auto exhaust. That kind of rules out ever going back to Manhattan. Fluffens and her hubby go, they take in the Broadway shows. While I’m mowing lawns in suburban Maryland. And wearing a white dust mask to do it.

            “Drag racing. Is that something I’ll enjoy? D’ya know anything about it?” Eric asks me.

            “I used to race in drag races,” I reply emphatically, “in Anchorage, Alaska in 1966.”

            Eric laughs, delighted. “They say the races are over quick.”

            “A drag race lasts, like, 11 seconds. The time up until then, the drivers and mechanics are tinkering with the cars. Then they have a heat, two cars competing. The winner goes on to the next level. The audience, in the stands, spends a prodigious amount of time waiting around, drinking beer.”

            “Aha, that’s what I thought. Is there gambling?”

            “In Maryland?” I ask incredulously.

            “Well… do people place bets on the cars?”

            “There’s off-track betting in New York. There’s a gambling casino in Charlestown, West Virginia. The Charlestown Races.”

            “Horse racing?” he asks, interested.

            “You get more bang for your buck at horse racing than drag racing,” I advise him, amused at the direction our conversation has taken. “Horses run slower.”

            “… Only I promised Judith a weekend away from the campaign,” he explains in turn. “So I’m checking out possible excursions.”

            “Atlantic City has gambling, of course.”

            “I’m looking for something more exotic,” he says.

            Now I begin to understand all these questions about gambling. The man is a numbers cruncher. I’m sure he gambles very well. Judith the Frigid Queen is a natural for a Baccarat table. They’ll probably finance the entire trip with their winnings. 

*

            Remember Carrie?

            The day finally comes, of course, when she actually leaves for Europe.

             No more cell phone messages, no more texting, my electronic postbox now receives daily e-mails, raving about the sights and asking me to wire money. Of course. What else?

             “Children see adults as an endless source of goods and services,” my cousin Jimbo once explained. The proud father of three, he should know.

            Carrie, my love. Carrie, my heart and other swollen organs. What to do with you?

            So I grab a flight to Europe. I hate to do it, hate to take time off from the campaign, but if I’m paying, why shouldn’t I have some fun? I fly to Shiphol, the airport outside Amsterdam.

            I don’t so much see A-dam as I see Carrie with the city as a backdrop. From the very first minute, she makes sure we have solid eye contact. When she isn’t staring me full in the face, she stops and gazes often enough into space to keep me staring at her, that gorgeous face, waiting for her blue orbs to rivet me to the spot. Her gaze is narcotic. She doles it out carefully over the course of each day, while we walk the streets, sit in the cafés and visit the museums. We go shopping at the Flea Market, of course.

           It feels particularly piquant to be tied so helplessly to the apron strings of a blond American witch in A-dam. The city is graced with some of the most breathtakingly beautiful women in the world.

             No such luck. Carrie is my drug and, like any addict in the midst of his habit, I am totally hooked. I can no more give her up as I can stop breathing.

           “We’re friends. We love each other,” is her nightly refrain, sending me off to my room with a hug and a peck on the cheek. Hanging out, spending my money, leading me by the nose, it all comes down to basic friendship.

           For a girl with sadistic tendencies.

            Freundschaft in German.

            Knowing the Dutch, they probably have an expression for someone in my condition. “Hello! What is the word for ‘man with a telephone pole in his pants’?”

           The European Union has economic difficulties. The Euro is in free fall. I have seen the city during happier days. But the Dutch are industrious and, except for mad drivers and my personal straits, I would have enjoyed this visit.

          Carrie wants to repeat the same process in Paris and Madrid. She has a thing about the Prado. She wants to see the sights while I, credit card at the ready, cannot see anything but her. This is new, a perceptible, crawling sense of allegiance to my darling. Once my cock is swollen, standing rigidly at attention, Carrie can tell me little green men are falling from the sky and I will believe it. Right side of the brain, left side: Intellectually, I may reason “That’s impossible,” but emotionally, she seems absolutely correct in everything she undertakes, everything she says, whatever she believes. It worries me that my spiritual leader is an adolescent. This doesn’t slow down the foolishness for a minute, but it worries me.

            HER WONDROUS LAUGHTER FILLS ME WITH JOY.

            What is wrong with this picture?

            I buy my way out of further travel. It costs me $3,000 in traveler’s checks, arranged at a Dutch bank, her name scrawled childishly on each one in that large, loopy handwriting of hers. And, of course, the tellers and bank vice president can’t take their eyes off her. Muttering among themselves in Dutch, they give me conspiratorial winks.

           “She’s my niece, I’m responsible for her. I gotta get home,” I tell them, playing my part in the charade.

            If she’s my niece, why the tumescence?

           “I’ll see you in August,” she says, clinging to me on a Dutch street corner, licking my face with her tongue, biting me on the nose, breathing in my ear, her hands everywhere at once, one knee repeatedly rising to press my crotch. European temperament, no one pays us a moment’s notice.

              To celebrate Old Times and my temporary freedom, I take a local bus out to Schiphol and fly back home.

              What can I look forward to? A credit card statement with over 100 withdrawals, nickel and diming me to death.

                By now, Carrie has gotten an estimated $10,000 from me. Six of that is straight cash, a progression even a third grader can follow: $1,000 the first time, $2,000 for her trip to Europe, $3,000 to leave me alone. What have I gotten for my moolah? A series of ejaculations, certainly. Many weeks of swollen penis, without Viagra! Excitement. Joy. Uncertainty. Confusion. Irritation. Headaches. Longing. Pleasure. Memories of her blond hair, shaped like a helmet, hugging her head, framing her beaming face. The endless sound of her raucous laughter ringing in my ears.

               The bad news is, come August, I don’t see any way to keep her smiling, laughing, conniving, domineering and evil countenance from getting her mitts on all the rest of my loot. She owns me.

               This is not good.

*

 

Eric, Campaign Mgr.

            Lest I forget, please start here:

Hola! Elect Anna Bola

Maryland Attorney General! 

A paid political announcement by

“The Friends of Anna Committee.” 

                                                               *

            It’s a Thursday. A volunteer, I’m in Anna Bola’s kitchen drinking coffee. The front doorbell rings. Eric, campaign manager, answers the door. I see him talking to a young dude of indeterminate origin—Latino? Oriental? Mulatto?—whose decorative T–shirt says

SAVE THE OYSTERS! 

            God help me, I’ve been following the federally mandated oyster project, it’s been a favorite subject in The National Herald. A source of great color photos of oystermen dredging the seabed (“drudging,” they call it), it looks like they are freezing butt 365 days a year. Besides, I’ve been on some of those boats! “Don’t make me an oysterman, mama, I don’ wanna be cold and wet all my life!” we sang as schoolboys, walking home from school. When I was growing up, there were oyster bars, crab shacks and lobster joints—places in strip malls lining commercial highways that we defined by the solitary fare on the menu.

            This kid wants a contribution. The natural oyster beds have died out, overfished and hopelessly polluted, like everything else in the bay. Enthusiasts are planting and harvesting imported oysters in creeks dousing into the bay. Less polluted, these waters give young oysters a better chance of survival.

            Eric surprises me, acting genuinely simpatico and giving the kid a check. Sweet moment: “You want a contribution now?” he asks affably. (I’ve crept into the front parlor to hear better.)

            “Yes, please,” the young man says.

            “How much?”

            “Well-l-l, you can join up and pay a monthly subscription or do a one-time-only payment. I’m required by law to say that your contribution may be used for political purposes, even supporting select candidates for public office.”

            “Well, I certainly hope so!” Eric replies. “How much is a one-time-only payment?” he continues, fancy fountain pen and checkbook in hand.

            “Well,” the kid gulps, “usually we ask for, uh, $80.”

            Lon-n-ng pause. “I’ll give ya $25,” Eric drawls.

            Another lon-n-ng pause. “Okay,” says the kid.

           “You’ve done yourself a service today,” Eric assures him absent-mindedly, busy writing the check. “Linking up with the Anna Bola campaign will give your project a nice bounce. I want you to call this number and we’ll tell you when Anna’s home. Then you can come by and meet the candidate!”

            Once he’s back at work crunching numbers and making arcane phone calls, Eric catches my eye and says, “Lots of precincts to visit, Kevin. Trips to the Eastern Shore, Ocean City, all those newbie suburbs west of Balto.”

            This is supposed to be my dog whistle, he expects me to start salivating and come panting, raring to go.

             I don’t say “I work three days a week.” I don’t say “No thank you!” I don’t say anything. I shake my head sagely and go back upstairs to finish a stack of voter surveys, entering the raw data onto a spreadsheet on the Mac.

             In order to win this election, Anna has brought in this—bought this—professional, 42-year-old campaign manager named Eric Brown. The Lee Atwater of Maryland, he is a man whom everybody in politics knows. It’s not that he’s a dirty-trickster, far from it, but his thought processes are hopelessly mathematical. One time, I walk in on Eric coaching a bevy of summer interns—all women—each perched before a laptop, six of them sitting around the dining room table with its dainty tablecloth and polished oak leaves. I cannot understand a word they are saying. “Number crunching… derivatives… algorithms… applied decimals,” I can’t even quote Eric correctly, math is not my suit, I have no idea what they are talking about.

             If he gets a sampling of 2% of the registered voters in any one precinct, Eric can extrapolate the data and tell you whether the district is going to break Democratic, Republican, Tea Party or Latino. That’s his specialty, defining the electorate. “It shows you where you have to hit your ping pong balls,” he says, making me wonder whether he plays table tennis. I can never get him to admit it.

             He runs what he calls “Octo-“ campaigns. An octogeneric campaign in an octomegalopolis. Success is coined “Octopussy.” Octopus campaigns, tentacles reaching into every precinct all over the state. Eric knows the power brokers in Democratic politics and most of the players on the Republican side, as well. He doesn’t even have to brag, he’s simply on the phone morning, noon and night, his laptop and WiFi modem glowing brightly, endlessly making connections. “We run a 24/7 campaign,” I hear him explain over the phone to a potential intern. I’ve never seen him sleep or even appear tired. Of course, I arrive at 10 a.m. and leave at 6 p.m., but all I see is Eric in an endless succession of baggy pants and wrinkled designer T’s, padding non-stop around the house in tennis shoes, leading his pack of female number crunchers. All the interns are math majors, that goes without saying. “It’s happening!” he shouts at me happily one afternoon. “This campaign is starting to simmer!”

           Eric is the second campaign manager, taking over from a raven-haired, buxom beauty named Amy. Where she had heart, Eric has everything else. One morning, he marches up to me, all excited. “We got in three new submarine turnarounds,” he announces.

          “That’s impressive,” I remark. “What do we use submarines for?”

          “What? Oh. Three new summer interns. Not submarines. Three new interns.”

           “A harem.”

           “Uh, no, Kevin. We don’t use that expression anymore. That’s considered sexist. You know, not politically correct.”

           The people on the campaign find me a colorful character. They love the colloquial phrases I utter:

           “His nose was out of joint…”

           “Put another log on the fire!”

           “Nothing beats success.”

           “We’ll knock them for a loop.”

          “We’ve got the data, we’ve got the base.”

           “That and $4 will get you coffee at Starbucks.”

           “… Available in many colors as long as it’s black.”

           “I’m not questioning where he was born, I’m worried he was hatched from an egg.”

          “Hit one out of the ballpark.”

          “Forget who wrote the Book of Love, who published it?”

           In an interesting case of symbiosis, I wouldn’t be laying these eggs of wisdom if they weren’t my audience. They bring out the weird in me; I find myself cracking wise in ways I never do at any other location. My normal modus operandi is mucho differente: Shy, angry and discreet, I go my own way, spouting platitudes and “being nice” to people by expressing concern for their welfare. “How are you?!” I ask. That deflects the question of how I am, which, usually, is pretty unhappy with life.

            If I’m a time-waster, it’s because Eric is so easy to talk to. That’s one of his gifts, his seeming interest. “Big issue, Kevin, the environment,” he’ll say. “Gotta fight industrial pollution.  Anna’s big on fighting industrial pollution. She may not know it yet, but she is!”

            And I’m off and running, babbling away about the wildlife you once encountered in Maryland, beavers, opossum, skunks, enormous horned turtles, foxes, frogs of every description, newts, lizards, praying mantises and butterflies, stingrays and skate in the bay, eels…

            My God, the eels we used to catch! We’d be fishing for “spot,” a local delicacy, with a fiberglass rod and light tackle. Suddenly, the rod is bent double and the monofilament blue line is singing off the reel, the reel lock grinding like an old tractor. “It’s an eel,” our dad would announce lugubriously from astride the heavy wooden rowboat. We boys would whoop and holler as whoever had it on his line eventually reeled it in and brought it, long, black and squirming, over the side and into the boat. “Watch the teeth,” our dad would warn nervously. “They are razor sharp!”

            Born in the Sargasso Sea, they migrate to the Chesapeake Bay and only return home to mate.

            I think they always swallowed the hook. I remember cutting the monofilament with a fish knife, but can’t remember ever pulling a hook from the mouth of an eel. Rockfish, trout and spot, you could rescue your hook. Skate didn’t nibble earthworms, so the rare occasion you brought one into the boat, your hook had simply, accidentally, snagged him. My mom wouldn’t cook skate, she complained it stunk up the entire cabin.

            Eric listens to, like, 180 seconds of this trip down memory lane, sighs in disbelief, and gets back to work. He never says so, but I castigate myself for being a chatterbox. There’s a wealth of information I bring to the campaign, a lifetime of deep understanding of Maryland issues. “Maryland tobacco? Tell me about it! I began smoking at age 9!” All this connectedness delights Anna. It bores poor Eric to distraction. What does he care how many whelps get sired by foxes to make up a litter? “I’m trying to get Anna elected,” he grunts, and I shut up. Forget hunting rifles, fishing tackle, tobacco sheds and backroom politics, in this campaign, I am surrounded by mathematical nerd bots.

            “The suburbs around Washington, D.C. have nothing to do with the Great State of Maryland,” Eric instructs me. “They are elitist, parochial and Washingtonian. Sitting here in Oxburg is worse than a backwater. It’s a contrivance. You don’t have one half of one percent of the vote! This township is irrelevant!”

            It occurs to me I’ve never explained the history of Oxburg. Built by developer Julius Lapidus in 1927, he felt he couldn’t very well name it Lapidusville. Originally, he wanted to, but his wife said “no.” Julius’ vision was a bedroom community for people working in Rockville, Chevy Chase and Bethesda, but also a location with direct access to Washington, D.C. The Blue Line ran local buses to and from the city, giant Studebakers with 6 cylinder,   40-horsepower engines and plate glass windshields. They provided a 1½ hour commute each way. Rockville Pike at the time was what its name implies, a thoroughfare linking several separate areas of habitation. A visionary, as I say, Julius left substantial lawns around each dwelling. “How I’d like to live,” was his favorite expression. Black and white photos of the area show his first billboards advertising “Cottage living in a rural paradise, accessible by car with urban centers.” Pure Julius.

            When we ask contractors to do brickwork in the development, they laugh incredulously. “Nine inch brick! No kiln in America manufactures nine inch brick. These houses must have been built in the 1920’s,” they guffaw. “Today, the industry standard is 7½ inches.”

            Hailing from Philadelphia, Julius named the place for Maryland historical figure John Ox (1617 – 1671) who was said to have owned property in the area. A developer, not a scholar, it never dawned on Julius to check out the bona fides of the man for whom the development was being named. A trip to the Library of Congress would have unearthed the trenchant facts: A Puritan from Boston, John Ox was at constant loggerheads with his Anglican Episcopalian neighbors. Basically a pain in the butt, after a few years, John Ox got run out of Maryland. No matter. Julius named it “Oxburg,” and Oxburg it remains.

            The town became incorporated in 1931, at the height of the Depression, for tax purposes. As a rural community, there simply wasn’t sufficient revenue to provide roads, parks and, above all, schools! That was the big issue, the one-room clapboard schoolhouse would not do for a rising bedroom community. The cinder roads weren’t much fun either, I’m told.

            “No good will come of this day!” announced the first mayor, Mr. Baldur Dash, at the incorporation ceremony. His words have stuck. The town motto resounds:

No good will come of this! 

           Poor Julius never found out, busy building military housing in Panama. Those moss-covered abodes are still standing, also, despite the humid climate.

            By the time my parents bought our place in 1951, my mom could write her folks that they’d left their apartment downtown and bought “a 24-year-old, $18,000 mansion with no closet space.”

            It was the same intrepid Mayor Dash who named the greenery abutting Riverdale Creek after his favorite daughter. “Natalie Woods” stands as testament to his obtuseness. However, it is not his fault that the official name of the sunken road leading into town is “The 1812 HWY.” The county decided that one. 

             Eric’s vehement dislike of my hometown always cracks me up. We still campaign locally, but Eric treats my neighbors as an afterthought.

                                                                 *

Game Plan

 

            One of our supporters sends us Hiram Whiplash’s campaign brochure. Hiram is running in the Democratic primary against our candidate, Anna Bola. Each wants to win the primary, so he or she can compete against the Republicans in the general election, for the position of State Attorney General.  Hiram’s brochure is a 4-inch by 6-inch full-color foldout. It has photos of Hiram with his kids, smiley close-ups and emphasizes his years of public service. While I spent my Army career fighting insurgents, rescuing refugees, pulling my pud and negotiating peace accords, Hiram worked 15 years as a JAG officer. The Judge Advocate General’s office is a good background in paralegal for someone running for A.G. Not a perfect fit, mind you, but at least something judicial. He also brags about serving on a minority rights committee by direct appointment of the president.

            “This sounds very impressive,” I tell Eric, campaign manager honcho extraordinary. “On paper, Hiram sounds like a formidable opponent. I’ve served in the military. Hiram’s JAG experience may be nothing but a desk job, for all anyone knows.”

            “It doesn’t matter,” Eric tells me. “If we run the campaign we want to have, nothing can compete. The oppo will be swamped. It’ll be a rout. Of course, we can’t always fulfill all the details of an ideal campaign.

            “Ideally, every household in the Great State of Maryland will get a mailer or a personal visit from someone affiliated with our campaign. They’ll participate in a meet-and-greet with Anna, see her at a campaign event or receive a welcoming telephone call. If nothing else, we can do the mailers and phone calls. The point is, we need to contact every single voter in one form or another. This requires manpower. You have no doubt noticed me interviewing in person and by phone several dozen interns from the University of Maryland. My A Team, they in turn will recruit more summer interns until we reach my stated goal of 300 campaign interns. Using their own personal cell phones at carefully scripted telemarketing marathons, they should blanket the state. Anna can sign that many letters of recommendation before these kids return to college.

            “Since I see that you are worrying, Kevin, rest assured that the people who do my TV commercials will make Anna sound like the biggest thing since the Coming of Christ. Warm and fuzzy, tough on crime and resilient in the face of adversity, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, even I will begin to believe Anna has super powers. The TV ads will require an enormous campaign chest loaded with gold doubloons, which, unfortunately, we do not at this time have.

            “So stop worrying and drive these yard signs to the addresses on the lists I’m giving you.”

            Not a local resident, Eric doesn’t seem to realize that his predecessor Amy has had me carting yard signs for weeks before he arrived. “There’s a technique to it,” I tell him.

            “Oh?” Eric says, turning his pale eyes in my direction. Anything having to do with technique interests him.

            “You hold the sign out in front of you like this. When people open the door, they laugh. The effect is that you’re naked and hiding behind the sign.”

            “Streakers for Anna,” Eric mumbles, intrigued.

            Driving around the local neighborhoods, my street map ever ready, I cover Oxburg, Chevy Chase, Silver Spring and Rockville. Everything from residential to strip mall, high end to suburban sprawl, winding country road to major artery. These signs aren’t destined for grass islands in the center of the street. Each sign has been requested by a supporter answering Anna’s election appeal. There are little red boxes on the contribution envelope for volunteering, hosting an event or receiving a yard sign. These people have put a check mark in the latter.

            The house I like best is a modern Frank Lloyd Wright knock-off with a gold plaque by the door. It states

                                               On this site

                                                  In 1864

                                         Nothing happened

                                                 

            That takes balls. One thing all of the addresses have in common is their peculiarity. Driving past a line of houses, Anna’s supporter invariably lives in the funky abode with the clay pots on the doorstep, the park bench situated on the lawn, the wind chime, the dogs baying in the window, the Christmas lights lining the gutter in June, the lawn trolls, glazed pavers and a driveway littered with junk.

             Those houses.

            If the homeowner is present, they are no less funky. Sometimes I think half of Anna’s supporters are Jewish. A mezuzah on the door post sends me into lyrical recitations in Hebrew. 

            “Oh, I don’t speak Hebrew,” the person at the door stammers, embarrassed.

            “Hi,” I’ll say, “I’m Kevin Feingold, a volunteer delivering yard signs for the Anna Bola campaign.”

            “O-o-okay-y-y,” people respond, apparently expecting me to ask for money.

            “May I give you the sign?” I ask, handing it over.

            “Oh!… Yes, certainly,” everyone says, relieved that I’m not asking for money.

*

            At Saigon Terrace, where I’m delivering a yard sign to a man named Ky, I pass a Vietnamese woman wearing a bright white T-shirt. In bold black letters, the text reads

                                                      SO FAR

                                                   HE SUCKS  

where the “O” in “SO” has been replaced by Obama’s Sun Rising Over the Road to Hope campaign symbol.

*

            One of the names on my list is Andersson. You can’t get any more Swedish than that. The house is a faux Colonial mansion, just the kind of place an over-extended Swedish immigrant would rent or buy. I make up my mind to take a chance. Ringing the doorbell, I’m confronted by a black maid. “D-Do you speak Swedish?” I ask doubtfully.

            “Ah, honey,” she drawls, “y’all wait a minute! Lars! There’s somebody here about Sweden.”

            “Yes?” a brutish, very tall young college boy with startling blue eyes, asks me.

            “Svenska,” I say stupidly. “Förlåt, Anna Bola kampagnen har skickat hit mig att tilldela skyltar.” (Swedish… I’m sorry, the Anna Bola campaign has sent me here to deliver signs.)

            “What about it?” he asks.

            “Här har ni skylten.” (Here’s your sign.)

            “What are we supposed to do with it?” he asks suspiciously, “Put it on the lawn?”

            “Y-Yes!”

            “Okay! We will!”

            “Hej på er! Vi hörs och syns!” (Best wishes! See you later!)

            “Yeah, yeah, goodbye!” he says, closing the door in my face.

             It felt neat to get to speak Swedish again!  

            Chugging water bottles, studying the map, the heat and humidity are awesome.

            I also get a kick out of seeing some of the signs I previously delivered, particularly in Oxburg, where there’s a tradition of tweaking the message. There’s a sign that states “Simon Cowell Loves Anna Bola For Attorney General.”

Another says

                                                      I 2 AM 4      

                                                    Anna Bola 

 

Or the one telling us 

                                    Anna Bola For Attorney General

                                      –     –     –     –     –     –     –     –    –    –

                                              Beware of Dog                                         

                                                             *

            I knock on Dr. Isaac Sack’s screen door.

            “You just got paint on your knuckle,” he informs me genially, carefully opening the door from within. Sure enough, my finger has a smudge of dark green paint, the same color as the door. “I haven’t had time to put up the wet paint sign,” Dr. Sacks explains. Inviting me in, he hands me a paper towel and says, “Both my dad and my aunt are elderly and have medical issues. I’ve invited 60 people to the event, but I’m afraid it’s going to be a bust.”

            “A meet-and-greet at your home?” I guess. “These things aren’t meant to be straightjackets. If you need to cancel—“

            “Is Anna canceling?” Dr. Sacks asks, horrified.

            “No, no, no!” I flounder. (I don’t even know when it’s scheduled for!) “What can we do? To help?”

            “I’ve sent out 60 invitations, but only a handful have responded. I need someone to telephone people on my list and get a commitment. That they’ll come.”

            “We can do that at the campaign,” I suggest. “Our summer interns will make the calls.”

            “Only, my mailing list lacks phone numbers, and God only knows when I’ll have time to track them down.”

            “We have a Democratic voter data base. E-mail us the names and addresses. We’ll punch up the phone numbers. Not a problem!” I assure him.

            A very worried Dr. Sacks begins to look relieved.

            “Who are you?!” asks his wife, coming into the living room. Tough lady.

            “I’m delivering a yard sign—“

            “Oh! Of course. The Anna Banana campaign… Well… hello!” she says, friendly as chestnuts by an open fire.

            Later, exhausted, I telephone Eric from home and tell him to have someone call Dr. Sacks immediately, if not sooner. We have to help him contact his guest list by telephone. Naturally, I’m leaving Eric a message. I know better than to expect him to answer his phone.

            Once, in a similar fix, Amy had me address 150 anonymous white envelopes. We wanted them to appear as if they came from Mrs. Franklin, who was hosting the event, not from the campaign. With Amy gone and the campaign in the hands of mathematicians, it’s definitely a colder experience. On the plus side, Eric is the one who said, “You have to service your voter base and make the choir sing!”

            While Amy said, “We concentrate on convincing the undecideds. Basically, once someone is an Anna supporter, we ignore them.”

            Two very different philosophies.

            Now, Eric’s will be put to the test.

            He and his assistant Judith are cold fish. “How’d you like the parade?” Judith asks me. Apparently, she was there, although I never noticed.

            “I liked Jackson Jones,” I tell her. “Great speech!”

            “Oh, I didn’t like it,” she replies. “I prefer reasoned argument. Jackson is too much fire and brimstone.”

            Fuck! Here we go again. Math geniuses!

            “I need that fire to heat up my coals,” I say, mock apologetic. That makes Eric laugh.

            “Kevin needs a fiery speech to get hot,” he chuckles.

            Lacking warmth, I don’t know how helpful this campaign is going to be to someone like Dr. Sacks.

*

            Employing public sources and creative use of the telephone, I locate the JAG office of the National Guard Reserve where Hiram Whiplash so patriotically serves. JAG is accessible to the general public since some cases impinge on civilians. When I tell the clerk I’m ex-military, he puts me through to Hiram’s commanding officer.

            “What seems to be the problem?” this gentleman asks me. “Do you wish to file a complaint?”

            “No. As a voter, I simply want to fathom the extent of Hiram Whiplash’s duties, to judge his qualifications for holding elective office in the State of Maryland.”

            “Well, I certainly cannot comment on that,” Hiram’s commander says, weighing his options. “Captain Whiplash is a meaningful addition to this office. We fight a constant backlog of cases. Captain Whiplash isn’t afraid to put in the long hours.”

            “Is it a desk job?”

            “It is most assuredly a desk job.”

            I thank the man.

            “Are you a movie buff?” he asks me.

            I begin to laugh. “Deep into my second career, I am a screenwriter. Yes, I am definitely a movie buff.”

            “I only ask because I’d say our office is a lot closer to A Few Good Men than Top Gun.”

            “I understand.”

            Anna is on the campaign trail, shaking down corporations for the big money needed to finance TV advertising. I wonder: What is she promising them in return?

            I’m delighted that Eric trusts me enough to hand me an assignment and leave me to run my own show. I enjoy the work, but never in my wildest dreams, had I expected to be lonely out on the campaign trail. Driving around delivering yard signs, I do become desperate for ever more human contact.

*

            No one home, I prop a yard sign against the stucco wall of a suburban dwelling. Sometimes, I’ll actually plant the sign in the front yard. This time, I can’t figure out where they’d like to put it. As I return to my car, I see her.

            She is sitting across the street in a beige compact. Watching her through the windshield of her car, two features strike me, setting my heart a-flutter. She is wearing ridiculous heart-shaped sunglasses. And she is laughing. Not talking-on-the-phone laughing, not listening-to-the-radio laughing, just sitting by herself, convulsed in mirth.

            THAT IS A VERY NEUROTIC LADY WHO IS NOT GOING TO BE ANY FUN.

            My immediate reaction. If I get involved with her, she is going to be high-maintenance, lead me a wild chase, turn me on and break my heart, but (1) it doesn’t lead anywhere and (2) it won’t be much fun.

            I’m totally devastated.

            She’s everything that’s wrong in a friend, my polar opposite. All I do is work, all she does is play. It’s obvious that’s what she’s doing now. Having fun. Her way. Something is going on, I have no idea what.

             SHE’S LAUGHING. SHE’S SO BEAUTIFUL.

             I’m captivated. She owns me.

            As I approach, she keeps fooling around with the car door. She opens it. She closes it. She opens it again. Finally, one shapely leg arches out. A sandaled foot touches the pavement. And what a sandal! One of those Roman toga numbers with tight leather thongs crawling up the calf. Turning sideways in her seat, she crosses her right leg over her left and starts bouncing her foot.

            “I saw you eyeballing me! What are you looking at, snarky?! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” she calls out, wrinkling her nose.

            I am going ballistic!!!

            A comparison shopper, this is what I’ve been looking for! Ever since my high school sweetheart and long-term nemesis Peggy Sue Cockburn died, I have sought a replacement pitcher who will tease me, drive me crazy, treat me like an idiot and give me a hard-on. Someone young and non-threatening who will make me feel like a tongue-tied teenager again.  

            “What are you, a mime?” she taunts me. “Can’t you talk? Cat got your tongue? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            “Hi!” I say walking up to her in my khaki cargo shorts, white T-shirt and sneakers. “You’re so great. You’re amazing. I mean, I saw you sitting here laughing and I thought, ‘Oh my god, she’s wonderful!’ I-I’m sorry.”

            “You’re mad!” she lisps. Looking down at her red painted fingernails, she lifts her arms and waves her hands in my face. “You’re so wired! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! You ought to close your mouth before a fly buzzes in there and sticks in your throat!”

            That’s when I realize that my jaw aches. I’ve been staring at her with my mouth hanging open. Up close, I see she is much younger than I anticipated. She has a tiny, round face with outsized features. I can’t see her eyes, but her nose, her lips and her apple cheeks are squarely in evidence.

             Me like!

            “I-I’m sorry! I, I love it when you laugh,” I tell her, feeling myself blush.

            I love more than her laughter. I love her legs, her arms, her hands, her face, her blond hair, every part of her compact little body. Sitting sideways in the driver’s seat, she’s wearing a white, frilly, cotton summer frock.

            “I drove over here,” she explains with a wave of her hand. “Ricky Williams has been my boyfriend for the last three weeks, but he won’t commit! He says his mom will kill him if I come around. She’s such a bitch! So this morning, after class, I told him, ‘Ricky, Ticky-poo, if you won’t give me your home address, I’m leaving for California, like, tomorrow. Right after school lets out. I’m not waiting around here when I can drive to California!’ That’s when he gave me this address! See the sign? He lives here! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            Intelligence isn’t handed out like door prizes, where everyone gets one. Besides, she’s “funny”: A lady with an agenda, she uses laughter as an aphrodisiac.

            Definitely my kind of girl. “Gosh, you’re so neat!” I tell her. “What, what’s your name?”

            “I’m Carrie!” she smiles.

            “Hi! I’m Kevin.”

            “Kerim?”

            “Kevin.”

            “Oh, okay!”

            I look over at the house across the street and see the trad mushroom-shaped sign with the family name painted in black. “Williams.” Well, well… little Ricky Williams doesn’t want Carrie showing up at his house. Gad! I wouldn’t want her showing up at my house, either! My mother would have a heart attack. Carrie is every mother’s worst nightmare.

             “You’re great,” I tell her. I sit down at her feet, right in the middle of the street. The pavement is hot and sticky under my shorts. Fortunately, it’s dead quiet, not a breath of traffic.

              LOOKING AT SOMEBODY WEARING HEART-SHAPED SUNGLASSES DOES PUSH MY BUTTONS.

              “Do you carry a wallet?” she asks me. “Not everybody carries a wallet. I was just wondering if you do, ‘cause… Huh? Do ya? Can I see it?”

            I fish out my wallet.

            “How much money do you carry around? ‘Cause different people carry around different amounts, and I was just wondering how much you carry around, Kevy…”

            “Well, it’s, I…”

            “Show me! Take out your money!” she says, her foot bobbing inches from my face, her hands making violent circles in the air, her mouth constantly breaking into a triumphant smile.

            “Please!” Desperate, panting, I pull out my bills.

            With a flip of the wrist, she shoves her left hand in my face, palm up. Flexing her fingers, she waits, laughing at me behind her crazy sunglasses.

            “H-Here!” I say helplessly, handing over my money. “It’s a… a twenty and a ten and a five and some… ones,” I choke, barely able to speak, my mouth is so dry.

            “This is so weird!” she assures me. “You’re such a go-go! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            If Carrie is young and dumb, what does that make me? A masochist?

            “I-I’ve got to go,” I say, gazing up at her.

            “I’m gonna go ring the doorbell and visit Ricky, Ticky-poo! Then, when I finish with that, I’m gonna come visit you! Go straight home and wait for me!” she instructs, pulling off the heart-shaped sunglasses and staring deep into my eyes.

            Gulp!

            Her eyes are sky-blue. My kind of loser, I feel like I never want to leave. I never want to stop staring into her baby blues. My penis is hard as a rock. I feel dizzy with so much blood in an unaccustomed place! Lord help me! Eureka!!!

            (She’s still human. Yes, she’s wearing blue eyeliner, but late nights, booze, drugs or hay fever have left her with bags under her eyes and puffy lids. I find these flaws endearing.)

            “D’you have money in the bank?”

            “I have money in the bank,” I tell her, swatting away gnats. The humidity’s a killer.

            “Because people always say they have money in the bank,” she enumerates, punctuating each phrase with an emphatic up-and-down motion of her hand. “But when I go to borrow $1,000, they never have any money!”

            “I have money in the bank!” I insist. She’s driving me batty with this line of questioning.

            “How much money do you have in the bank?” she demands. Now she sounds like an auditor from the IRS.

            “I have money in the bank! I have $20,000 in the bank.”

            “No, you don’t,” she joshes me incredulously. Her foot stops bobbing. Leaning forward, she slaps me playfully upside the head. “You’re as bad a liar as everybody else!”

            “Carrie! You’re driving me nuts!”

            “O-o-o-oh??? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

            “I have $21,560 in the bank as of last Wednesday,” I shout, exasperated.

            She tweaks me on the nose. “Liar, liar, house on fire!”

            “I will take you to the bank and show you.”

            “But it won’t be in cash! It won’t be in cash,” she chants, giving me a noogie.

              It feels like my cock is going to explode.

            “I want cash!” she sings, drumming on the door frame.

             “I will give you whatever you want!!!”

            “If I want to go to Europe this summer…” she asks me in a scratchy,

sing-song voice, “will you pay my way?”

            “If.. you want to… go to… Europe this summer,” I recite, nailed to the spot by her iron gaze, “I will… pay your way!”

            “Oh,” she opines, “I thought you might want to!”

            Kirk to Picard: Resistance is futile.

            “My god, Carrie! I just met you ten minutes ago and you’ve got me paying for your trip to Europe. I love you! I love everything about you!”

            “Well, gooo-o-o-ood,” she chortles. “What’s your home address and phone number?”

              Now I know how Ricky must feel!

             “Here’s my cell number,” I tell her. “I live with my mom. She’s not an easy lady to get along with…”

             “They never are, Kevy-poo!” Carrie assures me. “I understand, honey pot! Is there a Starbucks where you live?”

             “Well… yes!”

              “I’ll meet you at Starbucks. We need to talk about my trip to Europe. I’ll help you with the details!”

             “Are you serious? Oh, Carrie! Thank you,” I babble, finally getting up from the street. “I’ll do anything for you!”

            “That’s not my fault,” she drawls. I realize she has a soft South Carolina accent.

           “Oh, no! I mean, yes! Please! Of course! I’m just glad for any time we… can spend … together. Carrie.”

           I love the way she twists me around her little finger. She’s putting real time and effort into this new-found relationship. I’m impressed, this lady has both the technique and the panache down pat!

          Waltzing up to me, she runs her left hand down the side of my face. Reaching over my shoulder, she massages the bump on the back of my head. “I like hanging out with you!” she announces. Breaking away, she approaches the Williams residence, giving me an admirable view of her gorgeous little butt swinging left and right under her cotton dress.

           Give the lady an A+ in seduction.

           Grrrowlll !!!

            I’m in love!

*

 

CONFESSION

 

            Since so many of you have been asking (well, three), I wish to state my agitation over the endless search for biographical truth on the Internet.

            Enough, I say. Mea culpa. My bad. Tearfully, I admit it, I am a female lesbian activist living in Beirut, Lebanon. All other identities are temporarily put on hold.

            You may have seen my glam shot on Facebook, sweeties! That’s Clearasil on my chin. Lady Clairol does my hair. Nails by Tina. The nefarious machinations of the manipulative puppet masters at the IMF and World Bank are depriving we Third World youngsters of our future and our birthright.

            As we all know, Beirut is hot in summer and the Babylonian antiquities are kept on the second floor of the National Historical Museum, next to the gift shop. Scenic postcards still cost only 3 livres 50 piastres, despite the inflation. Henri Matisse, to my knowledge, painted only landscapes in Lebanon.

            Speak truth to power! Richard Nixon created Lipitor.

            I bought that mauve oneset at a small tailor shop just off the souk. I have inherited an agate ring from my Grandma, darling, but I only wear it on special occasions. So, help overthrow the repressive autocracies of the Arab world! This is a revolution! As we said in college, there’s no wishy-washy, mealy-mouthed Mickey Mouse about it!

Workers of the world, unite! All you have to lose are your personal information, your credit rating and, like, maybe, your freedom.

            I have yet to find an Arab prison with really fresh potato chips or a decent ATM machine!

            I dare to speak out! I am currently incarcerated in a Scottish gaol on drug charges and for allegedly passing bad checks. Those checks weren’t bad! Money wants to be free!

            Help get Pamela out of prison! Send cash!

            If and when I ever get back to America—I went to school in Ann Arbor, Michigan—I intend to continue our battle as a member of Pretty Girls For Obama.

            Long live the proletariat!

                                       –         A Female Lesbian Activist in Beirut, Lebanon

P.S. For security reasons, I am using a proxy Web server that only makes it APPEAR that I am writing from the International Space Station. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Everybody Likes A Parade

 

            Some traditions demand loyalty. I’m trying to work up enthusiasm for the Mason-Dixon Line Parade. What is it with Oxburg, Maryland and parades? This one starts at the Oxburg Regal Hotel. A cultural landmark, it’s a converted, two-story clapboard farmhouse from the 1840’s. Ever since 1933, a local dignitary has spoken from the second story balcony, followed by a Long March to Natalie Woods where a mock Civil War battle is enacted. By torchlight. In the old days, the re-enactment preceded a mighty bonfire at which people consumed unidentified beverages concealed in brown paper bags, only the neck of the bottle nestling visibly in the creased brown paper. I remember those wondrous conflagrations of my youth, the sparks spiraling upwards into a 1950’s sky filled with stars. Many a pagan dance lent pageantry to the evening, one of the few times of the year when the adults acted childishly and we youngsters stood in awe of them.

            Open fires have been banned for years and night glare blots out the sky, but in 2011, I get an invitation to attend this rite of passage from my candidate herself. Anna Bola all but begs me to come.

            “The Mason-Dixon Line Parade?” I ask, staring at her over her kitchen table.

            “Please! I need you there!”

            “Uh…”

            You’ll remember, I promised myself no more outdoor barbecue campaign events for this puppy!

            As soon as I say yes, Anna and campaign manager extraordinaire Eric are off to the Eastern Shore. They are on a veritable crusade. We have the same problem there as the Obama presidential campaign struggled with in rural Pennsylvania. The locals love their guns and their Bibles. No sweet-talkin’ jive cat from the ‘burbs can possibly fathom the rights and obligations of a waterman, a tobacky grower, a Southern Maryland cornhusker or a ‘coon hunter. At least, that’s the opinion of the locals.

            I keep waiting for Anna and Eric to call me. I’ve spent summers in my youth drudging for “arsters” on skipjacks. I know more about the Eastern Shore than they do. In this instance, they fall victim to the old adage: You only value help in direct proportion to what you pay for it. I work for free, I cannot be a valuable commodity. Busy, they don’t call.

            “It’s my smartphone,” Eric insists every time I complain about his not returning my calls. “You call, I’m gonna answer.”

            Unbelievable! He never answers. I get so alarmed, sitting at home, unable to even book my next day of work, I telephone Amy. Maybe she knows where the campaign is sequestered.

            I get her on her cell phone. “I haven’t worked on the campaign in three weeks!” she rages. “Why call me?!”

            Yikes! “Hey! I’m sorry. I didn’t—“

            “Just keep calling Eric. Eventually, you’ll get him,” she advises me.

            This is the first indication that Eric has pushed Amy aside. Not an amicable divorce.

            So I call the Oxburg Regal Hotel. “The Mason-Dixon Line Parade. What time does the… official speak from the, uh, balcony?”

            “The Lieutenant Governor,” the prim Events Coordinator says. I can barely hear her.

            “Right. The Lieutenant Governor of the Great State of Maryland. When does he speak? I’m supposed to attend—“

            “Out of privacy concerns for the organization hosting the event, we refrain from giving out any details,” she tells me.

            “Wait. What? The Lieutenant Governor is speaking from the hotel balcony and you won’t tell me the time?” I marvel, laughing incredulously. “Are you serious?”

            “Check your invitation,” she tells me, annoyed. “Get in touch with the organizer!”

            “Okay-y-y,” I say. “Who is the official organizer?”

            “Out of privacy concerns for the organization hosting the event, we don’t give out that information.”

            “Thank you!” I guffaw and hang up. This is why hotels have such a bad rep!!!

            I google the parade and find the info online in, like, three minutes.

            On my way to the parade, I am hyper nervous. I hate crowds. I feel totally out of my element. Luckily, none of this seems to show. Apparently, I look just as much like a party animal as everyone else.

            Maryland in June, it’s a steamy night, muggy as a sauna. People drain their plastic water bottles in one gulp and begin beating one another over the head with the empty containers. Bonk!… Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!

            “If one more hooligan hits me over the head,” Eric growls ominously, “that person’s in trouble.” But I’m laughing hysterically. Having found Eric in the crowd, the “hooligans” attacking us are all young girls. Slow-eyed schoolgirls, they keep giving us “come hither” looks and beaning us in the head.

            “You’ve got a hat,” I remind him.

            Incongruously, Eric is dressed like Marlon Brando in The Wild One: Leather jacket, black leather cap, jeans, black leather boots. “These young ladies on the cusp of womanhood need a good spanking,” he opines, “preferably with the flat of the hand on their round, little heinies.”

            I smell alcohol on his breath. Opening a bottle of champagne, he drenches me. In the old days, I would have raised a fuss. In campaign volunteer mode, Mr. Cool, I roll with it, wiping off what I can with Kleenex. “See,” I imply, “no worries!”

            Eric’s still babbling away: “I believe the actions of these young maidens constitute an existential threat. They are channeling repressed sexuality. Long live Dr. Kinsey!” He seems serious. “I’m a number cruncher. The number of girls waiting to be crunched is insurmountable…”

            It never occurred to me that Eric cannot hold his liquor. A finely-tuned machine, even a few drops make him a wild man, spouting gibberish.

            “A hot-blooded pedofile like yourself must be going mad in this heat,” he tells me.

            Accurate gibberish, but never-the-less, the guy is out of control.

            “Too much!” I mutter, bemused. I duck into a green Porta-Potty, both to take a leak and to escape his verbal assault.

            Hiram Whiplash, Anna’s opponent in the upcoming Democratic primary, is there with his supporters. It’s hard to criticize them. Everybody likes a parade. They think their candidate is best.

            Hiram’s 12-year-old daughter sings the national anthem, holding a cordless mike, looking as serious as Ben Kingsley. She sounds uncannily like an ad for Pennsylvania Dutch Oatmeal. When I congratulate her on her performance, she turns to her dad for reassurance.

            “Who are you?” demands Hiram.

            “John Q. Public,” I say. I can’t very well tell him I volunteer on the campaign of his fiercest opponent.

            “What do you want?” Hiram inquires angrily.

              “Fewer speed humps. Better public transportation. Smart growth. Mixed use. An end to wasteful police procedurals on television.”

            “Move to Russia!” Hiram counsels me.

                                                                          *

            “Was fatty there?” my mom will later ask.

            Well, yes, Arthur is there. His lifestyle has left him overweight, but he is a precinct captain of some renown. His current claim to fame is an excelling daughter. Graduating top of her class in economics at Harvard, she now works in the West Wing of the White House. Heady stuff for a lady one year out of university. Since economic recovery is a major bone of contention between the voters and the current administration, I’m not entirely sure she is the right person for the job.

                                                                         *

            The Lieutenant Governor never arrives. Instead, the designated keynote speaker is Jackson Jones, one-time candidate for governor. The “keynote” is reserved for a rising star in our hierarchy. Jackson lost the Democratic primary in the last gubernatorial election by a landslide.

            “I know you didn’t vote for me!” he roars, smiling toothily. “I came to the campaign with bright, burning ideas, well outside the box. ‘If you like my ideas, vote for me! If you don’t, don’t!’ That’s what I told you. True to your convictions, you didn’t! I’m getting the message.

            “Maryland is an incremental state, we do things in small steps.

            “I tried to get a reputation as a sexist pig by twittering lewd comments to college girls. I must be doing it wrong. They keep texting me, ‘R U coming by or what?’

            “I’ve been dating a lady half my age. She keeps asking me, ‘When do we get to the fun part?’ I offered to take her hiking on the Appalachian Trail, but she opted for Venezuela.

            “Speaking of hidden engagements, I offered to work for the current administration in the White House. ‘Sure,” they said, ‘as long as you don’t tell anybody!’

            “You know someone is employed in the security sector when they cannot tell you what they do for a living. ‘Oh, I’m a chiropractor, but I can’t tell anybody. Top secret. Hush, hush. Highest security clearance. I’ve seen some X-rays in my time!’

            “I’ve been in Egypt working with members of the democracy movement. One of the women I worked with most said, ‘I don’t know how to ask this without seeming forward.’

            “I thought she was propositioning me. No such luck. ‘You keep telling us how to go door to door and how to man phone banks,’ she said. ‘But you lost!’

            “Ow, ow, ow! Not the most impressive entry on my résumé…”

            I look around at the audience. Using the applaud app on their smartphones apparently saves them wear and tear on their hands.

            Anna works the crowd as only she can. By the time she’s finished, everyone has left.

*