Gay Place

by Billy Lee Brammer

  Stanley moved next to the Governor’s assistant. They were about the same age: never really good friends but always aware of each other all through college. The assistant was named Jay McGown. He had a movie star wife, or rather a wife who had left him and subsequently become a movie star. There were some few friends who felt he might ultimately have become Governor himself in ten or fifteen years — if the wife had not outmanned him. He was a quiet and occasionally morose fellow and Stanley regarded him as rather a bore.

  “You taped all this?” Stanley said to him.

  “Ummn,” McGown said. “If we did I wasn’t aware of it. He’ll have me inventing quotes — re-creating the whole damn scene — if one of those birds asks for it. Jesus, I hope not … It is Saturday afternoon, and I was up till three this morning.”

  “Doing what? A party?”

  “Yeah, a party. Right up there in that red granite monstrosity. He had me writing editorials. Endorsements. Every kind you can imagine. Conservatives endorsing him, liberals endorsing him, old hard-nosed columnists endorsing him, weekly newspapers, big dailies, free traders, protectionists, segregationists … You name it — we’ve got a pitch already prepared.”

  “For whom,” Stanley said. “Editorials for whom?”

  “Neil.”

  “But this was last night? Early this morning? He didn’t even announce till half an hour ago.”

  “The Governor seemed pretty sure of it. I thought they’d probably talked privately and decided on today. That is, if Edwards showed up. It was never really certain whether he would …”

  “You mean he expected Edwards to show?”

  “Well, hell … I don’t know. I think he did. Who the hell knows what goes through their heads? The Governor keeps his own council.”

  “But —”

  “Jay — you and Stanley come here.” The Governor had finished one call and was waiting for the sequence operator to ring back with another. Andrea’s father mixed himself a bourbon on ice. Neil reappeared, buttoning his shirt collar.

  “Jay — you get the limousine and take Stanley over to the Secretary’s office. They’re waiting for you over there. You can park outside the Capitol while Stanley runs in and hands over the filing fee. That’ll make it official — they’ve got the forms all filled out and waiting … How much is that check, Neil?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “Write another — you only need fifteen hundred. And I doubt if they have change.” The Governor made a cackling sound, choked on his drink and swore to himself, gasping and laughing between breaths.

  “I don’t have that much money,” Neil said.

  “What?”

  “I can’t write a check … I don’t have fifteen hundred in my account.”

  “I’ll write you one, then,” the Governor said. “I’ll write you two or three if you want it. I collected a whole piss-pot of cash for you this morning.”

  “I’ll write it, I’ll write it,” Andrea’s father said. He already had his gold fountain pen out and was scribbling on a book of checks. He tore one out and handed it over to Neil.

  “Here,” Neil said, accepting the one from his father-in-law and offering the other in exchange.

  “No … No. No. Keep it. Keep it.” The old man backed off, waving his arms as if battling insects.

  “But I can’t accept this. You’ve already given me this one check. I can’t take any more …”

  “Put it in your account,” the old man said. He drained off his bourbon and poured another. “So you’ll have some. I heard you was overdrawn.”

  “Where did you hear that? Did Andrea … It’s all taken care of now and —”

  “Christ almighty, Neil … I’ve owned that bank twenty-five years. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No … I didn’t … And I may just change banks.”

  “And I got controlling interest in two of the others. You might have a hard time picking the one out of three I don’t have anything to do with … And if you happened to pick that one, I just might buy into it … I set the bastards up in business just after the war. Hell! I’m interested in your goddam welfare!”

  The Governor was on the phone again. He put a hand over the mouthpiece and motioned at the two younger men. The old man handed over the check, like a headwaiter about to deliver the big surprise. Stanley and Jay McGown headed out the door.

  “… Listen, Howard,” the Governor was saying into the telephone, “get up off your ass and do a little work. Have I ever laid down on you? Hell no! This is just a matter of putting a little fire under your own boys. I’ve got some editorials coming to you Monday, in addition, and …”

  In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, Stanley said: “I’m supposed to meet a girl downstairs. She’s taking notes on what Edwards says.”

  “We’ve got a man down there, too.” McGown thought a moment. “Listen — do you have to came back up here for anything?”

  “Not that I know of. I’m supposed to meet Neil later tonight.”

  “Well listen — I’ll take that thing by the Capitol if you like. And then I can call from there and tell the Man you’ve gone on home and mission’s accomplished and all that crap, and maybe I can get out from under. I mean if I have to come back up here, I’ll never get loose. And I won’t have to come back up if you don’t … Understand? This other way, I’ve got half a chance … At least I can get a nap on the couch until the Governor decides something. … Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  They rode in silence on the elevator. In the lobby, Stanley waved goodbye but then turned and caught up with McGown.

  “Listen … What you were saying about Edwards …”

  “Forget it … I’ve got to run, really … I’ll talk to you later. I was just popping off — that’s all … I don’t really know.”

  McGown waved and moved through the swinging doors. Stanley wandered through the lobby, looking for the crowd gathered round Edwards. Elsie appeared from behind.

  “Hello,” she said. “It’s all over.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “The same thing all over again, except a little more. Most fantastic feeling — he was standing there talking about me, and I was right next to him taking notes and he didn’t know who I was and I kept interrupting and correcting him. He made some mistakes, you see. About my birthplace and my religion and my father’s family. Finally, he got impatient and wanted to know how I knew so much and what paper I represented. I said I represented myself and had rather a unique interest in what he was saying. When I told him who I was, all the reporters suddenly wanted to interview me and just lost interest in Edwards. Just left him! We all went into the coffee shop and talked.”

  Stanley stood in the lobby, grinning at her. “Well what finally happened to Edwards?”

  “Nothing. That I know about. He started to follow us into the coffee shop but then apparently changed his mind. He just turned around and walked away … Is that all right? My notes aren’t very good, because I kept listening to what he was saying about me instead of writing. But he didn’t really get very far. You think it’s all right?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Stanley said. He had her by the arm and they were moving through the lobby toward the street. “Would you like a drink?” he said. “My hotel’s just across the way, and I’ve got a bottle. Or there’s a private club if you’d prefer that. But we’d probably run into Edwards and some of those reporters. He’s probably waiting for them, hoping to buy a round.”

  “I ought to go home,” the girl said, smiling, looking at him with wonderful dark eyes. “Where is Neil? How is he?”

  “Up with the Governor … What are you doing tonight? Would you be interested in a party? We’re going to one — or rather I’m supposed to meet Neil at one. He’s supposed to meet Andrea there. We’re all meeting — everyone’s meeting. You want to come with me and meet everyone.”

  The girl thought a moment. “What kind of party? I have nothing to wear. Really, I have no —”
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br />   “It’s not important. In fact you’ll be sensational. Wear flat heels and a plain blouse — maybe a man’s shirt. They’ll like that — this bunch … How about it?”

  “All right …”

  Stanley had a rented car parked just outside. There were newsboys hooting the noon edition fictions. Another picture of Neil was on the front page, and they stopped to look. But the stories were those written at eleven that morning — the ones based on the advance text. There was nothing about what happened at the luncheon and only a few lines from the speech Neil had actually delivered.

  The Saturday afternoon traffic was thinning, and they stood for a moment watching all the bland faces, all the same people. They were becoming all of a type: the ten-dollar straws with the Old School striped bands, the silk suits and the gray mesh oxfords and the batiste button-downs, the women in empire waist or middy blouse or garish orange print dresses. It would all soon be as jaded and predictable and tedious as all the rest, with only a slight aberration in manner or dress dividing them from, say, Sauk City, Minnesota. Stanley thought about the old man in the hotel room with his diamond stickpin and kitchen matches and Neil trying to hold on to something, overwhelmingly assaulted by the images created for him. He looked at the faces once again as he held the car door for the girl. His own father would have astonished everyone for blocks around with his crazy beard.

  Thirteen

  “I DON’T LIKE IT,” Neil said.

  “The hell with what you like,” the Governor said. “You do what you have to do.”

  “I don’t like it.” He continued to pace about the room; he had begun to perspire again. The Governor was going after something inside his ear with the end of a matchstick jacketed in Kleenex. The old man, Andrea’s father, had drunk bourbon steadily until falling to sleep in one of the bedrooms.

  “Christ almighty,” the Governor said, “what in hell is this faint-of-heart business? What do you want? Free the slaves? End the cold war? Institute land reforms?”

  “No, no, no …”

  “You do what you have to do, Neil. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. You make the best of a not-so-bad bargain. Give a little, take a little … The first principle is that you’ve got to learn to rise above principle.”

  “But it’s too much. Fifty thousand dollars — it’s just —”

  “You’ll need twice that much before this campaign’s over.”

  “… It’s just too much. From the wrong people. I don’t even know them.”

  “All the better. You realize I collected it this morning — and you weren’t even around? Skipped out on me … I’m beginning to believe I could invent you — just tell the people there was such a thing as Neil Christiansen. And win it all by myself!”

  “Not a bad idea,” Neil said.

  “Look — you want to stay here the next two months and be saddled with a statewide campaign? It’s a big state. Runnin’ your skinny behind off, making eight, ten speeches a day?”

  “No.”

  “Then you do it on the television. You go back to Washington and work at your job and let yourself be seen on television a few times a week. The TV and the ads and the newspaper support and my own little old organization I’m turning over to you …”

  “I wasn’t even sure I wanted to get into this … Hadn’t even made up my mind …”

  “… Do everything for you. Everything. You just show your face occasionally — and collect all the gravy. And don’t let it dribble down your shirt front … You want to do good? Hey — you want to do good?”

  “I want to do goody-good,” Neil said, “I really do.” He looked at the Governor, unsmiling.

  “Well you can, don’t you understand? Don’t you understand that? All you ever wanted to do. Six years … Six gorgeous years — I wish I had that much ahead of me. You know what that means? To get elected to the Senate at your age? You’re in forever if you got any sense at all and don’t rape a nun or something. You’re in there for as long as you want and you end up a committee chairman or a vice-presidential candidate and Lord knows whut-all. You’ve got a future … I don’t know what the hell I’ve got …”

  “I understand … I appreciate that. But … fifty thousand dollars — are you serious? Is it that much?”

  “That’s what they pledged. And they don’t ordinarily go back on their word.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Who the hell knows? Everything! The goddam moon. That’s not your concern.”

  “The hell it isn’t. I’m —”

  “You’re job is to get elected and stay elected. That’s the first consideration. When that’s assured, you get good enough, mean enough, you learn enough to fend off the bill collectors. They come around wanting the moon you give ’em green cheese and make ’em think that was what they were lookin’ for all the time. That’s what you do. That’s what a professional has to do.”

  “Give it back to them,” Neil said, staring out a window toward the hideous rooftops of tall buildings and the green hills beyond.

  “The hell I will. I’d keep it myself before I’d give it back. And I haven’t even got it yet.”

  “Fine. Tell ’em to forget it. We’ll get by without —”

  “Forget it? Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea — I know you must because you worked in my campaign … you’ve worked in enough campaigns to know …”

  “What?”

  “What a telecast over the state costs.”

  “Eight thousand.”

  “About ten. And radio’s half of that. And newspaper ads! And salaries for campaign personnel. You know. How can you —”

  “All right, all right. But I don’t like it.”

  “Like I said — the hell with what you like. That’s a luxury for people elected to office for six year terms. Indulge yourself some other time …”

  Andrea’s father wandered out into the main room. Thin strands of gray hair fell over his face. He had lost a shoe somewhere; his garters were loose and trailed his feet, dragging the carpet.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “After five,” the Governor said. “Going on six.”

  “You about finished, Neil?”

  “Yes.” He looked at Fenstemaker. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Sure … But remember what I said. Quit behaving like you’re having a monthly or something. Take a pill. Feel better tomorrow. I get down. God knows I get right down on the basement floor and want to cry and throw a bomb at the next Creeping Jesus who walks into my office with a long face and a longer hand out. But I get over it. It’s a little song and dance I go through when somebody plays the secret music. Zip up your fly and go home and think about these things.”

  The Governor got to his feet and walked slowly into his bedroom. They could hear him in there, on the telephone again. “Yes … Yes … Allright, all right, you can knock off. Go get tight … Go get yourself laid … Tell Sweet Mama I’ll be late … What? I’m taking a nap, that’s what … And have someone send a car around and ring me around seven …”

  Neil and the old man got their coats and headed out of the suite. The late afternoon papers had arrived and Neil carried the front sections with him. There were small pictures of Neil speaking and Edwards in his arms akimbo stance, and a larger one of them slipping sideways on the marble floor of the ballroom lobby. The caption read GREAT DEBATE — ROUND ONE, although the story was all in Neil’s favor. He could tell himself, struggling with the emotions of uneasy objectivity and crippled pride, that whatever advantage achieved was the result of Arthur Fenstemaker’s speech to the crowd. There was a brief description of the scuffling match and the heated words leading up to it, followed by a lengthy report on all the tributes paid to Neil by the Governor. This carried over into another column on the inside pages, with more description of Edwards’ quick and unceremonious departure. In the last five paragraphs an attempt was made to summarize Neil’s luncheon speech, but the quotations were all out of context and nearly inco
herent, and he wondered if there had ever really been anything to what he had said.

  The old man chewed a stick of gum, a precaution, he said, against whiskey breath, and they moved through the Saturday evening traffic toward the hills. Neil drove the car, and between them sat two enormous stuffed rabbits the old man had brought with him on the plane. The girls spotted them immediately from the front steps and ran squealing and gasping with delight toward the open car door. “Grandpa!” they hooted … “Easter rabbuts! …”

  They stood struggling with the weird animals in the twilight, attempting to get them pulled inside the house without dragging bottoms, arguing over colors and rabbit whiskers (“Rabbits have whiskers?”) and the extraordinary length of the ears. Andrea met them at the door. She was dressed to go out; in the crazy grandeur of the moment, with the porch lamp on her sweet face and the children screaming and stumbling over one another and whooping instructions at their grandfather, she seemed to embrace and give meaning to all the pretty pictures in his head of what it was he really wanted and how life ought to be. They stood looking at each other with the screen door half open and the girls dancing round them, the old man wheezing and trying to tell a story from his youth about Easter egg rolls on the courthouse lawn of some wornout and forgotten country town.

  “I was going out,” she finally said. “Cocktails — it’s already started — and then dinner downtown and some kind of drinking party afterwards. Can you come with me?”

  “Could it … be … later? I’m just God-awful tired … and …

  “I heard you announced?” she said. “On the radio. Was it in your speech? I didn’t know.”