by Greg Fields
“But what’s the point? What’s the focus?”
“To get re-elected, of course. As you know, we usually have hearings to discuss publicly a specific aspect of a general problem, or even a single piece of legislation. Note my use of the word ’specific.’ Not this time. Our boy wants two days of hearings on ’The Hispanic Condition.’ Everything—housing, nutrition, education, you name it. And he wants to do it in Washington. He doesn’t seem to realize that there aren’t a whole lot of Hispanics there. We’ll have to fly them all in, put them up in hotels, feed them, all of it. It’ll cost a fortune.”
“Greeley, you could spend a week on any of those topics. If you try to cover everything in two days you’ll come off looking like a fool. The boss is going to appear shallow.”
“Conor, he is shallow. You know that.”
“Yeah, but the whole state’ll see that this is just a meaningless gimmick.”
“Exactly what they’ve come to expect from their junior senator. He wants to do it, though. There’s no stopping him once he gets an idea. Fortunately that’s pretty rare.”
They talked through another drink while waiting for dinner. Finnegan was not an accomplished drinker, and he certainly had little experience with Scotch. He felt warmed through his toes. His mind caught and registered details of the room, the servers, the patrons. He noticed in particular a beautiful redhead sitting with a young man a few tables below the brass railing. She had green eyes. Finnegan kept stealing glances at her throughout his conversation with Welsh.
They each had ordered seafood, so Welsh asked for a bottle of white wine, a California chardonnay. Shortly after they began eating, one of the servers sat down at the piano and began playing while another broke into “What Do the Simple Folk Do?” from Camelot. He sang show tunes for the next several minutes.
“I didn’t tell you this place had entertainment, too.”
“Singing waiters?”
“Common in New York, from what I hear. Young kids looking for a break. It’s sad, really, in a sense. There’s so much talent in this city going to waste. Maybe not good enough to break into the big time, but good enough to be doing something besides waiting on tables for the likes of us.”
They finished their dinners and poured the last of the wine. Finnegan knew that he was still in control of himself, although he started to have some difficulty focusing on items beyond the table. Not great difficulty, but enough to compel him to order espresso. Welsh followed suit.
“So we come to the heart of whatever matter lies at hand,” said Finnegan with a smile. “Why am I sitting with you in a restaurant in New York City? What’s up, Greeley?”
Greeley Welsh leaned back in his chair and hooked an arm over one end. “You’re a patient man, Conor Finnegan. We now enter the business part of this great dinner.”
“So it’s not just a random trip up the coast to see the wonders of Gotham. I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t entirely certain it had anything to do with me.”
“You, my young friend, are the sole purpose of my journey. In fact, I was due to fly home from D.C. this afternoon. I changed my flight when you told me you were available. Not that I mind,” Welsh lifted his cup to his lips and sipped the thick, dark coffee. “This has been great fun. I love New York City, with all the smugness of a westerner who knows he’ll never have to live in this chaotic cesspool. How, in God’s name, do you do it?”
“For one thing, I’m not in New York City. For another, you get used to it. I’m young enough to adapt to anything, I think. I’d survive in a God damn igloo in the Arctic Circle if I had to. But don’t get sidetracked. What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait until next month?”
“I’ve been dispatched by the senator. You know, Conor, you’ve really caught his eye. He thinks you’ve done some very good things for him. The elderly, and that whole nursing home thing. He told me he thinks you’re also the best writer he’s ever had on staff. Better than me even, I suppose that means. But I’m not jealous, you son of a bitch.” He paused again to sip his espresso.
“You know, that same poll in the San Francisco paper that led to all this Latino nonsense showed him extremely strong among the elderly. Something like 76 percent approval. That’s the highest rating the geezers have ever given him. He attributes part of that to you. He’s introduced six or seven pieces of legislation on seniors that have stemmed from your reports and recommendations, and one of them is part of the omnibus bill that’s about to be passed. The old folks like that. They’ll vote for him in a couple of years, those that are still around. That’s the problem with the senior vote. It’s not long term.”
“So the senator likes my work. I’m flattered, but why are you telling me this?”
“Because, old boy, he likes your work well enough to want you around permanently. I’ve been dispatched to make you an offer. Legislative Assistant in the Washington office, $37,000 a year to start. You’d come on board next month.”
Finnegan’s lips pursed in genuine surprise, but he quickly gathered himself. He was glad now that he had had something to drink. He felt more relaxed than justified after hearing the impressive proposal just made to him. And he felt very confident. No need to rush.
“What about college, Greeley? I’m not quite done yet.”
“The boss says you can finish up at night. We’ll find a way to cover tuition. He suggested Georgetown or George Washington.”
“Law school?”
“The same. He can get you in at George Washington. He’s on their board.”
“He’d lose his clout as an ex-senator. What if he loses?”
“Then you do something else for someone else. I’ll tell you something, Conor. In this business, if you’re good you’ll always be employed. No one stays in office forever. The staffs of the losers are picked up here and there. Besides, you could always go to law school full time. That’s what you plan to do anyway, isn’t it? This way, at least you’d have a couple years full time on a Senate staff under your belt. That in itself might open some very nice doors. If anything, Conor, this position gives you more options than you have now.”
“What if I want to compromise?”
“What do you mean?”
“I work in Washington this summer, then go back to Rutgers in September with the understanding that I’ll come on staff permanently after I graduate next year. Do you think he’d go for that?”
“You don’t want to leave college?”
“No way. Not with one year to go. I’ve built a pretty nice life for myself here, and I’ve already got commitments for next year. I don’t want to abandon all that unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Is that your answer, then? You want to see if you can delay for a year?”
“Let me sleep on it, Greeley. But if I work in D.C. this summer, then it’s not even a full year delay. I can even do some assignment work from Rutgers over those months when I’m back there.”
“I don’t know if he’ll bite, Conor. He seems to want you on board as soon as possible.”
“Greeley, if I’m this important to him now, what’ll I be next year once I finish my degree and get some more experience? I’ll still be with him for the election.”
Greeley Welsh laughed. “You know, Conor, you’re amazing. I would have thought you’d jump at this. I’m sure the boss thought likewise.”
“I am jumping at it. I’m just doing it on my own terms. I’m not going to change my long-term plans, even for an opportunity like this. If that’s unfair, then I plead guilty.”
“So what’s the next move?”
“I call the senator after the weekend and give him my answer, and my terms. What do you think?”
“I think you’re wise beyond your years. And I think the senator will be surprised, which is not a bad thing. I also think he’ll ultimately go for what you propose.”
“I hope he does. But I’m not exactly sure yet what that will be.”
“I’ve got to get going, Conor.” He picked up the c
heck and put it back on the table with a credit card beneath it. In a few minutes the server returned with his receipt. Finnegan glanced one last time at the redhead. “Where are you parked? Or did you take the train?”
“Port Authority.”
“Want to share a cab?”
“That’s not on the way, Greeley. You’re heading in the opposite direction.”
“No matter.”
“No. You’ve gone enough out of your way today as it is. And I do appreciate it. This has been great.”
“It has been. Always good to see you, Conor. Drop me a note after you talk with Fearless Leader. I’d love to see you back in L.A., but I’ve got a hunch that’s not going to happen. The boss is pulling rank.”
“We’ll see.”
Greeley Welsh hailed a cab, which pulled to a stop.
“Take care, Greeley. I’ll be in touch. And thanks.”
Welsh got into the cab and waved as it pulled away. Finnegan hailed his own taxi and rode it back to the Port Authority. The city lights flickered in horizontal and vertical pockets, but the romance of the city vanished at the terminal. Finnegan inhaled the greasy fumes of bus exhaust and stepped through the sooty doors into the sparse interior. He ignored the night people and the panhandlers.
To his car, to the street, through the tunnel, to the Turnpike, and then home. Finnegan made the trip within forty minutes, but his consciousness took no measure of time. There were other things to consider.
***
The next day, Friday, Conor Finnegan called Glynnis Mear. He had been struggling with the age-old strategizing that plagues young men. He had not wanted to call too early in the week—that would have made him appear too eager. But neither did he wish to wait too long—that might seem too cavalier. Greeley Welsh had distracted him, much to his relief, and he put away all speculation until after he had met with Welsh in New York. The next afternoon, he called Glynnis.
“Hello?”
“This is your young Romantic Irishman, Glynnis. The one who loves the sea.”
Glynnis laughed softly. “Conor, how are you? I’m so glad you called. I was thinking you’d forgotten all about me.”
“No chance, lass. I wanted to talk with you sooner, but it’s turned out to be a busy week, and somewhat eventful.”
“What have you been up to? Chasing windmills?”
“In a way. Too much to tell you over the phone. Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ve kept it free for you. All day, if you’d like to come down early.”
“I can bring a lunch and we can go back to the park for a picnic. Then maybe I could take you to dinner, if that’s okay.”
“That sounds wonderful, Conor. I’ll bring the wine.”
“Glynnis, you are the wine. Shall I pick you up?”
“No, there’s no need. Why don’t we meet in back of the art museum around 11:00. I’ll find my way down there.”
“If you want, but I could really come get you.”
“No, Conor. I’ll take a bus. Maybe I’ll walk partway. But please feel free to take me home.”
“I’ll insist upon that.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Conor. Have a safe drive.”
“Glynnis,” Conor spoke quickly, almost barking her name to keep her from running off.
“Yes?”
“You know, I think I’m going to spend the summer in the East. In Washington.”
“Really? How’d you manage that?” Her voice betrayed more curiosity than excitement. It was not the question for which Finnegan had hoped.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. It seems I’ve turned a senator’s head. At any rate, I thought you’d be interested.”
“Won’t you miss your ocean?”
“There’s one here. Even though the sun doesn’t set in it.”
“It’ll have to do. You roving dreamers sometimes have to put up with considerable hardships.”
“It comes with the territory. I’ll see you tomorrow, Glynnis.”
Finnegan hung up the phone and went to the store to buy food for their picnic. He checked the money in his wallet, seeing that he could afford a nice dinner tomorrow night. That evening he would do nothing more than listen to his music, perhaps read a bit, and let the fermentation of chance settle into his veins like a vapor.
***
Tom McIlweath had other plans for Friday night. He took Anne Newbury to a play staged by the college’s theater group. It was an original drama written by a Rutgers graduate who had won a national writing award. McIlweath enjoyed the theater far more than did Anne, but she willingly went along when he suggested the play. To her it was a concession, one she felt compelled to make in light of the time and money McIlweath spent on her. She could placate him this way, and afterward feel that he owed her.
Drama, though, good or bad, held no fascination for her. It all seemed such a waste of effort. Fiction, she reflected, rarely reflected real life, at least not as she had noticed it. At best, then, the theater was a diversion, and at worst a distraction, one that could distort one’s view of human nature if one took it too seriously. The theater inflated itself much more pompously than did the cinema, which, she believed, existed purely for entertainment with no thought of enlightenment.
After the play the two went back to Anne’s home, as they customarily did at the end of an evening. Unlike most evenings, though, Anne’s parents had already gone to bed. A single light burned in the entryway. The rest of the house was dark.
Anne unlocked the door, McIlweath behind her, then went into the darkened living room to flip on a light. McIlweath followed her in and sat on the couch. Anne sat next to him.
“I wonder why my parents went to bed so early? It’s only a little after 11:00.”
“Maybe it’s been a long week for them. I know it’s been for me,” and McIlweath stretched his right arm around Anne’s shoulders. Anne sat rigidly and did nothing to acknowledge his touch.
’She’s so hard,’ he thought. ’Her body is so lean. There’s nothing but bone and sinew. Whatever tender areas there are beneath them are well protected.’
“What did you think of the play, Anne? Was it,” McIlweath took the playbill out of his jacket pocket and read, “’a delicate examination of the vulnerabilities in traditional man-woman relationships?’”
“No, I thought it was silly. What was the play we saw in March? ’Charley’s Aunt.’ I thought that showed more insights than what we saw tonight.”
“But ’Charley’s Aunt’ is a farce. It’s comedy.”
“This might as well have been, too. I don’t understand how the main character—was his name Andrew?—was so enraptured with Marie. That didn’t make any sense.”
“That developed prior to the play’s start. We need to accept that as a given. That sets the basis for a tension brought on by their opposite perspectives working against a visceral attraction.”
“Their lifestyles were too different. He was a bohemian and she was a prim and proper society girl. And he tried to draw her into his own dirty world. What amazed me was that she would even consider going with him and his friends. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would ever have anything to do with a man like that, and here the playwright had her almost giving up her whole world to follow a base and disgusting little artist. I can’t see that attraction, even if we have to accept it.”
“But that’s the writer’s point, Anne. Their attraction was nontraditional, and based on what proper society would call the wrong things. You can’t deny that attraction existed even though you don’t understand it. Even a relationship based on a rebellion like Marie’s has some merit and deserves to be nurtured. It worked, at least for a while.”
“Tom, that doesn’t make sense. A girl raised in an elite society is only accustomed to that type of lifestyle. She’s not going to reject it, even for a little while, unless she’s sure she’s getting into something better. She knows she’s comfortable, and well provided for, and she knows that her life with that artist
would be dirty and clumsy and foul. She barely knew the man, so their attraction was primarily physical. No woman in the world is going to abandon a comfortable lifestyle just for physical attraction. That only happens in fiction. It’s nice to talk about Marie’s rebellion and nontraditional relationships, and maybe a writer has to do that, but it doesn’t reflect reality, Tom. So what’s the point?”
“The Greeks saw the stage as a forum for ideas more so than a stage of actions. That’s the beauty of good theater.”
“Which this wasn’t. I don’t want to argue, Tom. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”
“No thanks. But we weren’t arguing, were we? We were just discussing something we had seen together.”
“What’s the difference? You believe one thing, I believe something else. There’s no point in talking about it.”
“That’s where conclusions come from, Anne. Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis.”
“It just makes for hard feeling.”
“Not for me.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
McIlweath raised his right hand from Anne’s shoulder to her neck, tucking it under her light brown hair. He massaged her nape. “Let me soften those hard feelings for you.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back her head, pinning McIlweath’s hand between her neck and the base of her skull. She murmured low and catlike, “I like that.”
McIlweath took off his glasses with his left hand and placed them on an end table. He leaned over to kiss Anne’s parted, purring lips. But as soon as his lips touched hers she resisted, turning her head. McIlweath drew back.
“Don’t, Tom. Don’t spoil it. Just keep rubbing my neck.”
McIlweath muttered no protest. He merely did as he was told. After a few minutes, Anne lay down, her head on McIlweath’s lap. He slipped off her glasses and rubbed her temples.