Prophet's Pass

by Chapman Brown

  “You in line?”

  Polo turned around, a passing spotlight catching his fair hair.

  “Huh?”

  “You in line?”

  “Oh,” Polo said. “No.” In a sea of tank tops and too-tight T-shirts, his shirt and slacks made him look like a suburban golf instructor.

  “Just lurking in the corridor,” Aiden deduced.

  Polo mimed cupping his ear, which was shapely but looked a little small on his head given how severely he’d cropped his hair. He looked a little flustered. “I didn’t…?”

  Fuck it, Aiden thought. He was drunk and single and horny, and he could flirt with Polo here. He used the excuse of speaking into his ear to press his body closer. “I said, ‘you’re just lurking in the corridor.’” Against his own, Polo’s chest felt wide and hard. Not so suburban after all.

  Polo smiled tightly but didn’t step back. “I guess.” He nodded.

  “What’s your name?” Aiden asked.

  Polo answered, but Aiden didn’t hear. He pointed to his ear, and now Polo leaned in, so close that his stubble grazed Aiden’s cheekbone. His breath was hot in his ear, and Aiden was so distracted he missed the name again.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said anyway.

  Polo leaned back against the painted breeze blocks. “You too,” he said, polite and unreadable. It occurred to Aiden he might be some straight guy here with a girlfriend or something. He seemed out of place. But then, straight guys in gay bars were very reliable about telling you they were straight, often loudly and repeatedly.

  Aiden tossed his head toward the main dance floor. “You, uh, want a drink?”

  Polo leaned in again. “I don’t drink!”

  Christ, Aiden thought. No wonder he looked out of place. He laughed. “How are you even here?”

  Polo shrugged. “You come here a lot?” he asked. Something about his expression implied that would be unfortunate.

  “Not really,” Aiden said. At least he wasn’t lying. “First time in a while. My friends dragged me out,” he said, before realizing how lame that sounded. “Are you here alone?”

  Something hot and heavy collided with Aiden, and it took him a moment to realize it was Patrick drunkenly wrapping himself around his shoulders.

  “Heyyy.” Patrick grinned.

  “Hey!” Aiden exclaimed, thinking his timing couldn’t be worse.

  “What’s up?” Patrick asked, and then, seeing Polo, stuck out his hand. “Patrick!”

  Polo shook it. “Hey.” He smiled at Aiden politely. “’Scuse me,” he said, squeezing past them and vanishing into the crowd.

  Patrick watched him go. “He’s hot. Who’s that?”

  “No idea,” Aiden said, watching him disappear with a frisson of regret. Patrick stumbled heavily into the wall. Aiden helped him right himself. “Time to go?”

  Patrick hiccupped. “Yeah.”

  He dragged Patrick out and put him in a cab. There was no sign of Javi and Casey. He rode the subway home and crawled into bed, dreaming drunk, lustful dreams of men in crowds and white polo shirts crumpled on his floor.

  Chapter Two

  THREE WEEKS later, Aiden sat in an editorial meeting. Autumn had fallen on New York like a blanket: rain flecked the windows, and in Times Square, tourists and cabs contested every inch of sodden asphalt and flooding gutter.

  Marsha sat at the head of the table, pungent coffee steaming at her elbow. The national politics editor listened to each reporter’s individual pitches, copperplating notes in her notebook with a green pen. If it was a yes, she’d underline the title. If it was a no, the line would go through the words with quiet, scalpel-like precision. Occasionally she’d ask a question, but she mostly listened, like a judge deciding a sentence. She’d been with the paper only a year longer than Aiden had. Before that, she’d made a name nursing much admired, barely read magazines back to profitability. In journalism, profitability was like porn: everyone had an interest, but it wasn’t polite to acknowledge it. Print media wasn’t dead yet, but even a famous title like their own was starting to feel the blood loss.

  “Aiden,” Marsha said, turning his way.

  Aiden cleared his throat and looked down at his notes. “Midterm retirements. We’ve got a few lifers stepping down, swing seats opening up. Control of the House in the balance, Republican momentum, how the Dems are going to defend, etcetera, etcetera. Thought I could do a few profiles, mix in commentary from the national committees.”

  Marsha looked at her notebook, drumming her pen between her fingers. She frowned slightly, as if the pages weren’t cooperating somehow. She decided. “Let’s hold off for now,” she said.

  Aiden hadn’t expected that. It’d been a while since Marsha had turned him down on anything. A few people looked his way, wondering how the wunderkind would react. He made sure his expression was equanimous.

  “No problem,” he replied. Marsha nodded, and the pen went through like an executioner’s axe.

  When the meeting was over and everyone filtering out, she flagged him down. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” They went down the corridor to Marsha’s office. Aiden had no ambitions on her position. There were powerful people to balance and flocks of angry partisans ready to pounce on any error, omission, or bias. Plus she had to manage a stable of journalists, most of whom had big egos and an even bigger belief that their stories were the most important. Aiden imagined he’d always be a frontline guy, but he couldn’t deny the corner office had some perks. Behind Marsha’s desk, Manhattan stretched away, late evening sun catching the flanks of the Freedom Tower through a break in the rain.

  “It was a good pitch,” Marsha said, as they sat. “Too early in the season. Let’s revisit it.”

  Aiden nodded. “I understand.”

  “I have something else for you. What do you know about Orson Jensen?”

  Aiden spun his mental rolodex. “Two-term governor of Utah. Stepped down last year. Pretty popular. Did the Medicare thing.”

  Marsha nodded. “He’s running for Senate.”

  “Says who?” Aiden asked.

  “His people.”

  “There’s no free seat.”

  “Ted Dolson’s going to retire.”

  “I’m not surprised. There are rocks in Utah younger than Dolson is.”

  Marsha smiled. “He’s got a bad heart or something. They haven’t announced it yet. My read is that Jensen stepped down as governor because Dolson told him he’d hold the seat for him. Dolson will announce his retirement just before the primary convention, and Jensen parachutes in before anyone else organizes. They’re offering us a profile piece.”

  “And we’re taking it?” Aiden asked.

  “Well, what’s the only reason he’d give up a guaranteed third term as governor to run for Senate?”

  Aiden tried to activate that primitive, cunning part of the brain usually used by lizards and politicians. He considered all the angles. Realization dawned. “Because he’s running for president.”

  Marsha tapped the tip of her pen on the desk triumphantly. “Makes sense, right?”

  It did. Having been a popular and successful governor, Jensen would make a compelling candidate in three years. His main weakness was that no one outside Utah had ever heard of him. Transitioning to the Senate solved that problem and gained him some foreign policy credentials to boot.

  “It builds his national image, and I guess he’s popular enough in Utah to walk out of a Senate seat halfway through his term and no one’ll care.”

  “Seventy-seven percent approval rating when he left office,” Marsha noted.

  “So that’s why he wants a profile. What do we get out of it?”

  “If he is running for president, it doesn’t hurt us to build access early,” Marsha said. “And I’ve been doing some reading. I have a feeling he could go the distance. Being trusted press would be good for you, and good for the paper.”

  She wasn’t wrong, Aiden thought. “And I’d have to do what, e
xactly?”

  “Spend a few days at his ranch. Get to know him. Ask him whatever you want. I trust your instincts, Aiden. I know you’ll figure him out.”

  Aiden could imagine more fun things to do than spend a few days on a rock-ribbed Republican’s ranch. He’d never even set foot in Utah. “You ever been?” he asked.

  “Utah? I’ve been to Aspen,” she said airily. “It’s what… four hundred miles?”

  “Closer than New York,” Aiden observed archly. He thought about it. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I want it to be clear that I can steer it in whatever direction I want. Ask whatever I want. I’m not flying out there to write him a campaign mailer.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll let them know.” Her fingers clacked over her keyboard as she started drafting an email. “Can you fly out on Monday?”

  Aiden nodded. He wondered what the weather was like in Utah this time of year. He’d have to google it. “Sure.”

  “You’re a star. Take the rest of the week for research.” She nodded to her assistant in the entryway. “And talk to Kelly about booking a flight.”

  Aiden rose from his seat. “Business class?” he asked hopefully.

  Marsha glanced back to him from her screen. She smiled sweetly. “Premium economy.”

  That Sunday Patrick had drinks on his rooftop in Brooklyn. It was mostly people Aiden knew: Javi, without Casey this time; two more gay guys, Paul and Ben; Michaela, Patrick’s best girlfriend; and Emma, who Aiden thought was a friend of Ben’s but couldn’t quite remember what he’d been told. He sipped pinot noir from one of Patrick’s cauldron-like wineglasses and tried to stay out of the wind. It wasn’t still warm enough to be on the roof, but a long, freezing New York winter lay ahead, so everyone was pretending it was.

  Michaela was telling them about her gallery opening. She was thin and elegant, the kind of person who wore “pieces” instead of jewelry. Aiden hadn’t warmed to her until one time when they got very drunk at a party and decided to hide from Patrick in one of the bedrooms while they ate a family bag of Cheetos.

  “It’s a lot of really—” She searched for a word with a waft of her manicure. “—visceral work. The theme is conflict, so we pulled in some great artists from Yemen, Syria, South Korea….”

  “South Korea?” Paul asked.

  “Maybe North Korea. Anyway, you should all come. It’s on Thursday. Lots of free wine.”

  “Well, if there’s free wine…,” Patrick said. “Javi, Aiden, you’ll come.”

  “I can’t,” Aiden said. “I’m in Utah this week.”

  Patrick made a face like Aiden just told him he was taking a nice weekend break to Mercury. “Utah? What the fuck for?”

  “I’m writing a piece on Orson Jensen,” Aiden explained.

  “Sounds like a porn star.”

  “He’s the governor. Was the governor. Might be running for president.”

  Patrick shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

  “I have,” Emma piped in. “He’s a shit.”

  “You’re from Utah?” Aiden asked.

  “No, but he’s the one who oversaw that court case when he was attorney general. The one where the lesbian mom had her kids taken away.”

  “Emma works for the Lesbian Legal Defense Fund,” Ben explained.

  “It was in the ’90s sometime,” Emma said, reaching for her phone. “I think it was him.” She searched something. “Yeah, 1996. Cassidy v. Cassidy. She left her husband for a woman, and the court gave full custody to the husband even though he was a drunk with two DUIs.”

  “Fuck that,” Patrick exclaimed.

  “Here,” Emma said, handing Aiden the phone. Aiden scrolled through the article. Sure enough, there he was. Utah Attorney General Orson Jensen, speaking to reporters after the verdict, said, “Under the laws of the State of Utah, Rachel Cassidy’s conduct is both immoral and illegal. We won’t apologize for putting children’s needs first.” Christ, Aiden thought. In forty-eight hours, he’d be under the same roof as this guy. He copied the article URL and texted it to himself before handing Emma back her phone.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “What’s wrong with these people, anyway?” Javi asked.

  “It’s Utah,” Patrick said. “They’re all Mormon.”

  Javi rolled his eyes. “Crazy, you mean.”

  “I know great Mormons,” Ben said.

  “Yeah, the gay ones who left Utah to come live in New York,” Patrick replied. “They wear magic underwear.”

  “The musical was funny,” Michaela ventured.

  Aiden sighed. “I’d rather not be going. But I am, so I guess I’ve got to give them a chance.”

  “Why?” Patrick asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you have to ‘give them a chance’?”

  Aiden frowned. “I’m a journalist. I can’t let my feelings influence the story.”

  “But aren’t some things right and some things wrong? Isn’t it your job to tell people what the facts are?”

  “I can tell people facts, but I don’t tell them what to feel about it. That’s up to the reader to decide, not me,” Aiden said, feeling like he was suddenly back in college having arguments about impartiality and journalistic ethics. Patrick was right. Sometimes it was hard. Especially in politics where you had beliefs of your own, and especially as a gay man when he had to deal with people like Jensen. He’d interviewed people he felt like punching in the face. But it didn’t change the fact that the only way he could do his job, the only way he could write and have people believe it, was if his objectivity was beyond reproach. As soon as he let his own feelings into it, he was just another hack.

  When Aiden went downstairs to get more wine, Patrick found him in the kitchen.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Patrick said. “Sorry if I went off at you up there.”

  Aiden shrugged. “It’s fine. I get it. It’s frustrating. I’d rather not be going.”

  “Reminds me of my folks, you know? Guess I get defensive.” They hadn’t talked about it much, but Aiden knew Patrick’s parents were religious. They lived down South somewhere and didn’t have much of a relationship with their son. In fact Aiden didn’t think Patrick really spoke to anyone in his family. His family was much the opposite: large, boisterous, undoubtedly loving, but none of them wholly his own after his mother had died. He’d been bounced around between aunts and cousins, never quite at home again. As for his dad, who knew? It was funny; sometimes having a family was just as bad as not having one.

  Aiden pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured for them both. He held up a toast.

  “Fuck ’em,” he said.

  Patrick clinked his glass. “Fuck ’em.”

  Chapter Three

  AIDEN’S FLIGHT to Salt Lake City cruised over sunlit clouds. His tray table was covered with papers: old articles from the archives and the wire services, each one a fragment of Orson Jensen’s career to date. Aiden liked to print them all out, scrawling notes in the margins and underlining details he might want to return to later.

  A stewardess appeared at his shoulder. She processed the chaos with a momentary dimming of her megawatt smile. “Another drink, sir?”

  Aiden handed her his plastic cup stained like a butcher with dregs of Bloody Mary. “Another one of those, please.”

  “Tabasco?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.” Some grizzled veteran of the World News desk told Aiden once that Bloody Marys were the only thing that tasted better in the air. He doubted he’d be getting many cocktails at the Jensens—Mormons were teetotalers, even down to coffee and tea—so he decided to enjoy it while he could. The stewardess handed the components back to him.

  “Thanks,” Aiden said, mixing as best he could at 40,000 feet. He took a sip and decided it would do. Orson Jensen’s smiling features stared up at him from an article detailing his first gubernatorial win. Aiden put down the cup and shuffled the papers, finding a more recent image. Jensen was a handsome
man, he admitted, sixty-four and snowy haired, but could’ve passed for younger. Square jaw, emphatic eyebrows, broad shouldered. Aiden could imagine his sepia-tinted ancestors conquering the West, driving cattle, and fencing the plains. The narrative was familiar enough. Graduated Brigham Young Law School, joined the Army JAG, saw some service at the tail-end of Vietnam before coming home and setting up in private practice. Fifteen years later he’d run for attorney general and won, all family values and benign paternalism.

  Not so benign for some people, Aiden thought, leafing through the stack of papers he’d found on the lesbian parenting case. Cassidy v. Cassidy. He’d considered trying to look up Rachel Cassidy and see what she thought of Jensen, maybe get some background, but then he’d decided the question was probably moot. He could already guess what she thought of him, and the rest wasn’t something she was likely to thank him for revisiting. Marsha wanted a profile, and he doubted he’d get one if he went in with too many guns blazing. Sometimes the art of digging was knowing what to leave buried.

  He finished his drink, opening another binder. Now he was at Jensen’s period as a state senator. There weren’t many competitive races in Utah, so the winner usually came down to whoever got nominated at the Republican state convention. That, in turn, rewarded glad-handing and Mormon connections, both of which Jensen deployed in abundance. Aiden leafed through an old campaign brochure, finding a picture of the Jensen family. Mom, Dad, couple of kids, all sunnily blonde and wholesome against the red Utah desert. Lots of the early Mormon pioneers were Danish immigrants, Aiden had learned. The Jensens seemed like pure Viking stock.

  Aiden flipped through the last pages of his binder as they came in to land, the shudder and rumble of the wheels on the runway shaking his pages. He peered out of the window at the distant peaks and the overwhelming sky as they taxied. The Pacific Ocean was almost seven hundred miles away, and the Atlantic two thousand. This was the ancient, hidden heart of the North American continent: vast and empty, poised to swallow you up. Aiden sighed, thinking of a hundred places he’d rather be than here. The seat belt sign pinged off. Get in, get the story, get out, he told himself.