by Roger Herst
The voice of a technician stationed behind one of the work benches said, "We're ready when you are."
Kye's attention left Gabby as he addressed his associates. "Meet the next congresswoman from the Eighth District of Maryland."
What emerged on double screens in the lower bank of monitors were videos taken of Gabby beside Vice President Arthur Giles at the opening of the Bart Skulkin Tennis Center in Anacostia. Her chin was raised to meet the afternoon sun and there was a winsome smile on her face. Arthur Giles was lauding her role in establishing the center as a part of the city's desperate need for tennis courts to train the next generation of Afro-American tennis stars.
"On monitor E, you'll see a list of local TV stations," Kye said. "Denise, please show Rabbi Lewyn how we can ship this video instantly to any television or radio station." And to Gabby, he continued, "We have agreements with stations to use up-to-the-moment clips as round-the clock filler, which means our material instantly fills the gap in advertising traffic – at a fraction of the retail price. And you'd be surprise how much gap-time stations have, especially during night-time off-hours."
"Now, Dale," he pivoted in the direction of the second director on Gabby's right. "Let's send text to the Washington Post."
Gabby's verbal reaction to seeing herself with the vice-president, "Oh, my God!" scrolled across three screens. "Done," snapped Dale.
"You didn't really send that to the Post, did you?" Gabby countered.
"Absolutely," Dale said, "but it was directed to the obituary page, so it will be disregarded. Don't worry."
Kye added, "Of course no campaign can be entirely run from a studio, even a state-of-the-art place such as this. But most of the running around, wasted time waiting for others to assemble, the high costs of traveling to the voters can be circumvented. Now look what we can do with the interactive features of our program. I'm going down to the canteen on the ground floor. I've asked some of my people to rendezvous with me there. We'll pretend we're at a political meeting and fire some easy questions at you. Then we'll project your responses, both voice and text, around the building. We'll place a moving background behind you to remind us in the canteen that you're a woman of wide talents and civic interests, always on the move."
"You'll embarrass me if you ask questions I can't answer," Gabby responded.
The moment Kye disappeared, monitors before her bristled with additional clips. Shots of her at the Fitzgerald Tennis Center where she and Lydia Browner won the Celebrity-Amateur Tournament two years before. Next followed Gabby at the celebrated Zentner trial she had so long tried to erase from her memory. This reminded her that trouble with the Morgenstern family promised to put her back into the courtroom, a place she never wanted to visit again.
On the screen directly in front, Kye was surrounded by his friends. A female associate in workman's overalls asked, "Rabbi, we'd like to ask you how you feel about gun control, now that you've had first-hand experience."
Gabby liked to think in sports metaphors and took a swing at the ball as it passed over the plate. "Yes, it's true I've had personal experience that I'd prefer never occurred. But since it did, I've learned about the complexities of gun control. Guns are part and parcel of our society and I don't see a possibility of eliminating them altogether. An old and dear friend who knew just about everything important to know about firearms believed that most anti-gun advocates hardly know gun-enthusiasts. Their opinions are formed with little or no personal experience. Before my friend was shot dead in a District of Columbia park, he wanted states to license gun ownership as we license car ownership and force gun users to undergo many hours of safety training. Since his death, I've concluded he was right. There's no purpose in prohibitive gun laws that can't be enforced, like what occurred during Prohibition with alcohol. The solution is to empower those who want to protect gun ownership. Let's let the National Rifle Association take responsibility for educating and re-educating it gun owners. Wherever feasible, unlicensed weapons should be confiscated and their owners heavily fined. That won't take all guns off the streets, nor will it guarantee that criminals won't get access to them. But it will provide law enforcement with tools to confiscate guns in the hands of irresponsible and ignorant users. That should make the streets safer. Exactly how safe? That I don't know, but I do know they will be safer."
Behind Gabby, a volley of clapping erupted. Observers in Studio C apparently liked what they heard.
"Look, Rabbi," Dale said. The text of her statement scrolled across Monitor E-6, ready for delivery to the media."One click and we've dispatched it. Can't guarantee anybody will pick it up, but we'll attach pictures of you at the Izaak Walton Rifle Range. Picture and story won't cost a penny for reporters, photographers or editors. This material will be automatically archived for instant retrieval and can be shipped in seconds anywhere we choose. If the NRA will lend us their email list, we'll broadcast your thoughts of the members in Maryland. That should create more voters for you."
Politicstoday staff from production, accounts, and public relations began posing questions for Gabby. She had only to respond by typing back a few words. As a result of this give-and-take, she was able to answer a score of hypothetical queries within minutes.
Soon after the dog-and-pony show demonstration, Kye rendezvoused with Gabby in the canteen. No executive dining room for staff and no tables for the company's managers. Even after partying for the better part of a full day, the staffers buzzed with excitement. They were poised on the cutting edge of technology and knew it. For brief moments, she experienced their enthusiasm as she seriously considered surrendering herself to Kye Naah's electronic campaign. Politicstoday made election sound easy. Of course, she maintained her reservations. But they were less compelling once she had seen the potential of an electronic campaign.
Driving back to her Bethesda condo later that evening, her resolve waned. She pegged Kye as a clever super salesman, pitching his company's wares. Political power had little appeal. Still, it was hard not to accept that Kye's innovation might indeed be a slayer of icons. At least one thing was clear. The thought of running for Congress was no longer mashuganah. Partially mad, but not utterly!
The following afternoon, Gabby received a call from Sanibel Island, Florida. "I just heard the rosy news from Stan Melkin," Asa's tenor voice cracked with emotion. "Since when are rabbis supposed to be sued for being rabbinical? I can't pay what the Morgensterns are asking. And as a matter of fact, I can't even pay a lawyer to help me not pay."
Gabby was annoyed at Stan for having spoiled Asa's holiday, but given his sense of congregational leadership, she was not surprised. "First of all, Asa," she mustered a response, "Stop thinking about yourself. We're a team. Get it through you cranium that I have no sympathy for your private woes. They're our woes, jointly felt and jointly suffered. Secondly, this is why the shul carries errors and omission insurance. Our joint problem has just become Dominion Mutual's problem. When push comes to shove, it's Dominion that going to pay the piper, not us. And more importantly, we haven't lost our case. We're not responsible for what happened. That's our story and we're going to stick to it. Meanwhile, we'll let Dominion Mutual and the Morgenstern lawyers go at each other's jugulars. We must stay out of the mayhem and continue to work for our congregants. Let's talk face to face. You're returning tomorrow afternoon, aren't you?"
"Sooner if I can get a flight."
"That's not necessary. Or fair to Anina. She deserves to complete her days in the sun as much as you. Nothing will happen immediately. Come back on schedule. I'll talk with you at your pad Thursday evening. No Anina; no piano. Just me and you and what's left over from that jug of Gallo red I noticed in your kitchen. Will that work for you?"
"You probably know that sometimes I do gigs in local nightclubs."
"I've heard rumors."
"I'm sure some of our members wouldn't approve."
"That wouldn't surprise me. But what you do with your own time is not their business. A golfer has a
right to golf; a fisherman, to fish. And a piano player like you, to play wherever and whenever he wants."
"A musician friend had a death in his family and left town. He asked me to cover for him Thursday evening in a Georgetown bar, a place call Saloon Can Do. I'm not in the mood to play, but there's no way I can fink out on him in the eleventh hour. Ever hear of this Saloon Can Do?"
"No, but I'm not current on night clubs. I'd like to hear you play. We can talk during the break. We're in this together, pal. Partners all the way from the unfortunate beginning to the bitter end."
"I won't drag you down, Gabby."
"Impossible because we're not going down. That's my promise to you, Asa. I'll see you about ten-o'clock Thursday at Saloon Can Do. I'll get the address from MapQuest."
"Some clubs are pretty seedy. You might not want to be seen in them. I can't vouch for it. Let me call you after I arrive."
"You know me. When I have something in my bonnet, I'm not about to seek a postponement. How seedy could this place be? Besides, I fancy the name. Can Do? Yes we can and will do it together, pal."
***
Chuck Browner acted as Gabby's gatekeeper and screened her calls, often leaving editorial comments. Before leaving the synagogue Thursday evening, he reported that Stacy Donatello, Lyle Carberri's secretary, phoned to say that she was sending a messenger with a set of Democratic Party statements. A lot of reading, but essential for a candidate to know.
Chuck also left his remarks. "Hey, what's this all about? I thought you had vowed to stay out of the Washington sewers. Do I sniff a case of Potomac fever?"
Additionally, there was a message from Stan Melkin. He was preparing for the monthly board meeting and acknowledged that the lawsuit took priority over other issues. The second item of business would be Gabby's sabbatical. Combining the lawsuit with her sabbatical was not to her liking, but then at least she was on the agenda.
***
When her phone rang a few minutes before nine that evening, Asa'a voice was immediately identifiable, though there was loud rock music in the background. He was shouting into the receiver.
"How are you feeling?" she raised her voice as though projecting to a large audience.
"Lousy. I know this is the death knell to my career."
"It's not ending. Careers have their ups and downs. I know that in the seminary they never taught you that the sun always shines."
"Chuck had you pegged from the beginning, Gabby. When I started at Ohav, he told me you were an incorrigible idealist and that you were too saintly to dwell in a world of shleppers like us. At the time, I told him that angels don't live long, fulfilling lives. It's time for you to come down to Planet Earth and get real. Getting sued isn't and never was a team sport. If you insist on clinging to my shirttails, the lawyers will chop us both up piecemeal and we'll get flushed away individually. And that's just stupid. I'm the kapporrah. What's the purpose of destroying two careers when one will suffice? It wouldn't surprise me if the board is already building a protective wall between us."
"That's exactly what I must talk to you about this evening."
"Don't come here, Gabby."
"We'll talk during your break."
"This isn't some fancy club for rich gentlemen and their paramours. It's a strip joint. They advertise it as an upscale bar but the women on stage are buck naked, without even a Kleenex between their legs. Had I known, I wouldn't have accepted the gig."
"Do you watch your fingers?"
He laughed for the first time. "Hell no! I can play this stuff with my eyes closed. I'm just a red-blooded male with dexterous hands."
"Good," she interrupted. "I hope that's exactly who you will remain. We women complain about over-sexed males, but we wouldn't be happy travelers if you guys lost interest in us."
"Nothing but the entire female anatomy in all its raw splendor."
"That's okay, friend," Gabby released an artificial giggle. "I've seen a lot of naked women in my time. It doesn't embarrass me, if that's what you're thinking."
"We have enough trouble with the congregation. I'm already toast. If anybody sees you in this place, they might be writing your epitaph with mine."
"When Michelangelo, Reuben, Picasso paint nudes, we admire their work as masterpieces. We stare long and hard at Rodin and Henry Moore representations of the human form. So long as it's on canvas or molded in stone or bronze it's art. Why is what's alive and animate considered unseemly; and what is lifeless and dead, beautiful. Heaven forbid we see a few genitals, responsible for producing God's greatest wonder, little babies."
"The clientele isn't looking for beauty, Gabby. They're a bunch of horny men, joined by a few ogling, jealous lesbians. Sex is on their minds, not beauty."
"Remember the Agadah tale? If men didn't find the female anatomy arousing, there wouldn't be children to populate the world. Trust me, Asa, I can handle it. I'll concentrate on your music. By the way, what do you play?"
"Background stuff. Jazz and a bit of rock. In the local parlance, it's called bump and grind. Do everybody a favor and don't come. We'll talk tomorrow."
"I'm coming, Asa. The one thing I'm not is a prig."
She didn't know exactly what to expect of Saloon Can Do, but her imagination was active. The façade looked like a demure, understated restaurant. A double door and vestibule, manned by a thin bouncer, who Gabby felt might blow over in a brisk wind, welcomed her with a friendly smile. A $20.00 cover charge entitled her to a black-light stamp on the back of her hand. Piano music, which she immediately recognized as Asa's, was accompanied by electronic drums and bass fiddle, wafting through the L-shaped corridor into a crowded room with a low ceiling, purposely darkened to emphasize three brightly lit stages along the far wall. She had never heard Asa play such rhythms, still there was a special touch identifying him. Staccato drum taps from a Broadway musical reminded her of the rhythms she had heard Asa beating out in Ohav Shalom's hallways.
On runways connected to the stages, three dancers, an Afro-American, Asian and Caucasian blond, kept beat with Asa's rhythm. She had expected to find voluptuous, busty women salaciously stripping clothing. But the dancers were not in stages of disrobement. They wore nothing but high-heeled stilettos. The Asian, a petite, perfectly proportion girl in her early twenties, sported a large lotus flower tattoo on the lower back, extending over her left buttock. The taller Caucasian wore a string of gold bracelets halfway along her forearm and rings that flashed in the spotlight.
Gabby's eyes adjusted to the darkness. Around her, men sat at tables bordering the stages, with scantily dressed cocktail waitresses passing among them. Asa, in a white shirt, red suspenders, and red necktie but no jacket, was seated behind an electronic piano on a raised platform, with additional keyboards to his left and right. She searched for a seat near him but all appeared filled, so she sat beside a runway where the beam of a roving spotlight caught her shoulder. No sooner had she taken her seat when the Asian dancer gyrated just above her eye level and lifted her leg to expose her pelvis. Gabby recoiled slightly, wondering if she could ever become comfortable publicly revealing such intimacy. She was impressed that none of the dancers appeared self-conscious. Simultaneously, well-mannered male spectators appeared to study the bodies before them with detached boredom. To those on stage, they occasionally offered friendly encouragement and dropped dollar bills on the platform to show their appreciation.
Copying the beer-drinking men beside her, she ordered a Samuel Adams from a cocktail waitress who was only slightly more clothes than the dancers. To her left sat two lesbians in animated conversation. Until then, it never occurred to her that some women might be as interested in the feminine anatomy as men. Their presence was ironically comforting. Her mind was so occupied with questions that she lost track of time. It was only when Asa's piano stopped for a break that her musing ceased.
He was turning off the current on several electronic instruments when Gabby stepped forward to praise his playing.
A lungful o
f air escaped through his teeth as he greeted her, "I see you made it. If you're not embarrassed by being here, I certainly am. I mean, what will the goyim think of two rabbis in a strip joint like this?"
"I could care less what the goyim think. Fact is, I felt a little abashed at first, but you get used to nudity. The female body is a pretty neat piece of architecture, if you ask me."
"There was no way I could have gotten out of this."
"Were I a male like you, I'm not sure I would want to. Is there a place where we can talk?"
He looked around for a quiet corner but found nothing. "How about a walk outside? I've got fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to be ready for a new crop of dancers."
Outdoor air was a relief from stuffy bar atmosphere, and street noise a relief from the amplified music. They headed immediately along Wisconsin Avenue and turned into the nearest residential street.
"This is the happiest I've seen you in some time, Asa," Gabby said. "Since the accident, you've been moping around like an injured puppy. But behind the keyboard, you seem so contained within yourself. So much at ease and so natural."
As though he had been waiting for a moment to talk for a long while, he blurted, "I'm not running away from Janean's death and Tybee's injury. But I can't handle them any longer in my rabbinic role. My faith, which was pretty thin before the accident, is now shattered. A rabbi without faith is like a tone-deaf musician without a beat. No sense pretending any longer."
She was wounded by this declaration, but rallied with a question that sounded silly the moment uttered. "What will you do, Asa?" "Anything's better than what I'm pretending to do now. Hell, I can always make a living on the strip circuit; and probably make more money than my current salary. And what's far more important, at least in dark, sleazy joints like this, I get some appreciation."
She reached under his arm to draw him close. "You didn't go through all those years of training to throw in the towel now. And you're too goddam good a rabbi to be leaving the profession to jokers who haven't one-tenth of your talent. To lose someone as capable as you would be a tragedy for the Jewish community and I'm going to do everything in my power to see you continue serving as my colleague, that is until you succeed me."