Current Affairs

by Raskin, Barbara;

  I stare out through the smooth glass-brick wall and think about my family. My sister has finally ruined my life as completely as if she’d nuked me. She’s won.

  I’m homeless, unemployed and about to be divorced.

  Bo gets up and pours us two cups of coffee. Then he motions me to sit down again, so I do.

  “Listen,” he says. “This is no time to zonk out on me, to start feeling sorry for yourself, Karavan. This thing isn’t quite over yet.”

  Bo’s clearly still hoping that we’ll somehow blow the cover off the whole national-security establishment and its underground drug economy.

  “You know, I still haven’t gotten my car back, Bo. I have to go pick it up this afternoon; I really need it. But if you put me in your paddy wagon, I’ll take you out for lunch. We can go over to Herb’s.”

  He’s surprised, but pleased. Very pleased.

  I wash up in the powder room while Bo works on the front-door lock.

  “It’s only fixed temporarily,” he says when I’m ready. “But it’ll keep the drug users out, if not the pushers.”

  We get in his car and cruise down Columbia Road. The street is churning with people. After Minneapolis, Adams-Morgan looks like a Third World refugee camp. Most of the new residents have fled wars and revolutions in their homelands, so they bring a south-of-the-border battle fervor to the streets. Adams-Morgan has no stores like T.J. Maxx, Trak Auto, Color Tile, Mattress Discounters, K mart or Toys “Я” Us. There aren’t any no-tell motels like HoJos or TraveLodges in Adams-Morgan.

  Here there are only a few bed-and-breakfast guest houses on Mintwood Place and stores like Little John’s Used furniture, which sells junk to people who prefer it, Fasika’s Ethiopian Restaurant, Horizontes Servicios Sociales Para Jóvenes, the Montego Bay Jamaican bakery, Miss Susan’s Palm Reading Studio (where Shay once suggested we get “hand jobs”), the Aprendes Ingles School, with its hours posted on the door, and Bick’s Books.

  “That’s where one of the dealers Fawn Hall mentioned operates out of,” Bo says, pointing to a building beyond the Safeway. On the next block, he says, “That’s another one. We know some pushers live in there, but it has a hundred and fifty units and most of the tenants are Hispanics. We can never infiltrate there. Those people don’t even mix with the Anglos, so they’re really hard for … us.”

  By “us” he means black cops.

  He drives up Seventeenth and then parks in front of the precinct station on V Street.

  “I’ve got to pick something up,” he says, taking his keys out of the ignition.

  I roll down my window.

  A white man, clearly a cop, comes out of the building. It’s strange how I’m beginning to notice the whiteness of white people before anything else. Back in the Twin Cities they used to say that blackness “doesn’t rub off,” but it can certainly change your point of view. I’ve begun to see some things through Bo’s eyes.

  “Here comes my partner,” Bo says uneasily, nodding toward the man approaching our car. “Chuck Connors.”

  Chuck Connors?

  Chuck Connors inserts his head inside the car, invading my airspace. He’s a white version of Bo, beefy and out of shape, but not as open or friendly. He’s very white, in fact, as in: That’s really very white of you:

  “I bet this is the little lady who lost her Ford, am I right?”

  I nod. He is busy psyching out the scene. Checking me out. Baiting Bo.

  “Pretty lucky to get your car back, you know that? And how ’bout those papers? They looked real important to me. Bet you were glad to recover those, weren’tja? You must be a reporter or something, right?”

  “Wrong,” I say. “I’m a social worker.”

  How white of you to ask.

  But he is not interested in what I do during the daytime. He’s only interested in figuring out what’s happening between Bo and me. What we’re doing together. What’s going on. Indeed, he’s clearly enjoying the distress he’s caused by discovering us together.

  “I know your house got hit real hard,” he says sympathetically, looking off into the middle distance. “Sorry ’bout that. We’ve got a pretty tense situation going on right now. I know Bo’s briefed you on what’s happening. But we’re on the case, so not to worry. You’re gonna get first-class police service.”

  I give him a grimace, a grin, a thumbs-up.

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” he concludes in a hearty-hearty voice. “It’s getting near lunchtime.”

  The mention of lunch is to let us know he suspects some hanky-panky. Then he drums his hand on the roof of the car—boom-boom-de-boom—and walks away.

  “Nice guy,” I say sarcastically.

  “He thinks we’re making it,” Bo responds flatly. “He’s gonna give me the business. He’s not gonna let me forget it. Anyway … hang on a sec.”

  He gets out of the car and jogs into the red-brick building. Seconds later a cluster of black kids emerge from a neighboring apartment building and congregate in a circle on the sidewalk to stare at me, wondering how a white lady ended up in a squad car. When Bo returns, they scamper away. Downtown, Bo parks illegally at a bus stop right outside the entrance to Herb’s.

  Why not? It’s his town.

  It’s only at night that he loses control of it.

  Herb’s is a George. Raft kind of restaurant. The decor is late-night-movie 1940s. It’s the quintessential cocktail lounge with an overlay of Key Largo atmosphere, a mixture of all kinds of romance distilled from corny paperback mysteries. There’s even some off-Broadway ambiance created by photographs of local artists, actors, writers and musicians on the walls.

  I can hear the buzz of social expectation as soon as we descend the stairs of the outdoor terrace. It’s like the sound of a flashbulb or the sizzle of electricity. The hum of anticipation lasts until the new arrival is recognized or dismissed as being an unknown. An authentic celebrity always creates a ripple of motion, a breeze of silence. An anonymous interracial couple like us only qualifies for a quick once-over.

  We sit in a booth. It is as safe as a crib, cool as an ice bucket. I feel special, pretty, as if there’s a big satin ribbon wrapped around me. Bo is in a teasing mood. He orders us a carafe of wine and toasts Jerry Russo’s health. My friend Herb comes over and makes a big fuss about my tan and my haircut, which mellows me. Then he sends over another carafe of wine that mellows me out even more.

  Bo and I both order salads.

  “When’s your sister coming back?” Bo asks me.

  “Don’t know.”

  Translation: Please don’t remind me of my hump when I’m so happy.

  “You’re foxy, you two.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “She’s in Atlanta with your husband and you’re checking into the Hilton with her … whaddayacallim? It’s sorta crazy. Why didn’t you go to Atlanta?”

  The wine hits my body with a rush right at the same moment I feel a lazy tug on the invisible cord tying Bo and me together.

  “My husband didn’t invite me to go along this time.”

  Translation: You don’t have to be a detective to figure that one out.

  Bo lifts an eyebrow and helps himself to my butter.

  “You having a little domestic fracas over there?” he asks in a droll voice, as if he’s heard it all before, as if he can’t be bothered.

  “Maybe,” I answer.

  Translation: I’m not so sure what I’d do if you came on to me, but I think you ’re really … neat.

  Now I’m on a slippery slope, sliding tentatively closer to this man. I am getting drunk. My words are becoming both more deliberate and more slurred around the edges. I have begun to unravel. Bo pretends not to notice, but he does smile and say no when our waitress asks if we need more wine.

  Lunch is on Herb; we feel stroked. We walk back outside into the burning sunlight. From here it looks like downtown Washington is melting. The new glass buildings on N Street are shimmering in the sunlight, waves of hot air curling around t
hem, liquefying and setting them in motion. The visual effect of this Greenhouse Summer is a halo that shimmies around objects, haunting them until nothing seems solid any longer.

  Bo says Mickey and I should meet him at Ariel at nine. Then he folds himself back into his car and takes off. I get a taxi to the Motor Vehicle Department, which provides transportation to its various metropolitan car-storage lots. When I finally find my Ford, I’m told it can’t be released until I cough up payment for three outstanding parking tickets—which have doubled in price. I charge these tickets to Eli’s Visa card, knowing our marriage will probably expire before the card does.

  Then I drive back home, pick up the luggage I brought back from Minneapolis and go to the Hilton. After I shower and change clothes, I ring Mickey’s room and arrange to meet him in the lobby bar. He is waiting for me beside an old-style popcorn popping machine. He looks like a GQ model in his lean white linen slacks and a cream-colored crew-neck Polo sweater.

  He kisses me lightly before we choose a table and sit down.

  “You know we’re all supposed to go to a club in Georgetown called Ariel for dinner tonight,” I say. “Bo and you and me?”

  “Yeah. I was there when Jerry set it up for us. But I didn’t know your cop friend was coming along.” Mickey speaks wearily. “I know you like him, Nat. I do too. He’s a nice guy. But he really fucked up by going to Russo’s house on his own that first afternoon. He blew me right out of the water with that one—and it might even be one of the reasons Jerry got shot. Georgia thinks someone saw Bo and Jerry together and got scared they were making a deal. Anyway, what bugs me is why Bo thinks everything that happens is being engineered from higher up by the contras.”

  “Because they’re the ones bringing the drags into D.C., Mickey. They’re the ones responsible for what’s happening to the blacks in the city.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, Nat. But I just want to stop the attacks on us, understand? You and me and Shay. And Amelia. Us white folks. Bo can’t stop cocaine from coming into the United States, but he sure as hell could try to stop people from shooting through your windows and tearing your house apart. It’s the local pushers who are ruining your life, not the kingpins in Guatemala or the drug lords in Colombia. Bo thinks those little guys are insignificant; that makes me think he’s just on some big power trip and not taking care of the real business.”

  We talk and talk. We drink a lot of drinks. We don’t agree on anything. It’s almost six-thirty when Mickey signs the tab. We take the elevator, but when I step off on six, he also gets out and follows me to my door.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “You. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. How decent you’ve been—running around the country, dragging Amelia everywhere, and always being so nice to everybody at the same time.”

  “Patsies are always nice,” I remind him. “It’s part of the Patsy Girl’s Code of Honor.”

  I smile and turn to insert the plastic key card inside the door slot.

  But he puts his hands on my shoulders and pivots me around so I’m facing him.

  “What I really want to say is that I think you need a lover, Natalie. Someone to love you right now. When you need it. A loaner. I definitely think you need a loaner.”

  “Oh, great,” I laugh.

  A loaner.

  At first I thought he was saying loner.

  But no. That’s what I am.

  He’s the loaner.

  And why shouldn’t I borrow him for a while? Who other than my sister’s lover could offer me the opportunity to screw him, her and my husband all at the same time? To get behind enemy lines and do some real damage? Talk about a home run with the bases loaded. An emotional grand slam.

  “I want to make you feel good about yourself, Natalie. At least better than you do right now. And since Eli’s not around, I’m volunteering my services.” He puts his arms around me and spreads confident hands across my back. “I want you to know how gorgeous you look. I want you to know how sexy you are. I want you to feel sexy.”

  I insert the key card and hear it click. Mickey follows me inside the room. I put my purse down on the bureau top and look at myself in the mirror.

  “I’ve never done that before,” I say. “Cheated on Eli.”

  “Really? Well, it’s no big deal. It’s no different than rotating your tires every year. It’s good for the car.”

  He’s done with the discussion.

  He walks over and folds back the bedspread.

  I call room service and order a bottle of white wine.

  A minute afterward the telephone rings.

  “Nat!” It’s Eli. “I just called Minneapolis and Marge told me you were at the Washington Hilton. This is insane.”

  “I think so too.”

  “Are you all right? You must be ready to cave in. How bad’s the house?”

  “Awful, Eli,” I say in a flat, uninflected voice that’s as accusatory as any scream of outrage. “They knocked over everything. Half the breakable stuff is ruined. It’s a mess. Your papers and books are all over the floor in your study. I’m just going to stay here at the Hilton until you get back. When’re you coming home?”

  “Tomorrow night. I’ve got the last plane out of here. I think it leaves at ten. I can get a tape of Dukakis’s speech from the office.”

  Mickey walks over to where I’m standing and touches my face. I don’t say anything for a few seconds. I feel my body beginning to remember how to respond. Then:

  “Did you have to take the very last plane, Eli?”

  “It was the only one I could get into National.”

  “Great,” I say.

  Mickey’s hand drifts down the, front of my blouse. He touches me with rude, probing fingers until my nipples stiffen. Then he flicks them back and forth with his fingertip.

  That doesn’t happen to be one of my things.

  “What’re you going to do about the papers?” Eli asks.

  “I’m supposed to give them to some guy who owns a nightclub in Georgetown tonight.”

  “Who’s going to be with you, Nat?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Eli.”

  He accepts that insult in silence.

  Then he begins to ramble. He says he’s been working very hard and that maybe we should take a little vacation together, get away for a while, so we can think things through. Blah, blah, blah.

  “Hmmm,” I answer.

  Eli is audibly pained by my indifference.

  “What’s the matter? Is someone there?”

  “No.” I brush Mickey’s hand away. “I just don’t feel much like talking right now, Eli. Give me a call tomorrow, okay?”

  And I hang up just as someone knocks on the door. Mickey admits the waiter, takes his tray, signs the bill and shows him out. Then he opens the wine bottle and fills the two goblets before sitting down on one of the beds.

  I join him.

  “He knows,” Mickey says.

  “Who?”

  “Eli.”

  “Knows what?”

  “That you’re starting to pull back from him. Feel more independent.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Translation: You’re absolutely right.

  “I could tell from what you said. I bet he suggested that you two should go away somewhere together. To talk.”

  “Well, he did,” I admit reluctantly. “Actually, I feel sort of bad about everything. About … this.”

  I wave my hand vaguely to encompass the present situation.

  “Well, don’t. I knew you would. He’s just responding now because you’ve begun distancing yourself. That’s the only reason. What’s happening here is his fault, so he’ll just have to eat shit for a while.” Mickey hands me a glass of wine and then lies back against the pillows. “Hey! He shouldn’t’ve cut you off the way he did. I saw what he was doing to you last weekend when we stayed at your place. He was cold-cocking you. I don’t know why, but he was. Anyway, he should’ve lightened up when your c
ar got ripped off and Shay stuck you with all that garbage of hers.” Mickey pauses to evaluate the effect of his words. “Well, bubeleh?” he prods. “Am I wrong?”

  “Bubeleh?” I laugh, leaning back against the pillows.

  What am I doing?

  SNAPSHOT

  There’s Eli, dressed in his tuxedo, standing in the doorway of the Shoreham ballroom with three other reporters who are also covering Reagan’s 1985 inaugural. Whoever took this picture caught Eli at a perfect moment because he’s displaying his secret weapon—that magnetic smile which effortlessly sucks people into his orbit. What’s exciting about Eli’s smile is that it momentarily cracks the abstracted, abstentious expression on his face so the recipient feels as if he’s just been voted; into office with 68 percent of the vote. Eli’s smile extends credit and confers value, makes the recipient grateful—as if he’s being rushed by a first-class fraternity on a Greek-dominated campus. It is that momentary evaporation of Eli’s reserve which is as thrilling to me as the Stones on one of their comeback tours, tearing up the stage while brandishing their guitars like huge sexual organs—public instruments of love.

  Mickey and I start fooling around. I let him undress me in stages while we’re kissing. It’s with relief I feel my tummy retract as I flatten out. Some higher power clearly peeled those pounds off me just in time for this encounter. But maybe I’ve been anticipating this moment; it’s hardly a hostile takeover. The fact is I want to be subsumed, absorbed, recapitalized. I want to put myself in fresh managerial hands. I have to accept that the old jungle-fucks Eli and I once enjoyed are over and gone. Over and out. I know there has to be a reorganization.

  So I put my arms around Mickey, feeling the ripple of muscles beneath the skin of his back. In these first early moments, I own this man because his satisfaction resides within me; I own him because I control the means of production.

  Sex always offers possibilities—primarily the chance for some spontaneous combustion. That’s the winning number in the lottery. It’s possible Mickey could become chemically addicted to me, sexually dependent on my presence, so that he’d be compelled to keep me beside him to ensure his own future pleasure and satisfaction. It’s happened before. Lots of times. Lots of women engage in sex like Christians casting their crumbs upon the water. Fucking is kissing the Blarney stone, knocking on wood, making a rice-paper rubbing of some religious relic, clutching a crystal for good health or good luck.