Lance and I worked out with weights on Monday afternoon, but afterward he rushed back to City Hall. Though Lance was cagey about Albee’s campaign plans, I discounted his gruff words about a “new strategy.” I found out a lot more when I brushed against Tad Manes while I was delivering yard signs to the Multnomah County Democratic Party office, and the scheming reporter spilled the beans (accidentally—on purpose). Tad wondered whether I intended to crash Albee’s $500-a-person fund-raiser.
“Are you planning to disrupt that shindig at the Starry Night Theatre?” he inquired innocently.
“Is he serving pancakes?” I asked, catching on to his attempt to create a little conflict.
Tad laughed. “He’s not serving food.” Then he added, “He’s holding his fundraiser tomorrow night.”
Armed with the location and time, I returned home for supper and applied the First Aid training class that Kim Flanders had required for all his staff. Had I succeeded in ducking the class, Pop might have kicked the bucket. Neither Mom nor Janet had known how to apply the Heimlich Maneuver.
On the morning of September 12, three weeks before Election Day, Lisa missed her bus and called me for a lift. When I picked Lisa up, Lou swaggered into the doorway like a gigantic bear silhouetted against the morning light. I waved to Lou, but I didn’t see a hint of movement in return.
“Can I use your phone?” Lisa asked.
“Where’s yours?”
“I forgot it. I don’t want to go back because Lou has been threatening to rip your ears off for contributing to my delinquency.”
I handed Lisa my cell, and she punched up Neil’s cell. “How are they?” she demanded, not bothering to identify herself. She was, of course, referring to a poll conducted by an independent research company the day before.
“Shit.”
“Bad?” I asked, slightly amused.
“Not fuckin’ in yet,” she replied. “Neil says they’re expecting that lazy-ass messenger any second.”
I stopped for a red light. We watched a homeless wretch wheel a grocery cart across the intersection. The homeless guy abruptly stopped in front of my car, scratched his ass, and upended a brown bottle into his mouth.
“Give the poor guy money for toilet paper,” Lisa urged.
“Let’s give him our polling paper instead.”
“Mike . . .,” Lisa began.
“Joe Klein says that polls are what we do instead of thinking,” I said.
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Lisa demanded, watching the social reject dig into his crack one more time for luck before plodding to the sidewalk.
“The pollster can ask people who they’re voting for, but the answer, even if truthful, doesn’t say why.”
“So what?”
“So what’s the point of having a poll if it isn’t going to change the way you try to reach voters?”
Joe Klein
“I think that polling is what journalists do instead of thinking. But I think that there is a larger problem here, and that is that politicians have begun to overuse polling and also focus groups to find out what people want them to say rather than telling people where they want to take the country. It's become a form of institutionalized cowardice among politicians and to a certain extent it's a form of cowardice among journalists as well.”
<http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0410/09/i_c.01.html>
“Oh, yeah, you’re right,” Lisa said after thinking that over. The traffic light turned green and I drove on.
“The funny polls are the ones that ask whether you’re better off now than four years ago. The answer is completely meaningless. The person can answer ‘no,’ and no might mean a job loss or lower stock prices or the fact that abortion is still legal or the problem of maintaining an erection.”
“Bob Dole solved that one,” Lisa giggled.
“Bob Dole got screwed on that one,” I said. “Some Internet sources claim that Bill Clinton wormed a political trickster named Zarindi into Dole’s campaign, and Zarindi fooled Dole into adopting the friendly undertaker persona to win the geezer vote. It wasn’t until Zarindi suggested that the Dole make Viagra commercials his campaign theme that they caught onto him.”
“Zarindi,” Lisa gasped. “Zarindi is a make believe character.” She was laughing so hard that only the lap belt and shoulder harness kept her from rolling off the car seat. A tourist in a passing rental car glowered suspiciously.
“Zarindi also got the blame when John Kerry delivered a speech before a religious group and tried to refer to John 3:16. Unfortunately, his speech writer wrote John 16:3.”
Lisa giggled. “What does John 16:3 say?”
“You’re relying on my vast Biblical knowledge?”
“Fuck, no,” she said, punching my arm so hard that I nearly drove onto the sidewalk. “But knowing your political ass, you looked that shit up.”
“I did, but I forget what it said.” Rubbing my bruised arm, I inclined my chin toward my briefcase on the back seat. “I made a photocopy.”
Lisa fumbled my case between the seats and studied the lock until I told her the combination.
“Wow, you really fuckin’ trust me,” she said, looking feminine and dreamy-eyed. It wasn’t an attractive look in a lesbian.
“Of course, Lisa,” I said. “You and I are brothers.” I promptly decided to change the combination when she wasn’t looking.
As I parallel parked at the curb, Lisa picked up the top piece of paper. “Doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense, but it sure isn’t a happy message for a presidential candidate.”
And these things they will do unto you, because they have not known the Father, nor me.
John 16:3
I smiled at her. Lisa looked thoughtful for a moment. Abruptly, she turned her head and asked softly, “Mike, are you Zarindi?”
Neil beamed gleefully as we strolled through the door of campaign headquarters. “We’re exactly neck and neck,” he proclaimed, waving the papers. He was wearing green fingernail polish.
“How the fuck’s that good news?” Lisa demanded.
“We’re dead even with Albee now, Dimbutt,” Neil said. “We were behind.”
“So what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Lisa demanded. “Keep doing just like we’ve been doing and still be dead even when the ballots are counted? Change something? If so, what? Does the fuckin’ poll tell us that, Neil?”
Looking sharp and sexy in a blue pinstripe suit, Bill emerged from his office and grinned at Lisa’s diatribe. “Lisa, you’ve been listening to Mike again.”
“So?” she said.
“Don’t listen to Mike,” Bill suggested. “We’ve been coming up, so we’re going to continue doing exactly what we’ve been doing.”
Lisa glared at me. “I’m not listening to you anymore, Mike. And, Neil, if you ever call me Dimbutt again, I’m gonna stuff your green fingernails down your throat.”
While Neil examined his fingernails for blemishes, I shook my head over Lisa’s tragic decision, grabbed a mug of coffee, and plunked down at my desk. I had three voice mail messages, the first from some old fart quoting Bible verses. He urged me to call him back so he could save me from Hell, but I deleted his message. The other two were from shady trial lawyers considering political runs two years hence. Both hinted that there’d be buckets of cash involved, not-to-mention ample opportunity to apply my special skills. I jotted down both names and telephone numbers.
Upon hanging up, I signed onto my computer. A month or so before Kim Flanders hired me, I sneaked into services at an evangelical church. When the pastor asked for volunteers for political causes, I signed up with a name from a previous graveyard registration and an e-mail address. I checked that account frequently for opposition messages, and that day I found an e-mail claiming that Kim Flanders hosted weekly homosexual parties that began with crack smoking and concluded with jack-off orgies. The writer described how homosexuals have sex with poop and drink urine. The e-mail was scabrous, fallacious, nauseous, and obnoxious—light years beyond anything I’d written about Mayor Albee.
I printed the e-mail and carried it into Bill’s office. “Albee’s sending out illegal e-mails,” I said.
As Bill read the message, his nose wrinkled like he smelled something putrid. “Are you sure you didn’t send this yourself, Mike?”
“That’s insulting, Bill. Why would I e-mail such a vulgar and revolting message?”
“To stir Kim up so he’ll fight dirty,” Bill responded. “That’s exactly the way you would think, Mike.”
“You’re making a good point, Bill,” I agreed. “I’m always happy to sow confusion among our enemies. However, I couldn’t write scurrilous filth, and I don’t believe in lying to our candidate.”
“Okay, I believe you,” Bill said, surprised by my sincerity. “But it might not have come from the Albee campaign. There are other groups in Oregon who hate us far more than the Mayor does, groups more likely than Albee to distribute vulgarity and bare-faced lies.”
I couldn’t argue against that statement. Whoever had sent the insulting e-mail, I was certain that Lance knew nothing about it. I returned to my computer and forwarded a copy to him with a message of protest.
Lance responded immediately with, “This is disgusting, Mike. We didn’t disseminate it.”
I wrote back, “I know you didn’t, Lance. A message this repugnant must’ve spawned in the mind of a born-again Christian.”
“Do you have a problem with the church, Mike?” Lance wrote.
“No, Lance,” I replied. “Not the church. Just the people in it.”
After signing off from Lance, I prepared three signs: I typed a six word message, printed copies in 144 point font, cut out the letters on the campaign paper cutter, and glued them over three “Keep Albee Mayor” signs that Lisa had furiously wrenched from the ground the night we distributed Flanders signs.
Keeping to the speed limit, I coasted past my mailbox late Tuesday afternoon. A dark blue car that could have been an unmarked police vehicle sat along the roadside. I couldn’t see a cop, but the car’s windows were tinted so darkly that it might’ve been stuffed with unseen detectives. Needless to say, I slipped past the mailbox without stopping and found another route home.
Janet’s voice drifted down from her bedroom. “Hey, Tinker Bell, Mom and Pop have gone to bow down before Brahma, Christ save the lot of us, so you’ll have to make do with cold tuna. Mom left it in the refrigerator.”
I was morally certain that Spike was upstairs, along with Spank naturally, but I felt powerless. A sudden burst of heterophobia swept over me. It seemed like I should be doing something about my little sister fucking her boyfriend, but I didn’t know what.
“Don’t you dare get pregnant, Janet,” I howled up the stairs.
“Spike’s fingers couldn’t knock up a flea,” she shrieked back. “At least I’m not taking hard cocks up the ass, unlike a certain Tinker Bell we know.”
“Okay,” I shouted back, somewhat mollified. “Just keep following the Joycelyn Elders prescription.”
Mahatma followed me to the refrigerator where I found not only tuna salad but also macaroni salad, crunchy with onions and cucumbers, and green pea with bacon salad. After loading my plate, I sat at my customary place and dined with Mahatma’s head resting on my thigh.
President Clinton fired Joycelyn Elders for “values contrary to the administration” one week after her speech the United Nations on World AIDS Day Conference in 1994. At the conference, a questioner asked Dr. Elders, “if masturbation might be taught as a way to prevent AIDS?” Joycelyn Elders replied, “masturbation is something that is a part of human sexuality, and is a part of something that perhaps should be taught.”
The sink had been empty until I dropped my plate and fork into it. I figured that Janet could wash them after Spike finished flicking her clit. I went to my room, brushed my teeth, showered again, and dressed in my dark suit with a pastel green shirt and dark green tie. Stopping by my car for the signs I’d prepared, I strolled across Ladd Circle to the rose garden in the center, plopped down on a bench, and studied my family home.
Houses in Ladd's Addition (Photo by the author)
My parents had bought their Decorator Box house on Ladd’s Circle during the 1970’s, when interest rates were astronomical and real estate prices low. Little could they imagine when they moved in during Mom’s pregnancy with me that the home for which they paid a modest price would carry an assessment of three-quarters of a million in just twenty-five years. Not that my parents had any interest in selling. I imagined that some day Janet would marry and bear children, and the house would eventually go to her. Perhaps she would let me continue to live in the basement.
I started feeling sorry for myself. Sitting alone on the bench, I wallowed in self pity. My future looked completely hopeless. I imagined dire scenarios and my depression deepened as the minutes ticked by. I only snapped out of my dark mood when Bunny and the Buckaroo’s garish cowboy wagon arrived, a pink SUV with cow horns ornamenting the hood and scenes of bulldogging and bronco busting painted on the sides. Lost as usual, Bunny had driven around the circles of Ladd’s Addition until both cowboys had been reduced to raving imbecility. They kept griping about the layout of my neighborhood while I directed them back to Hawthorne Boulevard and across the bridge to downtown Portland.
Ladd Circle (Photo by the author)
Along the most direct traffic route to the Starry Night Theatre, Bunny erected my first sign. It read: “Albee Fundraiser moved to Bagdad Theatre.” While the pair posted signage along two other streets leading to the Starry Night, I loitered in a doorway, watching drivers studying the posted message and peeling off toward the bridge. The diverted drivers appeared annoyed that the mayor had waited until the last second to move his meeting location, and I chuckled over how disgruntled they’d be upon arriving at the Bagdad Theatre and finding no mayor.
After watching for a quarter of an hour, I told the cowboys to let the signs stand for another ten minutes. “However, use your own judgment,” I added. “If any of Albee’s staff come looking, ditch the evidence.” I handed Bunny an untraceable cell phone that had passed through a series of illegitimate owners.
“Yore givin’ us forewarning ‘bout the call?” Bunny confirmed.
I patted my cell phone affirmatively and joined a passing group who’d failed to observe our signs. As our group approached the ticket taker, I halted my new companions. “Hand me your tickets. We’re running a few minutes late.”
Without question, the entire group forked over the tickets distributed to Justin T. Albee’s special friends—meaning his largest contributors and those he hoped would become large contributors. The guy taking tickets was same poor sap who’d loaded me up with Albee’s campaign material at the City Club.
“Oh, hi, how’re you doing?” he asked, recognizing me as a friend.
“It’s turning into a great evening,” I said. The night was going well. I was across the threshold, as it were, whereas I’d counted on bribing my way in. I had pair of our campaign’s fifty dollar bills rustling in my pocket, and I was relieved I didn’t have to waste them. Besides that boob would’ve probably turned down a bribe. He lacked initiative.
The Starry Night Theater may have been a swanky playhouse at one time, but it had deteriorated into a venue for the latest trends in music. The atmosphere was dank, dark, hot, and smoky. Nearly two hundred seats were supporting the sweating asses of Albee’s supporters. I don’t know how many people the mayor was expecting, but I estimated that our signs had misdirected more than a hundred.
I could see Albee in conference in Lance and Stacy Sawyer, the mayor wildly gesticulating and his two staff members attempting to calm him. Keeping out of sight of Lance and Sawyer, I circulated a few sign-up sheets. From behind a post, I called Bunny’s cell phone and spoke a single word: “Now.”
Bunny and the Buckaroo had suggested various stratagems for the mayor’s fundraiser, everything from setting off smoke bombs to projecting slides of young females in states of undress behind Justin T. Albee as he spoke. I’d vetoed their suggestions as being either too technologically tricky (the slides) or lacking finesse (bombs of any kind).
Albee gesticulated, and Lance and Sawyer disappeared backstage, so I meandered down the aisle as the mayor’s cell phone played “Amazing Grace”:
.
I managed to catch most of Albee’s conversation.
“Yes, Mr. Debs,” the mayor was saying. “Your name is certainly familiar to me.” The name of Eugene Debs should carry a familiar ring to anyone acquainted with American history. “Yes, I have heard of your admirable league,” he continued, which was a bare-faced lie because I’d invented The Precious Virtuous Decency League. “However, Mr. Debs, I cannot complete your survey at this moment for I am in the middle of a campaign fundraiser.”
“Was that Mr. Gene Debs of The Precious Virtuous Decency League?” I asked. “He’s a fine man.”
Justin T. Albee was disconnecting from Bunny’s impersonation when I spoke, and he whirled, sniffed my breath, and glowered. “You’ve been eating onions. Don’t you know I have a rule against onions or garlic before campaign events? Where’s Lance? Where’s Stacy?”
“You sent Lance and Stacy backstage,” I pointed out.
Albee pushed his phone into his pocket, fished around for a second, and swore. “I think it missed the pocket and went into the lining,” he said, like he was accusing me of having a hand in that sartorial fiasco. “Why aren’t you working?”
“I am working.” I collected a clipboard that had completed its journey. “I’m gathering the names, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses of the attendees so our campaign records will be up to date.” Of course, I didn’t mention which campaign.
Justin T. Albee glanced at the clipboard. “For heaven’s sake, when you’ve got the information, remember that it’s confidential. Don’t let those papers out of your hands until you turn them over to Miss Sawyer.”
“Naturally,” I lied. Turning anything over to Sawyer was the last thing on my mind. “You should be circulating through the crowd,” I suggested, hoping to occupy Albee so I could slip away with the stolen information before Lance and Sawyer returned.
Though I had given him excellent advice, Justin T. Albee’s face turned purplish. For some reason, he didn’t appreciate the order having come from me. He glared, but I grabbed his shoulders, whirled his choleric visage toward his supporters, and swatted his mushy buttocks to propel him in the right direction.
I fidgeted until all three clipboards had made their way through the crowd. I virtually seized the last to arrive from the hand of a surprised Albee supporter. Aware that Lance and Sawyer could rejoin the mayor at any moment, I beat a hasty retreat to the curtained shadows at the rear of the theatre. From that vantage point, I watched as Lance returned, looking yummier than ever in his black silk suit, pink pastel shirt, and red power tie. Stacy Sawyer reappeared at Lance’s side, and I pulled farther into the darkness.
Finally, Justin T. Albee made his way toward the podium. I had Bunny and the Buckaroo on speed dial. “Gol-durned good thing we ditched them fool signs, Mike,” came Bunny’s voice. “Yore boyfriend and that dyke Sawyer come a-sashayin’ out the back and a-waltzin’ ‘round the entire shebang—like they was trolling for sidewinders.”
“Never mind that now, Bunny,” I said. “The mayor’s about to start his speech, and he forgot to turn off his cell phone. Wait two minutes. Then keep ringing him every ninety seconds.”
All eyes were fastened upon Mayor Albee as he gripped the podium with both hands and raked the crowd with baneful eyes. “My friends,” he began, his words at odds with his demeanor, “and fellow citizens of our fair city.”
I rubbed my temples in an attempt to transmit the words Albee should say. “Suckers,” I whispered, “and fellow creeps of our rat-infested city.”
“I come before you this night to ensure that the Portland of the past will return again.”
“I’m slouching up here to guarantee a return to our racist, provincial, wife-beating heritage,” I mouthed.
“We will return to the good old days,” he announced with a broad smile.
“So I’ll be blowing your tax money on building a Time Machine,” I added, willing him to say it. Either my mental telepathy was in need of repair or he was resistant.
“I will make absolutely certain that Portland remains a family-friendly, church-going . . .” At the words church-going, the introductory notes of “Amazing Grace” sounded from the region of Justin T. Albee’s crotch. Albee patted his pocket impotently; then he recovered and smiled at his audience. “Sorry, folks, forgot to turn off the ole' cell phone. I’ll just let the caller go to voice mail. Anyway, as I was saying, we are a city of prayer and worship.” Several members of his audience applauded but others looked at each other with disorderly speculation. After all, Portland has the lowest church attendance statistically of any city in the United States. Albee’s phone stopped playing its tune. However, to the mayor’s dismay, the phone warbled again:
“Someone is quite persistent,” Justin T. Albee commented, attempting to extract his phone from his pocket. The goddess Fortune was smiling upon me because Albee’s phone was hopelessly entangled in his suit lining, making the Mayor of Portland look like he was playing pocket pool. His audience began to titter, so the mayor extracted his hand, and, drawing upon his resources as a former Marine, gripped the podium for dear life. The phone fell silent.
“But my friends,” Albee intoned, trying to find his place in his speech, “Our city is stuffed with shirtlifters and pantywaists.”
Albee wrenched at his pocket furiously. His shirt pulled part way out of his pants and hung out the side of his suitcoat—exactly as if he’d been lifting it. None of these activities availed him a lick, and the phone stopped on its own.
“I apologize, my friends and fellow citizens,” Albee gasped, realizing that he was cutting a poor figure before his potential contributors. “But let me continue, and tomorrow we will laugh over these alarms.” His audience hadn’t waited until morning; they were laughing already—some almost hysterically.
“Oh, Christ, help me with this goddamn thing,” the mayor howled. Lance and Stacy Sawyer rushed onto the stage where Justin T. Albee was struggling furiously, and not a little insanely, against his own clothing. Sawyer fell to her knees beside the mayor and pulled down on his pants leg. Lance grabbed the mayor’s suit coat, lifted it nearly to Albee’s armpit, and reached into Albee’s pocket for the phone. Some members of the audience rose, gasping in horror, while others rolled, wheezing with laughter. Lance yanked out the offending telephone, threw it onto the stage floor, and stomped it under his foot. “Amazing Grace” croaked in mid-note.
Without waiting to see what would happen next, I slipped through the curtain and hastily departed. Terrible consequences would have transpired had Lance spied me. I hurried around the corner and found Bunny and the Buckaroo waiting in their wagon. I threw the three clipboards into the back seat atop the diversion signs and jumped in beside the cowpokes.
“Drive, Buckaroo. Go west. Bunny, wipe your fingerprints off that phone,” I ordered. “We’re ditching it right away.”
Without asking questions, Bunny carefully wiped down the phone with a rag loaded with cleaning solvent.
“You ain’t gonna toss the fool contraption inter the river?” The Buckaroo asked.
“No, let’s drive it out to Washington County.”
“Are you playing us fer greenhorns?”
“No, anybody caught with that phone is dead, dead, dead.”
Thus we made the drive to Washington County where I disposed of the cell phone and the rag in a Dumpster behind a store that sold cellular telephones. After the signs joined them, I made Bunny and the Buckaroo help me roll the Dumpster away from the building to the center of the parking lot. There I doused the signs and phone with a can of lighter fluid Bunny had brought and tossed in a lit matchbook. As we hauled-ass away from the scene of the crime, the Dumpster was lighting the sky with its telltale blaze.
Daniel Webster’s voice boomed from above: “He’s been out cold for ten minutes.”
A feminine voice from farther away said, “A policeman sucker-punched him.”
I opened my eyes without knowing where I was or how I’d gotten there. The face of an angel hovered near.
“Mike,” the angel said. I didn’t know what a mike was, but the angel seemed worried. “Mike, are you all right?”
I wanted to tell the angel how pretty he was, but a dizzying pain shot through my head. I turned my mouth sideways and vomited. The angel pulled back. Daniel Webster said, “I called the paramedics. Jeepers, man. It was a cop hit him, busted him right in the mouth and the back of his head hit the marble column.”
“I saw it too,” the female voice said. “Unprovoked police brutality—I’d testify to it in court.”
I’d known better than to try parking downtown during the day, so I told Bill what I needed, and he delivered me to the front steps of City Hall. Dating from the 1890s, City Hall is a gray stone edifice with front columns and an echoing copper-plated staircase. The mayor’s office sits on the second floor beneath two glass atriums.
Satoko, Lance’s secretary, was not at her desk, so I reported to the mayor’s secretary. “Mrs. Lincoln, I'm Mike Dodger,” I said quietly, musing on the historical provocation of Mrs. Lincoln’s name. “Lance Hancock is expecting me.”
Mrs. Lincoln was efficient. “Yes, Mr. Dodger. I’m sorry, but Mr. Hancock’s last meeting ran longer than expected. I hope that you can wait for a few minutes.”
I dropped my ass onto the couch. “No problem,” I said. “I have nothing to do and all day to do it in.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Mrs. Lincoln said, smiling. She offered a plate. “Would you like to try a Halloween cookie? My mother bakes them.”
I lifted two iced cookies from a plate. While I was complimenting Mrs. Lincoln on her mother’s cookies, even though Halloween was more than a fortnight in the future, I saw Patsy Pepper, a city commissioner, walking toward her office. Suddenly Justin T. Albee sprang from his lair and accosted her.
“What’s wrong with you, Pepper?” the mayor roared. “You endorsed Flanders.”
“I haven’t endorsed anyone,” the city commissioner protested when she recovered from her shock.
“That’s right,” the mayor thundered. “I expect to see a copy of your news release endorsing me. I want it on my desk before the end of the day. Otherwise, after my reelection, you’ll find that nothing you want will pass before this commission and you’ll be lucky to hold onto your oversight of Public Utilities.”
Patsy Pepper staggered toward her office, badly shaken, while I marveled at Albee’s rank abuse of power. A few minutes later, he caught another commissioner in his clutches, but his pressure tactic was entirely different. Buck Wedder had been a Portland firefighter and he was past president of his union—furthermore, he had a reputation for throwing a mean punch. Never one to risk a bloody nose, Albee extended the carrot rather than the stick. He draped his arm around Wedder’s shoulders and spoke with honeyed words, offering the oversight of Public Safety in return for Wedder’s support.
When he had Wedder roped and branded, Albee turned on Mrs. Lincoln. “Have you got hold of Debs yet?”
“No, Mr. Mayor. Mr. Hancock’s secretary has been trying to reach him as well. Are you sure this League exists?”
Albee turned purple. “It exists, all right. I’ve discussed issues with Gene Debs, damn it.” He was mad, but Mrs. Lincoln was young and good looking, which kept him from getting too rough. I guessed that Albee had hired her for the shape of her ass more than her mother’s cookies.
“I want a retraction from The Precious Virtuous Decency League and a public apology from Gene Debs,” he snarled. When he slapped the newspaper he was holding on the side of Mrs. Lincoln’s desk, I saw it folded open to the same article I’d read with considerable interest over the breakfast table. “This article makes me sound lecherous and perverted.”
I nodded in agreement, lifted the paper off the desk, and pretended to read the article.
Decency League Urges Mayor to “Come Clean”
Tad Manes
The Portland Bee
A political watchdog group calling itself The Precious, Virtuous Decency League has accused Mayor Albee of pursuing teenaged girls for sexual purposes.
According to Gene Debs, League spokesperson, Justin T. Albee has been getting away with this behavior for years.
The League has been passing out bookmark sized flyers depicting Mayor Justin T. Albee sporting an obvious erection while ogling a budding nymph.
The flyer heading reads: “Is Justin T. Albee Up to the Job?”
In a faxed message to the Bee, Debs writes that “Mayor Albee should come clean about supporting heterosexuality with underage females.”
Mayor Albee claimed that he was familiar with The Precious, Virtuous Decency League and their work, and that he had personally spoken with Gene Debs. However, the mayor asserted that the allegations came as a through-and-through surprise.
“They must’ve mistaken me with some libertine,” Albee said. “I’m a family man.”
The mayor turned to me, still laboring under the pathetic illusion that I was a player on his team. “What are you doing sitting here?”
“Waiting for Lance,” I said. “He wants to talk to me.”
Turning aside, Albee muttered, “It’s about time Lance canned this joker.”
As a singularly unattractive state representative and Lance’s secretary Satoko, a surprisingly beautiful woman of Japanese descent, emerged from the office stenciled “Chief of Staff,” Mrs. Lincoln’s intercom buzzed.
I jumped to my feet and clapped Albee on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Mayor; I’m sure that we can rely on anything The Precious Virtuous Decency League says.”
Lance’s voice came echoing through the box. “Has my next appointment arrived?” The sound of his voice nearly made me cream my undies.
Justin T. Albee stomped away just in time to miss hearing Mrs. Lincoln announce my last name. Luck was still smiling on me, so I called to the mayor as he opened his office door. “Mayor Albee, I almost forgot. My little sister Janet sends her best wishes.”
Satoko was holding the door for me, so I sauntered into Lance’s office. It was was larger than I’d expected. He had a thick charcoal colored carpet on his floor, and two long windows gave him a view of the city. Behind him were floor-to-ceiling shelves of books on the inner workings of a city, and I remembered from reading his biography that he had a Masters Degree in city planning.
Lance was sitting behind his antique oak desk, dressed in an exquisite light gray flannel suit. My face split into a lewd grin at the sight of him, but he knit his reddish brows and shook his head as though he was preparing to deliver an admonition, an augury, or an omen. His finger drummed on the inflammatory article in The Portland Bee.
“Is this your work, Mike?” Lance asked. “Are you The Precious Virtuous Decency League?”
“Hardly,” I said. “I wouldn’t invent a make-believe group, Lance.” Since the Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act of 2002 passed (better known as the McCain-Feingold law), creating fictitious groups to criticize the opponent can be punished with jail time. “The Precious Virtuous Decency League is a tax-exempt organization, one of those 527s President Bush railed against.” Bush said: “I’m denouncing all the stuff being on TV of the 527s”—while the 527 committee with the self-applied name Swift Boat Veterans for Truth was accusing John Kerry of lying about his Vietnam War record.
Senators Russ Feingold and John McCain
Authors of the Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act
In truth, The Precious Virtuous Decency League consisted of Bunny, the Buckaroo, Neil, and I. I’d written the news release, and Neil had bounced it around the world via e-mail and fax until it reached The Portland Bee from a fax machine located in John Day, Oregon.
Lance touched his intercom. “Satoko, call the Federal Election Commission. See if The Precious Virtuous Decency League has filed under 527.”
“I queried them, Mr. Hancock,” came a dulcet female voice over the speaker, “right after I arrived this morning. They said that League isn’t on their list, but the absence doesn’t mean anything. They have so many filings that it’ll be months before they have accurate information.”
“Okay,” Lance said, and I thought I detected a note of relief in his voice. “By the way, Satoko, thanks for not calling in sick today.”
“Why would I call in sick?” she teased.
Lance thought she was serious. “I mean after you read the morning newspaper.”
“If you can bear His Honor’s infantile tantrums, so can I,” she replied. “Is there anything else?”
Lance debated silently, goggling at me with slightly raised brows. “Get me the Secretary of State, Satoko,” he finally said.
“Yes, sir,” she replied with a hint of irony. “You know how much I enjoy calling Salem.” (The state capitol is located at Salem—the city of peace where lawmakers grind each other in pieces.)
I resisted showing my enthusiasm, though the situation was falling out better than I’d hoped. All it needed was a hint to a reporter that the Secretary of State was looking into Mayor Albee’s sexual history. When a reporter called Salem to confirm, we’d be off and running. I couldn’t stop a smile from playing across my face. Lance noticed my expression, but he didn’t know I’d been gloating so he grinned.
“Mike, I didn’t ask you over to discuss The Precious Virtuous Decency League,” he said.
I drew a deep breath—we were getting to the reason for my visit. “I should think not,” I said. “Can you imagine any subject less interesting? I figured you asked me over so we could march into Albee’s office and French kiss on his desktop.”
Lance blanched at the suggestion. “Don’t drop such innuendoes in City Hall, Mike,” he gasped. I winked conspiratorially, which inspired him to get to the point. He drew in a double lungful of recycled oxygen. “The two police officers you captured on video tape are waiting downstairs,” he reported, breaking the news gently. “I’d like to have them in and work this out.”
“Are they afraid of me?” I asked to cover the sharp tightening of my anal sphincter.
“Afraid of you?” Lance blurted, overcome by the suggestion. “Of course they’re not afraid of you. I’m worried about what they might do to you.”
I blushed and batted my eyes. He cared. “Sure, ask them in,” I said.
Lance pressed another button on his intercom. “Mrs. Lincoln, would you have those two police officers sent up?”
“Yes, Mr. Hancock,” she said.
The intercom buzzed immediately. Satoko announced, “I’ll have the Secretary of State on the phone for you in about twenty minutes.”
“We’ll probably have wrapped this up, but if we aren’t finished, I’ll talk to him anyway. Never keep Salem waiting, Satoko.”
Lance made certain that his intercom was off before he continued. “I’ve already showed the tape to Officer Scout Macmillan and Sergeant Jay Serfs,” Lance informed me as he removed the incriminating tape from his desk drawer. “It was like pulling teeth, but they admitted that Stacy Sawyer ordered them to set you up. To their knowledge, Justin T. Albee knew nothing about the plot. I believe them, Mike, because Albee doesn’t have a clue who you are, but Sawyer knows you.”
“I’ve known Stacy since college,” I admitted. “She’s a closeted self-hating dyke who turns her homophobia against gay men. When she was a senior and Lisa and I were freshmen, she started a campaign to get the Gay-Straight Alliance thrown off campus. Some of us fought her and won; afterward, when we extended the olive branch, she broke it off in our asses.”
Lance stared at me. “You do have a way with women, Mike,” he joked. “Seriously, Macmillan and Serfs admitted that Stacy ordered them to frighten you, but warned them not to lay a hand on you. So maybe she doesn’t hate you as much as you think. The police lost control of the situation.”
“They lost control?” I said derisively. “Oh, hell, it doesn’t matter how they spin it; you saw that tape. You know what happened, Lance.”
Satoko knocked on the door and ushered in the two cops who’d nearly killed me. I found it suggestive that Lance surrounded himself with beautiful women—they provided great cover. I didn’t imagine that even Neil would toss Jennifer or Satoko out of bed.
Disconcerted by the heterosexual fantasy that had evolved in my twisted brain, I stood and offered my hand to Scout Macmillan and Jay Serfs. Both uniformed cops glared balefully and sat down without a handshake. I dropped back into my chair and sneered at the cops.
“Faggot,” Macmillan muttered under his breath.
“Reactionary pig,” I whispered back.
“Sounds like this encounter is going well,” Lance grumbled sarcastically, seating himself behind his desk. “Listen to me, the lot of you. This conflict ends here and now. Let’s all pretend this incident never happened.”
Jay Serfs held up his bandaged hand. “Am I supposed to pretend this never happened?”
Lance let his breath out slowly through his teeth. “I thought we had an agreement,” he said to the cops. “We let the newspaper version stand, the tape disappears instead of going to Internal Affairs, and you leave Mike Dodger alone.”
“Besides,” I kicked in, “I didn’t shoot you. Old Scout here plugged you.”
Both policemen whirled on me viciously. “When an officer gets shot trying to prevent a crime, even if the bullet comes from a brother officer’s weapon, it’s the criminal who is prosecuted.”
“Criminal? What crime?” I demanded. “You assholes set me up. You’re the goddamn criminals.”
Both cops jumped for me, but Lance slammed his fist on his desktop. “Sit down!” he shouted. “Macmillan! Serfs! Do you guys want to hang onto your jobs with the Portland Police Bureau? Or would you prefer I instruct my secretary to summon Rocky Brownshirt and Jodi Law to my office right now?”
Cowed, the pair resumed their seats, though Macmillan kept fingering the butt of his pistol.
“Well?” Lance asked.
“We’d like to put this incident behind us,” Serfs said.
I snorted derisively, and Lance turned on me. “Shut up, Dodger. You’re not helping matters.”
The faces of the two cops looked amazingly like Janet’s when she’d been obnoxious. I didn’t have much confidence that the meeting was going to resolve our conflict. Also, I realized that I’d been confronting them directly, which was contrary to my general policy. Covert hostility is far more effective than facing the enemy. If certain United States Government agencies, particularly the CIA, hadn’t forgotten that principle, they’d have uncovered and thwarted the 9-11 attack. I turned to the two cops and offered my warmest smile.
“That’s the spirit,” Lance prompted as I considered the most effective and sneakiest plans to stab the bastards in the back.
“Now, if both parties will promise to stay away from each other, I’ll lock this video tape in a safe place for a couple of years.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Yeah, sure,” said Sergeant Jay Serfs, studying his wounded hand.
Scout Macmillan merely grunted but Lance mistook the cop’s pig noise for acquiescence. “That’s fine,” he said. “You officers can return to work. Mike, you remain for a few minutes.”
I observed the contemptuous glance Scout Macmillan gave Lance, as though he had Lance pegged from the ground up. The cop’s face showed his thoughts: He recognized Lance as a big fairy. However, Lance was studying me with concern and tenderness and wasn’t looking at Macmillan.
When the door slammed behind the police, Lance said, “I pictured you getting shot while resisting arrest, or hanging yourself in your jail cell—with their help, of course. I think you’re safe now.”
“It’s all worked out,” I dissembled, humoring him. “Are we meeting at the Rainbow Club later?”
I was going to kiss Lance before parting, but his intercom buzzed insistently.
“I’ll call you in a couple of hours,” Lance promised and answered his intercom.
“I have the Secretary of State on the line,” Satoko announced.
I blew Lance a kiss and slipped out the door. He wouldn’t find any record of The Precious Virtuous Decency League in the Secretary of State’s office or anywhere else.
I stopped by Mrs. Lincoln’s desk and sweet-talked her out of another cookie. Then I sauntered down the staircase, considering the best way to get back to campaign headquarters. I thought of calling Bill, who’d want a report, but the cookies were hitting my stomach rather hard. I decided to grab a slice of pizza and to call Bill from the restaurant.
I slipped through the tall doors of City Hall and strode purposefully toward the top step, my stomach growling. However, as I passed near a column, a shape sprang from behind it, and something exploded in my head.
Daniel Webster was looking down from the clouds, and the angel was kneeling beside me. “Mike, do you recognize me?” the angel asked.
A voice said, “He don’t look so hot, man. The medics are coming. I hear the sirens.”
“He’s got a brain injury,” another voice said. “He doesn’t know who you are.”
“I seen ‘em looking that way in Vietnam. Right before they kicked the bucket.”
I heard the wailing sirens too; the sirens grew louder and stopped. The flurry of activity around me increased, but the angel never left my side.
As uniformed strangers crowded around me, I still couldn’t comprehend that celestial voice didn’t belong to Daniel Webster, and the angel was my lover Lance. Hours later I figured out that the disembodied voices had belonged to people around City Hall, and I hadn’t taken my place in the congress of the dead. Officer Scout Macmillan had punched me in the mouth.
