About The Girl at the Bar

Post 580:

Mr. Speech: A Novel

Entry One: Mr. Speech—Beliefs—Buses

            It was never the plan. I was reading my old fingerprint-stained copy of Samuel Thatcher’s Orders From the Mountain, doing a decent job of shutting out the muted but unflagging sound of the crowd outside. He came charging in the tent, cumbersome, hands full Nelson’s rumpled suit. Nelson was a good guy—well, not really, but he had been to me. I thought to engage the situation on some level, but it was complicated. The Secret Service was just outside, poking their heads in between the tent flaps every second or two, ever watchful of their charge, ever aware that he was far from typical.

            I was on my back, feet up on an old couch. It smelled like a grandmother’s house. Probably a donation to the campaign. Old ladies liked him for reasons I more or less understood. The thought made me sad. Sadder still, I’d knew I’d probably think it again before it was all over.  

            Stay out it, I reminded myself, holding to the notion of staying clear from the present fray.

             I drew the old novel closer to my face. My attempts at blending in were of course ridiculous, but I felt as frozen as a child caught out in a game of hide and seek. Samuel Thatcher and his wonderful prose couldn’t even save me; I thought I’d perfected the art of shutting out my surroundings, but the tent was full of anger and noise and the pushing and pulling of waning testosterone and waxing frustration. The nerves started to pile on; my toes were curled up inside my old 80s-style Adidas as they hung over the end of the couch.

            “You’re fired,” he said, letting Nelson collapse to the floor. “It’s not cutting it. People want passion. Inspiration. Your approach doesn’t make me feel anything. If I don’t feel anything, how can they?”

            It was a reasonable enough question. Sort of. Having the candidate worry about the feelings of others was double-edged. It meant he cared. That was good. It also meant he was thinking. Not so good.

            Little things I was picking up along the way.

            Nelson pulled at his tie as he tried to gather his breath. Another peek away from Mr. Thatcher told me the poor guy was on the verge of tears. I felt bad. He had a family to think about.

            I tried not to think about it.

            That I was quitting at the end of the week gave me some comfort. This was no place for a person like me. Me and the couch made sense together. Made for another time. I liked to read Mr. Thatcher and write novels with ideas buried so deep down, I wasn’t even sure what I was driving at. Sound bytes and sociopaths weren’t my scene.

            Out of touch narcissists were more my speed. People with too many degrees and love for the world but no one in particular.

            As Nelson’s head fell at the candidate’s wingtips, I closed my eyes. He was crying. It was horrible. Male weakness. A fine thing, but better in theory.  

            “You,” he said, snapping his giant thumb and giant finger. I swung my feet around and stood up with a straight back.  

            “Yes, sir.”

            “What’s your name again?”

            “Harold.”

            “Is that your last name?”

            “No—sorry, sir. Harold Cabot.”

            “Do you want the job?”

            I’d been around enough for the last few months to know that he didn’t like to wait for rejoinders. I took one more look at sad, snotty Nelson, and gave the man lording over him as firm an answer as I could: “No, sir.”

            He didn’t seem offended or surprised, which I found rather surprising. He smiled mischievously and asked, “I’ve seen you around, looking like you’re someplace else. Where is it you’re going?”

            “Europe, I think. My first novel did okay. Trying to finish another.”

            “That sounds small and I don’t like it. Small talk, while there’s giants to be slain. You realize that makes you ridiculous?”

            “Yes, sir. I suppose it does.”

            “We’re all stupid in youth,” he said. “But you’re the message guy. I need you. It’s time to matter. Europe and novels don’t matter.”

            I should’ve been horrified. Nothing mattered more to me than novels, and I rather liked Europe. Loaded with all that, I still acquiesced. My resolve had flown. As Nelson continued to blubber at our feet, I tentatively accepted his job, shaking Karl Donnell’s red, hairy hand. The bones felt thick, like they’d been broken and healed without proper guidance.

            I thought about Mr. Thatcher and a fresh batch of shame asserted itself.  

            “Let’s go get a beer, Speech Man.”

            “Are you going to call me that all the time?”

            “I like it. It’s a title. Titles are important. You don’t like it?”

            I didn’t answer. 

            “What were you reading?” he asked, manhandling me through the trucks and tents, people I’d tried to ignore and who’d tried to ignore me for the last few months. They were all leering, thinking the same thing I was: What’s Harry Cabot doing on the arm of the big guy?

            “Orders From the Mountain,” I said, trying not to crumble at the hands that had just crumbled poor, unemployed Nelson. “By Samuel Thatcher.”

            “Always liked that one,” he said, loosening the grip on my shoulder as we walked into a trailer. Inside was the lead campaign manager, Bridget Waterton. She had one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen. Her dark eyes and perfect olive skin made it hard not to stare.

            I buried my chin against my chest, looking down to my Adidas and their fraying shoelaces. A fit compliment to my sweaty khakis and rolled-up sleeves. My only salvation was a white dress shirt—it was days from the wash, but the color hid the pools starting to collect. Though the entourage was sitting in the shadow of a massive stadium, my skin was just about cooked from our hurried walk from the tent. “I’m sorry, sir?” I asked, having forgotten his last comment.

            “I said I always liked Orders From the Mountain. A rich commentary on the dissemination of belief.”

            I looked at the candidate and tried my best for a poker face.

            “Or do I have that wrong?” he prodded. A look over at beautiful Bridget told me she was interested in my response.

            I smiled and said he was right.

            “Then what’s so funny?”

            “If I’m being honest, most people know at least that much about the book. It doesn’t mean you’ve actually read it.”

            Beautiful Bridget’s beautiful eyes were as open as hangar doors. She was aghast at my cheek. So was I.

            The candidate put out a hand for me to take a seat. I buckled at the nonverbal request and gave Beautiful Bridget a look like tell my parents where they buried my body. It was then I realized she didn’t know my name.

            Shit.

            “Ms. Waterton. This is Mr. Cabot. He doesn’t want to work for me. I like that about him, but it needs to stop.”

            “Sir,” she answered. I guess it meant yes or that’s great, though you could’ve said it meant this guy’s a complete joke and it wouldn’t have surprised me.

            He sat down next to me. I scooted over. It was one of those L-shaped cushions that half-surrounded a small table. There was very little room. He was so big. The trailer didn’t seem appropriate. I thought of cruel, tiny cages at zoos where they keep magnificent beasts. I imagined them, to be more accurate. Like most people, I didn’t know much about things. Things like zoos and airplanes and political campaigns and talking to the most talked-about man in America. I’d just turned thirty. I was a great, undiscovered artist, and my greatness had just begun. Nascent. A sap. No. A sapling. Whatever.

            The candidate crossed his legs and looked away from my red face, staring at the little laminated table. His eyes went soft and his posture slackened. He was suddenly professorial—maybe even grandfatherly. It was weird. “I love the way Sam Thatcher ended up using Davis’ wife as the agent of his end. You could feel the irony coming all the way, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying.”

            “I agree.” I did agree. His assessment of the novel wasn’t bad, but I was still unconvinced. Maybe the wily bastard had read a synopsis on his phone. Part of prep for selling me on the job.

            “‘And with the flood that was their belief, it mattered little. He smiled and wept during his last breaths. The voice that had inspired a few and then millions was forever silenced. If he’d mattered more to a few, it might’ve been better. He slipped off, regarded by millions, regarding himself no more. She hung over him half-proud, half-remorseful, as he’d been during those last years.’”

            “Not bad, sir.”

            “I’ve read it.”

            I nodded. “The quote aids my credulity.” It did. Still. I was most likely just one more dupe in a long cue. My mind wandered to an especially rough encounter involving my undercarriage and a rusty turnstile.

            There was a tickle in my throat. Catching it was loud enough to change my own thought direction.

            Karl Donnell was still looking at the table. His strong jaw was disengaged. The candidate was holding to his avuncular settings. Beautiful Bridget was still impossible with her beauty. I was twitchy. “What’s going to happen to Nelson Andrews?” I asked, not fully understanding why it was first on my docket.

            “Andrews will be fine,” said the candidate, issuing a dismissive wave of his giant hand. He was five moves away from a moment that felt five seconds ago.

            Huh was all I could manage for a rebuttal.            

            “We’ll make sure he lands upright,” said Beautiful Bridget, snapping closed her laptop with an air of accomplishment. “Punitive isn’t our style.”

            “Really? Because the guy looked stooped. For life. That was watching a time lapse video of a person succumbing to arthritis.”

            “We’re giving him a lot of money to go away. You have no idea.” Bridget Waterton came over and sat down on the bench. It was ridiculous. There were other places to sit. Now I was crumpled between them, feeling like a guy in a Scorsese movie right before he gets whacked, pinned in by two overly familiar strangers. “We want you crafting the message. We want someone that doesn’t care.”

            “I care.”

            “No you don’t,” Bridget said, smiling, applying a hand to my knee. I looked down and prayed she wouldn’t plunge her perfect blood-red nails through my khakis. “You’re here for a paycheck. We like that.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “We know that too,” she returned. “But it’ll start making sense. The world is too strange for the same old game. We need someone to do a job. Someone smart, ready to innovate, and completely dispassionate about politics.”

            “Isn’t that your job?” I asked, wrinkling my eyebrows at Beautiful Bridget. She smelled too good. It was the first time I’d ever been terrified of breathing.

            “It’s all our jobs. But someone needs to put the words together. Do it, and we’ll pay you enough to write novels for the rest of your life. Not yet, but eventually. The money, if you do the job we think you can. Then your little books. People will actually read them. Reputation. Status. It’s a great deal.”

            I had no idea what to say, but I didn’t feel like they were going to let me call timeout. “I’ll do it. Pay me double what you were paying Nelson, and I never get mentioned as the speechwriter. Not until I want. Or if I want. That’s the deal. It’s important.”

            “Good enough,” said the candidate, thumping the table with a closed fist. The bus’ hydraulics bellowed and the engine immediately started. It was like a magic trick. A very creepy magic trick. Was the bus driver listening in? Was that wise? My eyes were dilating in disbelief as I mentioned that all my stuff was back in the tent.

            “We’ll get you new stuff. New. And no more laying on couches. Check that. Do whatever it is you have to do. I understand process.”

            Karl Donnell said process ten or fifteen more times. It was like sitting before a more robust Howard Hughes. Suddenly he went quiet and leaned back, falling asleep. A thin man came out from behind a partition wearing a suit and looked at me unflinchingly. I asked if he was on the protection detail and he continued staring until he let me have a microscopic nod. Beautiful Bridget went back to her little table and started whacking her laptop. I could breathe now, but thinking wasn’t coming so easy. Was this how the universe worked? Maybe so. It hadn’t worked according to any of my previous theories. Maybe there’s life and then there’s a bus and you get on.

            Maybe. I found my own nook and went back to reading Orders From the Mountain. It was hard. Suddenly Samuel Thatcher didn’t understand me at all. Joey Bottoms, the main protagonist, had nothing to say about my situation. He was a soldier from the Appalachians who killed his brother after the Civil War. Joey Bottoms was an idiot. Whatever the reasons, they’d made it through a conflict famous for pitting brother against brother. Joey couldn’t just let it go. What an asshole. Samuel Thatcher was a silly man. He didn’t understand being whisked away on a magic bus with a guy running for president. Sam Thatcher was dead. And they didn’t even have buses when he was alive.

            “I’m going insane,” I said, quite loud.

            Beautiful Bridget stopped key pounding and turned to me. “Just try to manage it. Try going through a divorce at the same time.”

            It was a normal thing to hear, oddly. Domestic. A thing normal people go through. I sat up from my stupor and said, “Sorry to hear about that.”

            “It’s fine. The whole thing with Nelson’s going to make the break a lot cleaner.”

            “How’s that?”

            “I’m married to his brother.”

            “Jesus. You people.” 

            Bridget shrugged her shoulders and put on a giant pair of white headphones, recommencing the destruction of her keyboard.  

            I grabbed for my book and immediately started apologizing to its wrinkled pages. Joey Bottoms wasn’t an asshole. Buses or no buses, he was more real than the surreal storm of shit swirling around me.  

Entry Two: Mattering—Red Hair—Slugger

            It was almost two in the morning. A few weeks into my job as the campaign’s main speech writer. I hunched over at the bar of the Hotel America Dryden. It was almost completely dark, making it challenging to work up my notes for the following day’s event. I squinted and let out a rudely audible sigh. The sound caused the bartender, an attractive redhead about my age, to pause and look up from cleaning glasses. “Everything okay over there?” She added an oblique look, unique to service industry folks at the end of a long shift. I’d thrown similar shade at many a customer over the years, pouring drinks to pay for the completion of my PhD. Three degrees in little frames, hanging on a wall in a lonely apartment I never saw; they represented honest toil, but I couldn’t help thinking they were utterly meaningless.                       Still in a bar. Late at night. A sense that something had gone wrong.

            “Do you even care about politics?”

            “Sort of an odd question. Well I guess not, considering the circus.” She leaned on the bar and her face caught more of the low light. She was prettier than my initial assessment; a little thin, but kind. Her green eyes were open and interested. I blinked away a wave of fatigue and tried recapturing my manners.

            “Sorry. Been a little one track lately. Not much chance for normal conversation.” I set down my pen and looked over her head, catching an unflattering reflection of my face over bottles of high-end liquors. “Can’t remember having an actual conversation, actually.”

            “Sounds weird.”

            “Weird for sure. Again. Apologies.”

            “You work for Karl Donnell? The guy running for president? That’s the big time.”

            I hesitated. My attachment to the campaign remained unofficial and had to stay that way. I was a literary man. One couldn’t be known to jump from political hack to purveyor of prose. The two worlds didn’t mix, both full of the most judgmental and exclusionary lunatics anyone would ever have the good sense flee. “What’s your name?”

            “Abigail Frasier.”

            “Can I buy you a drink, Abigail Frasier?”

            “Scotch like yours?”

            “Anything you want. Figure it’s fair play after sitting over here sulking.”

            “You are a bit of a brooder,” she smiled, refilling my glass and pouring herself a double.

            “Ouch.”

            “A handsome brooder.” A small smile formed on her lips before the glass met her mouth. I drank mine dry and did what I could to keep from coughing.

            “Answer to your question, I do care. About politics. Tonight it’s sorta ruining my life. That doesn’t make sense. But you know what I mean.”

            “You mean business is slow.” My eyes were a little fuzzy and my insides fought the sting of the fifteen-year-old whisky.

            “Exactly. Big shot comes to town and completely has the run of the place. We fight for shifts here. Nicest place in town. Friday night. But I’m out a half month’s rent because his people aren’t allowed to drink.”

            “And then the press guys find a cheaper spot.”

            “You get it. The Commodore Room. Shithole down on the corner. My girlfriend’s are cleaning up down there.” Abigail Frasier set down her glass and put her a hand to her forehead. “Geez. That wasn’t cool.”

            “Don’t worry about it. Seriously. I worked bars for years. Tended. Played music. The door. A pendulous trade.”

            “A pendulous trade. That’s a way of saying it.”

            “Stupid to talk like that. You don’t have to say it.” I knew I shouldn’t, but I held out my glass for another. It was cloudy from my ink-stained fingers. She switched it for a fresh one.

            “Not if it’s the way you talk. If that’s the way you are, then screw the rest of us for not speaking the same language.”

            I hid a smirk. It was one of two things. The lovely Abigail Frasier was buttering me up, making a final play for a big tip before closing, or, she was interested in taking it upstairs.

            Or maybe she just wanted a few free belts.

            The two or three customers sitting at little tables began closing out. “I’m going to—”

            “Don’t.”

            I stood up and slipped a stack of yellow notepapers into my journal, smiling what I hoped to be a disarming smile. I didn’t work. She seemed mad, which meant maybe she did like me. Did like me.

            “There’s three hundred dollars.”

            Abigail Frasier nodded with an air of quiet satisfaction. She’d expected more. That I could afford more. I couldn’t, not yet, and the fact that I couldn’t somehow found a sweet spot with her. Women in bars at night, drinks going back and forth. Not the most predictable arena.

            “You headed upstairs?” she asked.

            “I am. Long day tomorrow. Can I ask you one more question?”

            “Suppose the three hundred buys you a little leeway.”

            “You ever read Claire Lauren Sees Through?”

            “In high school. I don’t remember much. Why?”

            “You remind me of the main character. Rosaline. Red hair and pretty. Independent but sweet.”

            “Wasn’t she the one that refused the what’s his name? Some prince or something?”

            “Yeah. Rosaline found exactly the thing she wanted. Society told her one thing and her own morality told her another. It’s a good story.”

            “Sort of a weird guy. Aren’t you?”

            “Probably. Definitely a bit of a brooder.”

            “Never got your name. What do you for the Donnell campaign?”

            There was a half finger of scotch still in my new glass. I breathed it in and set it gently down on the smooth dark wood, close enough to Abigail’s hand to just about feel her skin touch mine. “I never said I did. Goodnight, Miss Frasier.”

            A bit abrupt. The thought occurred to me, just walking away like that. Maybe a little bit smooth, but mostly just rude. Still, it seemed the wisest course. I was tipsy and might reveal my position to a girl I knew nothing about. I considered lying. Lying was always a viable option, though it wasn’t the sharpest tool in my kit. A story, perhaps. Giving out a fake name, regaling her with tales of my burgeoning fake real estate empire on the way up to my limp queen mattress for a roll that would probably be a little bit great and a little more awkward…