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Prologue

"Are you going to kill me?"

He stared at the short, silver barrel of the gun, which I had pointed directly at his

forehead. He struggled to free himself from the handcuffs and the bed, but he knew it

wouldn't happen. He probably thought about shouting, but then he looked at the gun

again. In his mind, I was a bona fide maniac. I was a killer. He wasn't going to scream.

I let him squirm for a moment, holding his gaze, making him think I was pondering

the question.

I shook my head.

He breathed long and slow, easing down from panic into fear. He looked behind him

at his left wrist, shackled by the tight­clamped cuffs, then looked at me again, trying for

sympathy, and asked, "Then why am I here? What do you want?"

This was the opening I had been waiting for.

"That's simple," I said, setting the gun on the dresser and then leaning against it. I

waited until he looked at me. "I want to tell you my story."

MONDAY

One

Almost everything in Washington is big and gray and ugly. I'm talking about buildings

here, but a good number of the residents would also fall into the same category. The

architects decided to make everything look Roman and Greek, which might be all right if

you were in Rome or Athens, but all it ended up doing in DC was making the main part

of the city look like a bunch of poorly­decorated wedding cakes. They built the kinds of

buildings which could be loved by the old and feared by the young, daring anyone

idealistic to try and change a thing. Every day I saw the same congregation of tourists

gawk and dawdle in front of those buildings as if they expected them to move, or change

colors, or do something, like they were watching Old Faithful or a ballerina or humpback

whales.

I watched the tourists, the players and the street people, saw them all converge

uneasily every morning as I walked from my apartment on Capitol Hill to the Eastern

Market Metro station. We would all descend together beneath the Washington cement,

waiting impatiently for the next train, then grabbing smooth steel bars and holding on as

we were rocketed in plastic cars through the belly of the town, toward our jobs turning

the wheels of bureaucracy in the most powerful city in the world. Some of the people

clutched their seats and stared angrily, but most looked more like robots, reading the

morning paper as they rumbled and shook toward another in a long line of work days.

They were important people, the kind that mothers and uncles in Poughkeepsie and

Omaha and Boca Raton bragged on like crazy.

And I wasn't one of them. Well, not exactly. I worked for the government, but I had

discovered that I had no desire to climb the DC ladder. To the contrary, I had already

begun to plot my escape, see if I could get away from the traffic and the lines and the

endless stream of silly, boring people: Capitol Hill pages slouching in ill­fitting

department store suits; straw­haired society types covered in beige blouses and adorned

with pearls; scowling, powerful white men who scared me for no good reason. I paid

ungodly money for my half of an apartment which was smaller than some closets, and

thanks to my location in one of the city's best neighborhoods, my car got broken into on

an almost daily basis. I was tired of all that. I was tired of parking tickets. I was tired of

humidity. I was tired of DC.

I switched trains at Metro Center, then rode to Federal Triangle. When I emerged

from the underground, I was greeted by a big, gray and ugly building known as The

Pavilion. It was taller than most in DC, decorated with tasteful green awnings and, unlike

most government buildings, it hosted a floor of curio shops.

I jaywalked across a busy street, glanced at the headlines on the various newspaper

machines, then went inside the marble monolith. I showed the guard my ID, punched

seven inside the elevator and rode up with three grave­looking people who regarded me

as if I weren't even vaguely familiar, even though I saw them almost every single day.

They all got out at the fifth floor, high management, and I continued by myself, getting

off two floors above them and walking lightly around the marble floor to room 701.

I worked for the NEA. Yes, that NEA. That artsy one, that standard­bearer of the

Apocalypse, that dirty­minded, potty­mouthed, slightly fruity one. Not the education one;

the arts one, lovers of the perverse, lightning rod to the closed­minded.

At this point I had worked at the Endowment for almost two months, and was

terribly disappointed to learn that despite all the rhetoric and name­calling, there were no

Roman baths, no noon­time orgies, not even a poorly­covered nipple. I probably wouldn't

have been so excited to take the internship if I'd known how depressingly normal it was

to work there. But there were some advantages. The dress code wasn't as stringent as it

would've been on Capitol Hill, and, from what I knew, more of the people who worked

there seemed to actually enjoy what they were doing. Most of the people I encountered

were smart, cool, funny and interesting. So, considering all of those things (and that I got

to wear jeans), maybe it wasn't quite like other places in Washington, but it was a lot

more like them than most people thought.

I worked for a department called Presenting and Commissioning, which meant we

dealt less with artists and more with the people who put on the shows. We supported arts

groups which presented every kind of performance, from straight ballet to strange rituals

involving razor blades and blood, and, not surprisingly, we had drawn a lot of heat for

funding some of those.

Our office was a large space in a corner of the seventh floor, a wonderful old place

with lots of beige dividers and tons of papers everywhere. It was, as DC office spaces go,

kind of funky, but its age had its drawbacks. Because of some stupid law, probably

designed to keep us from inhaling too much smog, we couldn't open the windows, and

the way they circulated the air made us very susceptible to whatever virus was passing

through town. If one person caught something, everyone immediately got it, and you got

it twice if you weren't lucky. We had just gotten over a cold, and knew flu season wasn't

far away.

That morning we were starting a grants panel, where hundreds of grants applications

which had been handled with such care by those who had written them would be

scrutinized by a dozen or so arts professionals. When I got inside, I really expected

everyone to be in "panel" mode, which meant a great deal of running around and

shouting. Most were, but not everyone, which was somehow unsettling. I noticed the

head mo­fo in charge in our office, Joe, was calmly talking to Kurt, the office manager.

Joe always reminded me of a young, svelte, Jewish Santa Claus, with his beard and his

barrel chest and his brassy baritone voice. Kurt was young, blond, extremely handsome,

and extremely gay, the kind of guy women spend their whole lives wanting to "convert."

He was always full of expensive coffee and had a taste in clothes that I envied greatly.

"Just the man we're looking for," said Kurt, motioning me to follow him. We walked

around the maze of dividers, the tiny cubbyholes of bureaucracy, toward Joe's office, past

a stack of used copy paper which was supposed to be recycled but had been sitting there

for weeks. His was the only divider with a door, a sign of his status, and it was my

favorite office, with lots of great posters and buttons and pictures of him when he was

working in the theater. He sat down and shook his head, and I wondered what I could've

possibly done.

"This thing is becoming such a headache," he said, and Kurt both nodded and shook

his head, almost at the same time. Now I knew what I was here for. He spat the word

"thing" out almost violently; I was willing to bet he was talking about all the furor

surrounding Regionarts. Regionarts was a good program where we, along with two

private foundations, gave gobs of money (or "gobs" for us, anyway) to regional groups

who then divided it among lesser­known artists. Some of the artists did really bizarre

things with their money ­ like decorating a gallery space with used condoms ­ and

"bizarre" was not our Chairman's favorite word. Everyone knew that this meant that

Regionarts would have to watch its back, or it would soon be out the NEA door quicker

than you could say Annie Sprinkle. Most of the people who worked at the NEA ­

including me ­ wanted to see the program stay, because it gave money directly to artists

and allowed them to develop new and interesting ideas. But the Chairman was more

interested in how many tough questions there would be the next time she was summoned

to Capitol Hill.

The Chairman ­ who was a woman, but still referred to herself as Chairman, with a

capital "C" ­ had been an actress, a child of Hollywood and Broadway, and she probably

thought every work of art needed a peppy musical number. I saw her a lot more often on

television than I did at the office, but either way she reminded me of a mother­in­law in a

TV sitcom: She was over fifty, wore long dresses that she thought were hip and had

pretty brown hair, but I had the impression that if she were carrying a large purse I

would've been very afraid of her. Because of her theatrical background, she was much

more likely to make speeches wherever anyone would pretend to listen than doing any

sort of actual work. In fact, along these lines, she had vowed to visit arts institutions in all

fifty states during her reign ­ nice work if you can get it. So while she was out faithfully

discharging her duties, like other unlucky interns working on other unpopular programs, I

was charged with firing off letters to everyone who inquired about the Regionarts

program, trying to make them sound as Chairman­like as possible, often writing them to

people who were important enough that the Chairman really needed to write them herself.

But don't let me give the impression that she wasn't involved; she sometimes signed the

letters herself, and there was a rumor that she even read one a month to keep up

appearances.

This was an important enough issue ­ with political overtones that I could just begin

to imagine ­ that I wasn't really sure why I was being invited to this impromptu meeting,

and I think Joe could see that. "The Chairman told me before she left for the art mecca

known as Las Vegas that we were still supporting the program. I don't think anyone

believes it. We're supposed to have a teleconference next week" ­ by this time I knew

why I was there ­ "and we need you to gather all of the information on the project to this

point, make some sort of outline, send it to everyone involved and set up the conference

call."

See, the NEA is in this strange position; it takes heat from the arts world ­ which is

largely privately funded and could produce dancing chickens painting themselves green

and call it art if they wanted to ­ because they say that the NEA isn't taking enough

"artistic risks." But the NEA also takes heat from the conservatives in power for not

funding enough Lassie film festivals. So when these two interests collide, the arts world

always assumes that NEA will cave toward the politicians, because they hold the purse

strings, and that probably isn't a half­bad guess. So, because the arts community members

are the ones who serve on panels and write their representatives and are, in effect, the

NEA's constituency, when such a program is at risk, there's lots of hand­holding and

conference calling to be done on our part.

And to be put in charge of hand­holding and conference calling actually sounded

halfway interesting; it was better than stacking and filing, anyway. I already knew quite a

bit about Regionarts, so it probably wouldn't be too much work. "Want me to start now?"

Joe shook his head. "Nah. Go in and listen to some of the panel. You know most of

the stuff, so it won't take too long." I nodded, and we all headed out of Joe's office and

down the hall toward the panel room.

Panels are where the actual granting takes place, the moment when someone's year

of hard work is determined in a matter of minutes. A group of very intelligent people

gathers for several days in a small, tense room (which is always too hot or too cold), the

members try to like each other and they all wonder if they're treating everyone fairly. I

had worked a couple of panels earlier, and it was easy work from an intern's point of

view ­ I basically just sat there and listened ­ but it was still rather nerve­wracking,

realizing that people's livelihoods depended on what we were doing.

We always put our panels together with the thought of having creative arts types

mixed with those who handled the business side of things, and the moment I walked into

the room, not knowing any of the people, I could immediately tell who the artists were.

The Indian woman wearing a large scarf and larger glasses, poring over her grants book,

was obviously an artist. So was the steel­sculpted black man with the blond dread­locks.

And the robust black man in native African dress with a fatherly expression was probably

an artist too. The tables were arranged in a rectangle, everyone facing the middle, and I

took a seat on a corner, next to the tape recorder absorbing all of the madness, and smiled

at the woman sitting next to me.

She could have been twenty­five or she could have been forty and no one would've

cared either way. She was pretty, conservatively dressed in a tweed blazer and a pair of

jeans, and I couldn't make up my mind whether she would be overly serious or not. "Hi,

Ann," I said, glancing down at the table to catch a glimpse of the nameplate I had made

the day before. I had made all of them, printed them out and folded them into triangles. I

had put pads of paper in front of everyone, tried out all the ball­point pens, taped down

wires, raided our lounge for cookies and arranged the seating according to the dictates

from on high. Of course, no one would ever think to ask about any of these things, just

assume they were done by elves, but an intern can be a lot like an elf without the neat felt

costume.

"Hi," she said convincingly enough that I believed she meant it. "You're...?"

"Trent," I said. "I work here." I never told anyone I was an intern unless I had to.

"How was your trip?" I asked, interested because I had booked the flights through our

travel agent.

"I hate flying NationAir. It's always so crowded because it's so cheap," she said. "But

I love the hotel."

I nodded. I had nothing to do with the hotel. From reading the biographies of the

panelists which were sitting in front of everyone, I knew she was from Nebraska so we

started a conversation about the Midwest, which eventually worked around to

Midwestern punk bands like The Replacements and Husker Du, and I knew I would have

a friend for the panel. Nothing is more important in Washington than having someone

you can write notes to. I found out that Ann's favorite Charlie's Angel was Kate Jackson,

and she asked me several questions about an alleged affair going on between two staff

members in another department. I told her I knew they had supposedly done it in the mail

room over their lunch hour.

When we weren't writing notes, we sat quietly and watched the meeting unfold,

seeing certain people take charge, and others fall back until they were practically

spectators. The panel was looking at organizations that presented dance, and were

checking each application to see if they were bringing interesting groups and to see if

they were financially stable. The mustachioed agent across the table didn't seem to know

much about dance, but that didn't seem to stop him from interjecting something

forgettable every few minutes. Ann fought vehemently for the smaller groups, and others

pleaded the case of the cutting edge. One man fought against the whole panel to give

more emphasis to ballet, and two others were determined to make sure no one got any

money unless they were absolutely financially stable.

Occasionally I was called upon to run an errand, or was moved to write another note

to Ann, but mostly I just sat and listened, learning what got some people lots of extra

money and got others shit­canned.

Mid­morning, as always happens sometime during the first day of a session like this,

the panel began to take a life of its own, to look for something in grant applications that

other panels might have thought unimportant. They developed their own language­

"apoplectic" was an especially popular word with this group. And, more interesting to

me, conflict was developing.

The chair of the panel was a young Asian woman named Nancy Cho. She wore

granny glasses that slid down on her nose and she kept her hair in a bun. Kelly, the

woman in charge of putting the panel together, told me that she had been an amazing

dancer before she had injured herself badly. Now she was in arts administration,

managing both theater groups and dancers, including Gina Parks, the current Dance

Flavor of the Month, who just happened to be performing in town that night. It became

obvious to everyone in the room that Nancy was rocketing through the grants ­ without

giving some of them enough consideration ­ in hopes that she could somehow make it to

see Gina's performance that evening. This was highly unlikely, unless she could convince

the group to decide the applications by the rock­paper­scissors method. And it was easy

to see that her attempt was grating on some of the panelists. A few panelists would sigh

rather loudly when she would call for the next application, hoping this would draw her

attention to the fact that everyone else in the room was irritated. Some made cautious

remarks while looking the other way. If she recognized them for what they were, she

didn't show it, and continued with an efficiency a German watchmaker would have

appreciated.

This was starting to get on my nerves. It was obvious that no one wanted to go this

fast ­it certainly hadn't happened in any of the other panels I had attended ­ and I knew

this was going to make the whole week unbearable. "I'm going to have to shoot someone

if this doesn't end," I wrote to Ann. She stifled a laugh, and wrote, "I've got a few

suggestions ..."

One of the panelists interrupted Nancy and took her to task. She tried to sound civil,

but didn't do a very good job. Everyone in the room was holding their breath. Washington

thrives on people talking behind each other's backs, not confronting them.

Nancy looked like she had just been bitten by a snake. She obviously had no idea

what to say, and as she was about to try to find some words, James Rogers, the large man

in traditional African dress, stood up and clapped his hands. "All right," he boomed. I had

absolutely no idea what was coming next. "Everyone out in the hall." That was not what I

expected.

He didn't intend his words as a suggestion. Damon, Kurt, Joe and I all followed

James, and Kelly and Ann came a minute later. Three other panelists walked dutifully out

into the hall, and we were all wondering what was going on. "Make a circle," James said,

a hint of a smile on his face. We did.

James then led us through half an hour's worth of African tribal dances, moves to

honor the sun, moves to honor the parents, some that looked like yoga, others that more

closely resembled modern dance. These were the first dance steps other than the box step

that I had ever attempted, and although some of the others picked up quicker, I soon had

most everything under control. We clapped and shimmied and saluted our elders, and

made everyone on every other floor come out and see just what in the hell we were doing.

Slowly, quite reluctantly, the other panel members came and joined us, including Nancy,

who was the last to succumb. Some members of other departments even came and joined

us. I laughed and realized that this was the perfect time for one of the uptight Senators

who made us their whipping boy to come by and observe the NEA; it would have

confirmed all their suspicions. And with all of the arguing and all of the dancing, and all

of it before lunch, I realized that working at the NEA wasn't so bad after all.

Two

I skipped the early part of the afternoon meeting of the panel ­ knowing nothing would be

half as interesting as the morning ­ in hopes of starting to put some kind of packet

together for Joe. I had a good bit of the material on my desk already from my

letter­writing escapades, and after lunch I came back and started there. Mine was the

typical "Intern Space" — it had everyone else's junk, and half of the lights didn't work.

There were large, beige file cabinets so full that no one could find a way to get any of the

files out ­ everyone just prayed the documents inside would never be needed. I had a

Wang computer, a few post­it notes and colored thumbtacks, half a dozen cheap blue

pens and an Atlanta Hawks schedule I had cut out of the paper a few days before.

I sat down, looked around through my piles and piles of papers and found the stack

(the largest stack, I might add) dealing with Regionarts. During the past few weeks I had

been handling a good number of the calls that came through concerning the program,

again often talking with people who should have been talking to the Chairman herself.

The party line was that the money for the program was absolutely safe through the end of

the century, that despite all of the weirdness and lack of peppy musical numbers, no one,

not even the President himself, would touch it. And I could just picture every one of the

people I spoke to looking at the phone and thinking they had heard this before.

"Well," they would all say in the same tone of voice, "I'll write the Chairman a letter,

so she'll know how much support there is for this project." I would always try to dissuade

this, saying stuff like, "The Chairman is quite aware of the great support the program

has," but it never worked, much to my chagrin, because I knew the Chairman would

never see it, they would be wasting their time and I would end up writing them a reply in

her name like some bureaucratic Cyrano.

Those letters were now on the graveyard that was my desk. As I looked through

them, I realized that I really had no idea what Joe really wanted. Now, if I had been a new

intern, untrained in the ways of every office, I would've trudged in, bothered Joe in the

middle of whatever he was doing, and asked him. Even realizing that Joe probably had as

little idea about what he wanted as I did, it might've saved me time. However, I was no

rank amateur. I had been through the minor leagues of internships, working for

journalism groups, environmental groups, small­town politicians and outdoor musical

theatres which catered to the elderly set. And now, thanks to good recommendations and

twenty­pound resume paper, I was in the big leagues. During my other adventures, I had

learned that my bosses didn't want to see me; nothing against me, but they had plenty to

do. They wanted drafts, not questions. If I ended up having to do the same work all over

again, so be it. At least I wasn't wasting their time. So, sage that I was, I realized that I

should just try something, let him read it and then probably do it all over again.

I tried more first sentences that afternoon than Charles Dickens did in his entire

career. I knew it would flow after that, but I had so little clue as to what I was doing that I

tried everything but haiku. Of course, this was between a couple of Tetris games, a snack

break and reading the daily clips. "The clips" were an agency ritual, where we got to read

what had been written about us in the Times, the Post and other papers we didn't care

about as much. The clips in recent days had been dominated by the addition of Gerald

Greer, a new columnist for the Post who was supposed to be covering all kinds of

different issues in Washington, but seemed to center a whole lot on us.

Everyone was a little dubious about Greer. He seemed fairly liberal, not writing

things about us to thrill the NEA haters on Capitol Hill, but there was a certain tone in his

writing ­ and even in the smug picture that accompanied his pieces ­ that gave us pause.

The article that was most disturbing was one he had written a few days earlier about the

McHolland Foundation, one of our partners in Regionarts. It said some true things, that

there had been some upper­management problems, that they seemed to be taking less

artistic chances, etc. But it didn't tell the whole story, and the entire tone was way too

judgmental. Gerald could probably have said the exact same things about the NEA, and

that scared us.

That day, he had written a few more disparaging things about the McHolland

Foundation, but nice things about other arts groups. Like everyone else at the agency, I

couldn't really understand what he wanted. We didn't have many perks. None of us made

enough money to bribe him, and because we worked for the government, we were

prohibited by law from getting comp tickets to go see the shows we supported. Maybe he

wanted love; I somehow doubted it.

I read the clips, initialed the sheet to show that I had read them, then took them next

"door" to Damon. He and I were the only people in the office at the moment ­ everyone

else had moseyed back to the panel. Damon was a program specialist, which meant he

got to run around and be very nervous on the week his program had its panel. He was a

red­haired, red­bearded live wire who was my only equal in the office for thinking up

inventive schemes. When I had wanted to throw food from the seventh floor onto the

patrons walking below, he told me he had already done it and it really wasn't that much

fun. Fun or not, it spoiled it for me, knowing he had beaten me to the punch.

"Greer's got another article this morning," I said as I handed him the clips.

"Enlightening?" he asked, not looking up from something he was scribbling.

"Pithy."

He turned and grabbed the clips. "My friend Jane says that all he does is sit and drink

at the Hawk and Dove, trying to pick up pages and college girls. He's a lush. Wanted to

be a playwright. Guess that's why he picks on us."

"When'd you find this out?"

"Saturday night. Saw her at a party and she commented on the McHolland article.

She knew him from when he used to work for the Boston paper."

I nodded and went back to my space. The picture of Gerald Greer, with his brillo

beard and polar white hair, clutching some pretentious imported beer while ogling a

college student's ass somehow made him seem like less of a threat. It was the kind of

information that you never got to use, but it sure was nice to know. I pondered this, sat

down, looked around and started back to work.

I went through some files, called back a couple of people who had questions about

grants applications, but I soon went back to staring at the electric blue screen of my

Wang word processor. I finally shook my head, gave up and started jotting down a few

things I wanted to include on a note pad. I asked Damon if he would help but he said no,

and I didn’t blame him.

I didn't get much done the rest of the day. The main reason was Stephanie.

Stephanie was the woman of my dreams: medium height; soft, brown,

shoulder­length hair; subtle brown eyes and ungodly long eyelashes. And a very cute

nose, let me add. She was a Georgetown law student, originally from Kentucky, and we

had met almost a month before while browsing at Mysterybooks in Dupont Circle. She

was biting her very cute lip and trying to decide which Raymond Chandler book to buy,

which gave me one hell of an opening. She said she loved James Cain but hadn't read any

Chandler, and I told her to get The Long Goodbye. I asked her for her phone number, and

she scrawled it down on the back of her receipt. I had somehow managed to wait the

requisite two days before calling her and asked her out.

We had been on four dates since, and I was really beginning to fall for her. This was

rare, because I was normally the guy who nixed the idea of a second date for whatever

reason, and I was realizing that the shoe was now on the other foot. I regaled all of my

friends with tales of her excellence whenever I could: She was twenty­five (three

wonderful years older than me), from Danville, Kentucky (what a beautiful accent!), and

had graduated from the College of Charleston, where she had double­majored in English

and Engineering. She had been in DC for almost three years, where she had begun by

working as a paralegal in a small law firm, and was now starting her second year of law

school, which, she said, was hard as hell. She loved to dance, had a secret crush on Vince

Gill, and she mentioned so many times that she was over her old boyfriend Roger that I

doubted that she really was. However, I wasn't about to tell her this.

I was going to attempt to raise the culture quotient of our relationship. We had

previously gone to the park, the movies (twice) and an Orioles game, so I had told

Stephanie to be prepared for an evening of dining and dancing (meaning, please dress up)

and who knew what else (meaning, to put it politely, more physical intimacy than I had

yet experienced with Stephanie). We were going to Rachel's, a wonderful seafood

restaurant, and then dancing at the River Club. Hubba hubba.

All afternoon, my mind was so consumed with which of my two suits to wear, which

tie to wear with it and exactly how uptight I was going to be in the constant presence of

this goddess that I barely paid attention to the panel, although through years of

church­going and school attendance, I have developed the ability to appear engrossed in

the subject at hand when my mind is actually in the Cayman Islands with a swimsuit

model. Time moved like a three­toed sloth, but finally at 4:30 I quietly got up and left the

room, nodding at Joe as I went. One advantage of being an intern is the ability to excuse

yourself whenever you need to. Now I had a date with the most awesome woman in

Washington, DC. My night was definitely going to be better than my day.

Three

I have been on more than my share of dates. I've had pretty dates, plain dates, easy dates,

dates who wanted to wait, smart dates, fun dates, boring dates and the always­interesting

blind dates.

One time I went out with a woman who nearly refused to talk. I would bring up a

subject and she would discard it with a sentence or two, and I would be left to invent

another topic. It was right up there with the night after I had my wisdom teeth out, only

without the cool hallucinogenic drugs. At the end of that evening ­ just to be polite ­ I

said something wishy­washy like, "Maybe we'll do something again sometime," meaning

if she won the lottery or if I became horribly disfigured. She responded ­ in probably her

most talkative moment of the evening ­ by saying, "Well, only if we do it as friends." All

that, and she slammed me too.

So as long as you're not calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend and/or you have

yet to bare your sugar­white ass to her during the throes of passion, you approach any

date in a very Zen­like manner, trying your best not to get your hopes up, and checking

quite frequently to see if your fly is zipped. This was exactly my frame of mind as I

approached Stephanie's place.

She lived by herself in a townhouse in Georgetown, which was entirely out of my

realm of possibility. I circled the neighborhood once looking for a parking spot, then

finally squeezed in at the end of the block. I headed down the street, noticing a man

standing in his apartment in full dress army gear, then nodding at her next­door neighbor,

who was always outside and beginning to recognize me, which I took as a good sign. I

finally got to her place, walked up the stairs and rang the bell. To my right I could see in

her living room; she had a fairly good­sized window and had the bad habit of not pulling

the blinds, which was extremely rare in DC. I could see a navy couch and her TV from

where I was standing. And, of course, she could see me gawking inside as she opened the

door.

She smiled and invited me in. Stephanie was wearing a short burgundy dress so

simple it had to be expensive. It was cut to show that she worked out, but that fact

would've been apparent if she had been covered in tar and feathers. She smiled brightly

and offered me a seat, saying she just had to touch up her hair. I sat down in front of the

TV, which was tuned, as hers always seemed to be, to CNN.

She shouted over the blow dryer and we had a somewhat passable conversation, me

watching bloody Bosnian images interspersed with those of fat American politicians,

Stephanie yelling into the mirror while she dried her hair. I looked around and once again

saw many things that I wanted but couldn't afford hanging on walls and lining her

bookshelves. She had real photos by Annie Leibovitz and William Gottlieb punctuating

brilliant white walls. She had a big bookshelf, which I had examined on my first trip to

her apartment and on each subsequent visit. I walked over yet again. Some of the books

were law school texts; most were reading editions of American authors like Faulkner and

Fitzgerald. It seemed like a lot for a law school student, but she was twenty­five so what

did I know. It was the little details like her library that made me want to skip every other

formality and go straight to the buying of the ring.

In another corner of the room here was a smaller bookshelf filled with curios and

pictures. I bent over to examine some of them, seeing Stephanie with her family, with

various high school and college friends, and several of her with a guy who looked to be

about my height and size, and who had the same brown hair. I got that

knife­in­your­stomach sensation when I realized that this was probably the oft­mentioned

Roger, and was even more unnerved when I noticed how much he looked like me. He had

been the only serious boyfriend she had ever had, Stephanie had told me, and I was sure

that it was going to be tough to step out of his shadow, even more so when I appeared to

be his shadow. I stood up and moved away just before she walked out, which was nice,

because I didn't want to have to hear even more about Roger.

We left, and headed to Rachel's, a pricey restaurant near DuPont Circle, complete

with snotty waiters and small portions. It was decorated in creams and off­whites, with

soft lighting that made you wonder if you were developing cataracts. I had called ahead

for reservations (suave, I know ...), and we were seated ahead of all of the schmucks who

hadn't. I never did junk like making reservations, but Stephanie was even worth planning

ahead for. The place was fairly small, and the tables were too close together, and I could

hear a northern woman at the table next to us saying "salary" so that it sounded like

"celery."

By the time we ordered, I had come to the unsettling conclusion that I was going to

really fall for this one. My heart swelled to the point where I was simply trying to make

eye contact, speak in complete sentences, and not spill anything on myself. Before I

blacked out into a blissful abyss where I merely smiled and mumbled, I remembered the

most important advice my brother Steven had ever given me about women, which I had

followed religiously with Stephanie, and which, amazingly, seemed to be working: If you

like 'em, get them to talk about themselves; if you really like 'em, listen to what they're

saying. It was my turn to ask her questions, and as I raised my eyebrows and

complimented in the right spots, she began touching her necklace and twisting her hair.

Between blushes and a glass of wine, she told me a good deal more about herself, about

the horses she had raised, about how exhausting law school could be.

Then, just as everything seemed to be going so well, the worst thing that can happen

to a guy early on in a relationship occurred: I got to meet the Best Friend. She walked up

behind the table and put her hand on Stephanie's shoulder. Stephanie turned and beamed,

looking surprised. She stood to give her a hug, then sat back down.

"Trent, this is my best friend, Tabitha Robertson," she said. I shook Tabitha's hand.

She looked like a corn­fed, hand­spanked southern girl, a good deal taller than Stephanie,

with blond hair swept up off her neck. She was wearing a tasteful set of pearls with a

short black dress that could've only been worn by a tan woman with legs like a pair of

cutting shears. Tabitha smiled and looked me over like a cattle judge.

"Who are you here with?" Stephanie asked.

Tabitha turned and pointed at an older man, probably over forty, with

November­gray hair and a blue tie that didn't match his blue jacket. He was sipping a

glass of wine, pinky out, and was barely smiling at us. "My friend Walter," she said.

Stephanie nodded and the two of them talked for a minute more. She asked if we were

having a good time, if we were enjoying ourselves ­ all of the normal stuff. She seemed

very nice, but I still wanted her to vanish, which she finally did.

Now I knew I would be the topic of conversation, either later that night or the next

morning, the subject of long, drawn­out telephone discussions of my merits and

weaknesses. Or at least I hoped I rated that highly.

"Where did you meet?" I asked Stephanie.

"Tabitha and me?"

I nodded.

"At work. We've known each other since I moved here." She glanced at Tabitha, and

I followed her gaze. Walter seemed like a smug asshole, and Tabitha didn't seem to be

having all that much fun. She touched his arm occasionally, but the way she sat indicated

that he was getting the cold shoulder. Still, I wondered what kind of friends they were. I

wondered if they would be friends for much longer.

After dinner, it was time for my next stab at culture; after all, I worked at the NEA,

right? The River Club was in Georgetown, right near the water. It was converted to look

like a swank forties nightclub, the kind where men wore painted neckties and the women

wore pillbox hats. It was dark except for the dance floor, gaslights flickering like pale

candles. Stephanie had told me she had a real thing for the music of the forties, and I

knew she would love it. Before we went in, we walked down to the dock by the river.

The Potomac isn't the world's most scenic spot, but there are moments, as the sun is

fading away and the night still awaits, when it can be just right. Stephanie brushed up

against me and we watched the sun set and waited for a breeze. Finally, I took her hand

and we headed inside.

We sat in a corner and ordered martinis and watched, as older men and younger

women danced the jitterbug. During a slow dance, I took her hand and led her out on the

dance floor. She looked gorgeous, and I told her. She smiled and kissed me. I prayed that

the song wouldn't end, but it did, and after dancing a dozen blissful others, we left.

We drove back to her street and slowly walked back to her house, probably both

wondering how this was all going to end. I accepted when she invited me in, and tried to

refrain from dancing the funky chicken while she went to the bathroom. I thought about

going to look at the books again, but I could just see myself dropping or ripping

something, so I stayed put until she returned. She went to the kitchen for a glass of ice

water, and brought me one too, handing to me just before she sat down, fairly close, but

far enough away for me to know that she wanted to talk, not cuddle. I was hoping she

would provide the topic, because my mind had ceased having independent thoughts after

the main course.

My mouth was open and some indiscriminate first syllable was already out when the

phone rang. She crinkled her mouth apologetically and grabbed it.

"Hello? Oh. ... Yeah ... Now? ... Are you okay? Where are you?" She grabbed a pen ,

frowned and scribbled, put down the phone and took a deep breath. "That was Tabitha. I

have to go pick her up," she said, looking at the note she had just made.

I was stricken, and tried not to show it. She was leaving. "Do you want me to go with

you?"

She shook her head. "I'll be fine." She looked honestly apologetic, fixing me with a

sad look for a second before she finally stood up. I did the same. For the first time that

evening, she seemed unsure of herself. "But I had such a great time, and I want to do it

again." She looked me in the eyes again. I was looking for signs of irony or deception,

and wasn't seeing any.

She walked me to the door and then kissed me with lips still cold from ice water, and

said goodbye as I walked out the door and tried not to trip.

I walked down the block, trying to decide what had just happened. I couldn't. And I

knew that even if I had been able to tell something, I still would be suckered into the

waiting and hoping game.

TUESDAY

Four

I must've hit the snooze button thirty­seven times. I hadn't fallen asleep until after one,

mainly from staring at the ceiling with knots in my stomach thinking about Stephanie. I

ran though scenarios where she liked me, where something actually wound up going

well, but most of my time was spent wondering why in the hell she had to go pick up

Tabitha at eleven­thirty at night. I had tried to read, but the minute I would start

something I would think about Stephanie and her love of books and be right back in the

same place.

My roommate Angie banged on the door. I had heard her take a shower already, and

I imagined she was now dressed. "You're gonna be late," she said just before my alarm

went off yet again. It was 7:50; she was right. I mumbled a "thank you" which she may or

may not have heard, then headed into the shower. I wouldn't have time for breakfast, so

I'd have to grab something at work.

I made it to work by a quarter 'til nine, and took a detour to the atrium, where there

were a number of eating places arrayed among the plants and faux marble. I got a

cinnamon roll the size of a beehive and a Coke (my alternative to coffee) and made my

way to the office. If Joe or Kurt or Damon gave me any grief, I'd bribe them with some of

my breakfast.

Joe was running toward the conference room. One of an intern's talents must be to

talk very quickly and convey an entire message in the size of a sound bite, thus allowing

the boss to comprehend and not slow down at the same time. I managed to cram the fact

that I would be in and out of the panel because I was going to work on his project into

about five words and two gestures, and he gave me a quick thumbs up and kept going.

Then, before I had turned around, he turned on his heels and came back.

"Oh yeah. Mark Helper has some information in his office for you. I'm so tired of all

of this Regionarts shit," he said to anyone who cared to listen. He resumed his trot toward

the panel, and I headed for my cozy little office. After I ate my breakfast and returned

two calls, I decided to head down to Helper's office. I walked around the corridor and

took the elevator to the fifth floor.

Helper was one of the big­wigs ­ chief financial officer ­ brought in by the Chairman

at the beginning of her reign. He seemed more competent than some of the other

higher­ups, and he was quite a bit younger, too; I couldn't imagine he was too much over

thirty. He looked like a runner, short with practically zero body fat, and he was losing

enough hair that he was starting to do the "comb­over." Even though he was younger, he

was just as snooty ­ or snootier ­ as the rest of the management types, unwilling to smile

at anyone who he felt wasn't his equal. Any time I got on the elevator with him, he would

gander longingly at his Rolex, pretending to look at it for so long that I wanted to buy

him a digital. Sometimes he would fix his gaze on the floor numbers, or examine his suit

for lint, all so he wouldn't have to make eye contact with peasants like me. At those

annoying moments, I always had the nearly irresistible urge to punch him in the

esophagus, but I had managed to keep myself in check ­ so far, at least. I hoped he

wouldn't be around, though.

And, for once, my prayer was answered. Mr. Helper was gone, leaving his secretary

all alone. She was tall and redheaded and thin, so pretty I thought her face would break,

and I tried to flirt but she didn't seem to care. She frowned and told me that Helper knew

someone would be coming and had left word to give me everything I needed. He was

obviously just as tired as Joe was of the whole Regionarts mess, and I was there to clean

up. I walked into his pristine, softly­lit office, filled with expensive plants and

tasteful­but­boring artwork. His desk was neat, which made me dislike him even more.

Right in the middle, there was a stack of papers with a sticky note marked "Joe" which

she handed to me. I smiled politely ­ something I figured she didn't see too much of from

ol' Helper ­ and was about to leave when she told me to wait. "I need to run downstairs

for five or ten minutes. Can you stay and watch the phones?" As she said this, she

touched my wrist and smiled. Now that she needed me, I noticed, she was a little more

interested in flirting.

I shrugged my shoulders and told her yes. She thanked me, then swiftly exited. I

walked around her desk and sat down. Her chair was even less comfortable than mine. I

scanned her desktop, interested to see what was going on in Helper's little world, but

nothing caught my eye

Maybe I was moving up. I had previously answered phones in several departments,

but never before for anyone on the Management Floor. I half­expected to hear the

Washington Symphony Orchestra signaling incoming calls.

But when the phone rang, it sounded just like any other. It was the third line from the

top and I picked it up. The Caller ID screen said the call was coming from the McHolland

Foundation ­ interesting ­ maybe there was Regionarts dirt. Before I could even speak,

the person on the other line started in, talking quickly, nervously and hushed. "Sorry to

call you here but I wanted you to know. I've gotta catch a plane because I'm getting out of

here. If he doesn't hear different, our friend at the Sheraton is going to terminate the

problem at the Capitol at 3:30." I was writing furiously, and waiting for a moment to tell

this guy that I wasn't Helper and had no idea when he would be back. He never gave me a

chance. He gave me a phone number at the Sheraton, said, "It's out of my hands," and

hung up.

As I tried to make this into a comprehensible message, I glanced at a piece of paper

next to the phone, I noticed that the line that I had just picked up was Helper's private

line. Oh shit. That was a bright thing to do. I thought about apologizing for picking it up

in my note, but decided I'd play ignorant ­ I do that very well; it's what eastern people

expect out of southerners anyway. I was just finishing up the note as the secretary came

back in. She told me to put it on his desk.

I felt a little uneasy as I left. What did "terminate the problem" mean? Was Helper

trying to sabotage Regionarts? That just didn't make any sense. Especially if someone

from the McHolland Foundation was in on it too. But there were probably a million other

things it could be related to, and I wasn't going to mention it to anyone else. I went back

to my office space, settled in, and after a game of Tetris, I sorted through my newest pile

of information. Most of it was background, lists of grantees, quotes from happy artists,

stuff that really wasn't going to help much. But I did need the hard cash figures; I'd have

to work them in someplace. I separated those papers from the PR stuff, and then went

back to the panel.

I slipped in next to Ann as yet another grant was discussed. Everything seemed to be

more peaceful, and the panel was obviously in the second­day groove. By tomorrow they

would be dreadfully tired of all of this, but they were having fun ­ comparatively, anyway

­ right now.

It didn't take me long to fall into reverie, wondering about the strange message I had

taken and thinking about Stephanie. Should I call her today, or should I wait? Should I

send her anything? No, still too early. And last night ended too weird. Don't get to going

too fast. Should I get up out of this boring panel and work on my report? No, wait a little

while at least. Helper may be sabotaging the whole thing anyway. I performed mental

variations on these themes for the next hour.

Finally, we took a break, and I let Joe know that I had gotten everything I needed to

get the report done, trying not to betray the fact that I had new, possibly pertinent

information. Since he was standing there, I asked him exactly what he wanted, and he

shrugged his shoulders; he hadn't ever been in this position before, of having to defend

one of our projects. "Just make it look good," he said.

After a few more false starts and much hand­wringing, I finally began to come up

with something worthwhile. I had produced a semi­coherent three­page document, and

knew it wouldn't take long to get to four. Noon came, and I decided to go to lunch early

since things were going so well.

The Pavilion is a very quiet building, and once you hit the door you notice a change,

entering the asphalt world of the city once again, which was still muggy, even on that

cloudy, late­September day. DC seemed to me to always be either hot or cold, and I

pitied the suit­wearers as I ventured down the street to lunch. Sometimes I went to eat

with Lori, who was an NEA "fellow," (which is just like an intern but you get paid and it

sounds better), but she was out of town, and so I decided to indulge myself in some

Wendy's grease for lunch; when she was around I had to eat more hoity­toity because she

was a former dancer and I just sort of got the impression that she disapproved of

fast­food.

On my way back to work, I saw a huge crowd gathering. I was perplexed for a

moment, and then remembered that Tuesday was the beginning of the "Right to Bear

Arms" rally, which would bring lovers of the AK­47 from far and wide to the seat of

government. I could see a long line of marchers heading toward the Capitol, parading

with what I really hoped were toy weapons in an attempt to show the collective strength

of those who refused to relinquish their arms. There were the stereotypes, burly men who

looked like hunters carrying placards and chanting alongside scary little bean­eyed guys

who wore their mustaches as disguises, but there were also women and children joining

their voices, and men in Armani suits who marched right along. They had a determination

in their eyes that all marchers have, the same look that gay rights protesters or animal

activists had when they marched the same route, the look of those who truly mean

business. I did not want to disturb them.

I stopped by the panel for a bit, but then headed back to my office. Joe followed me

into my space, and I let him take a look at what I had. He suggested a couple of changes

and I printed it out again. "This may work," he said. "I'll take it down to Helper. You just

sit tight and we'll see."

I have always been very good at sitting tight. That's another trait an intern needs. I

picked up an old NEA brochure and flipped through it while I waited. I didn't think Joe

would take long, since he needed to get back to the panel, but fifteen minutes had gone

by and I was still sitting as tightly as ever.

After half an hour, mostly spent thinking about Stephanie and whether Helper was

ruining the NEA, Joe walked by, looking sallow and mad. He walked straight by my

space, and into his own, then yelled, "Trent, can you come here?"

From his tone, I could tell I didn't want to, but I did. I wondered if Helper had found

out about me answering his private line. "Did he like it?" I asked.

"Helper wasn't even there. But I talked to the Chairman. They're canning it," he said

bitterly.

"That's okay. I'll just start over." I tried to sound as pleasant as I could be after losing

another day's work.

"No. They're canning Regionarts. As of the next fiscal year."

I blinked. A lot. I started to say something, then stopped. Even though I

half­expected it, I still didn't know what to say now that it was officially dead. "I thought

..."

"Everybody thought."

I didn't say anything more. Joe slumped in his chair. "Now I've gotta tell all those

people that we've been lying to them for the past six months."

Joe looked slowly around his office space, as if anything there could somehow give

him some help. "Listen," he said. "I'm sorry for all the work you've done for nothing. Can

you set up a conference call for the Regionarts board so I can tell them myself?"

"Did they give any reason?" I asked.

"She said something about some kind of mismanagement, but I know she just wants

to pass the buck."

"Who decided this?"

"The Chairman did it on her own. She didn't ask anyone." No peppy musical

numbers, I thought.

And I thought about that morning's phone call in Mark Helper's office. Was he

involved in canning Regionarts after all? Was the "friend" the caller had spoken of the

NEA's own Chairman? It didn't make any sense. But it did make me mad.

I asked Joe some quick questions about the whens and whos of the conference call,

then left him alone. I was sick about the work I had done, but Damon and some of the

others must've been absolutely nauseous. They had been running interference for months,

only to find they were doling out lies. I wondered if they knew yet, but realized they were

in the panel and probably had no idea.

It took about half an hour to call everyone and set up a conference call. All of the

important people were nervous when I told them what the topic was, and they probably

knew that their fight was over. But I tried not to give anything away, and got everyone on

board for Thursday afternoon. It was almost four by then, and I had four more items on

my agenda.

First, I called home, hoping Angie was still there. She was going back home to Iowa

for a short vacation, and I had thought about calling her earlier but got busy. This was my

first experience having a female roommate, and it had taken months to begin to learn that

it really helped if you asked "How was your day" and said "Have fun on your trip," things

which were utterly unnecessary when dealing with other guys, but headed off enormous

trouble when dealing with women. But she wasn't there, and was probably already

headed toward the airport.

Secondly, I needed to go to the NEA library. It was situated on the second floor, and

I took the stairs down just to be different. It was small and filled with a smattering of

books on any topic, a broad but utterly random selection. I found two books on Delta

blues and a couple of magazines with job listings, and went to check them out. I received

a stern lecture from the librarian because my last books had been late, late, late, but was

eventually allowed to admit my guilt and shame, make an attempt at an apology and take

my books. I went back up to the office, put the books on my desk, next to the Regionarts

stuff. I thought again about Helper, our office's own Judas.

But now, there were only two things left to do before I could go home and forget all

this crap.

Kurt had in his desk two blue caps with "Fire Inspector" on them, for use during the

semi­annual fire drills around the place. At least one person in every department had one,

and they were in charge of counting the employees and reporting to the fire marshals if a

fire were to ever occur. For whatever reason, Kurt had ended up with two, and I knew

darn well he only needed one. I had already tried it on; it was way too small for me, but I

wanted it anyway, though I wasn't sure why. I had always collected strange items. From

high school I had volleyball trophies from the early seventies, math plaques and seat

cushions. From college I had a phone and a potted plant. Kurt had told me he couldn't

give the hat to me, although he had hinted that I could steal it if I really wanted it.

And I really wanted it. I figured that most everyone was at the panel, but I checked to

make sure no one was looking, bent over in his desk and found it, third drawer down. I

pulled it out and then considered what would be the most nonchalant way to carry it, but I

still couldn't see anyone around, so I just rushed back over to my space, picked up the

whole pile where the books were, and put everything in a big plastic bag I had brought

the day before just for this hat­stealing occasion.

I took the bag out to the front desk of our office, then sat down and grabbed a blank

piece of paper. I wrote, "I'M ON TO YOU" in big block letters. Then I looked at it, and

wondered if "on to" should be one word or two. I didn't want to take a nasty message to

Mark Helper and misspell something. I wadded that sheet up and tried again. This time, I

wrote, "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING" in big block letters. That was better. Then I

called Helper's office. The same pretty secretary answered.

I used my up­tight easterner voice. "We've got some paperwork up here you need to

see. Is there anyone else in Mark's office to cover you?"

No, she was all alone, she told me. I told her it was close to the end of the day, and

bugged her until she agreed to come examine the papers. I told her to go to the Visual

Arts room on the eighth floor, then grabbed my stuff and rushed out of the office and

down the stairs, standing on the opposite side of the fifth floor until I saw the secretary

come out of her door and wait for one of the elevators. When she made it inside, I hustled

across and slid the paper under the door to Helper's private office. I ran down the stairs,

and tore out of the building. It was four o'clock.

The subway ride was about the same, not quite as crowded since I was getting a little

bit of a head start on the evening rush hour. I found a seat and put my bag next to me,

then watched the grayness of the subway's innards outside the car. An almost­mechanical

voice called off the stops and I barely listened, tired from doing nothing, lulled by the

movement of the subway. I heard Eastern Market, though, and got off when the doors

finally opened.

As I emerged from the tunnel darkness, I noticed how short the days were becoming;

the sun was lower in the sky than it had been a week or two before. I clutched my bag

and took off for home, then looked inside the bag and realized that all of the Regionarts

paperwork had gotten thrown in with the rest of the stuff. I groaned as I realized I'd have

to remember to take it back in the morning, realizing that it really didn't matter anyway.

Before I could cross the street, I noticed several people looking toward the west, as if

they were trying to look past the capitol. Of course, I looked with them, past the row of

Pennsylvania Avenue businesses. I couldn't see anything unusual, but I could hear sirens.

I've never been able to tell one siren from another, so I had absolutely no idea what was

going on. No one else in my group of gawkers seemed to know any more than I did, so I

turned, checked the traffic and walked home, giving some change to a homeless guy who

had positioned himself underneath the Bread and Chocolate window.

I got to my apartment building ­ still hearing sirens in the distance ­ and went

immediately behind it toward my car, hoping against hope it wouldn't once again be

broken into. Luckily, it wasn't, and I threw the bag I had brought from work in the back

seat. I was planning on driving to work the next day, and that would make sure I'd get

those papers back to the office.

When I climbed up the stairs to my abode, I turned the million locks that tried to

keep me safe at night and once I navigated through the mess on the "living room" floor (I

hesitate to call anything that small a living room), I saw that my answering machine light

was on. And, to my delight, it was Stephanie.

"Hey Trent. Just wanted to get a hold of you for a minute. Give me a call if you

will." She left her phone number, then drew out the word "bye" over two syllables. Of

course, I had already tattooed her number into my brain right next to my birth date and

Social Security number, so I didn't even bother to write it down. I picked up the phone

and dialed, not getting an answer. I decided to play it "mysterious" and didn't leave a

message.

The minute I got done with this, I turned on the television, hoping to find something

about the weirdness I had just experienced on Capitol Hill. Before I made my way to

CNN, though, they dropped a bombshell on me as I passed ESPN: Mike Carroll, point

guard extraordinaire for my beloved Atlanta Hawks, had been traded to Toronto for

Jimmy Henderson and a player I had never heard of! Ugh. Carroll led the Hawks in

scoring, and looked like his best years were ahead of them. I turned up the TV so I could

hear all of the trade gossip and went into the kitchen.

I made my traditional bachelor dinner of pasta (without sauce; sauce is messy and

requires much more effort cleaning up) and sesame seed breadsticks, and had a Popsicle

for dessert. I watched some more Sportscenter, found that most pundits thought Toronto

had gotten the better end of the deal (big surprise there) and turned the TV off when I

finished eating, realizing I needed something to do for the evening.

I called my college friend Kimberly, but she was on a date. I called my drinking

buddy Rick to talk about the Hawks trade and to ask if he wanted to get a beer and got a

message which reminded me that he was in Boston for the week. I knew that no bands

that I liked were playing, there was no good movie at the Kennedy Center, and it looked

as if I was simply going to be stuck doing some reading or something boring like that. I

had just finished a Patricia Cornwell novel and wasn't up to the long titles I had in my

bookcase, so I decided to get out of the house and go to the bookstore. I negotiated

through the old, narrow DC streets toward Virginia, past the Capitol, silhouetted against a

postcard sky, down Constitution, past the gigantic phallus which was the Washington

Monument.

There was a Borders Bookstore in Tyson's Corner which I liked, and since it was a

pretty fall evening, that seemed like a nice route for a drive. To get there I wound up on

the George Washington Parkway, a beautiful tree­lined stretch of road more gorgeous

than any other highway in the area. I always loved taking that route after the evening rush

hour had cleared out, seeing the Potomac, forgetting about the hectic and silly world of

politics to which I was contributing. I put the new Mercy Rule album on and turned it up

loud, and revved up my Toyota like it was a Jaguar.

And, as with all good drives, I was sad to see it end, but I was happy to get to

Border's, one of those huge bookstores which stretch into the next world, with title after

wonderful title inside. There was a terrible acoustic band strumming angst­ridden songs

with lots of harmony and no melody, and throngs of dazed people circling the shelves and

bargain tables. I stayed a while, picked up several titles, put them back down, looked at

others and then came back, each time looking at the cover and reading the back, as if my

life depended on this one choice. I finally chose a Kinky Friedman novel and took it to

the counter. The guitar player broke a string, probably adding to his angst, and I paid for

my book and left.

There was nothing on the radio when I got back in my car, so I turned to public radio

to hear the news. Trumpets played a short, martial intro, and a serious­sounding woman

intoned, "What was supposed to be a red letter day in Washington for the gun lobby has

quickly become a nightmare. Congressman Gregory Timmons was killed by a sniper's

bullet as he delivered a speech on the Capitol steps this afternoon. Heidi Strauss has

more."

Heidi reported that shortly after 3:30 on the Capitol steps, Timmons had been

gunned down. I nearly drove off the road. I felt quite sick, then quite scared, then quite

sick and scared, slowing down to granny speed as I tried to keep my composure. I

couldn't help thinking about the strange little message I had left on the desk of Mark

Helper ­ the "problem" would be terminated at the Capitol at 3:30 ­ and I also thought of

my pretty little neck, which I loved very dearly. I wondered if I hadn't made several big

mistakes.

I regained some of my nerve and listened to the rest of the broadcast, which talked

about the Congressman's record as a Second Amendment preservationist. They had some

tearful quotes from friends, and reported that little was known about the police

investigation. I sped up as I rationalized that it was probably just a coincidence. But could

Helper be involved? Oh God. My mind was taking me a dozen different ways when I

realized that I needed to listen to the broadcast. I slowed down again when they started

talking about the search for Timmons' killer. I wondered if he'd be waiting at my house,

on Helper's instructions. When I walked in, I found that he wasn't waiting for me; he had

already been there.

Five

I noticed the jimmy marks on the door and then saw that the door gave way. The place

was decimated. Papers were strewn everywhere, like some sort of pulp snowstorm, and

my heart attempted to inch its way toward the floor as I looked at the mess. Actually, I

decided, it didn't look all that much worse than it normally did; it was the thought that

counted. I sat down, put my head in my hands and tried to think straight. Okay, first

things first. What was gone? I walked into my room and nearly cried as I saw the space

once occupied by my computer. I noticed that the door to Angie's room was still closed,

and I peeked in and saw that her Macintosh was still there. I looked around and could see

nothing else missing. I went into the living room, and saw that all the stereo equipment

was intact, a few CDs which had been sitting on top of a speaker were no longer there,

and that, of all things, the answering machine was gone. I was still trying to decide if this

was just absurd coincidence or dark conspiracy when I found the clue that I needed: my

Martin. I looked over in the corner and there, in plain sight, not five feet away from

where the answering machine had been, was my beautiful Martin D­28 acoustic guitar, a

gorgeous blond color with the most natural ring you ever heard in your life, worth more

than my computer and my stereo and my TV combined, and probably a lot easier to sell

as well. It was in a hard­shell case with "Martin" written on it, so unless they were

dumber than most criminals are, they had missed the real mother lode and taken my

answering machine, which I wouldn't have bought back for ten bucks, with all the

messages on it. I swallowed hard. My knees shook.

I called the cops from my bedroom and lied and told them that I thought the prowler

might still be around, just so they'd get there quicker. Even with that added detail, it still

took them twenty minutes, and I sat outside and tried to keep breathing and avoid sobbing

while I waited. It was a pleasant evening, and cars whizzed by, toward the ghetto hell in

front of them. A small woman with her baby walked past, obviously unnerved that I was

watching them. I dropped my eyes until she passed, then watched her go up the block, not

knowing if I'd have the energy to do anything if someone were to attack her.

Could this all just be coincidence? Possibly. It was, after all, a very vague message,

and I might have been reading too much into it. But there was also the problem of my

house being burgled very shortly thereafter. Again, it simply could've been my unlucky

day. But had I stopped believing in coincidence when my ex­girlfriend broke up with me

and started dating my ex­friend the same day.

I wondered if I was safe there, if perhaps my foe was watching me, but I felt safer on

the street than waiting inside, and I didn't know any of my fellow tenants. That was a big

problem. I didn't know enough people in DC. When I was just about to give up, a police

car, lights like a carnival ride, screeched to a halt in front of my house, and two officers

got out. The one who had driven, tall and thin and wired like a rookie on his first bust,

looked like he was going to draw his gun as I stood up, but I quickly put my hands

toward the sky and said, "I'm the one who called."

"They said the perp might still be around," the antsy cop said. I imagined he used

words like "perp" a lot.

"Maybe," I said, not wanting them to know I had lied. We waited while the antsy one

checked out back. When he returned, they walked up the stairs with me. I told them how

long I had been gone and what had been stolen. They raised their eyebrows when I

pointed out the Martin, but I didn't want to tell them too much.

"Probably got scared off," the older one shrugged. He didn't like to look people in the

eyes.

"We'll get the paperwork started," the antsy one said, looking a little perturbed at his

partner. Antsy wanted to stay and investigate and solve. His partner wanted to get back in

the squad car. "Come down and fill out a report, tell us what you lost." He handed me a

card and I nodded, sad and scared that they were leaving so quickly.

I watched them walk down the stairs, the older cop falling farther and farther behind

his antsy partner, then went back to the sofa and resumed the head­in­hands bit. I wasn't

going to stay there, although I didn't want to tell them that; they'd think I was nuts. But

where would I go? I thought of my punk rock friend Miriam, but remembered sadly that

she was out of town, going to see her sister in Chicago. I tried Kimberley again, hoping at

least that her roommate would be in, but I got no answer Then I realized just how shaken

I was ­ I had forgotten all about Stephanie!

This was the perfect excuse, the one every guy would love to have early in his

relationship with a new, hot girlfriend; a sob story that would involve getting to spend the

night at her house. Oh poor baby! I just can't believe it! Of COURSE you can stay here! I

felt a little guilty going to her place, knowing there was at least some chance that

international conspirators were hot on my heels, but not guilty enough to keep me from

making the call. I got a busy signal, and decided I'd just have to drive on over. I put a few

items into a hanging bag and threw in my other suit and a different tie, just so I could

impress her in the morning, even though I knew I would have to take some razzing from

Damon and those at the office, who were as used to seeing me in a jacket and tie as they

were in seeing me in a clown outfit.

I thought it might be a little presumptuous, walking up to the door with the clothes,

so I decided I'd leave them in the car until she said yes. I could tell her I was going to

have to stay some place either way, either with her or at a hotel, which was the truth. I

went out, making sure that my other two locks worked, and headed out to my car, more

cautious than ever.

I checked my rear view mirror constantly, wondering if I could spot a tail if there

were one. I thought about the numerous mistakes I had made that day, chief among them

leaving a note for Helper broadcasting that I knew ­ or thought I knew ­ what he was

doing. That was just brilliant.

About a block before I got to her house, I started looking for a parking space, which

could still be akin to a quest for the Holy Grail, even late at night. I finally found a spot

which was actually bigger than my car, pulled in and out three times, and got out. It was

over a block past her house, and I tried to be as nonchalant as possible as I constantly

looked over my shoulder for conspirators. I was so preoccupied that when I walked up

the stairs leading into her building, it took me a minute to see the next shock of the

evening.

As I walked up the steps and stood in front of the door, I looked quickly in the

window. Unfortunately, the shade was up, just like the night before and, as I glanced in, I

could see no one resembling my dear Stephanie, but there was someone sitting there who

looked like me. I froze for a moment, my eyes stuck on him, praying he wouldn't see. He

was engrossed in a book. I realized that it wouldn't take long to be spotted, so I darted

back down the stairs and practically sprinted down the block.

Roger, I thought. That was Roger. Just like the pictures I had seen: same height,

same weight, same hair. He was probably enough like me that I would hate him. I was a

stand­in, but I wasn't needed now that the original was back. I was barely breathing by

the time I approached my car. But as I got closer, I saw a man, silhouetted against the

streetlights, standing over my vehicle.

I stopped cold. For an instant I thought someone had followed me, but then I

understood. And then I got pissed.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shouted, not really thinking about the fact that it

was after ten. I knew damn well what the man was doing. I looked farther down the block

and saw his car parked in the street, hazard lights on, the thing still running. The DC

Parking Gestapo, handing out tickets like politicians did pork, was the only thing in

Washington you saw more than a fat man in a polyester suit. They were not my favorites

in any situation, but this was war.

"Ain't ever no parking here," he said, as he spoke into a walkie talkie. "You're parked

in front of a hydrant."

"Oh, come on," I said, moving toward the driver's side, my head spinning.

"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to stay here. You have seven unpaid tickets, and

they're coming with The Boot,"

Oh shit. The Boot. A big orange contraption they lock on the wheel until you pay

your fines. In DC it meant almost certainly getting your windows smashed, in addition to

being without transportation and having to pay all your tickets to get the stupid thing off.

I walked back around to try to reason with the guy. "I was here less than three

minutes. You can't ..."

"Sir, step away from the car." He didn't look at me.

I wanted to try to reason some more, but no words came. I just stood there, eyes

half­closed, about to explode. And although I had read the warning on parking tickets

which said that assaults on parking personnel would be prosecuted, that just didn't seem

to mean much right then. I noticed that I was much bigger than he was. It sealed it when I

saw that he had gone back to writing my latest fine, and I moved in quick and hit him

hard on the jaw with a solid right, the first one I had thrown since the third grade. I

yelled, "Come on!" and motioned like you see in the movies. The man stumbled, then

looked at me like I was blowing fire out of my nose, thought for just a second about

responding, and then turned and ran, grabbing his walkie­talkie and trying hard to speak

as he did. I jumped into my car and felt my hand begin to throb. But that mattered little. I

was the winner, by a first­round knock­out.

I gunned the Toyota and threw it into reverse, nudging the car behind me. I had to

eek back and forth twice before getting out of the space, knowing that a cop would

probably be coming at any moment. I screamed down the block, barely even noticing the

stop sign, realizing that, counting my grade school fights, I was now 3­0 in my boxing

career and wondering what in the hell I was going to do for the rest of the night.