JOHN SMITH FOR PRESIDENT 2020 Part Three

Eric followed the group through a plant and flower-filled salon into the spacious outdoors. The basketball-court-sized pool glistened in the Florida sunshine. Where is the leggy bikini girl I saw swimming earlier? Beyond, the long, sloping, beautifully landscaped lawn the blue Gulf waters sparkled invitingly. Hello, Carolyn, Eric, come back. I just won a fortune in the lottery. Now you can have love and money, the Jane Austen jackpot.
   As people spread out in twos and threes, Bert Romand hung back and spotted Eric gazing in the direction of Havana. He tapped his arm. “Waddya think, Eric?
   “Hi, Bert, you caught me dreaming. Most other contenders we’re nicely aced out. John knows now that he fits the formula and will get the money he’ll need. I think it looks good.”
   “The wild card is, will the people, at least some of them, who are likely to run be willing to back out.”
   “That will be tough, even with the money withholding.”
   Bert started off. “I’ve got to join the party. Coming?”
   “I think I’ll walk down to the water. Be back in a few minutes.”


Using the phrase from Eric Ambler’s books, Eric thought: I’m running down the backstreets of my mind. But the confusion ebbed, as he strolled down the golf-fairway-perfect lawn with the iridescent Gulf before him. He came to a little knoll and hiked over to see a soccer-pitch length dock lined with boats. First, a sloop with John B on its tail. Nice. Across from it, a sleeps-at-least-fourteen cabin cruiser the size of a minesweeper. He walked out on the dock listening to the Gulf water lapping below. No one in sight and he came to a nineteen-thirties, Gar Wood speedboat. Looking like the polished teak one that Joe E. Brown skippered with Jack Lemmon all dolled-up beside him. You know, the ‘Nobody’s Perfect’ scene that ends “Some Like It Hot.’ Lying on a cushioned bench, under a floppy hat, reading a book was the bikini girl Eric saw swimming in the pool a few hours ago.
   She heard him, looked up, raised the brim of her hat and her sunglasses and smiled. And in a faintly European-tinted, sort of Audrey Hepburn accent, said, “Hi, come on down.”
   Being afraid of heights, he reversed and gingerly descended the steel ladder, while realizing he was no longer pining for Caroline.
   “Please sit across there so I can gauge your character.” She smiled. “Just kidding. Please turn your head so I can see your profile. You’re no Barrymore”
   He did while thinking: This is the strangest woman I’ve ever met. 
   “You’re a dangerous one, rough trade. I must warn you that I have a chastity belt in Karate.” He laughed out loud. “Eric Weygand, I’m Monica. You’ve heard of me from the song from way back when. You know,” she sang while fake stringing, ‘When Monica plays the harmonica down on the pier at Santa Monica.’ Actually, it’s Veronica. My father sang that to me as a child. During a breath stroke in your direction I saw you watching my swimming form this morning.” Monica raised an eyebrow on the word ‘form.’ “Later, I did some research on you. Some good articles and books.” She took a sip of a drink and reached out her long, sculpted arm to offer one. Eric leaned over, took the cup and pulled on the straw which had no lipstick on it.
   He swallowed. “That’s good. What is it?”
   “Tequila Bloody Mary. Okay, right?”
   “What are you reading?
  “Oh, she flipped the book to read the cover, ‘The Ancestor’s Tale’ by Richard Dawkins, not to be confused with Stephen Hawking. Have you read ‘A Brief History of Time’ ”?
   “No, but I should.” Eric looked at his watch. “Got to get back,” and nodded toward the lawn. “I hope we can resume our chat sometime soon.”
   “How about tonight? Do you like to dance? Are you married?”
   “Yes, yes, no, you?”
   “No, I’m not the marrying kind. You’re staying here. I live here. Call me Red, my nickname. Meet me at the garage behind the house at seven. I’ll drive. Counting from the left, it’s the sixth garage, among twelve. Twelve garages, twenty-two rooms, only thirteen baths. Pity. How do those poor devils having to share stay clean?”
   After he climbed the ladder and started down the dock, Eric looked over his shoulder to see Monica, aka, Red, back in her book.


Lunch was breaking up, people wandering off. Eric grabbed a sandwich just as he and Dixiana spotted each other. As they sat at a table, she gave him a knowing look. “When I saw Monica Lucius walking way down the lawn I figured you’d be soon missing in action.”
   “Actually, I didn’t know she’d be down there.”
   “Sure. You were seeking the answers to existence in the Gulf. Did you like her?”
   “I’ve never met a woman remotely like her. We’re going dancing tonight.”
   “Lucky you. She comes home once a year to be with her parents for a month. Monica’s an attorney with the International Court in The Hague, multilingual and an expert on international law.”
   “How does she do that as an American citizen?”
 “She holds dual citizenship, U.S. and Swiss. I’m sure you can learn more tonight while dancing.” Dixiana gave him a saucy grin. “I’ve talked to Monica a few times over the past few years. As I’m sure you learned today she’s open, offbeat, brilliant and beautiful. Her only shortcoming is that the poor girl is seriously lacking in sex appeal.”
   Eric deadpanned, “I noticed that and have decided to overlook it and hope for a platonic friendship. Was I missed at lunch? Anything good happen?”
   “I could say yes to feed your ego but won’t. Every donor talked informally with the Smith’s. I haven’t talked to everyone, but it seemed to go well. Well enough that the Smiths are slowly climbing on board. Speaking of on board, Luke wants to go fishing in the Gulf tomorrow morning. John Smith is going. If you remember, it was originally his idea. Are you available, or has Monica booked your weekend full? Don’t you wish. Don’t stay out dancing platonically too late.” Dixiana twirled an arm.
   “I’ll set the alarm. Thanks for the update.” Dixiana is a terrific woman. Eric also learned that they were on their own for dinner, which worked out well for him. Back in the room he changed into workout clothes and headed for the eight-thousand-square-foot gym in an attached building off the rear of the main house. By comparison, his noisy East Village, New York walkup studio rental was, maybe, four-hundred square feet. If you include the fire escape landing, that is the balcony overlooking rows of trash cans on both sides of the alley below. He thought: No wonder Caroline dumped me. He laughed out loud at the thought of Monica Lucius seeing the dump he could barely afford.
   And there she was doing flyes in the glass-walled weight room. When he looked in later she was into heavy bench work and now saw where the sculpted body came from. Eric peeked into the squash court to find John Smith hitting alone. He looked up.
   “Hi, Eric, do you play?”
   “A little,” and John proceeded to wipe the floor with him. After a few games, John suggested handball. Eric did a little better, like scoring a point here and there. He suggested a little one-on-one feeling sure he’d show John Bartlett the Eric Weygand starting point guard at Stanford. Nope. John had quick moves and a feathery jumper. And he was in Eric’s shirt on defense. Over twenty years older than me and I lost again. It wasn’t a height issue, Eric was only about an inch shorter. It was finesse. Well, there’s always fishing tomorrow and the chance for a little luck. John headed for the weight room, and Eric left the building. On the way out, he passed another glass-enclosed room. And there was Monica skipping rope fast and expertly, hand and foot crossovers, all the moves. I wonder how good she would be without the Tequila Bloody Mary. I need a nap.


Pamela Smith returned to the room from a five-mile walk on the beach with Katie Romand, Dixiana Strouder and Lucinda Valparaiso. John came in from the gym a few minutes later. They kissed, caught up on what they’d just done, showered together, dried each other, made love and napped. After waking, they lay under the sheet talking.     
   “I like Eric Weygand, and whether we go ahead with the president thing or not I’d like to hire him for my senate staff. Annie gave me her notice. She’s getting married and moving to California with her tech star. Someone said, ‘The whole country’s tilting and sliding west.’ ”
   “I like Eric’s style and he’s a good writer.” She took his hand. “What else tipped you on him as an aide?”
   “We played some handball, basketball in the gym. Someone said you can tell a person’s character by how they handle themselves on the golf course. Probably true of handball, too. He competes, but doesn’t take losing personally.”
   “So, he resented losing to you, but didn’t hold it against you.”
   “Exactly. Good attitude, doesn’t take himself seriously.”
   “Any more thoughts on the meeting and the lunch. I’ll answer part of the question first. I like the straightforwardness. I wonder how the other candidates will take their being excluded, age, ethnicity, gender.”
   John went up on an elbow. “I think we’re both leaning toward going ahead with a run. If we do, we need unity to win. That will be the toughest part. Several will stick in and run without donor-money support. It won’t be easy, especially against those who present themselves as the only answer.”
   “As Hillary saw, it’s hard to pry the votes away in the primaries from candidates who act like they’re the, as you said, the source of all wisdom.”
   Pamela ducked her head under John’s elbow and lay her cheek against his chest. He said, “What’s up for dinner? Your hair is tickling me.”
   “Dixiana said she had a reservation for a restaurant in Old Town for anyone who wants to go. Most of us did, if you agree.” She ran her fingernails lightly down his side.
   John said, “I’m wondering if I beat you in wrestling you would resent me, or . . .”
   “Try me. . .”


At five to seven, Eric walked along the closed doors of the garages imagining the cars inside. He came to an open door, looked in and there was Monica, leaning against the front fender of a white, top-down Mercedes convertible. Her long, tawny figure filled a simple, short dress. Wavy, mid-length auburn hair framed her smiling face. “Hi, Red.”
   “Hi, Eric. Just so you know, my skin coloring comes from my mother that Latin beauty you met earlier. The auburn hair? I don’t know. Must have come from a gene pool deeper that the one I swim in.”
   How does she know what I’m thinking?
   She dangled keys in slim fingers. “Want to drive? My father gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. It’s got like fifteen miles on it and I’m twenty-nine now. I prefer the Maserati,” she pointed left, “down the way. Sound like a spoiled brat? You’re right.”
   “You’d better drive, Red. After years of Rent-A-Wreck, I’d be punching above my weight.”
   They got into the red-leather seats. “I’m sick of fancy food. I know a joint up the key with good burgers. Would you like that with beers? Music later.”
   “Go for it.” She eased out of the garage, whipped right and accelerated launching Eric against the seatback. “Easy, Red, I’ve got a weak stomach.” She laughed, turned onto the road, and with auburn hair flying behind a Botticelli profile off they went.


The place on 1A wasn’t a diner, drive-in or dive, but comfortable with wood tables, draft beer and a great burger with Havarti cheese, sliced tomatoes and a bun that stood up to the slathered ketchup and mustard. Good fries, too, golden brown and a tasty local draft beer. Between bites and chews. “So, Red, what do you do when you’re not in Key West?”
   Smiling, shaking her head and dabbing at ketchup in the corner of her delicious mouth. “C’mon, Eric, you know the whole story, did your due diligence like I did.”
   “Okay, you got me. What I don’t know is how you got to Europe, Switzerland in the first place.”
   “Since they were jetsetters, August and Lucinda had no room for me and farmed me out to strict Catholic boarding schools, first in Germany, then Switzerland. Even though I look like the Whore of Babylon.” Monica inclined her head, squinted, arched her back accentuating exemplary breasts, and ran her hands suggestively down her sides. “Now you know why I’m a virgin at twenty-nine.”
   “Sure, and I’m an Oklahoma oil baron. Were you bitter about the exile?”
   “A little at first, but I knew I was loved and children deal with what life gives them. Anyway, I was happy at school. We had fun. The proper young ladies from strict Catholic boarding schools are the bad girls of Europe. You don’t want to know the things we did when the nuns weren’t looking.”
   “Oh, but I do.”
   “I sensed you were a closet pedophile.”
   “Once you were sprung, why did you stay in Europe?”
   She finished off the last bite of burger, smacked her lips, held a finger up, chewed and had a swig of beer. “Men. Aside from that, I went to university, first to the Sorbonne, well, affiliated with the Ecole Normale, then University of Amsterdam Law School.”
   “Was it difficult to learn Dutch?”
   “Not really, it’s somewhere between German and English, closer to English, fewer grammatical cases than German. What fun we had in that unbound town. Amsterdam’s stone city. Then the job at the Court. But wait, I’m coming back to the States. They’ve transferred me to the United Nations. I move there in, let me think, five weeks. In fact, I’ll be splitting my time in Washington. Where do you live?
   “As luck would have it, down the street from the UN.”
   “Do you take in boarders?”
   “If you don’t mind sleeping on the fire escape. It would help with the rent, better than the subway.”
   “With your,” he kind of gestured toward her, how come . . .”
   “Tits and ass? Same with me, totally superficial. When I saw you coming down the ladder backwards from the dock to the boat, I thought, nice buns, he’s the man for me. How come I didn’t marry into royalty? There were chances believe me. Lots of bended knees from rich guys, too. I guess I’m too much the rover. You.”
   “I was actually referring to your shining intellect and vibrant personality.” Monica gave a knowing smile. “Nothing like that permanent came along. Too choosy. The last one left me for a millionaire. Said she couldn’t pass it up. Would always love me anyhow. I was touched to the core.”
   The band, consisting of a piano, bass, drums and sweet, muted trumpet had been tuning up and now launched into ‘Moonlight in Vermont.’ Monica looked over her shoulder. “Want to?”
   She moved in close. He could feel her heat, and Eric knew she could feel his. Her eyes never left him until they broke into ‘Shake it up, Baby.’ And could Monica move? Like a palm tree in a gale. In their efforts to span the decades, the band segued into ‘Begin the Beguine.’ Her sinuous body felt the Latin beat, often with her eyes closed. When that ended, they sat and ordered another beer. The place was filling up. I need air.
   She sensed Eric’s discomfort. “Let’s get out of here,” and threw money on the table.
   They didn’t speak on the way back. Monica parked in the garage. As they got out she said, “Do you want to go back to your room? I’d like to walk on the beach. Will you join me? Silently, they walked about a mile under a Van Gogh sky.
   Eric stopped. Monica turned, looked at him, took his hands, and said, “Do you feel what I’m feeling?
   “Sorry I wimped out back there, just needed to get out. Yes, I do feel the same. May I hold you?” They softly kissed each other’s faces.
  “Eric, this is special. As much as I want to sleep with you. Let’s hold off a bit. Is that okay with you?”
   “Yes, of course. Let’s walk back. We’ll hold off. This meeting at your parent’s home doesn’t need any interference. I will say this to you, although I probably shouldn’t. I love you, Red.”
   Monica put her palm against his cheek and gave it a friendly slap. “I can top that. I’m already in love with you, Eric, and we haven’t even done the juicy. Isn’t that a naughty noun. The things you learn in Catholic girl’s schools. Please don’t think poorly of me.”
   They held hands on the walk back, took their shoes off and waded. Held each other around the waist. They stopped and kissed several times, more pecking than gluing. Eric hung back and watched her supple dancer’s body move through the shallows, all grace, fluidity and playfulness. Monica’s dress had gotten wet and clung to her. He thought of ‘From Here to Eternity,’ with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr rolling around in the surf. Eric knew it sounded like headline copy for a perfume ad, but he was intoxicated by her. The goodnight inside the front door was brief with a meaningful exchange of looks. Monica put one hand on the back of Eric’s head, gave him a firm kiss on the lips and headed for her room.


Eric wished that Monica had gone on the fishing trip, but knew it was probably better that she didn’t. He didn’t get to fish and was appointed as a kind of judge and timekeeper who never had to say much. On a pristine day, the four swiveling fighting chairs in the stern, all fitted with harnesses, rod gimbals and poles, were occupied by John Smith, Luke Strouder, Sargent Buchanan and Corinne Porter. The men were dressed like pros, khaki hats with hooks and lures tucked in the bands.  Corinne from the mountains all her life lacked experience, a total novice. The crew had to bait her hook, strap her in, provide instruction and encouragement. Sargent suggested a three-way pool with a one-hour time limit All four of them would put in fifty dollars and it would be split between who got the first fish, the biggest fish and the most fish. Corinne said, “This is extortion. I have no fishing history, except throwing a worm on a line into a lazy stream, and you’re all sort of Hemingway.
   Corinne caught the first fish, a medium-size one. The men cheered her on and made suggestions to improve her technique. Then, Luke pulled in what he called an ‘old linger’ by which he meant a  big one. Corinne came right back with one about the same size flailing on her line. Luke, Sargent and John didn’t even get a bite. The supportive mood was waning Soon, Luke got another sizable fish and was tied with Corinne.
   With five minutes to go in the contest, Corinne leaned way back in her fighting chair, teeth bared, grunting and straining, arms and legs out straight, rod bent like half a hoop. A hooked, monster fish leapt of the water.
   August Lucius, carried away and totally out of character, shouted from the bridge, “By the great horn-spoon, it’s Moby Dick.”
   Fred Hernandez helped Corinne with the pole. Instructions were shouted from everywhere.
   “Give him more line, Corinne.”
   “Let him run.”
   “Reel in faster, Corinne, “he’s tiring.”
   Eric looked up at the bridge to see August Lucius now inside the cabin, smiling with his nose pressed against the windshield. After a long fight, crew members gaffed it and two of them hauled the Great Barracuda aboard, thrashing on the deck, sharp teeth snapping. One said, “It’s the biggest Barracuda I’ve seen, been working on Gulf boats for thirty years.”
   After gazing on the six-foot-long fish wiggling on the deck, a crew member whacked it over the head with a wooden mallet. Everybody turned to look at Corinne, who said, “I wanted to let it go, but nobody was going to put his hands into those teeth.” Then she did a two-handed, finger-flexing gimme gesture. “Gentlemen, let me see the color of your money. And by the way, I’ve never played poker before. How about a quick game for high stakes?” They had a good laugh.
   The other women had been sunning on a rear, upper deck and missed Corinne’s triumph. She let them know all about it at lunch. They all headed for a wash-up followed by a sumptuous luncheon of lobster claws, oysters, clams, fish stew, smoked salmon, assorted breads and lots to drink.
   On the way into the dining room, Dixiana pulled Eric aside with a sly grin. “How’d it go?”
   He opened both hands palm up. “Monica said it best, ‘This is special.’ I’m a lucky man.”
   “She’s lucky too.”
   “Thanks, Dixiana. We intend to keep it quiet, not complicate things with all that’s going on around here.”
   “I understand. That’s wise.” She sewed her lips shut with a twist of thumb and forefinger. Eric knew that wild horses wouldn’t pull it out of her.


Monica and Eric had exchanged cell phone numbers and texted frequently. She didn’t attend the many-coursed Saturday night dinner at the mansion. They met at her car afterwards. “I’m going to New York for a few days to get things arranged for the move. Did I mention that I’ll be splitting my work time between New York and Washington?”
   “You did. I want you to stay with me in New York, but my place is something you’re not used to.”
   “I don’t care. With a few exceptions, I didn’t live in luxury in Europe and paid my own way most of the time. Just give me the address and I’ll be there with you.” Before saying good night, they tasted each other for the first time. When their mouths finally separated, Monica said, “You like?”
   “I like, and I’ll like even more when I can taste you all over.”
   “You nasty man, and she pulled Eric in for another long duel.”


Except for the few who went to church, they slept in on Sunday morning. Eric went for a barefoot run on the beach, came back, showered, grabbed a sandwich from the cook in the kitchen and headed for the meeting. On the way, he ran into August Lucius and thanked him for his hospitality. They hadn’t talked before, just nodded in acknowledgment of each other. Eric asked if he was coming to the meeting. “Lucinda
and I choose not to get involved in day-to-day politics. We’re happy to contribute in the best interests of the county and society at large and let it go at that.” Eric could see some of Monica in him: lean, good features, alert, direct, superb speaking voice. But he was somehow more detached, guarded like other things were pulling at him. From what Eric could tell, Monica was more like her mother: warm, catlike, sensuous, open.
   August continued, “Monica mentioned that you and she have become friends. I sensed from the way she spoke about you that it is more than just friends. Although she’s entirely independent and self-sufficient, I ask that you take good care of her. We could have done a better job when she was young in giving her a more integrated family. That said, she is very precious to Lucinda and me.”
   “I assure you, Mister Luci . . .”
   “Please call me August.”
   “Thank you, August, and I’m Eric. I know what you’re saying about Monica. I’ve known her for only a few days, but understand that she is a special person. I’m grateful that we met and hope that we know each other for a long time. You can be certain that I will take care of her.”
   “Thank you, Eric, and good luck with the political venture.” Eric thanked him, they shook hands and went their separate ways. I think I have his blessing with Monica. He sensed it would be unwise not to have her father’s approval. Your child is always your child. Eric spoke to him sincerely, but in a rather stilted way. He was likely subconsciously reflecting August’s manners which seemed like those you’d expect from a Renaissance prince.
   I’ve got to stop concentrating on Monica and get back to business. Despite this resolution, he checked the fitness center and she wasn’t there. Then out to the garage. Her bay was closed up. She must have left the house. He felt empty and weirdly afraid of losing her. Where is she? On the way to New York? I’ll text her. No, wait until later. I’m hung up bad.”


Most of the participants arrived on time. Dixiana opened things up. “Eric sent the good follow-up from our Friday meeting. We agree on the need for unity in the Party and who, in our collective opinions can win and who cannot. Let’s focus now on platform. What do we lead with and how to sharpen the message? Let’s stress unity of purpose.”
   “I see local politicians, Democrats, running for office and not revealing which party they’re in,” said, Fred Hernandez.”
   From Les Brooks, “You’re right, nobody I can think of stands up and says, “I’m a Democrat and here’s what Democrats believe in. And what Republicans are against.”
   Pamela Smith gestured toward Fred and Les, “To both your points, a significant percentage of Americans, even among enrollees, don’t know that Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, more, are government programs. A few years back a widespread rumor in the South carried the myth that a big southern bank was paying social security benefits and the coding on the checks proved it. Absurd as that is to us, it illustrates the messaging problems Democrats have.”
   John Smith said, “During my previous runs for representative and senator I was often asked questions by voters and by the media. Are you a liberal, a progressive, a moderate? My answer is, I’m a Democrat. After that, they often ask follow-up questions. Are you a liberal, moderate Democrat?” My answer to that is, I’m a Democrat who believes in Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, children’s health protection. Oh, I also add the Affordable Care Act.”
   “It’s also important, John,” Pamela said, “to continue to add that the Republicans, as Les said, oppose those programs. They voted against them from the outset, have tried to diminish them, privatize them. Look at the success the current administration has had in cutting funding for the ACA, calling it a disaster. No program that’s enrolled twenty-three million people is anything but a success assuming that it’s properly funded, which right now it isn’t. Also, stressing the Democratic Party separates it from Independents who run as Democrats in the general and then revert in the off-years.”
   “The myth is that the social programs you’ve just mentioned mainly benefit minorities,” Sargent Buchanan said. Given the racial animus abounding nationwide, this myth is an easy sell. We’ve got to correct that warped thinking, particularly among working-class whites.”
   Bert Romand said, “We’ve got to address the working class, the middle class as a whole and get race out of it, pry some of those people loose.”
   “That won’t be easy if we run against the guy in the oval office,” Luke Strouder said. “He blows all the dog whistles.”
   “And the more confident he gets, the more he uses a bull horn.”
   “You’re right, Fred. We’ve got to call out him and Republicans like him every time they pull that,” Les Brooks said. “We don’t answer back quick enough. Bill Clinton was good at that.”
   Dixiana said, “He had hardnoses, like Begala and Carville in his shop. They were on Republican lies like ducks on June bugs. We need them or people like them.”
   “Any chance of getting some Evangelicals, like Evangelical women disgusted with Trump’s attitudes toward women?” Katy Romand asked.
   From Pamela Smith, “Somebody said recently, I forget who it was, that if Jesus Christ himself ran as a Democrat he wouldn’t get any Evangelical votes.” Laughter. “Thanks to vast Russian help, the Republicans killed us on social media in two-thousand-sixteen. This has got to be a high and very expensive priority next time.”
   “A friend of mine is a senior VP for one of the big-three data companies. You know, the ones that also check credit. She said that they hire Russian hackers to try and stay ahead of the opposition hackers. Remember how Equifax got hammered by hackers last year.”
   Bert Romand said, “You’re right, Katy, lots of companies, Facebook among them, were in the weeds. We can’t get killed again. Maybe Putin will give us a workshop.” More laughter.
   Eric Weygand jumped in, “If I may, what I’m hearing is that we need to message in a direct and forceful way. Set out Democratic goals, promote them tirelessly and contrast them with Republican opposition. We haven’t touched international trade. As we all know, the U.S. became the world economic leader through globalism. That has retracted badly under the current administration’s America First losing game. I believe it’s in our best interests as Democrats to drop all tariffs or talk of tariffs. Instead fight for trade fairness and punish those countries, like China, who try to take unfair advantage by helping American businesses find different exporters. Commit to NAFTA, join the Trans Pacific Partnership before the Pacific Ocean becomes a Chinese Lake and strengthen our commercial ties with the EU.”
   “Good summary, Eric,” John Smith said with a smile. “Let’s move now to Congress. Little, if any, of this,” he swung his arm around the table, “will get done without a Democratic Congress. You remember how the Republicans opposed Obama on everything. We’re only going to get our agenda passed if all the candidates, house or senate, state legislators are on a unified message. That’s going to cost lots of money. He looked around the table at the donors. Are you willing to support both the presidential and congressional races?”
   “Only if leadership from the top is there. Like you, John,” Fred Hernandez said. “None of us are going to piss money away unless we feel the top guy, like you, John, can pull it all together and get the rest of the candidates behind you.”
   John Smith looked at Pamela who nodded. He stood. “I think I’m being asked the question, and the answer is . . . yes.”
   The donors crowded around him giving hugs, shaking hands. Les Brooks said, “We’re going all the way. John Smith for president two-thousand-twenty.” Everybody cheered.
   During a quick, leg-stretching break, John pulled Dixiana, Bert and Eric aside and spoke for a minute. Heads nodded. After some more milling about, Dixiana said, “A few more things” and they all sat. “John has a request for you.”
   “I know you approved of Bert’s suggestion that Eric would be our scribe in this venture. I’d like to steal him unless you object. Bert said okay and so has Eric. My top aide, Annie Carlson, is getting married and moving to the Coast where her future husband has a tech business.” I suspect he’ll soon be a billionaire, and we can ask him to join us, assuming he’s willing to share some of the money.”
   Sargent Buchanan raised his arms and shook them. “I’ll shake him like a tree until the money falls out.”
   John laughed along with the rest. “We’ll need some powerful shaking come next year. Anyway, you know what I’m getting to. I want Eric to join my staff. Actually, he’ll be doing much of what he’s already doing here. Is that okay with you all of you?” Head nods and good luck comments to Eric who thought: Monica said she’d be also be working in Washington.
   Luke said. “We can’t launch John’s presidential bid until after the fall elections, so let’s keep it quiet.”
   “That will be difficult,” Corrine Porter said. “John’s already been spotted down here by the Miami reporter. All we can say is, everything’s uncertain right now. We’re not ruling anybody out at this point in time. Something like that in the white-lie department. Oops, I heard that one a few months ago from the White House.”
   “While we’ll need to plan the presidential run, let’s all focus for now on winning Congress in the fall. I’ll be working on it in Ohio and anywhere else in the country they need or want me. Let me say this.” He looked around the table. “I appreciate your confidence in me and I’ll do all in my power to live up to it. I’m confident that we can win.” He looked at his wife. “Pamela and I as a team will work together with all of you and the entire Democratic Party on a big victory the country badly needs. The creeping authoritarianism, some of it fascism, that’s infecting the globe must be reversed, and,” he again looked around the table, “we’re the ones to do it.”
   From Sargent Buchanan with a big grin, “John, you are the man.”


After the thank yous to the hosts and the goodbyes, the Smith’s and several other attendees got rides in one of the Lucius’ SUV’s to the Key West airport. John and Pamela Smith flew together from Key West to Miami. Because of the crowded aircraft, they couldn’t talk much about the decision and how they would handle it. However, both were confident and positive.
   They had a few minutes alone at Miami International. Pamela said, “It’s a cliché I know, but our lives are never going to be the same, especially when you win. Just promise me we’ll have most evenings to ourselves.”
   “I want that as much as you do and I promise. I’ll also be coming upstairs regularly to get your advice. Thanks for texting Amy and Steve. It’s not necessary for them to interrupt their lives yet. Let’s see how things look during the summer. We really can’t do much until after the fall elections except plan.
   “Thanks to Bill Dracut and the word getting around we’ll both be asked about a possible run. I know I’ll hear about it at school. What are you, we going to say?”
   “I’m no Jack Kennedy, but maybe we both paraphrase his line before declaring. “I’m concentrating right now on being senator from Ohio, in his case Massachusetts. Sound good?”
   “Yes, perfect. There’s the call. I love you and can’t wait until next weekend.” They kissed and Pamela dashed off.
   John found Eric Weygand at his gate and tapped his shoulder. “Feel good about what happened and working for me?”
   “Everything looks good to me, John. I’ll be at your office as we scheduled ready to do whatever you need.”
   “There’s my call. See you then, Eric,” and John hustled to his gate.


February 11. Before dozing off over Wilmington, Eric wrote up the minutes of the meeting in which John agreed to run. Thinking about Monica and trying not to get depressed about her failure to answer his texts, the cab let him out in front of his building. He lugged his bag up the four flights and went into the unit. Monica was stretched out on the old couch sound asleep and looking as Botticelli desirable as ever. With long eyelashes, very much her own, resting on her high cheekbones. Eric knelt and kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. She opened her eyes and smiled. “Where’s the bed? I didn’t see it on the fire escape.
   “Murphy,” and he pointed to the wall. “How did you get in?”
   “I charmed the super.”
   “I’ll bet you did.” Sweeping his arm around the studio, “May I give you a tour?”
   Sitting up, lacing her arms around Eric’s neck and staring into his eyes, “I already took one. It’s cozy, and I like your gas stove. I can cook. Would you believe it? I was so happy to be here that when I went out onto the fire escape landing I wanted to let loose a shattering primal scream like Lear ranting on the cliff at Dover, or Trump at a rally.” He laughed. She tightened her arms and kissed his face and neck. “I know that psychologists believe that staring into someone’s eyes is a sign that you’re lying. Maybe so in general, but I do it with you because I want to look into your soul.”
   “What do you see?”
   “Nothing, a total void, but I intend to keep on searching.”
   “You’ll probably discover that way down deep I’m really shallow.”
   A laughing Monica asked, “Can I shower? It’s been a long day.”
   “I’m glad the scenic alley inspired you. Thanks for not bringing out the NYPD with the sirens drowning out your Donald Lear performance. There’s a bath towel on the shelf in the bathroom.” When Eric heard the shower running he closed the drape, pulled the bed out of the wall, turned back the covers and got the spare pillow out of the closet. It was a long shower. Monica came out smiling, wrapped in the big towel, skin glowing, hair damp and tousled. She unwrapped the towel, tossed it to him, and with the flung-open towel blocking most of his view jumped bare-naked into the bed. Can we rerun that tape?
   He showered and came bollocky into the main room, Monica was fast asleep, hair curled from the shower with auburn tendrils angled across the white pillow, looking quite the princess bride.
   She woke up and looked him up and down. “You’re beautiful.”
   “Thank you. I always thought so.” She lifted the covers. Instantly engorged by her beauty, he climbed in, “Tell me, Red all over, do you have narcolepsy?”
   “No, but given the opportunity I can drop off like a dog after the big meal of the day.” They laughed and moved into each other’s arms.


Eric woke at seven a.m. to see Monica dressed for business and heading out the door. “Was it something I said?”
   She stopped, laughed, sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his face. “No, silly, it’s what you didn’t say that wounded me. Where were the songs and poems?” She smiled. “I’ve got a meeting at eight. And will be back here at six, if you still want me.”
   “Are you happy?”
   “If you’re asking if I liked you in bed, be assured that I’m more in love with you now than I was before. Under the tent, I’ll creep.” She slid her hand under the covers and gave him a light squeeze. “Hello! A pity I have to go to work. Ciao, lover boy,” and off she went leaving him grinning.
   After washing up and getting dressed in running clothes, Eric went down to see Joe  the super about getting out of his lease with seven months to go. Joe was delighted. His niece was looking for a studio in the rent-controlled building, and could she get in on the first of next month? Yes, she could.
   He took a long run through the village and got into a pickup, above-the-rim basketball game on a court near Washington Square. Those guys can shoot, like rain coming down. Back at the pad, he showered and shaved and spent the rest of the day at the computer mostly thinking about Monica and when not doing that trying to learn from the social media sites what a senate aide did and more about how the senate worked. It was more complicated than he thought. Although he already knew a lot about him, Eric further researched John Smith’s congressional records and accomplishments. They were impressive. His investigation further confirmed that John was, as he suspected, a collegial leader who was now the fourth-ranked Senate Democrat. Even in these fraught times he worked well across the aisle.
   He then finished an article he’d been working on regarding social media’s influence on politics in general and subjective news in particular. Just as Eric pushed the send button to the editor’s email address his cell rang. A cable news producer he knew asked if he could come to the studio to participate in a panel on the same subject. Since it was nearby, Eric called Joe Allen in the theater district and got a table at seven. It helped that they knew him. He texted Monica and asked her to meet him there. She replied with a thumbs-up emoji and a smiling heart.


After TV makeup which he hated, Eric waited in the green-room with the other first-round panelists. One well-known, particularly annoying and ubiquitous panelist said while taking grinning looks at the others, “So, Eric, what were you doing at the Lucius place in Key West with the Democratic donors and Senator Smith? Is he running, or are you?”
   “It’s too early to announce my candidacy, but be certain that when I do you’ll be the first to know.” After the laughter and before he got more awkward questions, Eric was summoned to the set with no warning regarding the questions he might be asked. He was fitted with an earpiece, his jacket was pulled down from the back, and he sat at a glass table across from the host. The tabletop was glass because Adrian Newlander had great legs in a short skirt. Despite her having an earpiece, the floor manager gave Adrian a finger-flipping countdown from five and a go arm point at zero.
   “I have with me tonight Eric Weygand investigative journalist. Before getting into the subject of social media and politics with Eric and our other panelists I have a question. “Are you willing to reveal that Ohio Senator John Smith will be running for president in two-thousand twenty? We know you were with him in Key West in a meeting with a group of democratic donors.”
   “I was there for the simple reason that I was chosen to referee a fishing expedition in the Gulf.” Light laughter was heard from the floor manager.”
   “Yes, I’ve heard of those political fishfests. Did you land any big ones like Senator Smith?
   “A Great White Shark was the catch of the day. It was way taller than me.” The shot widened as Eric stretched his arms from the floor to above his head. “That’s a white-shark fib, but everybody tells fish stories.”
   With a big moderator smile, “I hear some politics in this joking around, and I get the feeling that this conversation is headed out to sea. Let’s bring on the rest of the panelists and talk some serious politics.”
  “I do have one more point,” Eric said. “Not knowing him well, I have no information about Senator Smith’s future political plans other than to say that so far as I know he is dedicated to serving the State of Ohio’s long-term interests as their United States Senator.”
   Three other panelists popped up on screens. Eric got only one chance to speak again when he said in response to a question, “The big social media companies, especially those with users with millions of followers should share the wealth. They keep all the advertising money and don’t let their major contributors monetize a dime. The same goes for data. If they’re going to violate their own privacy agreements, which they apparently do, and sell user or member data, at least let the users make a little for their trouble. Said differently, let’s not practice socialism for the many who supply the data and capitalism for the few who aggregate the data and sell it, often to many entities. Allow the little piggy’s to also feed at the trough.”


Eric was a little late getting to Joe Allen and found Monica at the crowded bar chatting with two bartenders both of whom were ignoring the other customers. When Monica spotted him she stood and kissed him on both cheeks European style. Eric never saw that before, a woman getting up in public to greet him. Classy, flattering, he liked it.   
   One of the bartenders, with the looks of an out-of-work actor, said, “Hey, you’re the guy we just saw on TV.” He turned and pointed to the screen up on the wall above the backlit drunkard’s dream of liquor bottles.
   “It was only me if you liked the performance. Otherwise, it was fake news.”
   The other bartender said, “I liked the shit you gave the media giants.” The manager walked over, patted Eric’s shoulder in a welcoming gesture and gestured to the bartenders that other customers needed assistance.
   Monica was on the last stool at the end of the bar. Eric stood next to her. “What are you drinking?”
   “Bombay Sapphire gin with lime and a few drops of bitters to add a little more personality.” He sipped and went bug-eyed.
   “Pretty women always get a bigger shot. I’m taking you everywhere.”
   “I hope so. You were very good on the show. The fish story was fun and appropriate. I wished you were in on the panel discussion more. But the social media,” she made quote finger marks “shit” was on the mark. I was misinformed. I didn’t think great lovers like you were also smart.”
   “I’m also good at drinking,” and took a long pull on her gin and tonic.
   The maître ‘d came over. Mister Weygand, your table is ready.”
   After they sat and ordered a bottle of wine, Monica said in a perfect imitation, “Mister Weygand, your table is ready. All this and I’m escorted by a somebody. You are quite the man about town,” and she ran suggestive fingertips down the back of his hand.”
   “Keep that up and I’m cancelling dinner and taking you back to my penthouse.”
   “It’s a nice night in Manhattan. Maybe we can do it standing up on the fire escape.”
   “I’m sure the nosy neighbors would like that.” A text came in, then another and a third. Eric shared the screen with Monica and they read:
   From Pamela Smith, ‘Perfect.’
   Dixiana Strouder, ‘Nailed it.’
   Bert Romand, ‘Keep it up.’
   “I could assure Bert that you’ll have no problem following his advice.”
   “For a sophisticated, intelligent European woman you certainly have a dirty mind.”
   Monica smiled. “I would venture that most supposedly sophisticated European women have a bad girl inside trying to get out. Prior to meeting you my bad girl was trapped inside me. Thank you for liberating her.”
   “My guess is that she escaped when you were about sixteen.”
   Laughing, “I think I was seventeen.”
   They had the typical, delicious Joe Allen meal, finished the bottle of wine and lingered over cappuccinos. Monica described her day at the UN and hints at the kind of court cases she was involved in.
   “Will you be coming to D.C. before going back to The Hague?”
   “Yes, for a couple of days. Why do you ask? It sounds like you’ll be there.” He told her about being hired by John Smith. “I’m happy for you, Eric. I hope it won’t mean I’ll lose you.”
   He took her hands across the table and looked into her eyes. “Red, I’ve been involved with many women. Several were pretty serious involvements. It sounds like a movie script, but with you it’s a whole different level. As you said in Florida, this is special. You’re never going to lose me.”
   Monica squeezed his hands and her eyes moistened. “I’m so happy you said that because that’s how I feel about you. As I told you earlier, I’ve been impermanent in my relationships. After meeting you, I don’t want that anymore. Whatever happens in our lives I want to be with you. I love you with all my heart and soul.” She grinned, “Cue the strings, but I meant that.”
   “I know you did. It’s exactly how I feel. We’re one now, Red, total commitment for life. I want to marry you as soon as possible.”
   “I’d marry you right now, if we could find a way.”
   “In fairness to your parents, let’s talk to them first. Your father and I talked. He knew what was going on. He recognizes your independence and self-sufficiency, but he still asked me to take care of you. I assured him that I would. Part of that has to be getting his and your mother’s blessing. Okay.”
   Monica made a small finger point. “You are a good person, Eric. I’m lucky. ‘We have
made a pair of stairs to marriage.’ ”
   “I like that.”
   “ ‘As You Like It,’ Rosalind, one of Shakespeare’s finest female characters.” Monica smiled. “You forgot to brush up on your Shakespeare.”
   Eric thought: Whatever made me walk down that lawn to the Gulf and find her? Now I can’t imagine life without her.
   “I’ve suddenly realized in my total self-absorption that I’ve never asked about your family.”
   “I had one sibling, Susan, an older sister, who was born severely brain damaged.” Monica frowned and slowly shook her head. “She had to be institutionalized, died when she was about fifteen. Susan never knew us. My parents divorced when I was in college. Both remarried. My mother lives in New Zealand with her new husband. My father lives in KL with his wife. I rarely see either one of them which makes me sad. I’ve tried to arrange visits, go see them, but they don’t show any great interest in seeing me.” Eric used air quote marks. ‘Don’t be a stranger, you’re always welcome,’ that kind of thing. Perhaps the new spouses don’t want reminders of past lives.”
   She took his hand. “I’m sorry. You’re too good for that. Now you have me, and I know my parents will adopt you, at least emotionally. My father is sometimes aloof, but fundamentally a good person. My mother is warm, loving and caring. I believe you’ll learn to love them.”


Monica arranged to go down to Washington for her International Court and UN business where she’d spend four days. They had five more days in New York. The first deposit from Bert Romand landed in Eric’s bank account. He sensed it would be the last one since he would soon be working for John Smith. With some cash in hand he was determined to show Monica the city. Problem was, she already knew the city having been there many times. Eric was the one who was going to get educated.
   When they didn’t go out to dinner, Monica arrived around six with bags of groceries. He sat at the island and watched her whip up salads, concoct gourmet meals and pour the fine wine she’d bought. All the time filling Eric in what she had done during the day, who she had seen and what was happening tomorrow.
   He showed her his work and found that Monica was a sharp-eyed editor:
   “I think you need an example here.” She pointed.
   “This should be a new paragraph, different thought.”
   “Refer back here to the same topic mentioned on the second page. You know, the one about the origins of NAFTA. And while you’re at it I would tie the NAFTA agreement and its benefits to the UK’s unwise exit of the EU.”
   “Probably need to provide a little more history on the attempts at immigration reform.”
   Eric thought: Why am I constantly reminded of how much smarter than me she is?


They took a museum day off from work and raced around Manhattan, with Monica expertly narrating the entire art scene. The Whitney; the Morgan; lunch on Eric at Sardi’s; the Guggenheim; the Met; the Frick; the Museum of the City of New York until it closed at six. He never saw such energy in one person. Put me on a rolling gurney. Since it was Friday, MOMA was open until eight, so off they Ubered, no sense missing anything. Then, late dinner on Monica at 21. Eric thought: Poke me with a fork, I’m done. Bed never felt so good.
   And there was Monica up at six singing in the shower. Eric pulled the pillow over his head.


February 19. D.C. On Monday, they took an early train to Washington. They would have preferred to sit back in the comfortable, facing, second-class seats enjoying the scenery. But both had work to do and were heads-down except or a couple of snack breaks and chances to chat. As the train began its long slow chug into Union Station, Eric leaned across the table towards Monica and softly said, “Have I told you I love you today?”
   She took his hands and searched his eyes. “I always hoped that someday I would find someone I loved who would also be my best friend,” she smiled, “and that’s you.”
   “My exact feelings.” They made plans to meet at the Willard’s Round Robin Bar at six-thirty. They hugged, kissed and left the train for their meetings. Monica off to the Foley Hoag law offices on K Street. Eric to the Russell Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue.


John Smith was in his office with Annie Wilson, his long-time assistant who was attractive, bright, open and friendly as a puppy. He liked her on sight. “Hi, Eric, I like your writing, read a lot of it. You’ll like working for John. I’ll fill you in on everything that’s going on, introduce you to some other people
   John said, “Once you two finish up, I’ve got a couple of things I need right away, Eric. One is some short statements I can get out now, sort of stage-setters.” Eric looked at Annie. John grinned, “Annie knows the plan.”
   “I may have anticipated what you’re referring to. I wrote these up,” and he handed over three, double-spaced sheets.
   John rotated the pages, Ben Franklin’s balanced on the end of his nose. “Immigration Reform, Tax Fairness, Retraining the Jobless. On the money, thank you. Do you mind if Annie looks them over?”
   Eric grinned and waved a come-on hand. “I welcome all the help I can get.”
   Annie said, “Excuse me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
   Eric said, “John, before we get too deep into business, there’s one thing I need to tell you. Did you by chance meet August Lucius’s daughter, Monica last week”
   He smiled. “Don’t tell me.”
   “Yes, and since she’s a major donor’s daughter I knew you’d need to know about it.”
   “Pamela told me she chatted briefly with Monica at the pool and was obviously impressed with her. I understand she’s a grown woman, but did you speak with August about it?”
   “I did, and he seemed to approve. He said that Monica was independent and self-sufficient, and then, unexpectedly, he asked me to take care of her. I assured him that I would.”
   “Smart move. Did you pick up that August Lucius is a good man to have on your side?”
   “Yes, very much so.”
   “Where is Monica now?”
   “Here in Washington on business. She’s an attorney with the International Court in The Hague. Been transferred to the UN and will split her time between New York and Washington.”
   John looked over his spectacles. “Lucky you. I’m an attorney, but not too well-read in International law. Given the upcoming potential, the run and all, I need to learn more. Pamela’s flying in this afternoon. If you’re not busy, how about dinner tonight with the four of us?”
   “That would be fun. I’m meeting Monica at the Willard at six.”
   Round Robin Bar?” Eric nodded. “Love that place, so much history. I’ll get a reservation at a nearby restaurant we like, or we can eat right there. I’ll call Pamela. We’ll meet you at the bar at six.”
   Annie came back into the office, smiling as always. John said, “I have a committee meeting, so I’ll leave you two. You’re in good hands, Eric. And, by the way, keep those short position papers coming. You seem to know what topics I need,” and he left.
   “You’re off to a good start, Eric. John wants us to anticipate his needs and have those things ready.” She handed him a 20-page, double-sided document. “This material outlines what I do, day-to-day. The job is pretty much twenty-four-seven. You’re always on call. You’ll meet my assistants and you’ll find them helpful. I leave in a week, so we’ll need to spend lots of time together. Tomorrow, we’ll take the people mover over to the Capitol and you’ll meet some other senate aides I work closely with. Let’s start by going over the files, paper and electronic . . .”
   As it turned out, Annie had to leave the office just before six and Eric was able to grab a ride with her to a corner close to the Willard. Similar to the scene at Joe Allen in New York, a bartender leaned over the counter engaging Monica. And a man on each side of her joined the conversation. Again, Monica got up and kissed Eric on both cheeks. 
   He asked, “What do the Europeans call that custom?”
   “The French call it faire la bise. Do you like it?”
   The bartender resumed his duties and the men on each side of Monica eased away.   
   “Yes. What are you drinking?”
   “A non-alcohol concoction of fruit juices, wasn’t in the mood for anything stronger, full day. You?”
   “Good move, we have John and Pamela Smith joining us for dinner.”
   Monica smiled. “I met her at the pool and liked her. What’s he like?”
   “Regular, here they are now.”
   Handshakes and smiles. Having met her before, Monica cheek-kissed Pamela. John Smith asked, “How are your parents, Monica?”
   “My mother is on a trip to Argentina to visit relatives. I talked to my father yesterday and told him that Eric was now working for you. He forwarded,” she looked from John and Pamela to Eric, “their best wishes to all of you.”
   The bartender who chatted earlier with Monica came over. “Good evening, Senator Smith, Doctor Smith. May I fix drinks for you all?”
   “Hi, Jim, yes, Pinot Noir for my wife and me, the usual.” He looked to Monica and Eric who nodded. “In that case, please bring a bottle.”
   “After Jim left, Pamela Smith said, “It’s comforting to know that when your husband is in town alone for the week that he’s being well taken care of by kindly bartenders. Reminds me of that Cary Grant line from ‘North by Northwest.’ ‘I’m supporting two ex-wives and three bartenders.’ ”
   Amid the laughter, Jim returned with the bottle and four glasses. He poured a tasting sample. Pamela inhaled the aroma and sipped. “Very nice Carneros. Thank you.”
   Jim poured and John toasted. “Here’s to . . .”
   With his bleeding face, more crimson than the last time they saw him, Bill Dracut appeared brown drink in hand. “Well, well,” he slightly slurred, “the donish daughter out with the putative candidate. Things are heating up,” and he tried unsuccessfully to stifle a burp.
   Monica stepped up, gave Bill a fist bump and clinked glasses with him. “Hi, Bill, did you hear the news? My father bought your paper this morning. Bill’s eyebrows lifted and his mouth opened. “Yes, he wants to clean house, bring in fresh talent and get rid of all the fake news.” She held up a simulated piece of paper, blew on it and shook it slightly with fingertips. “Better dust of your resume.” Monica straightened, raised her glass and smiled. “Just kidding, friend.” She motioned towards her three companions. “I’ve known John and Pamela for years. No politics tonight, or any night. We’re just out for dinner, so no more stories. Okay?”
   “Okay, thanks.” Bill looked over at John, grinned, hunched his shoulders, lifted his eyebrows and sheepishly walked away.
   Jim the bartender who listened in on the exchange also looked at John and mouthed, “Wow.”

John Smith had asked the restaurant maître ‘d to intercept any reporters attempting to approach his table and he did. Then the party outlasted the reporters outside waiting to pounce when the Senator’s group left the Willard. 
   They went into the restaurant. After sitting, Eric asked Monica, “Do you actually know Dracut? How did you think of that?”
   “Faust said something like thoughts are only effective when they’re turned into action.” Pamela and John exchanged appreciative glances. “I’ve seen him on Miami TV. I saw the article the day after Pamela and John arrived.
   “Keeping in mind that one and one don’t always add to two, as when two raindrops skitter down the windowpane and merge into one or again divide into three or more drops.” She smiled. “I have no idea as to the relevance or where this metaphor is headed. So, I’ll follow the King’s advice to Alice and just stop.” She smiled again and took a sip of wine.
   “Monica,” Pamela Bartlett asked, “have you ever considered, beyond your International Court work, practicing law in the United States?”
   “The price for my father sponsoring my law school studies in The Netherlands was that I would pass the bar in Florida and Illinois, the two states where he headquarters his businesses. So, I did. I guess he hopes that someday I’ll join his business interests.”
   “Would you consider it?” Eric asked.
   “Never. I love my father and wouldn’t let business get in the way of that. Moreover, I don’t believe in nepotism in business or government.” Monica emphasized, “especially government. We see how that is a huge negative, probably legal, complication in the current administration.”
   “You must have really crammed to pass the bar in Illinois and Florida,” Pamela said.
   “I’m lucky, I can read something once and remember it if I need to. Weird.”
    The waitress topped up their glasses, John Bartlett requested another bottle and asked, “Would you ever consider getting into government work, or at least the legal end?”
   “Like all of you,” Monica looked around the table, “I love politics, follow it closely here and in Europe with the actual and incipient trend toward fascism in the guise of populism. Marx said that fascism was capitalism with a shotgun. Surely overdrawn with shades of truth around the edges. I’m no socialist and believe in free markets so long as they are regulated for the common good. Don’t tell your conservative friends, but I admire much about the Scandinavian economic models. Particularly in the sense that with technology displacing jobs and what they are doing to insure all citizens a fair standard of living. You’ve seen, I’m sure, the experiments on the West Coast of giving the homeless a decent place to live and how that helps them gain the confidence to find jobs. That kind of thing. To your question, John. Yes, I would like to work in government. The question is how and where? I will say though that I have worked with government officials all over the world and, for the most part, liked the work.”
   “Who were the most difficult to work with?” Eric asked.
   “The Russians. It takes patience and stubbornness to achieve your goals. They accept nothing without a fight. Won’t even concede a point when they know they’ve lost it. Hope to hang a late victory on the next point of contention. They try to outlast you by repeating already-answered questions then interrupting as a stalling tactic trying to wear you down. That didn’t work with me. I saw a clip of Adlai Stevenson at the UN during the Cuban Missile Crisis. He told the Russian ambassador that he was ‘willing to sit there until hell freezes over.’ That’s the attitude to take. Reminds me of a reference in a book I recently read where President Kennedy is quoted as saying Russian diplomatic dealings are based on ‘What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is negotiable.’
   “I have a friend in Amsterdam who was a fighter pilot in the Royal Netherlands Air Force.” Monica looked at Eric, raised an eyebrow and grinned. “She,” Monica looked back at Eric who wiped his brow and mouthed ‘phew.’ Pamela and John thoroughly enjoyed the antics. “Anyway,” Monica continued, “my friend made the observation that aerial combat and negotiation had elements in common. For example, you always want to maintain altitude over your adversary.”
   Fortunately, they had a corner table away from other diners making quiet conversation possible. John asked, “Would you ever consider working with me sometime in the future?”
  “In a heartbeat.” As Monica patted his hand reassuringly, “I’d even displace Eric, the love of my life, for the right opportunity.” And her laughter, joined by the others, brightened the room.
   “I’m not sure she’s kidding,” Eric said, with a dismissive hand wave followed by a grin.
   Pamela thought: She’s a true original.
   “I think there’s room for both of you,” John said while still chuckling. “Tell me, Monica, what do you think it would take to win the presidency in two-thousand twenty?”
   “As my sainted father would say when he’s had a few drinks and eases off the patrician manners: ‘Balls, big balls on someone who’s willing to kick ass and take names.’ ” They had another laugh on that one. “And it will take the ability to stand up to the outrageousness of the reality TV actor now in the White House, if he runs again. If not him, another Republican will be singing off the same bigoted, racist, faux populist, one-percent-favoring sheet. Thinking about billionaires reminds me. When I said that I would work for you. I’m always looking for a job even though I have one, and a good one at that. I’m not the heiress you likely imagine. I’ve supported myself since law school. Now some news for my fortune-hunting fiancée,” with a thumb-point towards Eric.
   She looked at a grinning Eric who, with fingers inverted towards his chest, mouthed, “Who, me?”
   Monica continued, “When my mother and father die, and I hope that never happens, all of their remaining money goes to charity. And they have, incidentally, given a lot of it away already. Over my objections, my father set up a trust for me if I ever want or need to use it: ten-thousand a month for life and that’s it. I guess if things go south for Eric and me it will keep us off the dole.”
   Trying to suppress a smile, Eric said, “I’ve been misled. I want my eighth-of-a-carat diamond ring back.”
   Monica held up the empty fingers of her left hand and wiggled them. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’ve already pawned it for cigarette money.” She turned to the laughing John and Pamela. “You think I sound like an American? I am one and spend a month a year hearing my billionaire father ranting about economic inequality. He says, ‘The way things are going nobody is going to have enough money to buy anything.’ Good point. Also, I have many American friends living in Europe. They fear for democracy in America. In Europe, too.” She threw her hands up. “I talk too much.” Food arrived.
   Pamela said, “Forgive us, we know what’s good here and took the liberty of pre-ordering when we made the reservation. I think you’ll like it.” They tucked into a large, fresh-vegetable tossed salad, accompanied by whole-wheat rolls, followed by a platter of steaks, chops and shellfish surrounded by more vegetables.
   Between bites, Pamela asked Monica, “You mentioned that you’ve worked all over the world. Which specific countries have you worked in?”
   “Most European countries. Some of the big ones in Asia, also Brazil, Venezuela, Greece, Egypt, Iran, more.”
   “China?”
   “Yes, several cities, and before going I had to learn Mandarin and refresh on their law in a hurry. The Chinese I did business with were purposeful, not quite as doctrinaire as the Russians, and extremely polite. They are also great hosts. I had fine accommodations and some truly incredible meals. Speaking of that,” Monica pointed at her plate and then looked up, “this food is delicious, good selections, Pamela, John. Thank you.”
   They finished the wine and talked long into the evening over coffee, fruit and cookies. The Smith’s learned that in addition to her verbal skills Monica was a thoughtful listener. And also found that, like Eric, Monica was a conversationalist with good back-and-forth skills on topics you have raised. Unlike too many people who think their companions’ sole purpose in life is to remind them of what they want to say.
   John told them that President Grant frequently walked over from the White House in the evening to drink and smoke cigars with cronies at the Round Robin Bar. It was also reported that Abraham Lincoln cashed his first presidential pay check at the Round Robin. The four agreed that those casual, bygone days were long over.


John and Pamela walked to their studio apartment on a soft Washington evening. “Dixiana and Luke have socialized with the Lucius family quite a bit. She said that Monica is one of the smartest people she’s ever known. As we saw tonight, excellent people skills as well. She was masterly with Bill Dracut.”
   “Do you think I should try to hire her?”
   Pamela took his arm, “I think you’d need to carve out some kind of niche for the presidential run and beyond. Maybe a combination of law and diplomacy. You’ll also have to check with Eric on how he feels about it. But, yes, she’d be a huge asset, if you could find the right spot. I’ll be glad to help with that., offer some specific ideas as things develop. How is Eric doing?”
   “Good, so far. He seems to get on well with Annie, appears to be a self-starter. Had three, short position papers ready for me.” They entered the building, said hello to the concierge, and took the elevator. On entering their unit, John said, “We never could afford this place now. It was a big investment ten years ago. Now, out of sight.”
   “It’s paid off, too. In two years, we pay off Cleveland.”
   “As they say in the movies, why don’t you slip into something comfortable. I’ll pour a small nightcap and ask Alexa for a little mood music.” He kissed the back of Pamela’s neck and slid down the zipper on the back of her dress.
   “John, no matter what happens in the future, please never change.”
   “Prepare yourself duchess, I am the continental.” As Pamela turned and started towards the bathroom, he gave her a soft slap on the ass.
   “No, you’re really Stanley Kowalski. And, by the way, Mister Suavity, pull the sleeper out of the couch.”
   He softly yelled in a mock-desperate voice, “Stel-laaa.”


Eric and Monica walked in a different direction to the Hyatt on Capitol Hill. “So, you’d quit the Court and work here in government?”
   “For the right opportunity. It would also mean being here in Washington full time with you and not shuttling to New York.”
   “Would you work for John if he asked you?”
   They entered the hotel lobby. Monica said, “Let’s sit over there a minute before going up.” They went into a corner and sat on facing upholstered chairs. “Possibly, if it didn’t interfere in your work and kept separate. You heard my comment earlier on nepotism?” Eric nodded. “Sort of the same thing. I never want anything to impinge on our personal life. Our love is sacred to me, and I’ll never let anything jeopardize it. It maybe was said best in a bit from the movie ‘Moonglow,’ no ‘Moonstruck.’ Remember it?
   “No, I don’t think so.”
   “We got the American films in Europe, sometimes many years later. It was with Nicholas Cage, Cher, Olympia Dukakis, the actress who won Best Supporting Actress, cousin, aunt, some relation of Michael Dukakis”
   “Your memory’s incredible.”
   “Thank you. Anyway, on the topic of not having romantic entanglements where you work, Rose, the matriarchal character played by Olympia Dukakis, used the phrase, “Don’t shit where you eat.”
   Eric laughed. “I get the point.”
   “Okay, let’s go upstairs and do a hotel room fantasy.” Eric smiled and shook his head, with an expression that said, I can’t believe this woman.
   In the elevator, Eric said, “Let’s spend the weekend finding an apartment.”
   “We’d better or go broke. And need Daddy’s allowance I swore I’d never touch.”


Since no new article on Senator Smith’s presidential aspirations appeared in the Miami Herald, it was clear that Monica got through to Bill Dracut.  However, there was other, less aggressive, but no less curious, media representation at the Willard bar and restaurant the previous night. And, for the price of a drink, Bill was happy to provide details about the new couple out with the Smith’s. The gossip columnists and television reporters knew of Dracut’s earlier and now-syndicated Miami Herald article. They pumped him on why the couple was on the town with Senator and Mrs. Smith. “Draw your own conclusions. You’ve read mine. No more from me until I know more.”
   Several items appeared in newspapers, and on the Internet and television, accompanied by cell phone videos and still photos. A typical one read,
   ‘Sighted: the gorgeous redheaded heiress Monica Lucius, daughter of financier August Lucius and his wife, international socialite and beauty, Lucinda Valparaiso. Why is the magnetic Monica, an attorney with the International Court at The Hague, on the Washington social scene escorted by the handsome journalist Eric Weygand? More important, why are they having drinks and dinner with Senator and Mrs. John Smith at the Willard. Has it something to do with past and future presidents liking the Round Robin Bar? Stay with us and we will know more soon.’


Eric’s cell rang just as they entered their hotel room. “Eric Weygand.”
   “Hi Eric, Caroline. How are you?”
   “Fine, thank you, please hold a second or two,” and he put the call on speakerphone while telling Monica who it was. “I’m back.”
   “I’m on the Coast, probably calling you too late, lose track of the time difference. Just wanted to say that I’m coming back to New York and hoped to see you.”
   “Is that for a visit?”
   “No. Things haven’t worked out as expected. I’m breaking off my relationship going back east.”
   “Sorry things didn’t work out for you. As it turned out, I’ve met someone and I’m committed.” Eric looked at Monica who was unpacking their suitcases, and she showed a neutral expression.
   “I’m happy for you, Eric, but perhaps we could meet for old times’ sake, have a cup of coffee or a drink.”
   “I’m sorry, Caroline, but that’s not possible now. All the best to you. I wish you much happiness. Good luck, bye.” And he ended the call.
   Monica came over and hugged him. “It’s never easy. As someone once said, ‘Life is a constant reconciliation of choices and wishes.” Sensing the need for diversion, “Shall I turn on Jimmy Kimmel?” Eric nodded, grabbed his sleeping shorts and went into the bathroom. When he came out, Monica was already into her sleep top and bottom and went in to brush her teeth. Soon they lay on the bed holding hands and laughing at the jokes until they got dozy, turned off the TV and the lights, got under the covers, cuddled spoon style and dropped off for the night.

JOHN SMITH FOR PRESIDENT How the Democrats Won the White House and Congress in 2020

A Novel



Part One

January 1, 2018, New York City. Eric Weygand is thirty-three, single, usually votes Democratic, and went to Stanford where he played some basketball. People often tell him that he looks like a young Christopher Walken. He doesn’t see it and believes Mr. Walken wouldn’t either. Eric’s an investigative journalist when the work comes in. He’s also been a reporter for newspapers, writes magazine articles, usually on politics, has written a few books mostly on the same subject, and has a political blog with some followers. Eric’s also been a guest on some cable TV news shows.
   He heard a rumor about a rich Democratic donor named Egbert Romand who was looking to recruit United States Senator John Smith as a 2020 presidential candidate. Eric chatted with Mister Romand at political functions over the past few years and found him to be open and helpful, giving out as much information as he could afford to reveal. Eric interviewed then Senator Smith for a magazine article a year earlier. Since his wife was back in Cleveland at the time, the senator asked Eric to have dinner with him at a local Washington restaurant. He found the senator to be a regular guy who took a drink and liked to laugh and talk politics and sports.
   Before going down to see Bert Romand Eric did some reminder research on Senator John Smith and his wife Pamela. John is from Akron, Ohio. He’s fifty-five years old, six-four, a former college athlete at the U.S. Naval Academy, a fighter pilot in Iraq and Afghanistan, a graduate of Yale University Law School who later interned for a U.S. Supreme Court Justice. After which John joined a Cleveland law firm where three years later he became a full equity partner.
   Before being elected to the senate in 2016, John Smith served three terms as a representative in the U.S. Congress. He was elected to the U.S. Senate in a difficult race against a lot of Republican money, and has subsequently served as a member of the Senate Appropriations, Foreign Relations and Armed Services Committees.
   He’s married to Pamela Johnson Smith who grew up in Wilkes-Barre Pennsylvania. She’s fifty-three, a Brown graduate, Fulbright Scholar and now a full professor of political science at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland. Sources have told me that despite being middle-age Pamela Smith is rated by the gossip columnists as being one of Washington’s top beauties. She loves her husband, and despite being miles apart they see each other most every weekend. Since she is his go-to political adviser, they talk or text several times most days. Pamela is not sure she wants John to run for president. She believes he would be a great one, but the prospect of campaigning and living on the road for months is daunting for both of them. She told one reporter, “If John ever wants to run, I’ll be there for him one-hundred percent, and please forgive the cliché.”
   John and Pamela Smith, who are kiddingly referred to as Jack and Jackie, have two children: Steven, a chip off the old block, practices public-interest law in Atlanta. Amy, who is five-nine and looks like her mother’s twin sister, is studying at Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship, plans a career in public service and is dating an English Duke’s son.


January 8, 2018. Eric went to see Mr. Romand in Tuscaloosa Alabama. He and his wife lived in a long ranch house. She was out caring for grandchildren. Nothing overdone about the house, but comfortable and down-home on several acres with a horse barn and chickens clucking in the backyard. Bert’s a good old boy, folksy, average height, thick neck, shoulders and forearms like a blacksmith, bit of a paunch, baldheaded, toothy grin. 
   Leading Eric to a room across the hall, “Come sit down and we’ll visit for a while.” They sat across from each other on straight chairs in a pleasant home office. Extending his arms, Bert said, “Welcome to Tuscaloosa. Good business town on the Black Warrior River, sunrise side of the Piedmont.” He pointed, “Everything east of here drains to the Atlantic. Also, we’re hometown of the Crimson Tide. Little bit nuts about football in these parts.
   We’ve talked before, Eric, couple of times. Just to update you on the background, my name’s Egbert, but call me Bert, unless you like the name Egbert. Luke Strouder and I, couple of Southern boys, graduated high school in l968, and with no interest in college we joined the army, went to Vietnam just in time for the Tet offensives and nearly got ourselves killed. We did catch some wounds you can’t see with clothes on. As they said, those Vietcong guys were small, but they carried big guns and knew how to hide and pop out of a hole and shoot just when you thought it was time for a rest stop.
   Luke and I didn’t know why we were in country, something about Commies taking over the world. We soon learned the whole thing was a mistake a lot of guys we knew died for. It would have been a loss to mankind if Luke had got shot through. Me, I never would have been missed. Reason being, Luke’s a math whiz, A’s in high school, let me copy his papers. Once our math teacher was out sick. They couldn’t find a sub, so the principal told Luke to teach the Calculus for a week. One kid talked back to him, and Luke coldcocked him a left hook. Lot of lefties are good in math, I heard. Doubt many have a left hook like Luke’s. He was a good man to have aside you when we got into the hand-to-hand business with Charlie. Even between firefights Luke would be doing math puzzles and games, writing algorithms while the rest of us were snoring.”
   “What did you do when you got out?”
   Bert rubbed his face and sat straighter. “When we got out in ’72, California looked good to us, pretty girls, nice weather, jobs, so when we disembarked in Frisco we just stayed on. Luke was hooked on computers, read up on them, the big ones, they didn’t have little ones yet. So, we got us jobs at a computer company, sorting mail, cleaning up, running errands, you know, the usual, foot-in-the-door stuff. Meantime, Luke picked brains, got to use the computer after work. They found he was good at it, could write programs, fix the inner workings if they broke, acted like the computer handyman. They wanted to give Luke a new job working on a development team, but they didn’t want me. Luke told them, you want me you take Bert too, or we go elsewhere. They took me, and I found out that I had a knack for sales, advertising, PR, direct mail. Where that came from, I don’t know, I always considered myself a dummy. But I always was a bit of a bullshitter. Anyway, I was able to pick out the benefits of the products and talk about them in a simple way, I worked my way in, and after a couple of years got a job as a marketing manager with a nice raise. We worked hard, 17-18 hours five days and raised hell in the City on weekends. Talk about wine, women and song, this was rock and roll.
   The company thrived, word about us somehow got around and we changed jobs and moved to Sunnyvale, nice condo, two bedrooms, company building down the street. Apple brought out their personal computer, and Luke went wild, couldn’t get him off it, even the California girls couldn’t pry him loose, until he began seeing double. We rented a video program from MIT on early artificial intelligence. Sam said: “That’s the future, get ready, Bert, we’re going to make a bundle.” I liked the sound of that. Well, AI was some years off, so Luke began writing apps in his off time: How to manipulate data and apply it to employee recruitment; how to turn data into information through aggregation; using statistical analysis to predict buying trends. Meantime, I worked on who needed what and selling the apps to big companies. They may not have been killer apps, but they sure made us a bunch of money on the side.
   After a bit, we’d saved enough to leave the company and launch a startup. Even incorporated in Delaware for a few bucks. Issued stock to ourselves. It was worthless at the time, but made us feel rich. Luke wrote new and better apps, sold all over the world like butter in a bakery. I’d gotten to learn how to sell on the new and burgeoning Internet. We sued a couple of Asian companies that stole Luke’s ideas, scared the bejesus out of ‘em at the WTO and more, and they settled out of court for a bundle. Soon, big West Coast companies came around looking to acquire us and grab the patented technology, which was selling like beans in Boston. Bidding wars ensued. We held out and within two years gave in and sold for two billion, a billion each, cash. Through the buyout contract, payout schedule, we were obliged to work in the new company for three years and did so for considerable compensation. Investments paid off, and the billion-dollar, rainy-day nest eggs grew like corn in Kansas.
   Now, why am I telling you all this? Why aren’t we on John Smith and his possible run for president? You heard that a Democratic sponsor wants him to run. That’s me, well Luke, too, and a few more. I knew you’d wonder where the money came from and now you know.”
   “How did you get back here?” I opened my arms in the general direction of the backyard.
   “When our three years was up at the company that acquired us was up, Luke and I left the Coast and headed back to our roots. Way before then I married a lil’ ol’ southern gal named Katherine Prather working on the Coast as a quality consultant, smart as all get-out and pretty as a spring flower. Gave us some workshops on the quality ideas of W. Edwards Deming. Helped us improve our service and products and taught me what love was all about first time she walked into the room. Biggest thing I learned from Katie was that there are no excuses in business, and I guess in life, too.   After our first child was born, Katie wanted to go home to Tuscaloosa to be near her kinfolk, and here we are, now up to five grandchildren. Katie leads the quality team for a European manufacturer, a regular dynamo she is. Luke Strouder got lucky too and married a Georgia Peach, bunch of offspring, and we all live within five miles of each other, making for a lot of bridge, pool in the basement, laughs and political talks.
   “Are you and Luke retired.”
   “No, no, we got a couple businesses going. A package delivery operation coupled with a ride-hailing piece. Found out folks need to get from here to there when they can’t find a taxi. Lots of work with Amazon and the like sending stuff all over. And an AI start-up. May as well get going on the future. Luke and I have few years left.”
   Like most everything else, Luke and I see eye-to-eye on politics. Fortunately, our wives think the same way, both smarter than either one of us. And we’ve got a handful of other rich folks around the country who don’t like how the ways of the world are trending and want some new direction. The Republicans dig in an old ditch and the Democrats divide and seldom conquer. We need a unifier, like John Smith, for the party, for the country and for America’s return to world leadership based on free trade and greater equality for the common good.”
   Bert paused and shook, finger. “Don’t mistake us, we’re not some bleeding hearts in favor of giveaways. Ignore the highfalutin language, but understand we’re free-market capitalists who understand the need for fair taxes, strong public education, retraining and regulations that control greed and economic disaster from dangerous over-speculation. Herbert Hoover of all people said it best: ‘The only problem with capitalists is that they’re too damn greedy.’
   “Now, Eric, you’re a nice feller on our side of the fence that writes good. I read some of your stuff. Liked your article few years back on John. This like the third time we had the chance to visit. Why don’t you hitch up with us and chronicle the whole affair? What will it take to support you a month through the two-thousand-twenty election. How much?” Bert put an open hand behind his right ear. “That’s fair. Just give me your bank routing and checking account number, and it will be deposited. No contract, either side can walk away, especially if John doesn’t get the nomination or loses the presidency, neither of which I expect. All’s I need is your hand on this. Good grip. Thank you.”   
   Katherine Romand walked in looking a lot younger than Eric expected. Petite, trim, short dark hair, attractive, open face. It was obvious why Bert fell for her. She kissed Bert on the lips, looked up and smiled at me. “Hi, Eric, Bert said you were coming down. How about a sandwich and a beer? I’ll fix it and join you,” she grinned, “to solve the country’s problems. Please call me Katie.”
   After she went into the kitchen, Bert low-voiced, “Don’t, for heaven’s sake tell her I told you, but Katie’s sixty-five. You’d never guess it, would you? I agreed with Bert’s request and the fact that Katie looked at least twenty years younger than she was. Bert broke off for a phone call, and I checked my messages.
   When we regrouped, I thought I was in a New York deli. Katie brought in a tray of sliced-thin roast beef sandwiches on rye layered with chopped chicken liver, sliced tomatoes, pickles, mustard, the works. And cold beer to wash it all down.
   Katie could talk well while eating, something most of us can’t do. “Bert and I, along with Luke and Dixiana Srouder, have talked this out at length.” Eric thought: Dixiana? “We think John Smith, we’ve met him a couple of times at Democratic functions, is the best bet to win the presidency in two-thousand twenty. Dixiana agrees. She’s a Democratic pollster. The question is, does he want it and you have to want it.” Kate took a swig of beer, stifled a belch with her fist and continued with a little smile. “Excuse me. Anyhow, at least the senator’s willing to talk about it. His wife’s a powerhouse, political scientist, so she’ll have a big part in his decision. Bert’s a,” she nodded toward him with the corners of her mouth up, “great salesman so we’re covered there. We’ve got to get the rest of the Democratic donors on board. The movie guy, two from Silicon, Miami, Philly. Let’s see if Brooksie will use his place in Miami for a meeting. Too cold to meet up north. Maybe he knows some other people.”
   Bert said, “Katie, I asked Eric if he’d team up with us and write the story.”
   Katy said, “We need something written down so we’re all,” she smiled, “I won’t say it, on the same page. Tell you what, let me call Dixiana and see if she and Luke can come over for supper. Bert strangled and dressed a couple of chickens yesterday.” Bert made a strangling motion with two separated clenched fists accompanied by a crunching sound back in his teeth. Katy smiled again. “Bert never got over the war, takes his PTSD out on the chickens.” Bert grinned and pointed a knowing finger at Katy. “Can you stay for dinner, Eric?”
   “I’d like to, thanks, but I need to get a hotel room for tonight.”
   “No way,” Bert said, “we’re empty nesters, four extry bedrooms, unless you want to sleep out in the coop with the chickens.” We all had a laugh.


Dixiana and Luke were lanky, youthful looking and acting like the Romand’s and also good fun. Both had dry senses of humor, spilling out in pleasing drawls. Luke took a sip of bourbon and sunk in a corner of the large, semicircular family room couch. He said in his slow easy way, “So, Eric, from a Yankee perspective, what do you think of our crazy scheme?” He grinned. “Are we just four coon dogs off the hunt?”
   “I’m a Democratic pollster in a state with just four Democrats in the whole state.” Dixiana pointed around the couch as we laughed. “Seriously, though, we think the Republicans are the ones off the trail. They’re a threat to democracy, going along with the mess-up in the White House, whose only friends are fellow authoritarians like Putin, Duerte and the rest of the world’s thugs. So back to Luke’s question I interrupted. Sorry, Luke.”
   Luke sat up and gave us his usual goofy grin, “I’m used to it, problem being married to a lawyer.” With his Adam’s apple bobbing vigorously in his long neck, Luke continued. “As you’ll see, Eric, we all,” he looked around, “ask questions and then provide the answers ourselves.”
   “You’ll never find four people who are more often wrong but never in doubt,” from Bert.
   “Opinionated but lovable, Katie added.”
   Laughing along with the rest, Eric looked around the couch. “It’s good when people like you on a serious mission can laugh about it and themselves along the way. I like what you want to do and am damn glad you asked me to be part of it What tack do you plan to take next?”
   The four were all smart. Dixiana was a leader with a logical, political mind. Beyond the pollster profession, she was a lawyer who could succinctly capture key points and drive them home. Katie said, “I’ve got to put the supper on, tell Eric what we have in mind, Dixiana.”
   “What a name for a liberal Democrat,” Dixiana said, as Katie laughed from the kitchen.
   “Could be worse,” Luke said. “How ‘bout ‘Dixiecrat’ in memory of Strom Thurmond.”
   Bert’s paunch shook with that one, and he said to more laughs, “Four rednecks searchin’ for a Yankee savior.”
   As things settled down, Dixiana took a pull on her drink. “I should be in the kitchen helping Katie. Anyway, Eric, I know it sounds corny, but our main goal is saving democracy, with a small d, in America. We’re trending, like a good part of the rest of the world, toward authoritarianism, disregard for the rule of law, strong man posing as a friend of the people while surrounding himself with likeminded acolytes doing his bidding, contributing to economic inequality while lining his own pockets through the advantages and powers of officeholding.
   “We’re seeing lots of that behavior in this country,” Eric offered. “Bert mentioned that he talked to Senator Smith. Where do we go from there?”
   “I like your point of view, Eric,” Dixiana said. “After the problem’s stated look immediately for the solution.”
   Wiping her hands with a towel, Katie stuck her head in from the kitchen. “Bert said that John Smit will consider our proposal with no promises. That’s enough to take to the rest of the donors, I think.”
   Luke said, “It’s all about the money. We’re sick of putting up cash for campaigns with candidate who don’t know how to fight.”
   “Or couldn’t possibly win because of age, gender, image, race whatever,” Bert said.
   Leaning toward me with elbows on knees, Dixiana said, “How to make it known that we’ll only support a candidate for president we think can win will be tricky, probably offend many people looking to run.”
   “I see where you’re heading, but there will be counters like Obama got elected.”
   Katie came in to announce that supper was ready, come fill your plates and added, “He did win, and a good thing, but it was in the midst of the worst economic slump since the Thirties. I doubt he would have won in more normal times. Let’s continue this over the food.”
   The delicious roast chicken dinner with biscuits and gravy was washed down with an excellent Stag’s Leap chardonnay. Eric did some moderating, leading discussion of the pros and cons of the previously agreed-upon strategy. They liked his approach. Based on his suggestion that they get a firmer commitment from John Smith, they postponed a meeting with the other Democratic sponsors. Given his earlier successful interview with John Smith for a magazine article Eric was selected to go to Cleveland to discuss the presidential matter in more depth with John and Pamela Smith. Dixiana Strouder met Pamela Smith at a conference a few years back, and they found common political ground over drinks. So, it was decided that they’d make the visit together. When Eric decided to travel to Tuscaloosa to interview Bert for a prospective article he never expected that the meeting would lead to this kind of involvement.
   When the pleasant evening ended with midnight coffee, Eric was taken to a comfortable bedroom with a desk and spent a few hours typing up the minutes of the meeting and with drooping eyes emailed it to the four participants. He awoke to read the replies. All were useful, some insightful, others strategically sound. Dixiana also wrote up her version of how they’d approach the Smith’s. Eric thought it was on the mark. Katie Romand had a couple of helpful suggestions. One was, try to get the Smith children on board. The other, get John to agree to a meeting with the full complement of Democratic donors. Eric had deadline business to attend to so he and Dixiana tentatively planned to meet with the Smith’s in Cleveland on the following Saturday afternoon. Eric called the senator as a follow-up to Bert Romand’s earlier call. John Smith remembered his interview and dinner with Eric from a few years back and said that he wanted his wife to sit in on the meeting. He also mentioned that his daughter was on holiday break from Oxford and her brother was coming up from Atlanta to see her and he wanted them to join the meeting. Things were coming together faster than expected.


Part Two coming soon. Meantime read Richard Noyes Books on Amazon:  http://amzn.to/2b8FW92

LEARN MORE ABOUT 'HAMLET"

THE following sample analysis is excerpted from the Amazon E-book 'Hamlet, Macbeth, King Lear: Pivotal speeches Critiqued in Depth.'

MANY of the lines in Hamlet speak for themselves, such as, ‘for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.’ (255) This is not only the rare favorable generalization, it also perfectly fits the dialogue surrounding it. You think of Denmark one way, gentlemen, I think of it differently.

    ‘Why, then your ambition makes it one. ’Tis too narrow for your mind.’ (258) Not knowing the actual reason for Hamlet’s prejudice against Denmark, R & G guess that it’s ambition. Since it sets up Hamlet’s poetic ‘bounded in a nutshell’ (3) and ‘king of infinite space’ (260) lines, the exchange is useful. Then they get into dreams and shadows, and Hamlet says, in effect, let’s drop this, I can’t argue anymore.

    After Hamlet induces Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to confess that they’ve come to Elsinore to spy on him, he tells them that he’s become lackluster. Following ordinary complaints, Hamlet tells R & G that ‘the earth seems to me a sterile promontory,’ (310) or a headland he’s trapped on with nowhere to go. In his second contemplation of suicide in the play, he’s thinking of jumping off the cliff.

    The buildups toward exalted language are always fun to follow. In this case, Hamlet’s speech shifts from the audience visualizing him on a high bluff above the ocean to the roof of the Globe Theatre: ‘this most excellent canopy,’ ‘this brave, o’erhanging firmament,’ ‘this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.’ (311) The last one is especially image-rich, driven by the ideal verb ‘fretted.’

     Did you notice the ‘look you’ after ‘canopy?’ The actor playing Hamlet points to the Globe Theatre roof, now substituting for the sky, and tells the audience to look up at the canopy decorated with painted images of the heavens.

    After lifting the audience with elevated poetry, with effects aloft to boot, Hamlet drops them by calling all that beauty ‘a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.’ (313)

     Then, back up again with the enduring ‘What a piece of work is man!’ (315) This is yet another creation that’s become a cliché, as in ‘he’s a piece of work.’

     Other praises of man follow, only to be demeaned again with, ‘what is this quintessence of dust?’ (319) Man delights not me’¾(320) ‘Quintessence,’ or apotheosis, of dust is breathtakingly imaginative in re-highlighting Hamlet’s despondency. It also ties to ‘dust to dust’ in the Book of Common Prayer.*

*This Protestant book was written, at least in part, by Edward VI, son of Henry VIII and Jane Seymour. He is the half-brother of Queen Elizabeth I, successor to Edward upon his death at 16, and daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Keep in mind that Hamlet is played at court before Elizabeth’s death in 1603. She is the last Tudor ruler, and the intellectually-gifted Queen does not miss the allusion. She knew, admired and supported Will.

Even after her death, Will made respectful references to Queen Elizabeth I. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2.1, first shown in 1605, we have ‘a fair vestal throned by the West.’)

Hamlet’s mood is not symptomatic of melancholy; he has persuasive reasons to be in the dumps. His beloved father dies suddenly, and his spirit presents to tell Hamlet that his brother, Hamlet’s uncle, murdered him. Furthermore, the uncle, who is now King, seduced and married Hamlet’s mother within a month. Who wouldn’t be confused, bitter and bent on revenge?

Here’s the thing: within the beliefs of the times, the spirit could be the Devil in disguise. How does Hamlet prove the spirit is telling the truth? Suddenly he finds potential help in solving his dilemma.

(Learn more about the speeches in Hamlet, King Lear and Macbeth>
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