Man About Town: A Novel (43 page)

“The march on the Pentagon,” Joel said.

“That is correct. As it happens, I was one of the very first members of Congress to speak out against the war and to predict the inevitable outcome of our misadventure.” Maybe this was so; though, even more than most senators, Flanagan tended to recall only those predictions that came true. His epitaph would probably read, “I told you so.”

“Accordingly, I was asked to participate in the march. I pointed out to the organizers that they were gathered pursuant to ‘the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Congress for a redress of grievances.’” This was only
a slight misquotation. “I therefore regretted that I could not join them, as I would have been in the paradoxical position of petitioning myself.” Flanagan raised his eyebrows, the way he always did when he turned a phrase he thought was destined for Bartlett’s. Joel felt himself smiling admiringly. He had practically called the man an asshole, and the sycophancy region of his brain stem was forcing his face into an involuntary smile.

“This was not merely a witticism,” Flanagan said. “Although I had made my opposition to the war plain, I was a participant in the body that continued to fund it. Indeed, I myself had voted for the defense appropriations bill that very year. You might say that this was hypocritical.”

Joel did not say this. Flanagan went on. “In fact, I voted as I did under some duress. There is in my old district an installation named—you might find this rather amusing—Fort Dix.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Joel said. Under torture he would not have admitted that it was amusing.

“Fort Dix was, at the time, the Army’s principal basic training facility in the northeast, and a source of not inconsiderable revenue for my constituents. That year, however, the Pentagon suggested that the temperate climate of New Jersey made Fort Dix a less than suitable venue in which to condition young men for the rigors of counterinsurgency in the jungle. They might be better acclimated, in a word, if they were to spend their initiatory weeks in, say, South Carolina. Which happened to be the home state of the chairman of the Armed Services Committee, a gentleman of stupefying seniority named Mendel Rivers.

“I was a gentleman of no seniority whatsoever. There was nothing I could do about it. As it happened, there were other members of the New Jersey delegation who were more favorably situated. The base was never actually in danger. But I didn’t know that, not when the defense appropriations came up for a vote. It was intimated to me that, if I were to vote
No on the defense bill and if the base should subsequently close, the electorate might perceive, however erroneously, a causal relationship.

“I have often wondered why they troubled to intimidate me. I was an inconsequential member, the defense appropriations always passed overwhelmingly, my vote was supererogatory. I have concluded that I was presented with this dilemma—possibly at the direction of the President himself—precisely in order to impress upon me my own inconsequentiality. A junior member from New Jersey was not supposed to question the infallibility of the Commander-in-Chief.

“I voted Aye to preserve my seat. Not because I required the employment. I could have returned to Rutgers, or found tenure at any number of more august institutions. But I thought I was doing some good being in the House. My vote on the defense appropriations bill did no harm, and it allowed me to do some good.

“Do you see? Our little amendment will in all probability visit no actual harm on any living person, and the chimerical savings attributed to it will finance some tangible benefits to many persons living in New Jersey. Their gratitude will, in turn, allow me to retain this seat and go on doing what good I can. Including, perhaps, putting this aging frame in the way of some more palpable threats to the well-being of persons of your orientation.”

Joel nodded. What else could he do but nod? Ask the man to list all the good things he had done? Probably there was a list, probably in thirty years on the Hill Flanagan had done any number of good things that he would be delighted to recite. And he wasn’t a Fulbright, was he? He wasn’t like Fulbright, nigger-baiting back in Arkansas every six years so he could return to Washington and be a statesman, Flanagan wasn’t as spectacularly contemptible as that. He was just ordinarily contemptible.

“I see,” Joel said.

Flanagan gave a curt nod of forgiveness, then turned back to Andrew. “Let us go on, shall we?”

Joel saw. He needed the job. He needed to keep those twenties flowing into his billfold, so that they could mysteriously disappear. He saw that he wasn’t young enough to storm out of the room and into some other life, some other country.

He stayed in the room, said nothing more and looked out the window at the lovely autumn afternoon. He said nothing more, he wasn’t helping. Not like Andrew, also of the affected persuasion, who was writing out his brilliant amendment on a yellow legal pad. Joel wasn’t helping, it didn’t matter if he stayed in the room.

“When are you leaving?” Michael said.

“What?” Joel was in the kitchen, getting coffee. He was sad to hear Michael’s voice. Six in the morning: usually Michael slept another hour or so. Joel could read the paper, pick his nose, just be himself for an hour before pulling together the Joel he presented to Michael.

“Isn’t this the day you go to New York?”

“I can’t go, we’re on call.”

“On call?”

“They’re finishing up the budget bill. So they might need me for, you know, odds and ends.”

“Oh. Well, great, that means you’ll be here tonight.”

Joel made Michael’s coffee. Nondairy creamer, sugar substitute: he was stocking these things now. “I’ll be here, but I might be working.”

“At night?”

“You see, they have to pass this omnibus bill to keep the
government running for another year. Just this one bill. So they stick in everything they never got around to, all the other stuff they never passed. It’s the last train leaving the station.”

“Oh,” Michael said again—curtly, to forestall any lengthy exposition of the budget process. Joel brought him his coffee. He was in Joel’s widowed club chair, wearing boxer shorts with smiley faces on them.

“Anyway, I’ll probably be up all night.”

“All night? Shit.”

“That’s how it works. They do every little thing the very last night.”

Joel sat down on the sofa and opened the
Times.
Michael watched him. “You want a piece?” Joel said.

“That’s okay.”

Joel couldn’t focus on any of the headlines, he was too conscious that Michael was just sitting there. Sitting attractively, in his merry boxer shorts. Sitting quietly, contentedly, thinking not one single thing. Joel put his paper down. I’m-happy-I’m-happy-I’m-happy.

The phone rang. Joel raced for it with relief: it had to be Herb, telling him the marathon was beginning.

“Joel.”

“Hey, Herb. We’re starting already?”

“We’re not starting at all. It’s a snow day.”

“What?”

“The President vetoed the CR last night and they didn’t pass another one.” The continuing resolution, the stopgap measure that kept the government going, twenty-four hours at a time, until the President and Congress could agree on the final budget.

“There’s no CR?”

“Don’t you read the paper? The government’s closed. The Washington Monument’s closed. Old Faithful is not allowed to erupt. And OLA will not be open for business.”

“But—I mean, they must still be working on an agreement. They’re probably going to need me to help with stuff.”

“You’re forbidden to help. You can’t work. You can’t go into any government building.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed,” Herb said.

“I guess I just wanted them to get it over with.”

“It’s going to be a while. They say they might be shut down for a few days.”

“Really?”

“They’re waiting to see who blinks first. The paper says it’ll be the Congress.”

“You think?”

“They’re the ones who’ll get the calls when the Social Security checks don’t show up in the mailboxes. Anyway, enjoy your holiday.”

When he had hung up, Joel said, “The federal government’s closed.”

“The whole government?” Michael said. “Schools and everything?”

“No, the federal government doesn’t run the …” It was too much to explain. “Anyway, I get the day off.”

“No kidding. Maybe I’ll call in, too. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day.”

“Great,” Joel said. Then: “No.”

“What? Oh. You’re going to New York.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

Michael shrugged. “You’re going to go sooner or later.”

“Maybe. It’d be nice to spend the day with you.”

“Right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you looking at me. Just now, before the phone rang. You were wishing I’d go away.”

“Jesus.” There wasn’t any point denying it. “Just for a little while. I was just wishing you’d go back to bed for a little while so I could read my paper.”

“I don’t see how I keep you from reading your paper.”

“I don’t know. Look, why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go out for breakfast?”

“I got to get home, change for work. If you’re not going to be here, I’m going to work.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, I just might as well work.” Michael stood up, decisively, but then didn’t move. His body seemed to sag a little, above the expanse of smiley faces. “God, I hate work.”

“I thought you liked your job.”

“I hate it. Sometimes I just want to quit, go back to school or something.”

“You should,” Joel said, dismissively. Right: you don’t even read the morning paper, and you’re going back to college.

“I can’t.” Michael sat down. “I, you know, I owe money on my cards and I … I just can’t.”

“I could—” Joel began. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He knew the predicate should specify some kind of assistance. I could help you out a little. I could let you have the exercise room. I could pay your tuition. I could adopt you.

It had come up so suddenly, this moment. Had Michael turned the conversation in this direction? No, he was just whining about work. Everybody whined about work, it didn’t mean they were looking for a sugar daddy.

“I could help you out a little.”

Joel was a GS-15, step 9. His income was close to six figures, he thought, before all the deductions. He made enough that he wasn’t sure what he made, and he didn’t spend it on cars or clothes or any travel except the occasional essential trip to places like Roseville, New Jersey. He could afford Michael. He could keep him openly, give him an allowance that would spare him the necessity of raiding Joel’s wallet—which must have been a little unpleasant to him, he must have felt some twinge every time he did it.

There wasn’t even any reason either of them should be bashful about it. From each according to his ability. Joel had
money and Michael had … everything but money.

Michael was quiet. Weighing this, probably. How much help could Joel provide? How long would it last—a semester? Long enough to get him through to a Doctor of Apparel Science? What would it be like, being helped? What could it cost him, more than he was already giving? Giving away, or practically. At last he said, “That’s okay.”

If the entire exchange had occurred a few days earlier, Joel would have thought: of course, he has his dignity, he must think I’m patronizing him. This morning, though, only Joel’s dignity was in question. He didn’t mind being taken; he minded being taken for a fool. “I’ve sort of already been helping you out,” he said.

“You mean, like, dinner? You pay for dinner? You’re the one wants to go all these places. I wouldn’t care if we went to McDonald’s. Or we can stay in sometimes, I can cook.” Michael grinned. “Maybe not goat.”

Joel smiled back. They already had a little bit of history together, what was his rush to kill it? “I don’t even know where you can buy goat.”

Sometimes with Sam he had felt, as now, the utter contingency, the improbability that he should be sitting in a room with a stranger and imagining that something connected them. When they were no more connected than a couple of randomly colliding particles. They had bounced into one another, one of them could bounce away in the next instant, all it, would take would be a word or two. He could kill this in a word or two, or refrain, and the same would be true five minutes from now, or five years.

He knew he should shut up. He wasn’t even certain: he’d tried to keep track of his money, these last few days, but he’d kept losing count. He was an old white guy, how was he supposed to remember whether he had $137 or $157? Twenty bucks: he’d made that much staring out the window at Senator Flanagan’s office. He was making that much right now. When
the government reopened, he’d be paid retroactively for sitting here with a beautiful man whose boxer shorts had smiley faces.

Which told him, one smirking face after another, that he was a loser. “How did you know I’d been to New York?”

“Huh?”

“I just … you know, I couldn’t remember telling you about it, that I’d been to New York before.”

Michael made a persuasive show of astonishment: where the fuck did this come from, why are we talking about this? “I don’t know. You must have.”

There were supposed to be signs, some ways that people more perceptive than Joel could detect a liar: he doesn’t look at you, he covers his mouth as he speaks, he blushes. How would he know if Michael blushed?

“What is this about?” Michael said.

Joel blushed. “Nothing, never mind.” He scurried off toward the kitchen so that Michael wouldn’t see him cry. A few months ago he hadn’t been able to make himself cry, now he seemed to cry at the drop of a hat. Or of an illusion. He managed to croak out: “Did you want more coffee?”

“No, I better get dressed.”

“Okay. Why don’t you take your shower first, I can wait.”

“Fine.”

Joel took his shower second, dried himself, found his glasses, stepped out into the bedroom. Michael was gone.

Joel had meant to go to New York, check into the Sheridan Square, take a nap, go out and have drinks and dinner, and make his way to Roseville the next morning. But as the train pulled into Newark he found himself getting off. He’d only brought a change of linen stuffed into his briefcase, there wasn’t any need to go to the hotel.