ZIG-ZAG, Surtsey Ana [suggested reading txt] 📗

Episode One

 

 

ZIG - ZAG

 

 

1.1 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

Physically I'm here smiling, socialising but I'm not really into it tonight. I'm just going through the motions. Mentally I'm on another plane.

"So?" Violet's question is drowned out by the eruption of laughter emanating from the adjacent booth. Her facial expression intimates she asked me a question but I've no idea what she said. "Ha-ha. Girl, you're exactly right!" I smile and nod anyway. The ambient noise subsides. I slowly raise my glass to lips and retreat into my own mind. When you're at a low, planning your own pity party, there's a point when you pause, dwell for a time, fixated on how you got into this mess, which particular fork in life's road you took to end up in this mire. There's no going back in time, everybody knows that, a flux capacitor is not a real thing. Regardless, your mind travels back to the source, you retrace your path, identify the fork you took, and pinpoint exact moment where you zigged when maybe your life would have been so much better if you'd only zagged like your gut told you to.

I remember laughing at my own response to a straightforward, not unexpected, unambiguous question. I created a segue where one should not exist. Realising what I'd said I set down my glass without even taking a sip. I think I'm going to go ahead and blame Freud.

Violet's innocent question: "It's the end of the month. Do you fancy hitting the town later?"

My semi-absent response: "Phh! I ain't been hitting much of anything lately."

"Oh?"

"It's just been a bit quiet on that front. You know, I'm just going through a lean spell."

Violet is as sharp as a tack, and like a dog with a Frisbee once she's got teeth into it, she ain't never putting it down. "Exactly how long is a spell?" she asks, brows raised in expectation.

"You know . . . a while."

"Hmm." Dissatisfied, Violet's keeps her brows raised. "Are we talking lean as in lent lean, or are we talking about lean like the seven lean years?"

"Oh my God! You're like one of those culty God people. Why are your frames of reference always biblical?"

"Nothing wrong with keeping the faith . . . To your point; I'm not the one having problems getting laid. I am reaping the full rewards of God's bounty – on a regular basis. Maybe he's punishing you?"

Maybe she has a point? "Remind me how long lent is?"

"40 days."

I sigh. "It's been way longer than that."

"Girlfriend, how much longer is way longer?"

"A long, long time. Trust me, you don't want to know."

She gives me one of those looks that only black women know how to do. "How long is long?"

I lean in to whisper. "It's been so long I've been thinking about baking a cake for the anniversary."

"That bad? Whatever happened to Booty-call Byron?"

"Byron was an addictive drug I had to get off of. Went cold-turkey, deleted his number from my phone."

She cuts eyes at me. "What's with the grin? You look like the cat that got the cream. What evil thoughts you thinkin'?"

"You don't want to know," I reply, suppressing the urge to giggle. I remember Byron fondly. He was the one that taught me: BBC didn't necessarily stand for British Broadcasting Corporation."

 

So here I am. It's officially the beginning of another weekend. Surprise, surprise, it's raining in DC – again. I'm in the King's Bar with one of my girlfriends after work. We've been here a hundred times, our regular Friday night warm down after another stressful week on the Hill, a place not without sin, corruption, secrets, and scandal. There's usually at least three of us here but tonight Jasmine couldn't make it on account of media reports of her guy being involved in another sex scandal. My guy is squeaky clean, a regular boy-scout. I took this job, we all took our jobs because we wanted to make a difference – turns out we're we just fire-fighters wearing skirt-suits and using lipstick. Apart from Jasmine, Jasmine always wears pants.

"Let's do a couple shots," says Violet.

"Hell NO!" I vigorously shake my head. "Do you remember what happened last time we did shots?

Violet purses her lips as she tries to recall. "No –"

"Exactly! It did not end well, trust me."

"Just one," she urges. "You know you want to."

"Vi, you believe in a higher power, right, signs from God?"

"You know I do."

 I point a finger to the cocktail list on the chalk board. "Check out the fourth one down – that's definitely a sign!"

She reads then laughs. "Slippery Slope . . . yeah, I hear you. I think I remember the last time we did shots. Was that the time I –"

"Yes."

"Nuff said. Best hold the shots."

If Jasmine was here she'd get us all wasted. We love Jazz even if she does bat for the other side. We've been encouraging her to cross the aisle. She's not a big fan of the dumb stick, and a Republican lesbian isn't really a thing. She'll come over to our side eventually. It's just a matter of time. She'll have no choice if she gets outed.

Vi and I are looking forward to the weekend, pencilling-in plans. In our line of work personal plans are always fluid. Hopefully we'll get a drama-free couple of days, our phones won't ring. We're both watching the weather girl on the TV screens: according to the forecast there's a 70% chance of rain on Sunday.

"Typical." says Violet. "The DCCC's barbecue's cancelled for sure. I've no excuses now. I gotta go back to New Jersey, spend the weekend with my wretched folks, listen to the passive-aggressive bullshit about how I should have accomplished more in my career by now – assholes."

"Bullshit. Your father was a four-term Senator. He should know better. It's all about us. We run this shit. Your guy doesn't say a single word that you didn't put in his mouth or expose a policy not initiated by you. When he deviates from your script is when he fucks up. We run this shit – nobody else."

"True." Violet appears thoughtful as she sips her wine. "Do you ever go back home? You know . . . to visit."

"No." I haven't thought of home for a while. I left under a very dark cloud. Everybody back there thinks I'm some kind of psycho. "After the way I left. I don't think so."

"Family is forever. I'm sure that all that shit blew over years ago. They've probably forgiven you."

 I wish. Changing the subject, I focus my attention on the raindrops peppering the front windows. "Ha-ha! The DCCC barbecue is toast . . .  I've always wanted to say that." I laugh. "It’s not like I wanted to go anyway. I'd rather spend my day on the couch with a good book."

"In your abstinence, is good book code for day-drinking and watching porn?"

"If it's at the weekend it doesn't count as day-drinking. Besides, I'm a healthy single woman." I giggle a little. "Piggly Wiggly time is all the happiness I get."

"Piggly Wiggly time? I've never heard it called that. Is that a New York thing or is it what the kids are calling it now?"

"Maybe it's a local expression but that's what I've always called it, way back from the time I was just a girl."

"Why?"

"Fun fact: The Piggly Wiggly Corporation is credited with inventing the concept of self-service."

"Excuse me?"

"Back in the day, shoppers would give a list of provisions to the store clerk, and the clerk would, you know, fulfil the shopper's needs. But the Piggly Wiggly Corporation decided that customers should browse, and help themselves."

"God bless Piggly Wiggly."

"Amen to that," I agree.

"Naughty, dirty girl." Violet laughs. "Perhaps you can afford to lie around pleasuring yourself silly all weekend, but I can't. My guy's barely within the margin of error. Your guy's sitting pretty with a 30 point lead. Everybody loves him. Even the President called him ' a good man in a storm'."

"Good man in a storm . . . What does that even mean?"

"No idea but it sounds good – it's like his brand. My guy's got nothing, and if my guy loses – I'm out of a job."

"Your guy's old, like 100 years-old, and a sexual pervert." I scoff. "He's probably gonna croak before the mid-terms. Face it, you were gonna have to find a new guy soon anyway."

"Or I could be like Jazz and get a girl," she muses.

"Yeah, you could lobby the Mexican."

"Santiago-Lopez is not Mexican. She was born in the US and her parents come from El Salvador. And don't be so ridiculous, no way can I be an aide to somebody younger than me."

"You need to do something. Your man's going to be ousted. He's a pro-life Democrat . . . How does that even work?"

 "Like you said . . . he's a 100 years old, at least, and it's not like he's going to change his beliefs anytime soon. And, no, we're not going to have another long-assed conversation about a woman's right to choose."

I raise my glass. "I'll drink to that."

"Me too," she replies.

"Violet, it's time to move on, find a new candidate. You and I both know what the score is. You're a black woman. In this political climate you're gold. Without you standing next to your guy whenever there's a camera around – he's fucked. You're worth five, maybe ten points. Those shots of you behind your guy on C-Span are pretty iconic – it's like he can't speak with your permission."

"I can't believe –"

"No more shop talk," I insist. "Why don't we talk about something more philosophical?"

She laughs before raising her glass to her lips. "Like what? You wanna go deep, deep . . .  like, the meaning of life?"

"Please!" I study my near empty glass. "There is no real meaning to life. According to your good book we're so supposed to go forth and multiply."

Violet's ill-timed outburst of laughter causes her to choke on her wine.

I reach across and pat her back. "Why was that funny?"

"You know that go forth and multiply literally means fuck off, right?" she splutters.

After our laughter peters out I find myself experiencing the deep, philosophical thoughts I'd previously encouraged.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Just wondering about my life, why I'm here . . . How will know when I've made it?"

Vi rolls her eyes again. "Girl, you love to let things get all complicated, twisted, and tangled up inside your little lizard brain."

I'm tentative in my question. "Vi, do you know what you want out of life?"

Clasping her hands together she offers a single nod. "Sure, when I first came to this town my original plan was for total world domination – leader of the free world and all that goes with that."

"How's that workin' out for you?"

 "Trust me, my sights have been lowered. Now I just pray to the Lord that I don't die before I get my own Wikipedia entry."

"Vi, you are in Wikipedia."

"Sure, my claim to fame is based is nothing more than being somebody famous' child. I'm listed as a notorious US Senator's kid. But that's it for me. My loser, crack-head, fucked-up asshole brother gets way more ink than me – because he spent half his adult life in rehab." But I want my own page. I deserve it."

"I was convinced I wanted to some day run for office but I like my privacy too much. Maybe I'll bag a senator one day, you know, for my next guy. It's more stable. Six-year terms. If I make chief of staff, I can earn six figures."

"Excuse me, ladies . . .  What's your poison?" The bartender informs us a guy at the far end of the bar wants to send a couple of drinks in our direction. I check the guy out: