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

charcoal-grey Armani suit, lawyer, lobbyist maybe? Violet says he's hot. I agree, he's cute enough, nice smile but no, I shake my head and tell the bartender, "NO thank you." I send the drinks back. I'm not that girl. That's not what I came to Washington for.

Violet coughs. "Wolf!"

I take time to conduct a little more reconnaissance before announcing my conclusion. "Maybe, but it's no like he and I are ever going to share any kind of experience The guy's good eye-candy – let's just leave it there."

After witnessing our rejection of his kind offer, the cute Armani guy turns his bottom lip over and pretends to cry – he's funny. I've no idea how long I was watching him for but when I return my attention to Violet she's busy conversing on her cell.

"No rest for the wicked. Sorry, gotta go. Duty calls," she announces after ending the call. Her boss has landed a spot on CNN. She needs to rush back to the office to prepare talking points. This is the weekend shit that I moan about – Are we never off the clock?"

"Can't you do it by email?

"No"

But it's still raining out there and look around, the sky is hazy shade of winter."

Violet does the single eyebrow raise frown that I've never quite mastered. "Are you seriously quoting song lyrics at me?"

"I don't know your people's music to well. Maybe I picked up something on radio."

"Girlfriend, you are priceless," she says, throwing her bag over her shoulder. "I can't do it by email. He's a very old guy. He doesn't do technology. Besides, he's paranoid. Every time I mention email he says they'll never do to him what they did to Hillary. . . . Sorry. I gotta love you and leave you."

"Have a good weekend." I wave her away.

"You not coming?"

I glance at my half-empty glass. "I'll be a few minutes behind you. I'm going to stay and finish this."

"Okay. Text me when you get home, so I know you're safe."

"Will do."

"Enjoy the Piggly Wiggly. Love you."

"Me too," I reply.

 

 

1.2 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

It dawns on me that for the last twenty minutes I've been sitting alone in a bar packed full of people, predominantly millennials, my people. They're all enjoying themselves and I'm doing the introspection thing again. I'm thinking, thinking deep, thinking hard. . . . Why do I feel so lonely? I feel this way because it's so hard doing what we do. We're women in our prime who, like Stepford Wives, do everything in service of our men, not the sex or the cooking but pretty much everything else. We are the survivors of a freshman class who came to our nation's capitol full of hopes and dreams, intending to fight the good fight and to speak truth to power. But to speak to truth to the power of congress is to look directly into the eyes of Medusa, and perish. We knew better. We did as our mom's taught us by example, we have to employ tactics to get anything done; convince your guy that your ideas are really his ideas. But when you are that dedicated to one person it's almost impossible to maintain a relationship with another. In college, the third date was known as the sex date. In this job, the third date is the vetting date. I'm required to submit the details of any prospective partner to my people who investigate every aspect of their lives. In the modern era, who can really stand up to intense scrutiny of a political background check. It would nice to have a person but in this job it's just not practical.

I scan the patrons of the bar, every one with a smartphone within reach. I turn my attention to the CCTV cameras. I can see at least four from where I sit. Video may well have killed the radio star but it also unwittingly dismembered future generations of aspiring politicians and their families. Half the people on the planet have been captured on film doing something dumb or have expressed a regrettable opinion on-line. Once it's out there – you can't take it back. I glance up at a camera and I wave. If I ever make it to congress there's going to be CCTV footage of me sitting at a bar – drinking alone.

Maybe this was the fork in the road, the point where I zigged when I should have zagged?

So, the Armani guy . . . he comes over and takes the spot my girlfriend vacated. "Are you sure I can't buy you a drink?" he asks.

I tell him, "NO, thank you. I'm fine."

"Come on," he urges, observing my half-empty glass. "One little drink never killed anybody."

I sigh. "Famous last words."

He does that thing again, turning over his bottom lip like a sulking child.

"Don't be so juvenile," I say.

He leans closer to whisper.  "I can do childish way better than I do juvenile. Do you want to see a grown man throw himself to floor screaming, I hate you. It's so unfair!"

"How many times has that little tactic worked for you?" I twist slightly on my stool, extending a hand, gesturing he should go ahead with his floor show.

"Come on," he pleads. "You're not going leave me here drinking on my lonesome?"

I fold my arms across my chest in defiance. "What is it with you people? Why can't you take no for an answer?"

He shrugs and grins. "God loves a tryer." His eyes fall on my glass. "What is that anyway?"

"Jacob's Creek," I tell him.

"Australian. Cool. Bartender." He smiles before ordering a bottle of Budweiser and a glass of Jacob's Creek.

"Did you not hear the part where I said NO?"

"Vaguely but I'm just keeping your options open for you. There's some old adage says, you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink." He slides the wine glass toward of me.

I catch a whiff of his scent. Nice – Hugo Boss, I think. His nails are manicured and there's no wedding ring. So far he's passing the smell test. "Are you saying I look like a horse? Do you think I've got big teeth and a long face?"

He locks eyes with me. "I think you're a thoroughbred."

"Nice comeback but, NO," I tell him. "You've wasted your money. Whatever ideas are in that head of yours – it's not happening."

He laughs.

His laugh is kind of infectious. I laugh with him.

The bartender's cleaning and tidying the bar top. In the process he moves the glass even closer to me. I eye the Australian Chardonnay as a few bubbles rise to surface. The freshly poured wine sparkles. A newly opened bottle straight from the cooler, it calls to me. "You know this is bordering on sexual harassment." I find myself raising the glass to my lips. "One drink," I tell him. "Then I'm outta here."

 

I'm keeping a mental count. I had one drink with my girlfriend, Violet, and Mr Armani has bought me two, that makes three. I'm good with three – still in full control of my faculties. I'd planned to be home by now, my belly's going to start rumbling if I don't get some food.

"Hungry?" He catches me perusing the menu, considering ordering a bar snack.

"Peckish, maybe?"

"I'm hungry too," he says. "But burgers, deep-fried spicy chicken wings, pigs-in-a-blanket, none of this stuff does it for me. I need proper sustenance. I don't do fast-food."

I lick my lips. "Good to know."

"Say, I'm not too familiar with this particular part of town. Here's a plan, you pick a restaurant, any restaurant, the fanciest restaurant in town. I'll treat you."

"Nice try," I tell him. "But NO. Not today. You should save your money." I note: Mr Armani is polite, articulate, and has potential. I'm going home after this drink. But if he asks, he's made the cut. He can totally get my number. Maybe there's an alternative to the Piggly Wiggly on Sunday?

He studies me briefly. "What are you thinking about?"

"Shopping, groceries . . ."

"I see . . ." Before I can object, he signals the bartender for two more drinks. "What brings you here, to this place?"

I roll my eyes. "Me and my girlfriend came here for compete makeovers: new hairdos, extensions and highlights, a full body wax, and a manicure but it turns out bars don't generally do stuff like that, who knew? . . . So, rather than sitting here looking stupid we ordered some drinks."

"I asked for that. It was probably the dumbest question in the history of dumb questions."

"Yup." I offer him a theatrical yawn. "Really, really dumb."

"Whatever, so  – sue me."

The bartender sets the drinks down and scurries away.

"Sue?" I slide the wine glass toward me. "Are you a lawyer?"

"No. I just work on the Hill."

"Me too."

He watches me raise the wine glass to my lips.

"It's just a drink. Don't get your hopes up," I pause to tell him. "You're wasting your time. I'm not one of those girls."

"Which girls do you mean?"

"We won't be hooking up. I'm not one of those girls . . . I won't be going back to your place and spreading my legs for you – that's what I'm saying."

"Thank God . . ." he says, raising his bottle to his lips.

"Excuse me?"

"The thought of you spreading your legs took me back to my OBGYN rotation at med school, which I totally flunked by-the-way, brought back terrible images." He shudders. His eyes flick to my lap. "When you've been, you know, all up inside there from a medical point view . . . it kind of affects you."

"You went to med school?"

"Started out as a medic in the US Army, I was there long enough to discover was and medicine was not my callings."

"Wow."

 He pauses to study me before extending a hand and posing a question: "You know I went to med school. I know nothing about you. Let's start from the beginning. Do you have a name?"

I deliver a harsh frown, slide of my stool, and throw my bag over my shoulder. "Doesn't everybody?"

It should have ended there – the perfect exit. I was in control, doing fine, zig, zig, zigging . Everything was handled . . . but then I may have zagged. I reach out and stroke his cheek. "Another time maybe?"

Why did I do that?

1.3 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

So far as I can remember, my dad worked in construction his whole life. I recall from my childhood, from time to time he'd bring home old, damaged wooden pallets. He'd spend hours, sweating, breaking them up out back so we could use the wood for kindling. It's hard work dissembling pallets, they're put together using special nails. The nails look more like screws. They have ridges to grip the wood fibres, so once hammered in, it's extremely difficult to remove them. Dad called them 'non-returnables'. I've probably just hammered several non-returnable nails into my political coffin. The CCTV cameras record me leaving a bar with a random guy, and we're walking. And it's like a clichéd scene from the worst rom-com ever. He's trying to make me laugh, and my role is to protest, but to protest just a little too much. In retrospect, if I had to judge me and my actions in a court of law, I was guilty of flirting – bang to rights. During the passive-aggressive, cat and mouse banter I discover he has a name - Dominic Hunter. I swear to God, I don't know how it happened but we're suddenly outside a restaurant. Dominic opens the door for me. I enter and I'm immediately in total awe . . . this is the best place – ever! There's nothing sleazy about this place. Giovanni's is well above my pay-grade, all candles, mandolins, and string quartets. This is how the other half lives. The ladies are wearing cocktail dresses. I suspect many men have taken a knee and popped the question in here. I feel out of place in my