Part 4: The Recesses of the Gums
(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)
“Are we there yet?”
“No. Stop complaining.”
“This is maybe the most awkward thing I’ve ever done.”
“Yeah, listen, that goes both ways. If someone pulls me over with you in the car I’m going to claim diplomatic immunity or something.”
“Wait, you’re not a citizen?”
“No, I—what do you care?”
“Making conversation.”
Her name was Delia Richards, and her license plates were from North Carolina. She went to UNC, she said, which was just liberal enough to convince her that liberals were wretching drunkards living off their parents’ money. When I told her she should try attending an Ole Miss game and get back to me, she told me to put a blindfold on. Aumerle House, she said, was a little ways away.
It was Black Friday, and traffic, judging by the amount of times we’d stopped and started, was wretched. I had no idea where one road stopped and another started, and DC’s bureaucratic grid did me no favors in helping me out. The little light that poked through the simple black fabric Delia’d brought as a cover indicated that we’d already wasted what little remained of the day by the time she’d showed up.
“So why bother?” I asked, after the silence had grown terminally uncomfortable.
“…coming to Washington? Working for a think tank? Helping you out?” I heard her laugh. “I don’t have the answers to a lot of those questions, but I highly doubt you do, either. What do you do, anyway?”
“I’m a student,” I said. “Grad student. Urban planning.”
“Bang-up job you guys did in this city.”
“Not our fault,” I replied. “Blame the British, they made it necessary to design the streets to discourage invasion.”
“And encourage traffic.”
“Look, everyone knew this place was a swamp when they built it.”
She laughed again. “So why do you bother?” she asked.
I had to think about this for a second. She snorted and shifted in her seat, so I coughed up a reply. “Boredom,” I said. “You can only learn so much.”
“Well, throw yourself into your studies, then,” she said. “You’re paying for them.”
“My parents are helping a little, with the loan paybacks,” I said.
She caught herself halfway between a snort and a giggle. “Liberals,” she said. “Always so keen with other folks’ money.”
“Ah, no, come on, we were having a nice trip, don’t bring politics into it.”
“You showed up at the ball. You asked for it.”
“You seemed nice enough to not make me worry about that ideological bullshit,” I snapped. “Besides, what were you doing at Pharmacy Bar? Getting your kicks baiting the pretty boys in Adams-Morgan?”
She slammed on the brakes. I let out a whimper as the shoulder strap of my belt caught me along the collar bone. “I’m doing you a favor,” she said. “You can go home if you don’t like my style.”
“Are we still in traffic?” I gasped. “Shouldn’t you keep driving instead of, I dunno, being, like, over-dramatic?”
“We’re at a red light,” she said. “I figured, hey, might as well.”
My BlackBerry buzzed in my pocket. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Phone,” I said.
“Your parents pay the bills on that, too?” she asked.
“Hey, step off,” I snarled. “They chose what to do with their money, isn’t that good enough for you?”
“I’m just saying, you’re the ones that’re proposing higher taxes for them.”
“My parents are not in that tax bracket,” I said.
“Everyone in that tax bracket except for the millionaires thinks they aren’t. Until they get taxed like they’re millionaires.”
“So you think we should tax millionaires more, then? I’m glad we agree on something.”
“Sure, let’s just build a big dam in the river of wealth during an economic meltdown.”
“You’re good at this think-tank rejoinder crap. Do you ever give the guys on the talking heads shows the talking points?”
“We are the talking heads.”
I shrugged. “Cool, I guess,” I said.
“Who would be calling you now?” she asked.
“It’s, what, like 4 pm on a Friday? Any one of my cool friends.”
“Having met one of your ‘cool friends’—“
“Reynard is not one of my cool friends. Well, I mean, he is a pretty cool guy, given his background. He’s just crazy, too.”
“He seemed quite the smooth operator.”
“You’re… how many big cities have you lived in?”
“Durham was big enough. This is too much.”
I shook my head. “Man, I can’t even wrap my head around thinking that way.”
“Sounds like you fit in here even better than I do,” she said, gunning the accelerator.
I wriggled my phone out of my pocket and brought it up just under my eyes, letting me look down into the open space my nose provided between my cheeks and the blindfold.
000lvidal000: @xubaihan vaya con dios a tus sueños incredibles
“Hey,” snapped Delia. “Watch it.”
“Just checking my messages. I’m popular. Kind of a big deal.”
“I’m sure. Why does your brother even want to see Aumerle House any way? It’s not that impressive.”
“What is Aumerle House?” I almost shouted. “Why am I blindfolded and being taken to see it by a needling young conservative with a cute haircut?”
A curious silence followed. Then: “Well, I’m glad someone likes my hair.”
“That was internal monologue.” I folded my arms in front of me and tried to nuzzle my nose down such that the blindfold slipped over my reddening cheeks.
“Well, since you’re monologuing, Aumerle House is just a policy joint. Staffers for all the Republican members of the House and Senate come out here to talk shop.”
“What’s ‘talking shop’ entail?” I asked, trying to put as much distance between us and my outburst as possible.
“You know. Discussing bills. Coming up with strategies on the floor. The usual.”
I sighed. “So why would my brother want a picture of it?”
“It’s not like Democrats don’t know that such a thing exists, and the house is pretty non-descript, so I don’t know, which is the only reason you’re getting to see it.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Yeah, uh, that aphorism applies to you, too, so you’re screwed either way.”
The car slowed to a stop, then backed up, then inched forward. The blindfold fell off my head, and I shielded my eyes as Delia opened her door, triggering the car’s lights. “We’re here,” she said.
The sun had already set, and light was fading from the sky. “You couldn’t’ve picked me up in the morning like I asked?” I muttered.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she replied. “Not even if Democrats pass a law saying you can be.”
I pulled my DSLR camera from under my coat with a sigh. “Let’s just do this and go home.”
The street was ugly, even with the rain having stopped earlier in the day. A few abandoned row houses stood in front of drooping trees. No street signs greeted us at the nearest corner—probably intentionally, I thought. The grass was an ugly mix of green and brown, neglected but too weak to make the argument for wild undergrowth. Delia looked nervously in all directions, then pointed out a light blue house with what appeared to be new windows, judging by the absence of dust and muck.
“That’s Aumerle House,” she said. “Get your picture.”
I dropped to one knee on the pavement. The camera quivered in my hands. I relied on the actual viewfinder to compose the shot, then pressed the button several times in quick succession. The snap of the shutter echoed up and down the street.
Satisfied, I turned to Delia. “Gimme one sec and we’ll go.”
“Hurry,” she snapped. “This’s a terrible neighborhood.”
I pulled out my BlackBerry and dialed my brother. The line rang only once.
“Little bro!” shouted Chris. I moved the speaker slightly away from my ear. Delia shot me a glare. “Where that picture at, huh? Did you get it?”
“I got it,” I said. “Just took a few of the side of the house right now. Anything else you need me to get?”
“Shit, man,” said Chris. “Why didn’t you get this done yesterday? We could’ve had you stake out the joint. No worry, we can deal. Just send ‘em over now.”
“Stake out the joint?” I repeated. Delia’s initial irritation shifted to genuine concern. “What would you ask me to stake it out for? Why do you need these pictures in the first place?”
A sigh crackled over the line. “Send them, and you’ll see tomorrow morning.”
Something in me snapped. “No, Chris, I’ve been chasing around this city for forty-eight hours, taking tips from a cryptic messenger and possibly banning myself from conservative mixers for life. What the fuck is this piece all about?”
Chris paused, then seemed to be talking urgently off in the distance. Finally, his voice came clearly through the line. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll get a kick out of this. But keep it on the DL, all right?” Delia took a step closer to get a better sense of the audio. I moved it away from her, but she grabbed my wrist and pulled the BlackBerry down closer to her level, taking my head with it in an attempt to stay connected.
“Uh, sure,” I replied, giving Delia a glare of my own.
“So,” said Chris. “One of the freshman Congressmen and a veteran’s page have been having a hot steamy affair. I mean, like, both married, both with children, both interested in taking their clothes off and fucking one another.” Delia’s frown remained fixed in place, but the color drained slightly from her face.
“So what? Happens all the time,” I said.
“They’re both men, Byron. They’re men who like men. Gay.” Either a gasp or an indignant yelp slipped past Delia’s lips. She took a step back and covered her mouth.
My jaw swung open, then worked its way soundlessly through a few syllables. “You say something, bro?” asked Chris.
“I… that’s crazy, Chris,” I finally said.
“I know, right?” My brother let out a cackle. One of the two street lights turned on. Delia looked anxiously up at it, then over at Aumerle House. “They’re using that place as their little love nest, at least that’s what we’re told.”
“How… how do you know this?” I asked. “Do you guys have proof? I mean, bad enough you’re outing guys, but you’re outing them like… on a hunch?”
“Byron, man, these guys are hypocrites. And of course we have proof. Other staffers talk about them all the time. It’s gross.”
“Office talk isn’t a reason to… I dunno, out someone,” I said, curling and uncurling my toes. Delia’s face had turned ashen, and she stared at the phone in my hand, her own mouth forming silent words now.
“Fuck, man, whatever,” snapped Chris. “We’re running this story at midnight tonight, just like how they bury stories over there. It’ll keep the politicos guessing until the regular news organizations pick up on it on Monday and the cycle’ll start all over again.”
“Man, you can’t just spread a rumor in print. Isn’t that, like… libelous?”
“Yes!” hissed Delia. I ignored her.
“Byron, listen,” said Chris, his voice assuming the tone he used to put on when holding the gate closed to get to the pool at the Y during the summer when we were kids. “We’re running this with or without the pictures. I just figured they’d add a sense of credibility. You get those to me right away and I’ll make sure you get credit, make friends here. Word travels fast in this town. There’s a big urban planning scene here, especially in Oakland. So c’mon, I’m doing you a favor.”
I stared at my camera as the street grew darker, then up at Delia, who seemed rooted to the spot. “Give me a minute,” I said into the phone. I hung up. She came alive in an instant, lurching towards me.
“You can’t,” she breathed, her voice equal parts venomous and pleading. “I knew, I knew this couldn’t end well, but you had that dumb look, tilting at windmills, and… I knew this couldn’t end well, and you just can’t… do this!”
I looked back over at the well-kept house next to its dilapidated neighbors. “Isn’t he right, though?” I felt my fingers close tighter around my camera. “Aren’t you all a bunch of hypocrites?”
“That’s… that’s not the issue!” she stammered. “They don’t even have proof.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe if there wasn’t such a stigma attached, your boys wouldn’t feel so stigmatized when they get outed.”
She moved like she was going to put her hands on her hips, but stopped halfway and instead balled her hands into fists to shake at me. “You don’t believe that. You’re just being argumentative. You know how dangerous it is.”
“They’re going to print it anyway,” I said. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I need the connections.”
Delia clutched her hands to her head, pulling the ponytail slightly out of place. “Are you just playing devil’s advocate or… or what? Are you winding me up? Fine. It’s working. I’m wound up. Nice job. Now cut it out and let’s get out of here.”
I stared at her for a good thirty or so seconds, then back down at my camera. “I need a minute or two to think about it,” I said.
She threw up her hands. “Stay right here. Do not move. I’ll drive around the block. But you decide to give him those pictures, you’re walking home.”
I watched her taillights recede, then shook my head. My BlackBerry buzzed. For whatever sick reason, I felt my heart leap. It was my anonymous follower, I hoped. He’s come to give me the answer at last. I held my camera up above my head in one hand while pulling my phone from my coat pocket with the other. Words flashed across the screen.
000lvidarl000: @xubaihan – a tu y tus problemas, links importantes: free-penis-report.co.nl y models-4-u.co.bz !!!!
Everything went black.
Part 5 Sunday evening.
November 29, 2009, 1:37am Comments
