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: 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 Calvin Klein skirt-suit that I wear for work, one of three that I bought at Macy's – they we're on sale. The occasion screams romance but my attire says business. I feel inappropriately dressed.

Proving himself an attentive type, Dominic somehow, senses my discomfort. He removes his tie to appear attired more casually, and asks if I'd like a glass of wine.

I tell him, "NO thank you."

I'm in love with this place. I'm in heaven, and having a deep, hands-on, understanding of the expression, wined and dined. The Carbonara was exquisite, to die for – it'll put pounds on my butt but it tastes so good. I've no recollection of when the bottle of Prosecco arrived but it's empty now, and I'm feeling light-headed.

Dominic lightly taps his stomach. "I'm full. No more room at the inn. I think I'll skip dessert."

"Me too," I agree, slouching in my chair. My mind compares his behaviour to that of my ex. Brett would belch loudly after a hefty meal – the man-child was an embarrassment. But Cupid has a way of blinding its victims to the shortcomings of his matches.

Dominic signals for the check. 

I pause to recount my drinks on fingers: four in The Kings Bar and two, maybe three in here. That's me done for the night – definitely. If I was feeling slightly tipsy the numbers on the bill sober me up – Damn! This more than I earn in a week. Jeez. I can't afford this. I'll go hungry for an entire month but I don't want to feel obligated in any way. "Let's split this," I insist.

"Maybe next time," he replies, selecting one from his full deck of credit cards. "I'm a man of my word. I said this is my treat."

 

In hindsight, I really should have said goodnight at this point. It really should have ended there – but I think I definitely zigged in a place where a zag may have been more appropriate.

 

All things considered I've had a nice evening but it's time to go home now. We loiter on the street outside the restaurant. It's awkward. I want to give him my number but I need him to ask me for it. "Well, goodnight then," I say, stepping forward and offering my hand.

Dominic ignores my offer of a handshake. He stares into my eyes. There's a brief moment when I expected him to lean in. And what should I do then? Should I step back? Or maybe I should turn my head slightly to offer him a cheek. Or maybe I should close my eyes and enjoy what's coming. After returning from my mental excursion I discover he's hailed a cab. "After you, beautiful," he says, opening the door for me.

"Let's get this straight and on the record. I'm not going home with you," I say, slamming the cab door closed.

"But the night is still young," he insists, re-opening the cab door.

"NO," I tell him, taking my phone from my bag. "I'm going home, to my house – where I live. I'll get an Uber."

"Don't be silly," he says. "We live in increasingly dangerous times. I'm not leaving you out here on your own."

"I'll be fine."

"You and I both know . . . The District of Columbia isn't exactly 2nd Amendment friendly. How's a girl like you supposed to defend herself?"

"Don't sweat it. I've managed fine for twenty years and then some."

"How many's some?"

"Mind your biz! . . .  And just because I work for a Democrat don't be so foolish as to assume that I don't possess a firearm." First black mark. I suspect Dominic may be a Republican.

He takes my hand. "Come on. I'll keep you safe. It's no bother to drop you home on my way."

I study him before getting into the cab. His five o'clock shadow has turned to midnight bristle. I wonder how it would feel against my skin. He seems a really nice, genuine guy, sexy, smart, sweet, a keeper maybe. I want to do this differently. If I'm gonna do this I want to take it slow.

Maybe I am a little drunk? On entering the taxi I stumble. Dominic catches me before I fall.

I'm aware that I just zigged again when I should have zagged but that's what I did. And I make no apologies for it.

 

I've never grown up. This is bad. I'm trembling like I'm still a fucking teen. Be assertive but not pushy. During the ride home I take his phone. I just met you, but this is crazy. I type my digits into his phone.

"Thanks." He raises his brows.  "But I still don't have your name."

"My mother gave me my name – it's mine. If you're sensing a theme, here, it's that I don't give anything up easily."

"But I already told you my name."

"Yeah, you did, and, this is not my fist rodeo. I Googled you already Relax, it's all good."

"That's a relief."

"No scandals that I can find, well, nothing, no dirt that would raise a red flag." I force a smile. Call me maybe?

"If anything untoward should surface, don't believe a word," he insists, straight faced. "It's fake news. That sheep was sick. It was going to die anyway."

"You are one disturbed individual." I remark, shaking my head. "It's all good. Look, I'm busy tomorrow but if I move some stuff around I can be free Sunday."

"Sure. Great." He saves my number under 'DB' and immediately calls me so I have his number too.

"Awesome," I reply. Tucking my phone away, I note that I'm Android and he's Apple. It's not so much as another black mark – more like a smudge or a blemish.

 Our conversation's petered out, and the after-effects of the wine are beginning to kick in. My head's spinning. Dominic's sitting beside me, cool, calm, relaxed, exuding confidence. To the contrary, I'm beginning to perspire. My heart is racing. I move my bag off my lap and let my hand rest on my thigh, hoping he'll take it in his. I haven't felt this way since I was in high-school, making out in the back seat of Max Renwick's Pontiac,

After an uncomfortable silence he looks across to me. "You okay?"

I nod tentatively. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" He reaches across and feels my forehead with the back of his hand. "How do you feel?"

I shrug. "I dunno . . . a little juvenile, perhaps?"

"I know the feeling."

"It's just here on the left – 1412," I announce.

The taxi pulls up outside my apartment building. I look up to the windows of my third floor apartment. Either she's home or she's left the lights on again. I take a breath and place my hand on the door-release lever but linger a moment. I want him to lean across and kiss me but instead I feel a rush of cold air followed by the sound of his door closing. Dominic's out of the vehicle and quickly round to my side to open the door for me. I accept his outstretched hand to help me out of the car.  The rain has eased to a persistent drizzle but the wind has picket up. There's an awkward moment before I kiss his bristly cheek, tell him to call me, and start to walk away.

Dominic takes my hand and pulls me back, spins me round, and now we're close – face to face. He takes my jaw in his hand, and gives me a real kiss, a proper kiss – the one I wanted, and it's a zinger.

"Good night," I whisper, rummaging in my bag for my keys.

"No coffee, then?" he says.

"Double-down NO," I say, still rummaging for my house keys. It's not going to happen, not tonight anyways.  I'm a little tired and, Jesus, way to drunk, bordering on wasted, way too drunk. Call me tomorrow." Eventually I locate my elusive house keys, I look up and he's doing it again – the curled lip sulky face.

"C'est la vie," I tell him, pointing to the waiting cab.

"You never can tell," he retorts, shrugging his shoulders.

"Quit it with the sulky face. You played the sympathy card already – back when we were in the bar. You can't use it again. Go home," I order him. "Wait. What's going on? Why's the cab leaving? What did you do?"

"Yeah." He thrusts his hands into his pockets, rolling his eyes. "I guess I shouldn't have done that." He looks up to the heavens. "Because now I'm getting very wet."

Tell me about it. I insert my key into the door. "Me too."

1.4 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

The moment I entered my apartment I do the first thing I always do – free my long-suffering feet. It's automatic, passing my bedroom door I crack it open and toss the offending pumps into my room. On entering the lounge I take a moment, wiggling my toes to restore circulation. Freedom!

"It's nice and warm in here, cosy even," remarks Dominic, removing his wet jacket.

"'Because she's left the heating on again – does she think we're made of money?" I take his jacket. I was right. The label says Armani. "Let me hang that up for you." For the first time I see him in his shirtsleeves. He works out, I can tell. His forearms are muscular, smoother than my legs. An errant thought escapes my subconscious: a hairy back would be a deal-breaker. "NO," I object.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud . . . How to you take your coffee?"

"Three sugars, please. Without cream," he says, easing himself into the armchair.

Second black mark. Personally, I find the whole 'sweet tooth' thing bizarre. "We're interns," I reply, reaching into bag. "Unfortunately, our budget doesn't stretch to cream. You'll have to have it without milk."

"Very funny. I have to ask though, why do you keep sugar sachets in your bag?"

"It's a long story."

"How about you give me the bullet points?"

"I share this apartment with my friend Cindy. She works for the AG's office but she's not home right now. She's with her boyfriend. There's a  convention in town this weekend, and they're Trekkies."

"What has that got to do with sugar?"

"Nothing. Cindy has a bizarre reaction to sugar." It's her cocaine. She turns into the Energizer Bunny. It's weird. So we don't like to keep sugar in our apartment."

"And you're both interns?"

"We're not exactly interns but if you ever set eyes on any of our pay-checks – we may as well be interns."

He glances at his watch.

"It's not just because of the convention, Cindy spends most weekends at her boyfriend's. We probably won't see hide or hair of her 'til Monday."  OMG. Why did I even say that? That sounded really bad.

"I see. So it's just the two of us."

"Just the two of us if you don't include; the CCTV cameras, the panic buttons, the very thin walls, and at least a hundred nosey neighbours. Oh," I add, pointing to the tank. "And the fish. I forgot about the fish."

"Good to know." He smiles. "I feel so much safer now."

"I'll make you your coffee," I tell him. "Is instant okay for you?"

He smiles cheekily. "I'm all about instant. Instant is my jam."

I roll my eyes. "One cup of instant coming up, but then you really have to go." Midway between the couch and the kitchen I pause, turn, and wag a finger. For the record, there's no punani on the menu, not tonight. And to be clear, this punani's not instant. It's a special order – you have to wait for it."

 

I return with his coffee and pass it to him. "Before I get comfortable, taste it and tell me if it's okay."

He's staring at the fish tank, as if mesmerised by it.

"Hello?" I wave a hand in front of his face.

"Hey." He smiles.

"I know. It needs a new bulb. The flickering can be distracting. Taste your coffee."

"I'm sure it'll be fine." Dominic ignores my instructions, sets the coffee on the side table, and pulls me onto his lap.

"NO. None of that," I tell him. "There'll be no fooling around. Not tonight."

He ignores me, pulling me in close and kissing me again and again, softly, gently.

I know I should get away from him to preserve some semblance of virtue and intrigue. I need to get away but he's keeping me on his lap, not by strength or force but with his kisses. I want more.  Before I know it we're full on, making out, heavy petting, call it what you will. Then, divine intervention, blessed relief, a moment's respite to regroup. I'm saved by the proverbial bell. "Is that your phone?"

"Just a text."

It's all become surreal, effortlessly, in slow-motion, Dominic lifts me off his lap, carries me across the room, and sets me on the sofa. As he reaches into his jacket and retrieves his phone, I am both worried and excited. It's a fairground fear, making me tingle with excitement. This man is so strong he could end me without breaking sweat but what girl in her right mind doesn't want a man equipped to keep her safe.

Dominic curses under his breath and frowns after reading the text message.

"What was that all about?" I ask.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he replies, offering a weak but obviously forced smile.

"Bad news?"

"I needed a win. But there's nothing I can do about this right now, DB. It's just work."

"What happened?"

"Looks like a vote in the Senate isn't going to go our way."

"Are you sure that's all it is?"

"I'm sure," he replies, returning the phone to his jacket pocket. "Why are you questioning me? What is this – the Spanish Inquisition?"

I can't help it but a smile is born. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. I consider taking the opportunity to make light but think better. "I just thought –"

"Leave it! It is what it is!" he snaps.

I was thinking this guy's kinda sweet but it appears he can be very, very salty – but, hey, we've all got our sore points, it's not a deal-breaker. I try to calm him by rubbing his back. "You're right. It's not my business. How about we just enjoy each other's company and not talk politics?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose before kneeling by the sofa and taking my hands in his. "Yes, how about we do just that, Miss DB."

"DB?"

"I don't know your given name so Dirty Blonde, yeah, that will have to do – for now. Maybe I'll get a name later?"

I'm angered. "Mr! You don't know me. You've no right to disparage me like that. Get out!"

He laughs at me. "My mom was a hairdresser: I know the difference between; ash blonde, silver blonde, strawberry blonde, copper blonde, and belle blonde. You, my sweet, are definitely leaning toward dirty – although originally you're most likely somewhere between auburn and mousy-brown."

"Karen," I tell him. "My name's Karen."

"Good to know."

I'm embarrassed. We're in that moment, the one where I justify my next actions to the rational, sensible side of my soul: it just happened, I don't usually. I look into his dark brown eyes, and right there . . . You can stick a fork in me – I'm done. He's got me in the mood for love. I'm thinking I want to turn out the lights, maybe light a candle.

He holds my gaze.

Let's get close, that's what I'm thinking. I lick my lips and part them slightly in anticipation of his next soft, sweet kiss.

He hesitates, making me wait.

"Listen up," I insist, embracing him. "One thing you need to understand, homeboy: this is not a game to me. I'm not a toy. I'm not a DC plaything."

He smiles a crooked smile. "Did you just call me 'Homeboy?"

When the kiss comes it's neither sweet nor soft – it is brutal. "Do you want to, maybe –," I start.  The man he has become doesn't wait to hear the rest of my sentence, "go easy."

"Damn straight," he says, leaping on me, throwing me back, laying me prostrate on the sofa.

WTF? "Slow down!" I fight. A combination of blind panic and ass preservation compels me to swivel around to face him. He leaps on top of me. His previously supple body is tense now. I'm ashamed to say I still crave his lips. His hungry kisses easily penetrate all my defences but the kisses are more angry now, more intense. Who is this guy? It's like this man is really angry about something. "Hey, Tiger, slow down. You're hurting me." I urge him.  It's like he's got four, five, six hands. There's an unexpected twang, my breasts suddenly freed by the undoing of my bra-strap. In the onslaught I become disorientated, overwhelmed. His tongue is in my mouth. He has one hand on my neck, another caressing my face, another squeezing my breasts, and another trying to remove my panties.  "NO," I tell him, but it's like he can't hear me.  As I feel him enter me I try to push him off me but he is heavy and strong and I weigh around 110 pounds wet. I want to scream 'NO' at the top of my lungs but my addled mind begins analyse data and likely scenarios going forward. I'd said 'NO' to the drink in the bar, 'NO 'to the meal in the restaurant, 'NO 'to the to cab home , and NO to his coming up to my apartment for 'coffee'.

At this point my subconscious chimed in, offering its unsolicited opinion. It laughed, mocking me. "How's you're little 'no' plan working out for you? Every time you said it you didn't really mean it, and he knew it. You got called out. You're just a tease."

"No. I'm not." Again, I was there with the 'NO'. "It wasn't supposed be like this," I told my subconscious. In the hazy, dim flickering light, I can see my ankles locked around his waist, pulling him in, preventing his retreat.

I, Karen Taylor, had fucked up and set the eight ball rolling. The last thing I remember before I passed out was an angry man on top of me – pumping hard, thrusting furiously, hurting me. Then something happened, a primeval response that was neither fight nor flight. The pain and fear ceased. My body went limp. I became quiet, small, and absent.

 

1.5 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

It's the morning after. I'm wide awake. It's light outside. I look across to the fish tank. The blinking fluorescent bulb has finally died. I lay a while listening to the sound of the early morning traffic. I hurt. Everything's sore. Carpet burns on my back and shoulders. The pain I'm feeling is partially anaesthetised by the realisation – I am still here, and alive. The beast that savaged me has long gone. I extricate myself from beneath the duvet covering my naked body and struggle to my feet. I'm confused – he did this. He took the time to go into my room, retrieve the duvet from my bed, and cover me. Why? It doesn't make any sense.

The warmth of the shower water soothes my aching muscles but stings my abrasions. I've been in here most of the morning trying to scrub every part of him and last night from my body. More than that I'm trying to remember; what happened. Why did it happen? Were there signs? Should I have seen them?

Cindy rushes home after I call her. Still wearing her Star Trek outfit she drives me to the ER where I'm tested: HIV, hepatitis and more. As a matter of protocol I'm given prophylactics. Waiting for the test results is more pain. I'm overwhelmed with joy and relief when the doctor writes me a prescription and tells me I'm clear but I have to repeat the HIV test in three months. During the journey home Cindy's patient. She doesn't press me with questions. She waits until I'm ready to talk. When I eventually spill all the details she comforts me and assures me it wasn't my fault. I agree with Cindy, the bastard shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.

"We should call the police," Cindy says.

"What's the point?" I ask. "I'm all showered and clean. There'll be no shred of evidence anywhere."

"You don't know that," she objects. "We should call them anyway."

"NO," I tell her.

"You forget I work in the AG's office – I know people. Trust me. This motherfucking asshole will rue the day he darkened your path. He's going down."

"Which part of NO do you not understand?" I snap. "Please, for the love of Christ, will you just back the fuck off!"

 "How about you rest up, think on it while I run out to the store and get your prescription filled?"

 

While Cindy is in the store I wait, a million dark thoughts race through my mind, thoughts of vengeance and murder, thoughts I shouldn't share. Better move on . . .

 

Two law enforcement officers arrive early in the evening. The male officer hangs back remaining silent while the female detective questions me and takes my statement.

"My name's Detective Jansen," she starts. "I'm going to try to make this as painless as possible."

I tell my story.

Sympathetic to my words, she nods and smiles, offers me pamphlets with information pertaining to support groups, counsellors, and therapists. Before leaving the detective returns to the subject of my drinking.

"Let's go through your alcohol consumption again."

"I had four glasses of wine in the bar."

"Large or small?"

"Large."

"And in the restaurant?"

"Two, I guess. We shared a bottle. He was topping me up."

"So you may have had more than half the bottle?"

I shrug. "Possibly."

"Okay then." The detective stands. "We're about done here."

"But he raped her! Aren't you going to arrest him?" screams Cindy.

"Calm down, ma'am. I know it seems unfair but I don't think there's enough evidence to secure a rape conviction. Clearly an assault has taken place but, again, it's going to be 'he said, she said.'"

"So you're just going to let him get away with it?"

"We'll speak to him." Detective Jansen scribbles something in her notes. She hands me her card before leaving. "My cell number's on there. Call me any time. I'm so sorry this has happened to you."

"Me too," I reply.

 

Cindy's fussing, trying her best to console and comfort me.

I raise a smile as she places a tray on the table. "Really?"

She shrugs.

As if chicken soup can resolve all my problems? I know where her heart is, and I know she's trying to help but what can anybody really do or say in situations like this. "You should go," I tell her.

"Go where? I live here."

"It's the final day of the convention, Go back and do your Star Tek thingy. I'll see you tomorrow night."

"I don't think you should be alone."

"I won't be alone," I say, glancing at the steam rising from the bowl. "I have chicken soup . . . I'll be fine. I'm not suicidal or anything. I promise."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

She hugs me.

During her extended, tight hug - I'm thinking. As she pulls away I take her arm and make eye contact. "This is my business, my story to tell, or not," I insist. "Do not under any circumstances tell Violet or Jazz. Don't tell anybody."

"What's to tell?"

"It was kinda my fault."

"How so?"

"I just met him – it was crazy. I gave him my number and said, 'call me, maybe."

Cindy frowns whilst shaking her head. "Honey, you’re so off key you need help – big time mental therapy."

"Why?"

"That's a pop song!"

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure."

"Whatever. Promise you won't say anything to anybody – swear it?"

She raises her free hand. "I Promise. I swear it"

 

1.6 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

Under normal circumstances I'm not a girl that can lay in bed in the mornings. On any other given day, if I'm awake I'm up and at it – fast out of the blocks. But this morning is different. I've been wide awake for hours without the slightest inclination to leave the secure warmth and comfort of my duvet. It's safe here. I didn't close the blinds last night, the sun's streaming in, and the god-damn bulb in the fish-tank is still flickering for all it's worth. I figure today must be Sunday because I can hear church bells ringing. I reach for my phone. Bless. Cindy's sent me a series of supportive texts.  I'd expect nothing less. Cindy is good people.

Even though I was up early, I've been preoccupied all day, dwelling on my situation. For the record, I slept okay. I didn't have nightmares. A couple of Advil go some way to relieving my physical pain. I'm coming to terms with the gravity of what has transpired. I'm a private person, I don't want this to go to court and become a thing. There's no real upside. My friends will see me as a victim. Men will see me as damaged goods, or worse I'll be slut-shamed, branded as one of DC's, gold-digging whores. And I'm going into work tomorrow, what if people at my job find out?

I lay back on my couch to take another run at recalling Friday's events. The phone call angered him, and he took his frustrations out on me. I recalled my own anger management issues. I understood how a person can cross the threshold. It was my anger at a man that had caused me to leave Poughkeepsie and move to DC. When I found out what he'd done I was overcome with uncontrollable rage. I took a baseball bat first to his car, then his beloved motorcycle, and finally to Brett himself. After the incident I went back to my folk's for a couple of weeks. When I returned to the apartment he's gone, moved out, totally ghosted me. I haven't heard hide nor hair of him since. It happened. I'm over it. No charges were filed, and it's okay for me to reflect, feel a little shame from time to time. To periodically reflect and learn from that event, it makes me a better person. Even though I'm a lifelong democrat, the thought of my man carrying on with another man behind my back is beyond wrong – it's an abomination.

By Sunday night I'm done deliberating. Dominic didn't hit me. He didn't threaten me. I'd given him a clear signal – every time I say NO it's okay for him to go right on ahead and bulldoze through my flimsy, straw objections. I'll learn from this. I'll be better, stronger next time. So, I'm a little bashed-up and bruised. Some people like ruff sex. I afford myself a smile: Cindy and her boyfriend broke her bed last summer. Maybe this is sex in the age in which we live. It's not like you'll see any romantic love-making on youporn.com. At the end of the day what I experienced was just a bad date, a really horrific date. I want to put all of this behind me and move on with my life. I was feeling sorry myself like I was all of a sudden part of the #metoo sisterhood, but I'm not – I brought this on myself. They say that 93% of human communication is non-verbal. Sure, 7% of me told him no but what the hell was the rest of me telling him?

I take Detective Jansen's card from the coffee table. Confident in my decision, I dial her number. "I've been thinking. I want to forget this," I tell her. "It's not such a big deal. I think I want to retract my statement."

"Don't worry. We've got the bastard," she replies with glee. "Dominic Hunter is in custody as we speak. He's been charged with your rape."

"Wow!" I'm shocked. "Did he confess?"

"No not exactly. But he did confirm the number of drinks you consumed."

"What? How does that help?"

"It means –"

"Sorry, detective, but I just want to forget about it and move on with my life." I want to drop the charges," I tell her. "It was just a bad date."

"It's not up to you, or me," she replies. "As a staunch advocate for women's rights, ultimately the decision rests with the US Attorney for the District of Colombia, and she campaigned on justice for victims of sexual abuse – that is her agenda."

"I don't give a flying fuck about her agenda. I'm not a victim! Stop saying I'm a victim!" I scream. Surprised by the venom in my own rage, I take a moment to dial it back, compose myself before continuing in a calmer but still determined fashion. "Listen. . . It is up to me. I won't come to court," I tell her. "I don't want to. You won't have a case because you'll have no evidence."

"We already have all evidence we need," she replies. "According to your statement, and that of the taxi driver - you were clearly inebriated before the alleged assault, therefore you were unable to provide lawful consent."

"What now?"

"The law is clear, Miss Taylor, you were the victim of a crime."

"Sorry, but it's an open and shut case: Rape, second degree – Class A felony."

"Fuck you!" I say.

"Ma'am? This is good news."

"Fuck all of you. I am not a victim." I abruptly end the call.

Detective Jansen tries to call me back but I recognise the number and I choose ignore her. I can think of nothing she can say that I want to hear.

My phone's been blowing up for the last hour or more – she keeps calling. I'm standing here shaking, I don't know for how long. "I can't deal with this." Fuck off. I switch off my phone and cross to the kitchen to the place I find solace during times of distress – the refrigerator.

Comforting eating has never been my thing but I swing the door open because I like to look at the food and revisit the tastes – comfort eating without the calories.  I let the cool breeze wash over my face as I study the contents of the shelves. Eventually I do what I always do, select a bottle of spring water.

 It takes me a few moments but I identify the origins of my hostility and anger. On Friday night that animal, that wolf dressed as a sheep, he violated me, took my power, my dignity, my rights. What happened wasn't up to me. The situation got out of my control. I had no say. Detective Jansen was no better than Mr Armani. She'd just done the very same thing, taken away my choice – commandeered my options.

Fuck them.

There's nobody here but me. I'm relieved to be able to briefly dispense with the long-held façade of strength and courage. I'm just a girl with serious problems that doesn't know what to do. I return to the couch to wallow and cry but my eyes are drawn to the bottle of Jack Daniels on the shelf across the room, a shot or two would calm me. I could take the time to re-focus, re-centre, and rebalance – gain some perspective. But the doctor's words ring loud in my head: "You must take this within the next 24 hours. You don't have a choice."

I check the time on my phone. No alcohol for me.

I guess it's time for me to take my prescription. The solitary pill on the table is an ironic reflection of me, my life. It is white, single and lonely. It is the antidote to the symptoms of my affliction. I set the bottle cap down on the table as I pause for further thought. This experience has no doubt damaged me but damage can be fixed. Time will tell, but I fear that I may be beyond damaged. I may be broken. Broken cannot be fixed, not really. What is broken can never be the same again. I may lack the ability or will to thrive. From breakage there can only be salvage from the wreckage. This is the one thing I still have control over, a decision they haven't taken away yet. I am still strong. I still have my power. I still have my right to choose.

I absently place a hand on my gut as I ponder:  zig or zag?

 

ALL HAIL THE NEW CHIEF

 

2.0 ALL HAIL THE NEW CHIEF

 

Monday morning. My cell-phone sings and buzzes as an unprecedented number of texts bombard my inbox. Afraid of the content of the messages I shut the phone away inside the nightstand drawer and hide beneath my duvet. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Did that gossiping two-faced bitch Cindy tell everybody what happened to me? Is everybody talking about me? Are people sending commiserative messages full of thoughts and prayers? I know it's ridiculously early because birds are chirping outside. My mind once again attempts to examine and relitigate the weekend's events but inevitably draws the same conclusions as all previous litigation: get over it, move on with your life – once again proving Einstein's theory of insanity to be gospel.

If I did fall asleep it was only for a second. I'm fully awake now, and I'm lying here thinking: I don't believe that anybody of substance, influence, or consequence is actually born in the District of Columbia. The place is like a western, political Mecca. We all came here seeking something. There are only three places where the American dream can be truly realised: those seeking money, power, and the associated trimmings, migrate to the District of Columbia. Another group, seeking fame, money, power, and trimmings together with some inoculation against scandal end up in sunny California, the closer to Hollywood – the better. Then, there's a third group, the secret shakers and movers, those who seek power and influence without the spotlight – they, invariably, all end up in New York. Nobody cares about the minions living in the other 48 states. The American people are so star-spangled stupid; they believe they live in world's greatest democracy. In reality, they select from the choices we offer them. The words none of the above have never appeared on any congressional ballot-sheet.

I don't know too much about California or New York, even though I was born and raised in Poughkeepsie, but I'm well-versed with all things pertaining to DC life. Everybody here wants a title, a position, to be "official". And you have to be vigilant. To your face everybody is friendly and supportive. I've tried to play it cool. But it's a crazy dog-eat-dog world. When you try to make it in life, rise above your perceived station, the consensus, the swamp monsters will rise up and try to bring you down

Despite being sexually abused, violated, and traumatised the night before, surprisingly, under the circumstances, Saturday night I slept well, like a baby - an expression that I don't fully understand. Millions of mothers will testify that babies are the bane of their lives; the teething, the crying, the needing to be fed every two hours. I slept ten hours straight, babies don't do that – then again, babies don't drink Jack Daniels. Like, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness – what does that even mean?

Still awake. Still in my bed, remarkably chilled, wondering why I don't have a hangover. I'm thinking deep thoughts: there's no real meaning to life beyond the biblical explanation – go forth and multiply. Sure, we all need to give live life deeper meaning but it's all a crock. The fact that we're all on the same treadmill going absolutely nowhere, as fast as we can, for no particular reason is the very definition of cruel and unusual punishment.  

I am totally comfortable with the results of my autopsy, what I'd resolved. Loneliness, had led me to be over-zealous in the aforementioned pursuit of love. To be clear: I wanted for once in my life to visit that place, the place where love lives. I had misjudged the situation – and that was my bad. But, no harm no foul, I was still the independent woman Destiny's Child had raised me to be, although, Whitney had a point: what had transpired that evening was not right, and under no circumstances should it be deemed as okay.

In summary, last night, when I thought I had gotten all my ducks in row, as it turned out – maybe not so much. My sleep on Saturday night was torrid. I wasn't supposed to drink alcohol – I did, a lot. Jack Daniels is the ultimate political player: he promises to solve all your problems and make your life better, but it's all hype.

The plan was for me to go to work today – It's not going to happen. Fuck that. I'm going back to sleep.

 

I'm back to dozing, approaching the world of Neverland – the place between sleep and awake. On the other side I'll find Slumberland – the place where the weary can buy a ticket to a deep sleep and a warm embrace.

"Karen?" Cindy interrupts my journey by tapping on my bedroom door.

Still furious with her for the unsubstantiated charge of telling everybody my private business, I mumble two words – the second of which is off.

The tap is replaced by an insistent knock.

"What?" I snap.

The door handle turns. She enters. "You need to get up and at it. You're going to be late."

"Change of plans," I reply.

"Oh?"

"Now that you've revealed my private business to the world and his wife I don't think I'll ever be able to step foot outside this house again."

"I did what?"

"Who did you tell that I was raped?"

"I haven't told a soul. I wouldn't. It's not my story to tell," she says as she approaches my bed.

I eye my roommate's movements whilst retrieving my phone: three texts from my stepmother and 19 Google Alerts. I swear Google the digital equivalent of a very aggressive form of cancer. No matter how many times I delete or disable shit – it just comes back. "Sorry, I thought . . ."

She shrugs. "Don't sweat it. If I'd been what you'd been through I'd be paranoid as fuck. Girlfriend, I love you. Do you know how I know this to be true? Because I put up with your shit."

I toss my phone aside. "Still, I don't really feel up to it today. Call in for me, please?"

"No problem, what shall I tell them?"

"Tell them I'm on vacation."

"Ha-ha! The place people go and don’t ever come back? You know that's not gonna fly."

"Tell them I'm sick. Tell them you poisoned me with your chicken soup."

"Seriously?" She shakes her head before sitting on the edge of my bed. "They all know by now that the only thing that's going to keep you from work is if you're actually dead."

"Yes. Tell them that. Tell them that I died."

"Couple of holes in that plan. One, they're gonna expect a funeral at some point, so you're probably gonna need to have an autopsy and get yourself embalmed."

"What about . . . What if I was cremated?"

"Grow up. What's the real plan?" she asks. "What is your plan C?"

"Plan C?"

She takes my hand. "I trust that you've already executed Plan B."

It takes a moment for the penny to drop. "Yeah. What choice did I have?"

"Right. So you can't just forget your responsibilities and lay in bed and wallow."

I sit up. "Okay, here's plan C. The chief won't be in. Make sure you speak to Matt, the legislative director. He's back from his vacation today. Three words will ensure you don't need to provide details: women's plumbing problems."

She chews her lip. "Matt White?"

I nod.

"I swear that name's come across my desk recently."

"Probably a coincidence – he's a boy scout. Make sure you speak to him. He'll cover for me."

"Got it. Are you going to be okay, home alone?"

"I'll be fine. I just want this whole thing to go away. I wish I hadn't filed charges. I don't want to go to court. I don't want this to be a thing. It'll be all over the Hill."

"He's a criminal. He should pay."

"I hear you, and in theory it all makes sense, but in practise the best I can hope for is a Pyrrhic victory. See, here's the thing, in my job as a congressional staffer is to murder these tabloid stories in their infancy, cut then off before they can gain credible traction. I cannot be the protagonist in the story that takes my guy down."

"What about the next girl the piece of shit does that to?"

"I dunno. It's not my job to advocate for her. I've my own shit to deal with. Hopefully she's got a Glock or a can of mace in her bag." I take a deep breath. "Here's the thing, I've been through it a hundred times and I've come to the conclusion: I wanted it – just not then, and certainly not like that."

"When. When was your choice. He took that away. Anyway, like I said, I hear you and respect your wishes." She begins to stand.

I grab her wrist. "But there's something I haven't told anybody. Before things got out of control I gave him a sign, a green light – I turned the lamp off."

"What? Fuck that. It makes no difference." She lifts her skirt to reveal a buttock. "See, I'm wearing one of my thongs. Is that an invitation, an all-access pass for men to fuck me?"

"Probably."

"Honey, I gotta go. It'll all work out. You just need to have a little faith, trust me."

"What choice do I have?"

"I'll call your office on the way in." She pauses by the door. "I've got pilates tonight, so I'll be home late."

I offer her a brave, energetic but deceitful smile. "It's all good. I'm going to work today, but from home. There's not much to be done that I can't do from here."

She smiles back, and points. "I am Cindy Lopez and I approve that message."

I hold my smile until she's out the door, after which I exhale. Fuck this shit. I'm going back to bed.

 

The act of falling asleep is totally passive. It's a little bit like waiting for love. You can do all the right things, get yourself into the right place or position, kinda like a horse, water drink scenario. Love and sleep just come when they're ready. You can't force either of them – not without drugs anyway. I didn't lose my virginity. It wasn't taken from me, nor did I misplace it, or any other bullshit, and I certainly didn't offer it to a boy as a gift of love. Teen years are tough. I was 15 years-old, a little bit high, and wilfully intent on discarding any shackles preventing my rapid ascent into adulthood. My virginity and I parted company on the back seat of a 2004 Pontiac. At that age the issue of consent is something of a misnomer, nonsensical even. It's not like you can make informed consent when you are leaping into the unknown.

Bygones.

I never believed the hype. My first penetrative sexual experience wasn't particularly enjoyable, more chore than pleasure. However, losing my cherry was an essential first step in the four-year journey to my first orgasm. In retrospect there was nothing romantic about the event. I can't even remember the man's name. Maybe this was the first person I'd been with who knew how to hit the spot? Or maybe this was the first time I'd been with a man, as opposed to the boys I'd experienced thus far. On a hot summer's night we were making out in the Old Church picnic area. Mentally I'd consented to a quickie but remained on edge, mindful of being caught.

"Just relax, breathe, just go with it," he whispered in a clear, calm, assured way.

Best advice ever! I exhaled, closed my eyes and in that moment I let it all go. Talk about a religious experience! It crept up on me; a resounding chorus of Handel's Messiah. Over his shoulder I could see the old stone church in all its glory. That's when they appeared to me: angels in the fucking architecture. And afterwards, when I'd regained my right mind – so much sweat, so much . . . liquid, and all of it was mine, from my body.

I learned plenty that night, not least: the reason so many people are constantly sipping bottled water – hydration is important.

I've no idea why I am revisiting this now. Perhaps, because I remember laying there naked on the warm, moist grass; I'd just done the nasty with God as my witness, and I didn't feel dirty, shameful, or sinful.  I just felt calm – like I do now.

See it happened. Sleep came for me when I was least expecting it. There's nothing like that extra hour's sleep, the opportunity to function on fully charged batteries. I'm laying in my bed, snug and warm, feeling good – thinking. I'm just here being me, something I've not had the opportunity to be for a long time. I haven't had a lay in on a school day since . . . whatever, I can't remember when but it's been a really long time. I laugh out loud, Billy was right: all the world’s a stage, and all of us are merely players; we have our exits and entrances, during our lifetimes we will be required to play many parts. This is my issue: I've spent my entire life as an extra, playing minor parts in other people's productions. If my rape allegations go public, for the first time I'll be starring in my own drama with little or no control over the narrative. My show is not something I want people to watch.

Boredom convinces me to get up around ten. I discover my phone's been blowing up; one missed call, untold messages and emails. – all from the office. The missed call was from Cindy. She called to say, she left the message with Munchkin because Matt got served with a subpoena, and that's how she was familiar with his name The emails are all from work, and it's shit that I've no choice but to deal with. Turn's out I'm not having a day off, I'm just working from home today. I spend the day cross-legged in front of the TV with my iPad on my lap. My primary task is to mark up my guy's speech to the Commission for Federal Ethics. My guy's talented, articulate, silver-tongued. He can speak, engaging an audience for hours. It's only later when you review the content, what he said, you realise he didn't say anything of substance – he rarely does. Either I'm off my game or my boss is. This speech is awful and I'm in no mood to fix it. I email the commission and cancel the appearance, citing scheduling conflicts. My phone keeps buzzing and there's a full on assault on my inbox. Thirteen people in my office and seems like none them can even take a restroom break without asking for my input – useless.

The day's flying by. I've been so busy that when I talk on my phone I can literally feel the heat coming from the battery. It's after three. I look up at the TV screen and have occasion to smile. Local news is reporting that my guy has cancelled his speech to Federal Ethics Commission due to scheduling conflicts. I glance down at my iPad then back to the TV – I type it here and it comes out there, remarkable!

Time for a sandwich.

After my BLT I pick up my phone, tempted, curious about Matt's subpoena. I toss the phone aside. The battery's almost dead and I should preserve the life remaining in case of a real emergency. Matt's situation can't be anything serious because the office would have let me know.

Where the fuck is my charger?

After devouring my glorious, self-made sandwich I'm feeling a little bloated but extremely proud of myself. The chief has been persona non grata for weeks. Matt has been AWOL all day but I've managed the situation with aplomb – all without ever leaving my apartment. I have good leadership skills. I swing my feet up to lie on the sofa. I am good at this shit, even if I am under appreciated. Events of the day are fuelling my ego – I can do this.

I must have fallen asleep at this point. I remember hearing my phone's swansong, its final plea for life. Without a DNR in place I was required to authorise heroic measures to prolong battery life. I remember picturing the charger in the bedroom under a pile of washing, and deciding that it was a bridge too far. Fuck it. Even on my day off I had worked like I'd never worked before. I'd taken control, I'd been on top of everything.

 

I'm awakened by furious banging at my apartment door. A glance toward the window informs me it's dusk, sevenish maybe? There are no alarms sounding and I can't smell smoke but I get the feeling there's an emergency, something big has happened and I know it’s really bad. I grab my phone, iPad and the gold chain my grandma left me before rushing toward the front door. I can hear the people outside pounding on the door and calling my name. I open the door and I'm immediately overwhelmed. Headed by Cindy, a large group of people are pushing past me and entering my apartment. I recognise these people, they are work colleagues and friends. I don't understand what's happening. They're all in a celebratory mood. There's champagne and poppers and random hugs from people I hardly know. After the stragglers at the back of the posse pass I close the door behind them.  WTF? People are talking to me, their lips are moving but all I hear is noise.

Munchkin is on his knees before me saying "I am not worthy."

I point toward the East window. "Mecca is that way."

Somebody I don't know thrusts a glass of champagne into my hand. I don't want this.

Vi swivels me round toward the TV. I absently set the glass on the table. "You go girl."

 "What in God's name. I see my name on the TV screen.

"Shh!" Vi silences everybody whilst turning up the volume.

" . . . in a surprise announcement the congressman's chief of staff resigned today citing family issues. It had been assumed that Matt White, the congressman's long-groomed legislative director would take over the role. However, after late-breaking allegations of spousal abuse against the number two, the congressman has named Karen Taylor as his new Chief of staff."

Karen who? My mind races ahead. I don't like surprises. Who was this woman? I vaguely recognised the name. Had she been properly vetted?  I reached for my iPad determined find out everything about this appointee from outta left-field.

"Wow!" says Vi. "Who'd have thunk it."

"Not now! I shoo her way as glean what I can from the internet. I'm surprised to learn that Wikipedia is super-fast. Karen Taylor already has a Wikepedia page. On the right-hand side was a picture of me. I paused, open-mouthed as re-evaluated my life's philosophy. I was sleeping for fuck's sake. I didn't zig or zag. I'm innocent in all of this. None of this was my fault. It's just happened.

Vi leans over my shoulder to whisper. "Karen Taylor, you've got your own Wikepedia page. It's official; I fucking hate you. You're a lucky bitch."

"What just happened?" I'm shell-shocked. I wasn't doing anything. I was just here, being me. I didn't ask for any of this. None of this is my fault. I didn't anything. I didn't zig. I didn't zag. I was right here the whole time, minding my business trying to live my life.

 

2.1 ALL HAIL THE CHIEF

 

Cindy removes the steaming kettle from the base. "I don't get it. WTF is going on the world today?"

I shrug. "Same shit as yesterday – I think."

Wearing a pensive expression, she slowly shakes her head whilst pouring boiling water into two mugs. "I can't believe your guy made you chief of staff. That shit came right out of left field."

"Trust me. I was more surprised that anybody."

"Be honest; have you been sleeping with him? Are you that good in bed?" she says, placing two cups of coffee on the table.

I consider her questions in their respective order. "He did. No. Yes."

"Not disrespect intended, but why?"

"Why am I so good in bed?"

"No, dumb-ass, this is not the time for your quips. Why did he make you chief? What's the agenda?"

Noting her expression, the prosecutorial, resting-bitch-face, I am careful with my response. "Good question. Here's the thing . . . The chief has been pretty much out to lunch 24/7 since his wife died – you know that, right? I've bitched about it enough."

"The man's grieving for God's sake. Whatshername was the love of his life – according to media reports."

"But the business of government needs to go on, right?"

"True."

"I've been thinking half the night. Here's my take: we all knew the chief was done and that Matt White was a shoe-in to take over the role."

Cindy nodded. "That where all the smart-money was but seriously, is Matt White really his name? Parents can be so cruel."

"Yes, it is. But if I'd have been paying attention; if I was reading the signs I would have read something to it when two weeks ago Matt went on vacation without his wife."

"This is exclusive DC gossip - and you're only telling me this now?"

"It didn't seem relevant at the time but, as my good luck would have it, the chief retired the day Matt returned. Shortly after my guy accepting the chief's resignation a process server turns up at the office."

"Process server? Nothing this good ever happens in my office." Cindy slaps her hand on the table. "I need popcorn!"

"So, turn's out Matt's wife is divorcing him - citing spousal abuse."

"Shut the front door!"

"Consequently –"

"Consequently – love that word. I haven't heard it in ten years."

"Ergo, we have a situation: the chief's AWOL, no way Matt can be chief. He's political cyanide. My guy's boxed into a corner. He can look externally for a new chief, or ask, in the midst of all this chaos, who's been making sure all the trains run on time."

"Wow, sometimes the planets just align, huh?"

"Who knows what shit can happen to you when you take a day off?" I say, raising the coffee cup to my lips. "I'll have to put out a statement. I'll say the congressman misspoke. Let it be known that he appointed me as acting chief of staff whilst he seeks the ideal candidate."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because the moment my #metoo story is picked up the Associated Press I become toxic."

Cindy sips her coffee whilst considering my words. "You sound like Chicken Licken. Karen, the sky's not necessarily falling. Go to work. Urinate at strategic spots around the office to mark your territory as chief. And fire somebody, anybody."

I laugh. "I can't go round firing people for no good reason."

"Sure you can. If you died right here, right now, who would get your job?"

"Now you're really scraping the barrel." I search my mind. "I dunno, Ken I suppose."

"There's your answer – fire Ken."

"Why would I fire the one remaining semi-competent staffer?"

"Because then you'd be indispensable, stupid."

"I'm not firing Ken."

"How about you fire one of the interns? Show Ken you mean business and you're not here to fuck around."

My mind immediately goes to Munchkin, the skinny, pasty, whinny, annoying little shit. "No. I'm not firing anybody on my first day."

"Okay. Maybe wait 'til tomorrow." She paces the room whilst wagging her index finger. "We don't want people to think you've turned into a power-crazed bitch – not on your first day anyway. But after that you gotta let them know – you're Chiefzilla you're not to be fucked with."

"Cindy!" I snatch her coffee away. "I think too much caffeine may be seriously affecting your brain."

"I'm fine," she replies, snatching the cup back. "And after you fire somebody, take lunch – a long lunch. Buy some more of those pantsuit things, more expensive ones. And shoes, buy more shoes, you need better shoes. You can afford better shoes because you're rich now, six-figure rich. I looked up your new salary on line and –"

"Why are you talking so fast?" While she's been rambling I've regained control of her coffee cup. I taste the contents. "It's not the caffeine, it's the sugar. Cindy, there's sugar in this."

She shrugs. "Last night was a late one. I needed a little something to get me started this morning."

Cindy and sugar is not a good combination. She gets a mad rush. It only lasts about fifteen minutes. "Take a deep breath," I tell her. "And another, and another . . . That's right, keep going – deep breaths."

"Even back when you were just an intern you've proven pretty adept at identifying and extinguishing developing fires – that's your forte. Honey, it's what you do, it’s what you're good at. You can't be throwing the towel in on the off-chance somebody somewhere may have a box of matches that you don't know about. If a fire starts put it out, but until then go to work and do your job, chief."

"You really think I can do it?"

"No doubt in my mind. Girlfriend, this is your god-given opportunity. It's what you've worked so hard for. It's your time. Step up."

Her little pep-talk appears to be working. I fill my lungs, raise my head slightly, and clench both fists before pressing them against my sides.

Cindy frowns. "What are you doing?"

"It's my superhero pose. I'm going to go into work, kick some ass and take some names."

"Good luck with that."

 "Right." She checks the time. "And on the subject of work, I really gotta go and do mine."

 

Every morning the journey into work on the Metro is an ordeal. We're packed into the cars like sardines in a can. The rules of personal space don't apply during peak hours. Recommended prophylactics are antibiotics and birth control. When I eventually get in to work it's all a little bit surreal. In my new of there are flowers, fruit-baskets and champagne. I don't get it, I'm doing what I did last week, the week before that, and every week since I joined this administration, but I'm doing it from this huge, big-assed office rather than my pokey little desk. And now they all refer to me as ma'am. I feel at least 20 years older, and maybe I should start wearing pearls. It's been a while since I've had a pearl necklace.

TMI. Strike that.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Munchkin's approach. "I've got a lot going on today. What do you need?"

"I've got a girlfriend," he mumbles.

I turn square to him. "Congratulations, some days the sun even shines on a dog's ass."

"But she's pregnant."

"If you want my advice: ditch her. You don't want to be bringing up another man's child. Whosoever knocked her up . . . He broke it. He need's to buy it."

"What. No! Madeline loves me. She would never . . . I'm the father."

"Oh, right. I didn't think your balls had dropped yet  . . . but whatever. Thanks for sharing. Now, shoo!"

"But I gonna have to get married and stuff. I need to –"

"Where are going with this? I think over the past few months we've clearly established; I don't like you so it follows that I don't care about you, your drama, your girlfriend, or your sad, pathetic life. Like I said . . . shoo!"

"I know you've always hated me, but you can't fire me."

"Fire you?"

"I have responsibilities."

I fold my arms across my chest. "What makes you think I'm going to fire you?"

"Now the chief's gone, Matt's gone, I'm naked and at your mercy."

I close my eyes. "Bad image! I don't need to be thinking about you naked. You've just ensured that I keep you around just so I can garner your wages to pay my therapy bills."

"So, you're not going to fire me, then?"

"Of course I'm going to fire you. I wrote it in my journal: Note to self; fire Munchkin."

"Munchkin?"

I point. "That'd be you."

"My name's Dave, and you can't fire me."

Internally I'm giggling my nuts off. "Sure I can, but here's the thing, Dave. New job, new responsibilities - I've got a lot going on right now. You and your career are not my priority right now.  At some point I'll see you, and I'll remember to fire you – stay off my radar is probably your best tactic for a stay of execution."

He takes a coupe of steps away before making a 180 degree turn. "One other thing."

"Out with it."

"Your mother called. I said you'd call her back."

 

2.1 ALL HAIL THE CHIEF

 

So, I'm the new chief, and we're out celebrating that fact – on a school night, to boot. Who knew?" Vi and I clink glasses.

"Halle-fuckin-lujah! Mark a big fat one for us in the win column. This major strike for us superheroes," announces Vi. "Girlfriend, it's you and I against the world."

I glance over her shoulder at the others, returning with another round of drinks. "It's not just you and I on this mission. It's you, me, Cindy, and Jazz. It's all of us. We all fight the good fight. One second – " I check a new text on my phone and the shock of what see on the screen grips me. The phone slips from my hand.

"Are you okay?" asks Vi.

"Sure. Fine." I reply, stooping to retrieve the phone. "Cindy, I need to speak with you." I head out of the front door.

Cindy, beer bottle in hand, joins me on the sidewalk. "What's up?"

I show her the message. "I thought he was locked up?"

"The DA dropped the charges. He was released this morning."

"So he's going to get away with what he did to me? How does that happen? Why would the DA drop the charges?"

Cindy frowns, theatrically portraying confusion. "FFS. You need to make up your mind. You wanted it all to go away – it went away. How much more jelly do you want on that? How about you just say, thank you Cindy?"

"I don't get it. What would make the DA just dismiss the charges like that?"

She maintains her confused expression. "Because I told her to."

"Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that." She swigs from her bottle. "Your boss, the congressman, doesn't he do what you tell him to do?"

"Yes, but –" I start my reply but can think of no words. She was right.

A bouncer approaches. "Ladies, I'm going to have to take the bottle or you're going to have to go back inside. You can't have an open container on the street. We'll lose our license."

"Sorry. It's done anyway." Cindy hands the empty bottle to the bouncer.

He ushers us back inside.

I'm thinking as I walk. Cindy was right. Her boss, my boss, all our bosses do exactly as they're told.

I remain relatively quiet for the remainder of the evening, drinking and thinking. "We need to take a group selfie," I announce eventually.

I show the picture of the four of us to my three friends. "You see these women," I slur. "They are the puppet masters. They run this shit."

Jazz laughs at me. "What shit is that, exactly?"

"All of it . . .  this . . . DC . . . the motherfucking country."

"I think she's had enough," says Vi.

"But we're women of power!"

"I wish. I don't have the power to balance my checkbook," Jazz giggles.

"But the Butcher amendment got repealed. We won by nine votes. How'd that happen, huh? The whip count said we'd lose but we got it done. I told my guy to change his mind about that shit." I point to Vi. "You told your guy to back up my guy." I turn my attention to Jazz. "And you told your guy it's about time he did some bi-partisan shit."

"True," Jazz agrees, "But that's only three votes."

"You know how they work, turn a couple and the rest follow," I say. "And Cindy, my girl played her part."

Cindy attempts to silence me. "Let's talk about that here."

"She did good," I continue. "The one from Milwaukee the good hair and the one with bank manager's eyes, threatened them both with Grand Juries, campaign finance violations."

Vi offers Cindy a high-five. "I always knew you were some kind of closet gangster."

"What are bank manager's eyes?" asks Jazz.

"You know . . . where one eye is looking in a different direction," I reply.

"Oh, him," says Vi.

Jazz shakes her head. "The bank manager part – I don't get it."

"It's what my dad always called them," I reply. "I think it's because . . . I think the idea is that even when the bank manager is talking to you he's got one eye on the safe."

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.05.2019

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