Less Of Me

by Edward Goble

  Chapter 7

  Appalachian Malady - Chapter 2

  Curious Georgetown was a coffee bar meets blues club where, during the day, people hung out, reading the paper, checking email, sipping specialty coffee drinks and taking meetings. While during the evening, The Cure as it was abbreviated, offered live blues, great chowder, 28 kinds of imported beers, raw oysters and a host of fried vegetables and shellfish the portions of which were the stuff of local legend. It was crowded and loud—almost no chance of having a conversation taped, let alone overheard. If he had it mostly to himself, it would have been Rance’s favorite spot in town, as it was it reminded him of Yogi Berra’s famous quote about a great restaurant in New York, “Nobody goes there anymore, it’s always too crowded.” But, it was a great place to meet, and, it was close to home, which was always nice.

  Tami Beatty was an up and coming reporter at the Post. She had the looks and brains that would have taken her to the Anchor position in most television newsrooms, but she was more interested in finding and writing the news than reading it from a tele-prompter. And, unlike many of her peers, she was content to write semi-anonymously while others sought bylines and photo insets. Tami was a diamond Rance had met at a social gathering for the former President’s Chief of Staff. She had been on the arm of a network vice-president, only agreeing to be his date because of the venue. She distanced herself from him each chance she got, meeting people easily on her own.

  Rance found himself watching her style from his self-appointed post at the bar, nursing a Cuba Libre, which he ordered just to be able to say the name to anyone who asked. “Free Cuba” was bound to be a good conversation starter among the Beltway elite. He used the line on two oblivious congressmen who licked their lips and told the bartender that they’d try the same thing. He introduced himself to the reporter as she made her way to the bar, getting her own drink to spite her preoccupied date. When he told her what he was drinking, in response to her question, she looked right through his eyes and said, “Interesting.” The little tingle he felt up his spine made him feel weak and easy. That was seven years ago. That night aside, their relationship had been strictly professional. Rance never ordered another Cuba Libre.

  Tami made her way back to the table Rance had secured 30 minutes earlier. It was 10:00 pm and the Georgetown faithful were still playing hard. He stood and smiled, welcoming her with a kiss on the cheek. She tossed her purse into the booth across the table from Rance and slid in. She was all business in a sleek black suit and skirt, grey silk top and a silver chain with a single pearl.

  “You look lovely this evening, Ms. Beatty,” Rance smiled.

  “Why, thank you,” she said with a Louisville drawl she couldn’t quite hide.

  “I took the liberty,” Rance said as a server approached with two glasses of wine and a basket of fresh bread.

  “Oh, thank you. Perfect.” Tami took a bite of bread and savored it like a rare truffle. “Mmm, first thing I’ve eaten today.” She finished one piece and took another with a sip of wine. “Oh, Mm,” she padded her lips with a cloth napkin. “Look at my manners.”

  “That’s okay, eat up. You want a menu?”

  “No. Really, this is fine. It’s just been, uuugh, one of those weeks today, you know.”

  “Oh, I know, trust me.”

  She had a third piece of bread and finished her glass of wine. The server came back and offered another, which she declined, switching to ice water with lemon. “So, you heard about Senator Hagin.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you know him? I mean, know who he was?”

  “No. Friend said he was a drug legalization guy. That was his soap box.”

  “Right. From the Good Ol’ Boy State of Kentucky.”

  “Kentucky? Isn’t that Bible belt?”

  “Yep. There are more Baptists in Kentucky than there are people, yet somehow we elect this guy to represent the State.

  “We?”

  “Does my accent belie my humble birthplace?” Tami drawled in her best, and sexiest, southern voice.

  “I do declare, Miss Scarlet,” Rance attempted in return, but, being a Southern California kid, it wasn’t too convincing. “So. What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. But I have a feeling about this, Ran. I felt a little weird when I heard it on CNN this morning, you know. And then, around 10:30, a little before I emailed you, I get this call from Louisville. It’s this guy I went to UK with that works for the Lexington Herald now. He wonders if I have anything on the story, says he’s been working on something down there. Thinks it might be related.” She paused to squeeze the lemon into her water and proceeded to open the slice and rub it around the rim of the glass gently before discarding it on a napkin and licking her fingers.

  “I think, you know, he’s just chumming the water and then he mentions the fish he’s working on that end... James Rafferty... Ring a bell?”

  Rance had to refocus a bit after watching her nurse her drink, “Uh, I’ve seen the name on Sports Center or something. Horse guy?”

  She sipped from the lucky glass, “Big time. Kentucky Derby, Triple Crown... I mean, this guy is to horses what Arnold Palmer is to golf. He’s the top dog, Ran.”

  “So, what’s the connection?”

  “I don’t know. But my guy says the two were in bed at some level, and they weren’t alone either.”

  “Thanks for the visual.”

  She smiled, “You’re cute. Listen, I’m flying out there to meet with my guy at the Herald. You keep your ears open on this end?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’re not working this, right?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay. Listen, I hate to run but I’ve got to book a flight yet.”

  “Go, you go. I’m going to sit here a while and see if I get lucky.”

  “Bum,” she said, smiling and kneeling down to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Be careful,” he said as she walked away, his eyes following her flowing brown hair through the crowded dance floor and out the door. She hailed a taxi at the curb.

  ----------

  “Sit here and see if I get lucky,’ now that’s what I’m talking about!” Andy clicked Apple-S and looked at the computer clock, 6:15 pm. Mr. Martin’s “before-eat” salad was wearing pretty thin. Andy twirled around in his chair studying the ceiling. Then he let his eyes fall shut, “What are you thinking about, Broadback? What kind of mess are they going to draw you in to this time? The pretty girl is chasing a story. The drug cop is looking into the murder of a Soapbox Senator. Connected? Not likely. But then again, the night is young, who knows what could happen.”

  Andy’s eye’s opened and he looked at the flashing cursor in front of him, daring him to continue the story. And there was nothing stopping him, except the growing hunger pangs from a stomach that was used to being fed every six hours or so, time that passed without complaint as long as he was asleep or there were regular snacks in between. He left the office on the well-beaten path to the refrigerator. Grabbing a cold Slimfast drink and a tube of Pringles, he stood at the living room window, alternately raising each to his mouth, drinking and crunching mindlessly as he thought about what he might have for dinner.

  “Dinner? And what do you call the multi-calorie treats you are holding in either hand?” his conscious put forth. Andy paused mid-chew and realized what he was doing. He shook his head and let out an audible sigh. He set the half-eaten can of chips down on an end table and chugged the rest of drink. From out of the blue he started to sing something he remembered from Sesame Street.

  “One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just doesn’t belong...” he couldn’t remember the rest of the song but it’s message was clear. He ad-libbed the finish. “Can you guess which thing is not like the other, before I finish this song.” And then, in a voice somewhere between Big Bird and Mr. Rogers a silent conversation began.

  “Andy, why are you eating a salty snack with a diet
drink? Do these things belong together?”

  “Well, Big Bird, if you must know, they taste good together, so I thought they did belong together.”

  “But Andy, that’s why you’re a lumbering Ox,” Big Bird said, cueing a laugh track. Andy’s daydream panned to a dozen or so Sesame Street children pointing and giggling. The sketch ended with Andy making the difficult choice to return the uneaten portion of Pringles to the pantry. A little victory, “Brought to you by the letter ‘O’!” he said out loud, congratulating him self for getting the last word.

  Andy picked up the phone and ordered a medium combo pizza from a Chicago-style joint that delivered them fast and hot. “It’s a pretty good choice if I drink water instead of Heineken, I think,” he assured himself. He didn’t really like beer anyway, and didn’t have any. But it’s the thought that counts.

  Andy wrote a new blog while he waited, to keep himself from foraging any more before dinner arrived.

  Andy’s Weblog - November 2nd

  What is Hope?

  I’m wondering what hope is. Is hope the kind of thing I’m doing right now when I’m waiting for the pizza delivery guy? Hoping that the pie will be really good? Is that hope? Do I hope that the Giant’s finally trade a certain player and fill their roster with hungry athletes that will play like a team? Is that hope?

  If that is what hope means, then I think it’s pretty cheap. I mean, that kind of hope sounds a lot like want, and ‘want’, to me, is usually cheap and selfish. I think of the little girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Veruca Salt. What a brat - she would get this snotty look on her spoiled little face and sing, “I want it now!” You just wanted to push her into a vat of boiling grease. Do kids in Ethiopia want rice the same way Veruca wanted a Goose that laid golden eggs? I don’t think so. I get the feeling that there is a difference, although I’m not sure what, between want and hope. It seems like hope needs to be based on some kind of over-arching good, or legitimate need, while ‘want’ stems from a baser, sensory impulse - lust, if you will. I want chocolate.

  If you are desperate for something, does that make wanting it, hope, like the kid hoping for food to fill a growling tummy. Does desperation lead to hope? This is where it all falls apart for me because I want to think that there is a difference between want and hope, but if it just boils down to condition, then ‘hope’ is just ‘want’ to the tenth power, or super-want. And that seems cheap. I think hope is nobler than want and not crass, it is honest and right. Whatever it is, it’s more Charlie Bucket wanting a Golden Ticket than Veruca Salt screaming for the damned goose.

  Trust me, I’m no philosopher, I’m not selflessly considering the common good of the world here. These ramblings are strictly selfish. I’m honestly trying to figure out if my quest for losing weight is want or hope. Because if its just something I want, like the doorbell to ring announcing the arrival of my dinner, it doesn’t seem that important in the Grand Scheme. But if there is some “higher good” that I am connecting to in this desire, maybe it transcends the crass and temporal, and reaches some higher plain, some kind of Zen, Feng-Shui-thing.

  I guess I don’t know much, I just know I would rather be Charlie than Veruca.

  Dinnertime - Andy

  Andy ate his pizza in the living room. It was a drizzly night and the breeze off the bay pushed the falling mist in and against his front window where it gathered and dripped, distorting the lights and buildings of the neighborhood. He sipped an Evian between slices, a small victory, he felt, as his pizza was usually chased down with a two-liter Pepsi, about 2000 extra calories, he once calculated. He rang his mother, it was nearly 10:00 pm now and she should be getting home from the crusade. It rang through to voice mail and Andy stayed on the line.

  “Hi mom, just calling to make sure you got home safe in this weather. And to make sure you didn’t give away all my inheritance in the offering. Ha! Just kidding. Call when you get in, I’ll be up. Anyway, I love you...” Andy disconnected the call and tossed the phone on the couch pleased with his little attempt at humor, it would make his mother a little crazy, which he enjoyed. “That’s what son’s are for,” he said to a gooey slice of pizza.