by Paul Dueweke
CHAPTER NINE
A Second Career
Elliott rode his bicycle to the appointment, a habit he’d developed over decades. He adhered to the old fashioned practice of exercise and a healthy diet to stay in shape even though there were numerous drug-based routines that accomplished the same thing.
He parked his lone bike near the entrance to the four-story building and left it unattended. He never even used a lock since only little kids rode bikes anymore, and his prehistoric bike should be safe. For years he’d been correct, and it seemed a safe bet for the future.
After walking up to the third-floor CBS Party local office, he spoke the name G. Burns to the automatic receptionist. Within a couple of minutes, a tall woman in her mid twenties emerged from an unmarked door and offered her hand confidently. “Townsend? Burns.”
A radiant face framed the formal smile but could not be subdued by it. It was a face of youthful beauty that perfectly accentuated her youthful body in a way that classic beauty accents a mature woman. She motioned for him to follow. A forest-green dress embellished her the way a frame magnifies a work of fine art. Her dress exactly matched the color of the bright CBS logo covering one full wall of the hallway they shared. Following Burns was an unforeseen pleasure.
Burns’ athletic, yet femininely proportioned body demanded attention. Hair flowed down over its green backdrop in a single wave of gold. Elliott’s gaze attended the wave as it disappeared, leading toward splendid hips dancing in time to the cadence of heals. Music and art coalesced perfectly in this impromptu ballet. A single button was undone on the back of her dress in her otherwise impeccable attire. Considering her obvious concern for appearance, that button seemed remarkable to Elliott—and yet it was just a button.
She led him into a small conference room and motioned him to a seat. The walls were covered with pictures of political candidates, none of whom Elliott recognized. One candidate was signing a soccer ball emblazoned with “Hyperbowl XXIX Champs” before the adoring eyes and cheers of a mob of children. Another pictured naked women and men entwined in a polygon of love on bright satin sheets. Elliott couldn’t decide which was the candidate, even after reading the caption “Joesy Hots, Star of Every Night – Eighth Congressional District.” A few pictures included Burns, barely recognizable in her revealing sportswear, jogging outfits, and ponytails. Every picture he quickly scanned showed her in a ponytail, laughing and hugging both the equally vivacious candidates and the young admirers. Everyone was young, exuberant, and very, very chic. The most interesting was a poster of a collage of giant baseball cards. Apparently, everybody on some team was running for something on the CBS ticket.
The furnishings seemed borrowed from a studio set, like they belonged in a generic office of a generic corporation. The walnut table looked uncomfortably pregnant with its bulging middle to afford every subordinate an unfettered view of each other subordinate, thus frustrating even the most-subtle early-afternoon nod. The chairs wore standard black cushions and sprouted plastic legs and arms to clutch their unlucky patrons according to some unwritten discomfort specification. The walls withdrew to neutrality in deference to the impotent parry of the drapes. A wall-TV screen filled one end of the room. It was a magnificently common conference room, one in which any conservative manager could seek refuge from decisions behind a wall of committee approvals and a sea of expert-system computer models and decision trees. With the exception of the pictures adorning its walls and the woman enhancing its decor, the conference room personified mid-management America, celebrating its monotony, apologizing for its paralysis.
“This is an unusual pleasure, Townsend,” she said as she seated herself across the table from him. “We don’t get very many volunteers anymore and, frankly, our volunteer requirements are quite low since most of our campaign work is automated or multimedia. And virtually all of the volunteers we retain are University students or other young people. That’s why I found your phone call this morning very intriguing. So, how may we assist you?”
Elliott found it difficult to start, difficult to put his nebulous vision and ethereal concerns into words. But even beyond his communication dilemma, he found his hostess to be disarmingly human, certainly not the champion of hype and the adversary of sensibility and taste that he’d anticipated. He was prepared for Burns to be a bimbo, a bouncing, pony-tailed, tanned, and stunningly nippled beauty who conversed in one and two syllable words and expounded on the wonders of entertainers and jocks. He envisioned cartwheels and pom-poms accompanied by base-thumping sentences escaping in strings of inseparable sounds. Sexual allure would be explicit and uneasy. In short, he’d anticipated the person embodied in many of the pictures surrounding him, not the exciting businesswoman who sat before him.
“Well, I’ve just retired from a long career in science, and I felt this was a good time for me to help … or, I guess, give back something for human … for the community.”
“That’s very noble of you. What brings you to CBS?”
“I guess that’s pretty serendipitous. You see, I’m not a registered CBS voter. I’m not registered at all. I’ve kept my nose to the grindstone for a long time. In fact, I haven’t voted for probably longer than you’ve been around. That’s why I want to do something to help.” Elliott broke eye contact with Burns and momentarily stared away. “I’ve been a taker … not a giver. You understand what I mean?”
Burns sat motionless and emotionless.
“I guess it’s hard for someone your age to appreciate what I’m trying to say.”
“I understand perfectly,” she said. “I often feel the same way. I’m curious about why you chose CBS.”
“That’s the serendipity. CBS is the only party with an office here in the city.”
“But with holographic multimedia, that’s hardly a consideration anymore,” Burns replied.
“I know. Maybe I’m old fashioned. I just wanted to deal with someone face to face.”
“I certainly understand. I think this is a wonderful thing you’re doing.” Burns rose to her feet. “I wish I had more time to talk this morning, but I just came from a rally at the University and I have a virtual conference meeting with the state director in a short time, so I need to finish changing and prepare for that. We’re all quite busy right about now.” She walked with him toward the door. “There may be some very valuable things you can help us with in the near term. Let me think about our plans and get back to you.”
The interview was over as quickly as it had started. Elliott found himself standing beside his bicycle before he even realized what had happened. He stood there immobile—wondering. In a moment, he was pointed toward home, but his spirit was captured in that third floor suite.
