Political Timber (11 page)

“What, because I apologized to my girlfriend?” I still wasn’t sure if Mad Matt was suckering me.

He shrugged. “Go figure. I suppose maybe it’s possible that men, y’know, in general, aren’t prone to talking to their gals the way you talked to yours on the air.
I
don’t happen to believe that, but our callers seemed to find you a phenomenon.” He shrugged again.

I shrugged in return. Sol registered no reaction.

“Anyhow, kid,” Matt said as he backed toward his spot for the start of the show. “You keep it up. You’re an original. We love ya.” He blew me a kiss, and signed on.

“Hell-oooo, ladies and gentlemen and ladies. It’s showtime again, and he’s baaaaack. Mister Sensitive. Mister Wonderful. Mister Ladykiller. Missssster I’m-so-sorry. That’s right, start those hearts a’throbbin’ for Gordon ‘Four Percent’ Foley!”

I sat dumbstruck listening to the intro. Why did he always sound so supportive talking to me in person, when ten seconds later on the public airwaves I wound up sounding like a simp?

That’s showbiz, I figured.

Matt was pointing at me repeatedly to join in. Sol slapped my arm, grabbed the mike, and practically shoved it in my mouth.

“Hi,” I said.

“There you go, folks. Sensitive, yes, but also strong and silent. I hate to belabor the demigod thing, but... anyhow, he’s here now and we’re not letting him go this time. Girls, give the boy a call. You don’t even have to ask your parents because we’re not—not yet, anyway—a 900 number. And as for you guys out there, well, sit back and shut up. Gordie’s a real man and doesn’t need you anyway.”

It was audible over the air when I let my head drop and smash into the microphone.

“Oh, that remark wouldn’t seem to help the campaign,” Sol deadpanned. “Is that kind of thing helpful, Four?” As we were getting to be really close now, Sol shortened my name to Four.

The calls, though, against all odds, turned out to be a boost.

“Oh, um, like, Gordie, ah, Mr. Foley, I just wanted to say that it took a real man to talk like you did to that Sweaty person like you did in front of so many ears. My boyfriend said you were a wuss, but he’s a loser anyway.”

“Gordie.” This voice was deeper and sultry, probably ten years older than the previous caller. Maybe even voting age. “I just want to tell you that I don’t care what other speeches I hear in this campaign, you’ve won my vote. And are you going to be out on any baby-kissing tours before the election?”

Sol cued up a woo-woo sound effect, then Mad Matt cut in. “He’ll be touring the clubs on Landsdowne Street about midnight on Saturday, babe. Wear a pink corsage and something strapless.”

Everybody was so much faster than me.

“Ah, I love babies,” I said.

Matt cut off his mike. “Shut up,” he yelled at me.

“Yes, hi, Gordie? One quick question: My boyfriend Pauly, right? He wants to have sex with me. And, well, I say, Okay, but you have to tell me you love me first. Right, so he says, Ya, sure, you know I do. So I say, Great, then tell me. So he does it again, he says, Of course, you know I do. So I say it again, Good, Pauly, so tell me. And he says it again, You know I do. So the thing is, does that count? Even though he can’t actually, you know,
say
it? I think maybe it does, huh? He really loves me, right, Gordie? Technically, does the you-know-I-do stuff qualify, and if so, should I go ahead and sleep with him?”

Matt cut in before I could even close my fell-open mouth.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Dead air.

“Seems to me,” I finally croaked, “that if a guy can’t say a word, there should be some sort of rule that he can’t perform it either.”

Dead air.

“So... I should, then?” she said uncertainly.

I sighed, tiring too quickly these days. “Ya, sure, go ahead,” I said.

She thanked me with a squeal and a giggle, and Pauly hollered, “Thanks, dude,” laughing in the background. The phone slammed down before I could get back to her to fix what I’d done.

But not before I felt the stinging in my belly for it.

“Hello? This is Maureen Tisdale-Morrissey calling.”

Matt swung for the fences. “
Mau-reeeen Tis-dale-Mor-ris-sey
!” He signaled Sol, who instantly hit up the theme music from Dragnet:
Buuuuum de bum bum.

“Maureen Tisdale-Morrissey. The esteemed deputy mayor, former very close associate of one Fins Foley, and, most importantly, current front-runner in the mayoral runoff election. See, Gordie, it’s official, there isn’t a woman left who can resist you. Maureen, tell us, are you going to vote for our boy?”

All I could think of: Set up. Again. I was set up. Again.

“Well, Matt, I have to be honest and say that no, I don’t believe I will. I think I’m still going to go with me.”

“Well then, must be a clandestine rendezvous with the candidate you’re sniffing around for. That’s the other reason the ladies are all calling.”

She laughed. “Well, Matt, don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. I’m only human.”

I stopped thinking about the setup. I started listening to her. They talked about me, in front of me, as if I weren’t even there. Like adults had always done when I was a kid.

“Actually,” Maureen continued, “my daughter would be more interested in Mr. Foley. She told me to say hi to him.”

I was confused. Was the opposition being nice to me? I had been told not to expect that. Or was she zinging me and I just didn’t get it?

“How old’s your daughter?” Matt tossed.

“Eleven,” she returned.

Zing.

“Seriously, though,” Maureen added, “I wanted to call and say that I think it’s a fine thing Gordie is doing here. I believe the young people should be very involved in the political process, as a learning experience at least. He’s a fine boy, and has been since the first time I met him, which was, I believe, when he was batboy at one of his grandfather’s legendary soft-ball barbecues.”

I had forgotten all about that. She made me all waxy for a minute there, thinking about this whole political-dynasty thing the way I used to think of it—as softball and Italian ice and love spilling all over my grandfather for no particular reason.

“I remember,” I interrupted politely. “That was fun.”

“Yes it was, Gordie,” she said sweetly. “We all had a lot of fun over the years. I was glad to be a part of it. And, to let you in on a little secret, if I were not running myself, I probably would vote for you for mayor.”

“Whoa,” Matt said. “If that’s not the most ringing nonendorsement I’ve ever heard... Listen, Maureen—can I call you Mo?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, Maureen, when can we get you down here, face-to-face with young Foley, on the show? It’ll be dynamite.”

“No, no,” she said. “I’m not going for any of that. In fact, if my campaign manager knew I was on the air this long, he’d have a fit. I only called out of my personal fondness for Gordie, and out of respect for his family. What I would like to do though—Gordie, are you still there?”

“Oh, ah, ya.”

“What I would like is to get together with you personally, off the air. To have a friendly discussion of issues just between us.”

I shuddered. She was a professional, and had her sights on me now, knowing me to be a fake. This was the same feeling O’Dowd gave me.

Except she was so
nice.

“Okay,” I said. “You wanna come to my house?”

Maureen laughed. “You’re cute. No, I think a power breakfast at the Meridien will do. One day next week—after the primary.”

“After?” Matt asked, sounding much more astounded than he needed to, I thought. “What if—god forbid—our boy is no longer in the race after Tuesday?”

Maureen smiled. You know how you can hear that sometimes over the phone, when a person smiles? She smiled a big generous one. “Gordie will be in the final. He
will
make it through the primary. That’s a prediction.”

“Holy smokes, a bona fide prediction, right here on my show,” Matt gushed. “That’s never happened before. At least, not a
correct
prediction anyway.”

“Thank you,” I said to Maureen, as if she had actually somehow placed me into the final. “And, ya, breakfast. It’s a date.”

“My people will call your people,” she said. “Bye-bye.”

“My people get home from work at about six,” I said.

Matt cued up a song and started playing it low, under the chatter. “We Are the Champions,” by Queen. A bit optimistic, I thought, but it gave me a little rush anyhow.

“Wow. She was really, really nice,” I said, on air, about my main opposition.

It occurred to me that I probably shouldn’t have done that. But Matt cranked the song, and I didn’t care what I shouldn’t have done.

A
S PRIMARY DAY APPROACHED,
things got hot. I registered. Not to vote, which I had forgotten to do before the deadline and which would have proven embarrassing to the campaign had Da not informed me that of course I was registered—retroactively.

No, I
registered.
I was on the map, all over it, in fact. Small news items started appearing here and there, from press releases my diligent campaign workers produced.

“
Foley vows to raise pay for all city teachers.
”

“Did I say that?” I asked Bucky, who was communicating with me more over the FinsFone, less and less face-to-face.

“Yes, you did, you populist hero. And let me compliment you on a masterstroke. That kind of thing plays
big.
Keep it up and soon you’ll be as beloved as you-know-who.”

“Thanks. Second question: Can I do that? Raise their salaries?”

“Not a chance.”

“So why did I—”

“Listen, take a day out of the office today. Go shoot some hoops down at the Boys’ Club.”

This too was becoming a familiar pattern. I was almost never required at the office anymore. Which was fine, since the office was a serious drag, with the snotty college kids figuring me out, bossing me around, using words they knew I couldn’t understand.

“Fine with me,” I said. If I was going to spend my Flexible Campus days working on my J, that would be fine with me. Then, when my fairy-tale stint as boy mayor and hot radio ga-ga deejay was over, I’d hit the NBA running. Could happen.

I’d probably shot hoops at the Boys’ Club a thousand times before. Sometimes with Mosi. Sometimes with Sweaty. Sometimes with a few of the last-cut school b-ball rejects who were just about my speed. And lots of times, since it wasn’t really a very popular club, by myself. Which, of course, is the best way to shoot hoops, because you can be great, when you’re alone in a gym.

But I had never shot with actual Boys’ Club members before. Certainly not perfect fund-raiser-commercial, dirty, happy needy ragamuffins from a Dickens Boys’ Club. Yet in they tramped, boisterous and happy and annoying as hell, breaking the great silence, stealing the ball from me, taunting me.

The photographer—but of course—came in just in time to catch me looking like a dolt, chasing after squealing gargoyles a foot shorter than me who simply refused to give me back my ball.

“
Foley Pledges Complete Support to Struggling Inner-City Program
.”

That was the headline over the photo op. The caption read, “Mayoral candidate Gordon Foley has a ball with city kids.”

They always had a place for me to go. Something’s being built, Gordie. Run over there and get your picture taken at the groundbreaking. Something’s being torn down, Gordie. Get over there and look forlorn. But remember, don’t
say
anything, for chrissake. We’ll release a statement lamenting the passing of an era.

An extended interview with me was printed in
The South Side
Sentinel, a weekly tabloid that was a longtime Fins Foley mouthpiece. I must admit, I came off very witty and sincere and informed on all the issues. I talked about my girlfriend, making her sound like Sweet Polly Purebred, and my mom, making her sound... actually, making her sound just like she is. I got misty over the whole thing. I hope to someday meet the man who allegedly interviewed me, so I can thank him.

My junior-year yearbook picture accompanied the article.

I started getting letters. From girls. Too young to vote, mostly, or too old for... anything.

School was a different story. Another issue of
The School Newspaper
was out—sigh—and I sat in the library reading it. Mosi no longer delivered me the bad news, unable to bear it, I supposed, so I had to pick it up in the street or the library like everyone else.

“... began his speech to supporters with the questionable joke... ‘What’s on the plate, cocaine?’”

“I can’t believe it. I cannot believe these no-life I-Team ginks sent somebody to my fund-raiser.”

I read on.

“It turned out to be only a taste, a sampling of what appears to be a pattern of drug references that the candidate cannot resist making, such as this from his candidate questionnaire profile...”

I threw the paper across the library, pages spreading out and fluttering to the floor like autumn leaves.

Smack. I was clomped across the back of the head.

“I’ll pick it up,” I said, figuring it was Mrs. Clancy, the hundred-and-twelve-year-old bantam librarian.

“I don’t give a shit if you pick it up.” It was O’Dowd. He smacked me again.

“I wish you’d stop
doing
that,” I snapped.

“Oh, do you really?” he answered.

Smack. I didn’t feel that one, only heard it. It was Mrs. Clancy. She smacked O’Dowd.

“Leave him alone, ya punk,” she said.

O’Dowd raised a backhand as if to whack Mrs. Clancy with it. Just for show. Even O’Dowd wouldn’t hit Mrs. Clancy.

“Oh, I just wish you’d try it, ya punk. Ya coward.”

If I had one tenth of her spit... I thought.

“I read your interview in the
Sentinel
,” she said, smiling at me. “You sounded very nice. Good boys talk about their mothers like that.”

“Oh, ya?” said O’Dowd. “Have you read
The School Newspaper
?”

“No!” she barked. Then she shushed him. “No talking in my library. And don’t you lay another finger on this boy.”