Parties in Congress (18 page)

“Yes, Congresswoman. As a matter of fact, I do. As does anyone who reveres the scripture.”

“Aren’t you a parent?”

“I am.”

“Then by your logic, Senator, you need to tell us what kind of sex you’re having, as well as any kind of sex you think you might have in the future.”

Prescott’s lipless face turned red and he began to sputter. It soon became clear that Guzman intended to uncharacteristically sit by quietly and let the two of them face off.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Is it ridiculous because I’m imposing my morality onto you without your permission? Or is it because I’m defining you solely by your sexuality?”

“You’re being obscene!”

“Because I’m implying that you have sex, sir? Hardly. I would argue that you and the others who insist on vilifying the LGBT community based on what you assume we’re doing in private are far more obscene.”

“I refuse to stand for this type of talk. Tank?”

Tank made no attempt to intervene and merely grinned as the back-and-forth continued.

“You don’t like being judged on your sexual activities, do you, Senator? It doesn’t seem like it’s anyone’s business, does it?”

“Tank, do you plan to regain control of this interview?”

“And if I told you, Senator, that I intend to assume that you’re engaging in some consensual sexual act that I think makes you an unfit parent, and let’s say also ill-suited to keep your job, I’d imagine in the spirit of fairness to your own argument, you’d support that, right?”

“I’m leaving if this continues.”

“Senator, I think we’re all in agreement here. If you’re willing to prove to all of us that you’re only having the kind of sex that we, as interested strangers, approve of, then I think we can all assent to that kind of a…well, let’s call it a purity test.”

Prescott began to fumble with the microphone fastened to his lapel as Colleen continued.

“And everyone out there who thinks that LGBT people are depraved or somehow less than others should be willing to take the same kind of purity test. I mean, if we’re judging people on what they do in their bedroom, that should hold true for everyone, right?”

Prescott stood up, his mic still affixed to his jacket, and stormed out of frame. There was a large hum of feedback as the small square he had occupied on the screen became empty, before it was hastily removed, leaving only a split screen between Colleen and Guzman.

“Wow, I guess the senator wasn’t prepared for your argument, Congresswoman. I can’t remember the last time someone actually walked off the set in the middle of an interview.”

“Sorry, Tank. That certainly wasn’t my intent. I just wanted him to consider what it’s like to be viewed exclusively through the prism of sexuality. No other quality—not race or gender or ethnicity—supposes so much about a person’s intimate moments and relationships. And it’s so grossly unfair. To use such suppositions to determine if someone gets to keep their job, legally marry someone, or adopt a child is the height of prejudice and discrimination.”

“Well said, Congresswoman. And don’t worry, you have an open invitation to come on this show anytime. I don’t care how many guests you drive away.”

“I appreciate that, Tank.”

“Coming up next, who’s paying more taxes, the rich or the middle class? We just might surprise you when we return from this break.”

As a commercial began, Bijal was only vaguely aware of the man describing his recent concern over the size of his prostate. She hit the Mute button, and she and Fran sat for some time, neither eating nor speaking. “Wow,” Bijal said finally.

“That was
amazing
,” Fran said softly, as though she was in shock. “I’ve never seen anyone…I mean…shit. Dude, that kind of ass-whooping beats brass poles covered with stripper butter any day.”

“She was masterful.”

“She sure was.”

“We are so screwed.”

Fran’s brow furrowed. “Who is?”

“My campaign. Colleen obviously doesn’t operate by the standard political rulebook, the one that says remain above the fray and stick to your talking points.”

“You can say that again. She owned that little bastard.”

Bijal got up and ventured back to the kitchen to pour herself some whiskey. “Just as I imagine she’ll own Janet in our debate on Friday.”

“Oh, hmm,” Fran said as she chewed.

“Especially on the issues where Janet is being forcibly pushed to the right. Nothing like having your stance inexplicably change and then having to defend it. We’re gonna have our asses handed to us.”

“Well, if someone has to put their hand on your ass, you picked a damn fine woman to do it. You know, I’m thinking of marrying these spring rolls.”

Bijal poured two fingers of alcohol into a glass, paused, then made it three. “This debate is our last stand, Fran. Our poll numbers and our fund-raising have both been steadily declining. I was really hoping Colleen would come off as too liberal or erudite…or wishy-washy. Something we could use, you know?”

“Hang on a second. You yourself have described O’Bannon as smart, charming, and principled.”

“Yeah,” Bijal said, rejoining Fran on the sofa.

“So why would you even dare to hope she’d come off as some dry, scholarly waffler?”

Bijal sipped her drink, letting the vapor fill her mouth. “I don’t know. I guess because she was putting herself out there for such a progressive cause.”

“A cause that you support too,” Fran reminded her.

“Well, sure, but I still saw it as a risky move. Of course, I had no idea that the guy she’d be up against would be so spineless and inarticulate.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you wanted that ignorant ballsack to shut O’Bannon down and be persuasive in his argument to subjugate you.”

Bijal felt a sudden pang of guilt. “No.”

“That’s how you’re sounding. Maybe you need to stop for a moment and decide exactly what you’re ready to commit to. Are you really prepared to fight against your own principles…or your own best interests?”

“Christ, Fran. Can we not have this conversation again?”

Fran nibbled her sweet-and-sour. “Sure. Right after you explain to me how you can sit right here and root for some shifty-ass bastard who’s trying to take away
your
rights.”

“I wasn’t rooting for him, per se. I obviously disagree with his obtuse draconian position. I just wanted—”

“O’Bannon to screw up?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe announce some pending diarrhea? An STD?”

Bijal stole one of Fran’s spring rolls. “Look, I’d just like the ground leveled a little.”

“Then maybe you should talk to your candidate and tell her to stop fucking up so much.”

“It’s that kind of tact and diplomacy that keeps you out of politics, Fran.”

“Well, if the massive compromises you’re making are any kind of a sign, that’s a job I don’t want in the first place.”

“So instead of trying to make a broken system better, or make a real difference, you’d just give up because at times you have to make concessions?”

Fran picked up the remote and changed the channel back to
The Love Jungle
, but left it muted. “Don’t you think you can make too many concessions and compromise your cause?”

“Of course,” Bijal replied. “But that hasn’t happened here. Janet’s still a moderate at heart.”

“Have you guys started your debate prep yet?”

“All day long,” Bijal said. “It’s challenging, but she’s improving. She’s got a down-to-earth quality that’ll help her connect with voters.”

“Likability’s important, I guess. But you know what trumps it?”

“What?”

“A good old-fashioned ass-kicking. Kablam!”

“Okay, now you’re just gloating.”

Fran cast a sideways glance. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me you didn’t get even the teensiest bit aroused at how your sexy congresswoman put her pro-gay foot on that asshole’s spindly little homophobic neck and snapped him like a green bean?”

“Perhaps some small nonpartisan part of me found it…exciting.”

Fran laughed and turned the volume back up. “Yeah, I’ll bet I know just which small nonpartisan part you’re talking about too.”

Bijal shook her head. “If they ever figure out a way to combine spring rolls and vaginas, you’re done for, you filthy woman.”

“I’d never leave the house.”

Colleen locked her car as her BlackBerry went off. It was her campaign manager. “Hey, Max. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to call you bright and early and tell you how much I love you.”

“What is it? You sound almost giddy.” Colleen began the walk to her congressional office building as she slipped her keys into her bag.

He cleared his throat. “I know I called you last night after your television appearance to tell you how well I thought you did.”

“Yeah, that was me. You didn’t dream that.”

“But I just wanted to touch base and drop a little fact on you—maybe start your day off with a bang.”

“Okay,” Colleen said slowly. This was decidedly suspicious. Max didn’t usually subscribe to theatrics.

“It’s safe to say that you went over well, based on the sudden influx of donations we’ve received in the last twelve hours.”

“Couldn’t that just be a coincidence?”

“Well, ordinarily, I’d say yes. But considering that the vast majority of them came from out of state, I’m ruling out both kismet and anomalous planetary alignment.”

Colleen stepped into a crosswalk as the light changed. “Huh, well, that’s certainly an unexpected surprise.”

“I haven’t told you how much yet.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she sighed. “Do I need to whisper some secret password first?”

“Nearly four hundred eighty thousand dollars.”

“Holy shit! Are you serious?”

“I’m here at headquarters and it’s still rolling in, Col. You may need to take Tank Guzman up on his invitation to come back. Maybe we can negotiate a nightly spot on his show.”

“I love it when your inner greed comes out, Max.” She entered the building and headed toward her office.

“We’ll call it
Bitch Slap
, and every night we’ll get a new racist, homophobe, or anti-Semite to come on and say stupid shit. You’ll make them cry and run away, the viewing public gets a warm tingly feeling in their nonny parts—”

“Their
what
parts? Exactly what kind of feelings are you implying that my appearance evoked in the public, Max?”

“Everyone feels like there’s justice in the world, and at the end you get to say, ‘You’ve just been bitch-slapped!’”

“Are you having a mild stroke, Max? Do you smell almonds?”

He laughed. “You think it’s too much?”

“You’re nothing if not perceptive.”

“How about ‘you’ve just been homo-spanked’?”

Colleen was momentarily incredulous. “I’m sorry, are you trying to name a finishing move for me? Is that what you’re doing here?”

“You say finishing move, I say catchphrase. Whatever works.”

“I may have to homo-spank you if…” As Colleen turned the corner, she saw a group of people assembled outside her office. “Oh, crap.”

“What’s up?” Max asked.

“A whole gaggle of folks is waiting for me here.”

“Friends or foes?”

“Well, I don’t see any pitchforks, but no one’s holding a fruit basket either. I’ll have to call you back later, Max. Wish me luck.”

“Homo-spank them!” he said, just before she ended the call.

Colleen slipped her BlackBerry into its holster like a gunslinger and approached the gathering with trepidation. There looked to be a dozen or so people, most of them young, maybe college age. That was a positive sign.

Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted, “She’s here.” In what felt like an instant, they had surrounded her.

“Can I help you?” Colleen asked as she valiantly tried to keep moving toward her office.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” a woman with dimples and disturbingly large eyes said.

“I want to speak with you,” an African American man said, the urgency evident in his voice and posture.

“So do I,” called a voice from the back.

“Okay,” Colleen replied calmly. “Everyone come into my office and I’ll see what we can do.”

She was relieved that no one was shouting at her, and they all seemed agreeable to following her—another positive indication. Over the last couple of years constituents had, on occasion, stopped by her office to speak with her about various issues. Usually they made an appointment first, but sometimes they just turned up. One time an organized group of about ten wanted to speak with her about ending the U.S. military presence in Afghanistan. But she’d never seen an impromptu assembly of this size before.