I don’t care for politics.
I can remember when Bernie was still reporting for the Dispatch. He’d come home after covering a Town Hall meeting at 10 o’clock, blood boiling, running for the scotch and soda, murmuring about the board’s ineptitude and lethargy.
With every fiber of my being, I now understand why.
Not being the scotch and soda sort, I’m working this one out on the treadmill with the great Hall and Oates in my ears, don’t ask me why. I’ve always been a bit of a fan. “Private Eyes” is my favorite.
I just can’t believe that debate. I never knew Wanda to be so evasive, so strident and inflexible. Every word from her mouth dripped of Bitsy. I don’t care what anyone says – Bitsy’s title should be ‘puppeteer,’ not ‘campaign manager.’
This bit about bringing Hilltop into the tourism mix … Shirley handled herself perfectly – perfectly! – under the white-hot spotlight, challenging Wanda on whether she’d earned Mr. Nutwell’s permission to do so. That is talent! I’d like to claim credit for that one, but frankly, the question blindsided both of us.
The question is whether that left an impression on the audience members, or did they walk out believing Wanda’s whims to be a true plan. (In reality, to quote recent events, it was little more than a ‘concept of a plan,’ but I digress.)
My phone is ringing as I stop the machine and dab my face. I pick it up to see Bernie’s name blaring back at me.
It’s like I divined it.
“Hi there, how’s the big time treating you?” I ask Bernie on the other end.
“On the road,” he says. I can tell he’s tired and slightly grouchy. He loses all sense of decency when he hasn’t slept.
“Where? They don’t have you in some trench somewhere, do they?”
“West Coast,” he says. “I started in Oklahoma … working my way west … to Silicon Valley.”
No.
He’s investigating Carson.
I cannot bring myself to engage further, to ask him what he’s looking for. Or, better yet, why he is looking at all.
I collect myself. I need to get beyond this.
“Well,” I say. I can hear the nerves in my voice, clear evidence of avoidance. “I imagine you’re having better weather there than we are here, yes?” I don’t give him a moment to respond. “You know … the debate was last night. I really thought you’d be there.”
I can hear Bernie sigh on the other end. “Yeah, I heard a little from Mercury, but it sounds like Wanda has some … interesting ideas. You may have your hands full.”
The tears are welling up as I nod at the telephone. I want to ask him why he’s so hellbent on this Carson thing. Why is he pursuing this? But I know, as soon as I do, I’ll have to tell him exactly what I know, and, the thing is, I know a lot.
I just can’t do that to Carson.
“Yeah, yeah I think we do,” I say, collecting myself. “Gosh, I don’t know how you handled all of this for so many years. These people are just … oh, I don’t know. It’s just thankless.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Hey, I wanted to ask …”
My neck stiffens. I can feel the tension in my back.
“Yes?” I say.
Silence. I can hear him opening a piece of hard candy. Bernie does love his cinnamon jaw breakers.
He sighs. “Nothing. Nothing. I better go. Hey, good luck this week. I’ll be back in a few days, hopefully in time to vote.”
Involuntarily, I exhale into the phone. “Right … right. Good, safe travels. Hope you … hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He laughs. “Yeah, me too. I’ll call you when I’m back. We’ll toast your illustrious career in politics.”
I smile. “Or spit on it. Either way.”
“Bye Elyse.”
“So long.”
Gunnar Olafsson