Free The Journalist by G.L. Rockey Page A

America today is fat.
No wonder they all hate our Aunt and Uncle Joes’ tilly. Let it
go  ”
    Applause.
    “We could abolish poverty overnight, but we
don’t, won’t even talk. Shame on us. It’s a tragic disgrace, and on
a planet with so much, that things, things, are more important than
people. I don’t understand.”
    Silence.
    “Understand this, the haves and have-nots are
on the same track, one heading east and one heading west. Also know
that, with the grace of God, there is still time. Maybe we can all
be thankful for that. Friends, there is truly a new day coming.
With me I think we can do it peacefully. Otherwise, those trains
are barreling in the night.”
    Beno paused.
    “In closing, if you want a change from this
insane gluttony of a few at the top, elect me next November. I’ll
show you how to clean out the closet, honey  ”
    Applause, cheers, chants of “Beno, Beno.”
    “Thank you all very much. God bless, and
thank you for coming.”
    Applause, TV video switched to an
anchorperson.
    The bartender turned the sound down and
snarled at Mary.
    “Thanks.” Mary blew him a kiss.
    Zack, digesting Beno’s remarks, remembered
several conversations he had had with the Pi people and Joe
Case—the last chat with Joe, as a matter of fact. Just before he
disappeared  about the very things Beno had
talked about.
    “Having a nice little trip?” Mary tipped her
head.
    Back from his thoughts: “So, what are you
going to tell Lande’s office?”
    “To kiss my rabbit’s foot.”
    Zack raised his hand to the server. “Want
another one?”
    “Just one, remember.”
    “Sure.”
    The server came to the table.
    “Two more.” Zack said. “New here, huh,
Troy?”
    “Seems like forever.” Troy sighed and
left.
    “Friendly little sucker,” Mary said.
    “You trying to pick a fight in here?”
    “Boca, why don’t we go to my place and I’ll
cook some steaks.”
    “Mary  ”
    “Okay, why don’t we go to your place and
catch a fish.”
    “Mary  ”
    “Don’t give me that
you-need-to-go-to-confession look.”
    “So, what will you tell Ms. Lande?”
    “Oh, bullshit.” She threw a nickel in his
glass.
    “Oh, I see.” Zack stumped his cigarette out
in an old Bimini Road tin ashtray. “You’d think they would get new
ashtrays.”
    “Boca, you are being a dumb jerk about us.
Everybody thinks it anyway.”
    “They can think anything they want. We have
to live with we.”
    Mary rolled her eyes in amazement. “Is that
supposed to be, like, Gertrude Stein or something?”
    “Thank you.”
    “Let me ask you. If I were forty-five and fat
would you marry me?”
    “Probably not.”
    “Oh, how about fifty and a cane?”
    “Might.”
    “One more. If I were fifty-two and you were
twenty-seven  ”
    “Definitely.”
    “See, that’s the honest answer. It’s just a
dumb stubborn male thing with you. Age is such a stupid measure of
what people are, a person is  ”
    “Somebody said that.”
    “Oh, stuff it.”
    “That, too.”
    “It’s true. You know it.”
    “Mary, in less than eight years I’ll be
sixty. You’ll be—what—twenty-five?”
    “Six. I’ll be twenty-six. Can’t count,
either.” She threw a dime in his glass.
    Zack gazed into his drink. “If there was a
child  ”
    “Don’t flatter yourself.”
    “I probably wouldn’t see the grade school
graduatio  ”
    “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.” She threw a
quarter in his glass.
    “So, what will you tell Ms. Lande when you
call her back tomorrow.” Zack lit another Camel.
    “To go jump in a lake.”
    “That’s better.” He blew smoke toward the
ceiling.
    “How about ‘go to hell.’”
    The server brought the new round of drinks
and looked at the change in Zackary’s glass.
    Zack smiled. “It’s yours, little tip.”
    “Damn little,” Mary said.
    “Right.” The server picked up a ten-dollar
bill from the table. “Another seventy-five cents, please.”
    Zack handed him another dollar.