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Authors: Janet Tashjian

Vote for Larry (11 page)

BOOK: Vote for Larry
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I tried to process the information. Part of me felt bad these candidates were dropping out. I agreed with them on several issues, and let's face it, we all were breaking new ground trying to dismantle the two-party system. I felt as if we were almost on the same team.
“They'll have to let us into the debates now. You have more than 15 percent in the polls. We can finally have a national audience! This is the big leagues, buddy!”
We'd been fantasizing about the debates for months, but now the thought of standing on stage before an audience of forty million television viewers was intimidating, to say the least. I dialed Beth's cell phone—busy Simon's too. I threw on my clothes and told Peter I had to tell Beth. He offered to call me a cab, but I chose to walk. I headed into the darkness.
The presidential debates! No karaoke machines, no gimmicks, just three people and their ideas for a better country.
85
My initial nervousness began to transform into excitement. I wanted to hear the other candidates answer probing questions, wanted to hear them talk about their promises versus their records. As I walked the empty streets the few blocks to Beth's, I tried to anticipate what her reaction would be.
When I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, I wondered if I should have taken Peter up on his offer for a cab. The bed and breakfast was nearby, but this was a city I didn't know. My fugitive antennae kicked in, and my fear increased. I turned to look over my shoulder; sure enough, a car with dimmed lights was right behind me, cruising slowly.
I started to run, turning left toward the main road. Behind me, I heard the car speed up.
The last thing I remember when the car hit me was the beauty of the Ann Arbor sky.
When I woke up, the first face I saw was Beth's. “You can't do this to me again—you can't!” Her face was ruddy and her eyes swollen.
Too groggy to answer, I swiveled my head to the other side of the bed in time to watch Peter shaking the doctor's hand.
“You've got a fractured femur,” Peter said. “You'll be here for another few days, then six weeks on crutches. You were lucky.”
“I don't feel too lucky.”
“Janine hasn't stopped calling. She'll be here tomorrow first thing,” Peter said.
He handed me a plastic cup with a straw. After a few sips, I found enough of my voice to ask what happened.
“Hit and run,” Beth said.
The scene immediately came back to me. “It was a black sedan.” Then I rattled off the number of the license plate.
“Oh my God.” She ransacked her bag for a pen. “Did you see them?”
“Two men. They were following me with their lights off until I turned the corner. They hit the gas—then me.”
“The police wanted to talk to you after you woke up. I was
hoping they were wrong about this.” When Peter hurried out of the room, I turned back to Beth.
“I knew this wasn't an accident,” Beth said. “I just knew it.”
“Where's Simon?”
She gathered the piles of used tissues from the bed. “We broke up.”
I tried to reach for her hand, but my arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “What happened?”
“Oh, the groupies, People magazine, the way he yelled at that motel clerk last night.” She tossed the pile of tissues into the basket. “That and the fact that I'm in love with you.”
86
I didn't care how sore my muscles were, I willed my body toward her. We held each other amidst the tubes and bandages. Although my limbs pulsed with pain, what I felt in my body most strongly was happiness.
“I don't want to get in the way of you and Janine,” she said. “I'd rather wait than fight with another woman over a guy I hate that. It's degrading for everyone.”
Then silence. Lots of it.
“It's not like I'm asking you to make a decision between us today.” Beth's words said one thing, her expression another. The look on her face could only be called expectant.
“I can't do this now,” I said. “I'm barely conscious.”
“I know. I'm sorry.” I could see the tumblers click as she changed the subject. “Who would do this to you?” she finally asked.
“Oh, I don't know—who have we pissed off in the past few months?”
“Let's see.” Beth began to brighten. “The Republicans, the Democrats, greedy CEOs, every soccer mom who wants to keep driving an SUV, every politician who doesn't want to change the campaign finance laws …”
I held myself back from adding to her list.
“You don't think betagold had anything to do with this, do you?” she asked.
I told her about yesterday's e-mail.
“I already gave her name to the police,” Beth said. “They're checking her out now.”
“I don't think betagold's capable of attempted murder, do you?”
Beth's cell rang; she moved to the corner of the room and took the call. I slipped back onto the pillow, exhausted.
“That was Simon. He wanted to make sure you're okay.”
I nodded, feeling sleepy from the drugs.
When I woke up again, it was the next day. Peter sat in the chair beside me, his feet on my bed.
“Josh van Winkle, welcome back.”
If I didn't get to the bathroom soon, I was going to explode. I made the trip of my own volition—if you don't count the crutches—then dove back into bed.
“I'm starving,” I said.
“That's a good sign.” He buzzed for the nurse.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Beth's on a rampage to find out who did this. The license
plate came back as a rental to a guy with a fake ID. Tracy Hawthorne's totally clean. The police are on it, though.”
The thought that the hit-and-run was a deliberate attempt on my life made me feel like never getting out of bed again.
Peter leaned back in his chair and grinned.
“What are you so happy about?” I asked.
“Well, while you were sleeping, there was ONE thing that happened.”
“Please don't make me guess, I'm begging you.”
He snapped open the newspaper folded on his lap. 28TH AMENDMENT PASSED 51 TO 49. 18-YEAR-OLDS CAN BE PRESIDENT!
I bolted upright. “That's one of those fake newspapers, right? You had it made at a joke shop downtown?”
“Wrong!” Peter could barely contain himself. “The wheels were already in motion, but after the attempt on your life the outcry was so loud the amendment sailed right through the states too.”
“It's impossible,” I said. “Please tell me you're kidding.”
“The reporters are three blocks deep outside, waiting to talk to you.”
Beth entered the room quietly, followed by Janine. The two of them seemed as shocked as I was.
“Can you do this?” Beth asked. “Because now is the perfect time to back out if you want to.”
For a minute there, I couldn't tell if she was talking about our relationship or the election.
“It's now or never,” Janine added. “You have to decide.”
Backing out is something I have never been good at.
87
But the idea that I could possibly WIN and become president filled me with such dread, I felt that a lifetime of bedsores and hospital food would actually be more enjoyable. Not because I didn't believe in the issues but because the obstacles and resistance from others trying to protect the status quo seemed insurmountable. I mean, someone had just tried to kill me! Was there a traitor in our midst? Would he or she try to hurt me again? Could I bypass the press corps outside so I could pop home to Bloomingdale's and run all this by Mom?
No one on the campaign knew the laundry list of doubts that kept me up most nights. Who was I to think I'd run the country any better than professional politicians? What skills did
I
have to offer? What finally got me to sleep in those early hours was thinking about Rosa Parks or Cesar Chavez, regular citizens who probably thought they had nothing to offer the world either—until one day when challenging the status quo suddenly seemed more important than upholding it. Their efforts may have seemed inconsequential at the time, but ended up shifting our society forever.
Did I have it in me to try? To risk everything for possibly a better way?
I stared at Beth's and Janine's optimistic faces but I knew the decision was ultimately my own. I ripped the I.V from my arm.
“We're running,” I said. “And we're going to win.”
“It is we who have squandered the public trust. We who have, time and again, in full public view placed our personal and partisan interests before the national interest, earning the public's contempt for our poll-driven policies, our phony posturing, the lies we call spin, and the damage control we substitute for progress. It is we who are the defenders of a campaign finance system that is nothing less than an elaborate influence-peddling scheme in which both parties conspire to stay in office by selling the country to the highest bidder.”
 
Senator John McCain
SEPTEMBER:
LEGAL AT LAST
If you took all the Larry frenzy after betagold outed me and multiplied it by a thousand,
that's
the kind of pressure I felt now. I told myself it was no big deal if we lost—we had been planning on losing up until a few weeks ago. But thousands of kids were becoming politically involved every day, and I refused to let them down.
For nine months I'd been complaining that the mainstream media hadn't covered our campaign, but the current attention felt more like a searchlight shining down on someone trying to escape from prison. We now had a press bus that followed us along the campaign trail. I used every opportunity to discuss the Peace Party platform, but even a stimulation junkie like me got tired of such a rigorous interview and travel schedule. (One thing I didn't complain about was a guest appearance on
Saturday Night
Live in a political debate sketch.
That
was hilarious.)
The real presidential debates were next month; I tried not to obsess about them, but of course I did. And not having Simon around to strategize was a real letdown.
He'd gone back to Harvard for the fall semester, but I found myself calling him late at night with questions of
strategy and policy.
88
Judging by the variety of women answering his phone, he wasn't wasting any time getting over Beth.
And for once, I found myself faced with two women who wanted me. Me! If my time weren't being consumed by a presidential campaign, I might even have a chance to revel in such unexpected good fortune.
Of course, our entire campaign hinged on me being eighteen, an event that finally occurred in September. I spent the day outlining each year of my life, going back to age two and a half and analyzing all the things I'd learned.
89
I plotted it all in a colorful Venn diagram that I tucked into my notebook.
The orthopedic surgeon vetoed Peter's idea for a bowling party, thank God, so Janine and Beth planned a dinner celebration at a Mexican restaurant, complete with a decrepit birthday sombrero.
90
Knowing how much noise we would probably make, Beth had wisely requested a private room in the back of the restaurant. Peter made an embarrassingly candid toast, and Tim and Lisa sang a much-too-loud and nasty limerick they'd composed that afternoon. When Janine got them to sit down, I was grateful, if only for a moment.
“Well, Larry,” she said. “We thought the party might need some entertainment.”
Beth pulled back the curtain leading to the next room and made way for a tall, middle-aged belly dancer.
Everyone at the table turned to me and laughed.
I tried to smile good-naturedly but felt my cheeks burn. My shyness soon transformed itself to horror when the woman turned on her boom box and began to gyrate in front of me.
Beth and Janine couldn't contain themselves; they stood across the room and howled.
91
“Are we torturing you?” Beth asked. “We all thought you needed a little levity.”
“Isn't this more appropriate for a Middle Eastern restaurant?” I asked.
Janine laughed. “I thought you were big on diversity—come on!”
Have you ever had one of those times when you pretend to be happy because you're supposed to be, because you know that people you love have put so much effort into doing something nice for you, but all you really want is for everyone to just go away? I smiled, I laughed, but my mind was elsewhere.
I tried to focus on the woman's dancing skills, but I had made so many speeches about the Middle East lately it was impossible not to watch her and think about the atrocities being committed in her part of the world. I made a mental note
to ask the president about the peace process when I saw him next month.
The woman jangled her bracelets in my face, snapping me out of my reverie.
92
I knew no one, let alone I, could make a dent in international affairs tonight so I set my mind on a different problem—the Janine/Beth debate.
I'd been playing emotional Ping-Pong since Beth had broken up with Simon. Beth/Janine. Janine/Beth. Because of all the miles we were logging, tonight was the first time in a month the three of us had been in the same city at the same time. I found myself in the enviable/impossible position of choosing between them.
After twenty minutes and much applause, the woman packed up her boom box and left. I approached Janine and Lisa.
“Nice surprise,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Tim wanted to order a stripper,” Lisa said. “You should be grateful.”
Janine grabbed her bag and gave me a hug. “I'm taking the eleven o'clock flight out of Logan. Lisa's giving me a ride.”
As if on cue, Lisa made her way around the table saying goodbye.
“What are you talking about? I thought you were staying till tomorrow.”
She nodded at Beth across the room. “I know you'd rather
be with Beth on your birthday. It kills me, but I'm not going to stay and make a scene.”
“No, you're wrong—”
“Then you do want me?”
“I … I don't know what I want. This is new terrain for me.”
“Then let me make it easy for you. I'll see you in a few weeks, okay? Call me.”
“Janine, no—”
She kissed me goodbye, then slipped out the door with Lisa.
Hel-lo? Why had I thought it would be
my
choice who I ended up with tonight? I stared at Beth across the room, jumping up and down with excitement as she talked to Billy. She could hardly be called a consolation prize. I limped my way over to her as the party broke up.
Since Beth hadn't returned to Brown this semester, she was staying with her parents on the rare occasions we weren't on the road. I hoped she'd come back to my house afterward; she eagerly said yes.
As I maneuvered my crutches up the front stairs, I noticed Peter camped out in the living room. Wasn't it time for him to go to bed?
But no, he sat with us pontificating about the next few months, so crucial to the campaign. I gave him several hints to leave the room, but he didn't.
After half an hour, Beth stood up.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I'm so sleep deprived, I can't keep my eyes open.”
“Come on, it's early.” I hobbled to the back door after her.
She pulled me close and kissed me. “I'm not playing second string to Janine—I know you wanted to be with her tonight.”
“No I didn't!”
“I told you back in the hospital—it's not my style to fight with another girl over a guy. Waste of time.” She kissed me again. “Happy birthday.”
She closed the door behind her.
I opened it again. “You two did this on purpose, didn't you? Some sick birthday joke? He's an adult now, let's torture him.”
“Night, Josh.”
When I returned to the living room, Peter tried to contain his laughter.
“It's not funny,” I said.
“I didn't say anything.”
“I'm eighteen, and I feel about twelve.”
“You should feel lucky two terrific women care so much about you.”
“Yeah, care enough to leave.” I told Peter I was going to bed.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for a long time. I was eighteen at last. Old enough to vote, to have a say in things. Talk about the proverbial grown-ups' table. And here I was, broken leg, the most bizarre haircut of my life, guacamole all over my T-shirt, and let's not forget the frosting on the (birthday) cake—someone had recently tried to kill me. But all I could think about was Janine and Beth.
What if they hadn't beaten me to the punch tonight? What if I did have to choose between them? For months, my mind had been overflowing with the details of the campaign, barely giving me any time to listen to the tiny voice inside me guiding me through this thorny girlfriend decision. Yet as I stood before the mirror now, strains of that voice became clearly audible. I knew which one I loved more.
“Josh?” Peter appeared in the doorway in his robe. “Happy birthday, buddy.”
He hugged me, then shuffled down the hall.
I shut off the light knowing I wouldn't have time to sort through and finalize the Janine/Beth triangle until after the election. I headed to my room alone.
Some things never change.
BOOK: Vote for Larry
2.86Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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