"Ignorance is preferable to error, and he is less remote from the truth who believes nothing than he who believes what is wrong."
-Thomas Jefferson (Notes on Virginia, 1782)
January, 2000
The slush had oozed into his rubber boot a block away from the Yale Club, sending a shock of cold into his foot through the growing crack on the bottom. The shoes looked fine from the top and had seen him through his graduation from high school in Shipslide, Connecticut, through four years of college at Moundville and into his first job here in New York. He ignored the smirk of the footman who took his coat and rubbers, pouring out the rest of the water. His socks were soggy. He tried to ignore the squishing sound it made; he grabbed the ticket from the man, already grudging the dollar it would cost to redeem his stuff.
“Upstairs, second floor” was the response to his question. A friend had told him about the monthly get-to-gethers at their mutual graduation the spring before. He had not needed to mention the lavish hors d’ourves served up with pointed discourse, the open bar where wine and liquor flowed unceasingly all evening. Dave had been sufficiently motivated by the mention of other freedom-oriented people who were in the know. The addition of a speaker on a subject of interest and the faint possibility he might meet someone of the opposite gender had made this a top priority as soon as he could manage to get here. He had relocated back to the East Coast on December 31, 1999, moving into a tiny box of an apartment, three flights up without an elevator for which he paid $1200 a month down near the Village. Partially unpacked boxes still lined one wall of the studio. He came to New York via Michigan, Texas, and California with brief stops at home in Connecticut. It had been a busy seven months.
He spent most of every week in New Hampshire, commuting back up to the City for coordinating meetings and to spend a few hours listening to the couple who lived next door alternate lovemaking and arguing. Both activities were noisy.
Dave looked around for Brian, his friend from Moundville. Brian had gone on from Moundville to law school at Columbia. The two had shared classes at Moundville since their first economics class together with Professor Barker. The Gnome, as his students called him behind his back, had made a religion of the work of Ludwig von Mises, the Nobel laureate whose papers were stored in a vaulted addition to the library at Moundville. The deceased economist had also been short and it became apparent that Professor Barker did not like men who stood taller than his own five feet six. Dave stood six feet four in his stocking feet but his courtesy and good manners meant he never answered disrespectfully. It had cut no slack with the Gnome that Dave was named for the economist, his full name being David von Mises Elder. Brian, himself two inches over six feet, had learned the previous year that a snappy comeback would end hostilities forever more.
Dave was just too good natured to fight back, thus eliciting the necessary respect. That and his shyness around women made some people speculate he was gay. He had never dated anyone while he was at Moundsville except for one blind date arranged by Brian. The relationship had lasted exactly the length of that one date. The girl was willing, but she was not asked out again, occasionally making wistful comments to Brian. Whatever kind of female attracted Dave it was not Darlene. Brian suspected there was a story there, wondered briefly himself if Dave was gay and then just accepted him as he was.
In fact, Dave was enormously attracted to girls. But his dreamy and romantically idealistic nature had collided with reality very early. He was scared, having been traumatized by an event in high school that still caused him to wake up in the middle of the night, shivering and sweating.
Dave had first seen Nannette Sacks when she entered his eighth grade homeroom class. Her family had just moved to town from Boston. Nann’s father was an attorney for the largest manufacturing concern in town, Paymax Petrol. Mr. Sacks had therefore been a very junior associate of the former senator from Connecticut, the Honorable Bristol S. Branch. Dave was been struck dumb by Nann’s golden beauty and twinkling smile. She had grinned right at him and then sat down in the very next chair. That it had been the only vacant chair in the room had not made this any less exciting for young Dave. The moment that marked his emotional trauma had followed many years of dog-like loyalty. Nann was not only beautiful she was intelligent, something Dave found immensely attractive.
The two became, not friends, but cordial acquaintances sharing discussions on economics, social policy, and the heroic nature of Barry Goldwater and the first throes of exaltation from the work of Ayn Rand. Dave still treasured the hard cover copy of “Atlas Shrugged” that Nann had given him when they were both juniors. And so it had continued until near their last year of high school.
In a moment of unguarded daring Dave had asked Nann to their prom.
Nann had consented. His small group of friends told him this was because she had been jilted by Ralph W. Branch, the great-grandson of Bristol Branch. Ralph did not spend a lot of time at the old family estate in town but he had been there for several summers so that his great aunt could exercise some control while his parents and grandparents were campaigning. Ralph had now moved on to Yale, a many times over legacy who promised to make at least as much trouble as the three previous generations of his family had done. He had left Nann clutching her hanky and waving at the limo that had fetched him. To Dave this had been the opportunity of a life time. He and Nann had avoided any really personal conversations about who Nann dated or about any part of their lives that was not intellectual. Perhaps it could have happened; but it didn’t.
So when Dave announced to his family that he would be attending the prom just two weeks before the scheduled event they had gaped at him in disbelief. His mother, however, soon entered into the spirit of the thing. The event was being held at the local country club, a rarified atmosphere into which Dave had not previously ventured except to sneak over the fence at night and scrounge for golf balls to sell. Grandpa was annoyed and expressed this by asking Dave what he thought he was doing wasting money needed for his college in such profligacy? But Dave was determined. Since that moment when Nann had smiled into his eyes he had hoped and waited for moment such as this. It must be perfect. It must be something out of a book. In fact, he wanted it to be like something out of Atlas Shrugged.
Asking her had been amazingly simple. He approached her at the Friday night football game and she, herself, had taken his arm and moved him away from her gang of friends. He had managed to get out the words, “Prom, date, please,” in some order and she had stunned him by saying, “Wow! Sure Dave. Sounds great!” Her face had lit up and he had momentarily realized how depressed she must be over Ralph. For the next two weeks his life had only one focus.
He had bought the tux at the thrift store for $5.00. It had hardly been used and his mother had been able to bring it in two sizes, leaving it just a tiny bit large for him and just a touch short in the sleeves. He had invested in the new shoes he was still wearing tonight. The corsage had been picked after agonizing comparisons and indecision from the most elegant florist in town in the color specified by Nann, a creamy mauve trio of roses with tulle and satin ribbons that fit snugly to the wrist. This set him back twenty-five dollars. His mom had ooed and ahhhed over the confection while it remained in the family refrigerator. The dropped receipt had sent Grandpa through the roof again with eruptions of German. Dave’s mom was delighted. While she had said nothing she also was worried that he might be gay.
Through the entire two weeks Dave hardly ate he was so nervous. He made up for this by gorging himself during the romantic dinner for two at the River Walk, a fashionable eatery in town, before taking her to the country club for the actual dance. That is why it was no real surprise that when he dropped her off after the uneventful dance; he had managed at least that without a problem; he had thrown up as he bent forward to kiss her as the two of them stood in the dim light of the entryway next to her family’s front door on the front porch. The vomit flowed like an eruption of lava from the tucked satin of her bodice on to the matching pink surface of her shoes.
Dave did not go to graduation. He told his parents he was sick and that the school would mail the diploma. He left for Michigan three days later; telling his parents he was going to get a job to augment the miserly scholarship afforded him by Moundville. His visits back home were brief. He refused to answer calls from his old friends. He had not seen Nann since she ran screaming into the front door of her family’s four car Colonial although he had gotten a letter from her that summer in Moundville he never opened. Three years later she married a classmate from her college in Massachusetts. His mother sent him the clipping from the local paper.
Dave still not been kissed except by his cat, Fuzz Ball. He was still hopelessly attracted to intelligent and blondly beautiful women.
Showing up here at the Fabituso Society could be good for Dave in a lot of ways. Dave had become interested in politics when he was very young, partially through his conversations with his grandfather. The organizations that make up the interconnected world of Republican politics in America are joined at the hip by individuals, their personal and professional interests, and the give and take of issues understood through their varying perspectives. But in places like this those viewpoints came together in one room. Here, deals were cut, jobs found, careers made. The White House might be problematical but these evenings were the home turf for Republicanism in America.
Brian’s insistence he come was not all disinterested friendship. Brian’s talent was finding young Republicans with promise and Brian always knew who to know. Brian had interned for the local congressman for Moundville, a real staunch Conservative, at his office in D. C. during their senior year and had, because of the outstanding recommendation of the Congressman, landed a part-time job with lots of Potential at the New York Institute, a think-tank that gleamed with moneyed promise located right here in the City. The New York Institute along with the Cicero Institute, located in D.C., had originally sponsored this monthly event and the website that touted it and its connection to the rising power of the NeoCon faction of the Republican Party.
Brian knew the value of young men such as Dave. The Movement had a use for them; they were the currency of networking.
Dave Elder looked around. Along with the food and open bars there were lavish arrangements of flowers, elaborate enough to make Martha Stewart twitch.
No one seemed to notice him. That did not bother him. Being tall had made him all too conspicuous before. His suit bagged a little in the pants and soon, maybe this week, he would need to have it cleaned again. It, too, had been with him far longer than was appropriate. He looked around for Brian but did not see him. It was mostly paunchy, power-suited men, younger and far thinner men, seasoned with a scattered selection of females who fell roughly into very limited categories. Republican events were always like that. Briefly, Dave again wondered about this odd fact. The largest women’s organization in the world was Republican; that was the Women’s Forum. Dave’s mom had been a member of the club in their home town. But few women went into real politics. Like here, for instance. Where were the women? There were two men for every woman in the room.
Like the one presently drinking and laughing right down into her gut just inches from him women who were active were either horsy, young and on the make, older, overdressed and on the make, or not made up at all, discernibly female only because they were wearing skirts and this was a Republican event. Dave hastily reformatted this assumption. He had gotten to know some Republicans from the Log Cabin Club. Not all Republicans were straight. He had learned that when a well-known figure had put a hand of his knee one evening after a Cicero conference.
This monthly meeting drew in regulars and also served as a meeting point for the larger, invisible structure of what he had heard called, The Movement.
Over in the corner Dave recognized a face. Carly Brown was a pundit who published frequently in various Conservative and Libertarian publications. She was definitely in the barely female category, he could see. He had noticed her by line the month before in Rationality and last year in American Retrospection. Once she was speaking her mind on motherhood and the next time on abortion.
He had liked what she had to say. She avoided the blusterings of intimidation and true believer exhortations that were usual in most of the articles that originated from Conservatives. All of these people were part of that larger motion of ideas that fascinated him. He started towards her brushing by a woman whose back was turned.
“Well hi there!” The blond turned around, lashing him slightly with her hair which was arranged like a pony tail sprouting from the top of her head. She looked him up and down. He felt briefly as if he had just failed Kindergarten. She was the older variety of female presence but still curvaceous and disturbingly attractive. Her eyes were a vivid green, nearly emerald.
“Oh, hi,” he stammered slightly, hating himself for sounding like an idiot as he shook her offered hand.
“Well you are new here. Let me introduce myself. My name is Babbs Bronson and this is Don Richardson.” Babbs paused looking archly at Dave. “Don writes Page Three and a Half.”
Even Dave, new in New York, knew what that meant. He had not expected to meet the most dangerous purveyor of gossip here.
“Wow. Nice to meet you. Ah, I have never had sex with an intern except for that time I was…no, really, nice to meet you. My name is Dave Elder. First time. Great, great……” he continued to babble as he shook hands all around.
Richardson face broke into a smile that briefly reached his eyes as they shook hands. He opened his mouth to say something.
“Where did you go to school?” Babbs in a glance had ascertained Dave’s approximate age and immediately launched into the meat of things.
“Moundville.” Dave ducked his head a little.
“Ohhhh……how nice.” She fluttered her eyelashes just slightly. “They have turned out some excellent people.” Babbs drew out her words, emphasizing every syllable.
“Working?” Babbs interrupted his recitation of his student history. “Well, I was just hired to work on the Jeff Lawrence campaign.” Jeff Lawrence was the Republican Governor from Tennessee who looked hot for the primary season. He was doing well in New Hampshire.
“We were just considering the presidential primaries. Let’s cut right to the chase. What do you think of your candidate’s chances?” She smiled coyly, glancing at Richardson. Her companion looked more interested now.
Richardson grimaced slightly, shifting his drink from his right hand. “What are you doing for Lawrence?” He asked Dave.
“Coordinating college volunteers for New Hampshire.”
“New Hampshire is a killer state. Good luck to you. Here is my card if you hear any interesting rumors.”
“Thanks, I don’t have any; yet,” stammered Dave.
“Just e-mail me.” With that Richardson nodded and turned away.
Babbs was moving towards the bar.
“So, Babbs, tell me about this next….” Babbs, dressed in a low cut blackly form fitting dress that just barely avoided showing her nipples did not look up as he moved on.
Curiously enough, the Fabituso Society had been named for a highly placed flunky of the present liberal administration as a simultaneous insult and thanks for the many bloopers he had made that had created so many opportunities for political attack. Having the monthly event at the Yale Club was good political positioning.
The Yale Club had the feel of old money although Dave knew as he looked around that many of those gathered in the room were newly minted Americans no matter how politically prominent they might be now. His family had been around for a while. For three generations his family had been American instead of German and Polish although those generations had been spent mostly in blue-collar jobs like carpentry and retail. But he had done his homework; augmenting the clear-eyed viewpoint of his grandfather, who had taught at Salzburg in the 1930s, leaving his native Germany because he wanted his son and daughter to grow up in America. That choice meant he changed professions, becoming a contactor and finish carpenter for families like the Branches.
Many of those present here were also German rather than the WASPs they pretended to be.
Dave moved towards the buffet table. He felt less alone now. It was not so different from his first year at college.
Piling a plate with tiny sausages, cheese and carrots, the vegetable that least disgusted him, he gobbled down munchies in lieu of dinner, retreating again to the sidelines to watch the milling throng. He still felt invisible, but he didn’t mind that for now. He was here to meet people; the right people.
Although he had never met them he recognized the notables from their pictures posted along with articles from the various Internet sites. Pundits, those postulators of pervasive opinion, were thick upon the ground. Pundits were the savants of policy, forging public opinion and feeding whole sentences into the mouths of that other class of Conservative aristocracy, the Radio Personalities. From there those opinions radiated out through the speeches of the up and coming peerage of Republicanism, the candidates. These were among the most powerful of movers and shakers in the Movement, drawn from think-tanks, law firms, journalism, and from the ranks of those who forged the messages that won elections. Dave had never wanted to be a pundit. It was the excitement of the campaign that had made him decide to major jointly in law and political science with a minor in economics. He had not needed much formal study of economics. His German grandfather had made sure he understood the subject. It had proven to be useful. He was not the most incisive student but he frequently could provide insight more academically focused graduates lacked.
Elections were the futures market for power and money. He knew this was a variation on the original Mencken quotation but in this crowd this was the proper variation.
There over by that potted palm, holding forth to a cadre of respectful listeners was the member of the editorial Board of the Canal Street Journal who was marked for advancement in the Branch Campaign for President. He caught his breath. There was the editor of Federal Oversight, the preeminent conservative journal read like a Bible by everyone in the Movement. Dave felt a thrill of excitement shimmer through him like a wave of electricity. He was in the presence of real power. If a Republican could take this next election some of those present would be high up in that administration. A pang of unease ran through him as he again chewed over some of the unappetizing insights he had recently discovered. Time to think about that later. Now was the time to mix.
His palms were sweating just a little. He wiped them down his pants leg, flexing them. He thought about wandering over to listen and introduce himself.
“Dave Elder?” Mark Stanley had been two years ahead of him at Moundville. Dave remembered immediately that Mark had been hired straight out of college to work for the New York Institute. The New York Institute along with The Cicero Foundation jointly sponsored this monthly event as a meet, greet, and net for the upcoming and the arrived.
“Mark! Wow, I had no idea you would…”
“Oh, yeah, I never miss if I can help it. This is the place to be if you are in New York. Just like the Thursday Evening Club in D.C.”
Dave paused. He had not heard of the Thursday Evening Club.
“This is amazing.” Dave said as he looked out through the crowd.
“It can be.” Mark glanced at him. “I heard you are working for Lawrence.”
“Yes. Good offer and I need the experience.” Dave was cautious about showing the enthusiasm for his candidate he really felt. Lawrence was a moderate and had not been popular with the powers that be at Moundville.
“Are you still at New York? Dave rushed to ask, forestalling a question on ideology. Mark was not the person with whom to talk ideology. His opinion had always filled the entire room, leaving no space for other viewpoints.
“I took a leave of absence to work for the Branch Campaign. Randolph S. Branch was the present Governor of Texas, the scion of a short dynasty of political power that had actually begun in Dave’s own hometown in Connecticut. His grandfather had worked for the grandfather of the present generation of Branch’s back when they were just making it in the oil business. Gramps had often pointed out the cottage on the lavish estate he had built for the family. He never failed to point out that they were slow to pay and always wanted extras at no cost.
“Wow. What are you doing for the campaign?”
Mark rolled the wine around in his glass, examining the color. He sipped.
“I’m working directly with Humstead. He is supposed to drop by tonight.”
Dave was impressed. Humstead was possibly the most powerful political strategist now living. He was also ferocious, sneaky and entirely focused on winning. Dave’s source on Humstead was right from the horse’s mouth.
“Umm. That must be an experience.”
“Yes. Craig Humstead is a master of getting the job done. When your candidate loses give me a call. I may be able to find something for you.” Mark gave a quirk of a smile.
“Card.” Mark flipped out the small rectangle seemingly from thin air.
Ignoring Dave’s embarrassed explanation about his own cards Mark turned away. The interview was over.
Dave turned and began shouldering his way towards the bar, his mind seething with a conflict of ideas. So preoccupied was he that he failed to notice the man chatting with two women until he had knocked the older woman’s drink, spilling it onto the burgundy dress of the younger.
“Oh! Excuse me.” Dave restrained an impulse to wipe the liquid off of the garment, realizing immediately just how inappropriate that would be. The young woman with the huge dark eyes and blond hair exclaimed and then laughed.
“No problem. It won’t show when it dries.” She smiled. This smile reached her eyes. Both eyes and face were intelligent as well as beautiful, arresting Dave’s attention.
Putting his hand out he introduced himself, ignoring the others.
“Lindsey Smithson. This is my mother, Linden Smithson and this is Tom Dicks.”
Dave did not need to be told. Tom Dicks was the member of the Editorial staff from the largest national publication in the world he had noticed earlier. He even had an award named in his honor. Smiling woodenly he turned to shake hands. Tom Dicks smiled and extended his own hand more slowly.
Dave had seen Tom Dicks before when he spoke at Moundville but he had never noticed just how rumpled he was. There were white streaks down his suit. Dave found himself peering covertly at them, wondering how they got there.
“Ah, very good to meet you, sir. I heard you speak when you were at Moundville last spring. It was truly inspiring.”
“We are living in amazing times, confronting all of the evils imaginable in the most immediate and significant way.” As Dicks spoke the specifics of the speech he had given at Moundville came back to Dave. It had been a call for honesty and honor in the marketplace of ideas as well as an increased vigor in pursuing the policies of the free market for the good of the nation. He had been moved nearly to tears over the story of the young girl, an East German, trapped by Communism. Dicks had met her in a brief walk through in East Germany during an assignment and given her enough money to feed her family through a particularly harsh winter. Dicks, nearly in tears himself, had told the story as an example of the need to reach out with the truth only a real freedom can offer. The story had ended with her contacting Dick again after the Wall came down. Dicks’s columns always focused on his relentless pursuit of the wrong-doings of the present administration. He had said during the speech at Moundville that his life had been threatened by those near to President Quince.
Dicks went on smoothly, talking about the primary battle now being fought out in New Hampshire.
“So do you have a candidate, Dave?”
“I’m working on the Lawrence campaign; doing campus organizing for him down here and arranging transport to New Hampshire.
Dicks smiled kindly. “He can’t win, you know.”
Dave had been beginning to think that himself. Lawrence looked good, sounded good, and had good profile. He had started with the edge and was gaining a strong lead in New Hampshire but while New Hampshire was important it was not enough. Dave had taken the offer because he was much more comfortable with Lawrence’s positions than he was with the record of any of the other candidates. They struck him as too far to the right or even worse, ethically inconsistent. But Lawrence’s problems were now appearing. He was a veteran and a hero but there were all of the strange rumors about his personal life. Dave found this troubling; how could this happen to a straight arrow like Lawrence?
Lawrence connected well with the man and woman on the street. He got down and really went into issues while making emotional contact. In New Hampshire not being a real guy who could talk to voters was the kiss of death. In New Hampshire the average voter expected to have the candidates call on them personally. New Hampshire was often a shock to political wanna-bes newly working on a presidential campaign. That was no problem for Lawrence. He was a pleasure to work for.
Lawrence, however, did not have the same kind of connections in different circles possessed by Branch. He did not have multigenerational family money.
Dave suspected he would be out of a job in just a few months but that was how it was in politics. That was one of the reasons he was here.
While Tom Dicks talked Dave glanced at the young woman he had soaked with his drink. Something about Dicks’ body language made him wonder if they were an item, although the other woman seemed more Dicks’ age and type. Dave had heard that Dicks was involved with a younger woman while he was still at Moundsville. The rumor had come through someone whose girl friend was a sorority sister of the woman in question – or her sister. Suddenly Dave realized there were several Smithson sisters from what Lindsey had said earlier.
Moundsville was not just any small college. It was the premier Conservative educational institution in the world. The school made a point of not accepting government funds, substituting scholarships and grants from private sources. Its endowment was huge. Its reputation was unblemished until just a few years before when the daughter-in-law of the president had committed suicide, leaving a note admitting that for twenty years her father-in-law had been her lover and was in fact the father of her child. Gregory Bugsley had been the dynamo who had turned Moundsville from another struggling Midwest school with a history of long term integration beginning before the Civil War into a newly growing and dynamic institution. They had begun reaching out and speaking out on issues of academic freedom. His fundraising had put its endowment in the hundreds of millions of dollars, a real accomplishment for a college that yearly served only 1000 students. Its outreach newsletter, Prime Thoughts, sent to over a million households in America, carried articles on nearly every aspect of the issues and always included a fundraising envelope.
This girl, Lindsey, could be the one Jeff Le Strange mentioned. Neither of the women fit into the categories he normally found in Republican circles. Most of the younger ones looked like the tall horsy girl now edging into their grouping between the potted palm and the bar. But this was not the thing that most struck Dave. Dave realized he had seen Lindsey before and he knew where, it was at the Medieval Weekend last year in Colorado. It was a very connected world. Dave opened his mouth to mention this just as Lindsey turned away.
“Hey, Lindsey, how have you been?” A tall horsy girl gleamed briefly at Lindsey and then glanced towards Tom Dicks, ignoring everyone else.
During the introductory exchange, his monologue interrupted, Tom Dicks had been looking off towards the double door leading into the large and lavishly furnished room. His attention now recalled he murmured politely, excusing himself and heading towards the door. The man entering was Craig Humstead. Mark was already there, smiling and bobbing.
Dave glanced as the two met, shaking hands and chatting. Dave found himself thinking about the things he had learned about Humstead the previous summer. After graduation he had desperately needed work, so he had taken a job in Texas his grandfather had, almost magically, found for him through a buddy. So he had spent a full four months helping a transplanted Connecticut Yankee with his life’s dream. That dream was to sell Recreational Vehicles. Big ones.
Bert Sowers, the transplanted Connecticut native, had gotten an opportunity to buy a dealership in an upscale area outside of Dallas. To save money Dave slept in the unit they kept to demonstrate just how cool the rig could be kept through the long, slow simmer of summer. Bert was not at all political but one of his customers was. Dave had struck it off with George Weston when George had stuck his head into the brand new American Condor by Fleetwood. Dave was still sleeping in the Owners Suite, having fallen asleep testing the huge television set. This was more luxury than he had ever imagined. The vehicle was decorated in what the manufacturer called Cashmere Cream. It cost more than his father had made in ten years of employment in construction.
George had hollered and walked in, looking over the unit while Dave scrambled out of bed and ducked into the bathroom. George was a good ol’ boy but a genuinely nice guy. Over the two weeks it had taken George to decide he wanted this model but in Legacy Silver, they had become fast friends. And Dave had gotten to know some things about Craig Humstead, who was the reason George was liquidating his property in Texas and, as George put it, “getting his ass out of Texas.”
Dave’s attention was pulled back to Lindsey. She was smiling at him.
“I noticed you earlier talking to Babbs.” Her smile twinkled a little. “Babbs can be rather frightening but she is really very talented. You should see one of her films sometime.” Dave nodded.
“Sounds good. When are we going?”
Lindsey laughed and Roberta, the big gawky woman, interjected a comment about Don Richardson of Page 3 ½. Roberta was wearing what looked like a Gucci dress in a color between dun and mauve that sallowed her face to an unhealthy tint. They were talking about Roberta’s job at the FreeMarketPlace. The online book store actually predated the internet, opening its doors for business in the seventies when the Libertarian movement was well begun and Ayn Rand’s followers were still sprouting gold dollar signs from various parts of their anatomies.
Dave gathered from what he heard that Roberta was unhappy with the slightly glorified position of clerk and was convinced that Lindsey could help her do better.
“I would be happy to loan you one of the films Babb’s has made. I have the whole set.” She smiled, looking straight into his eyes. She threw her head back a touch and took a sip from her wineglass. Dave swallowed as his stomach rose towards his lungs.
The next few minutes always struck Dave, in retrospect, as having been lived out in some kind of a time warp. The noise level in the room had grown steadily all evening but now all he could hear was Lindsey. She filled him in, indicating as needed, the various personalities in the room, some public and some just important to know; some funny. Lindsey found a lot to laugh about and Dave noticed that her nose wrinkled a little across the top whenever she laughed out loud, which was often. From there their chat moved on to more personal things and Dave found himself telling her about the mouse Fuzz Ball had brought in the house, still alive, and dumped in his mother’s open sewing box. He had found Fuzz Ball there guarding it, the tiny rodent cowering next to the pin cushion. He had rescued it, to Fuzz Ball’s disgust and outrage. Lindsey laughed and told Dave about her cat, Cardamom. Cardamom had gone after lawyers. The cat always knew, digging in his claws as soon as one walked in the door and clinging like a limpet.
Dave appreciated the story and the verbal tour. He really wanted to know Lindsey better.
