The Fires of Orc

It’s wonderful to be here in the great state of Chicago

Dan Quayle

Chicago, it has been said, was an October sort of city even in spring. I suppose that’s so, but in that October Chicago was America’s boldest city. October shook the gold and red and deepening brown out onto the cityscape and whipped the night’s chill off the morning grass in time for waking neighbors to greet each other with sincere pleasure under the lowering sun. Chicago in October was an extra scoop of life on an already full plate.

It was probably more than coincidence that the one city out of twenty-five I had not yet visited was the one city where we lagged weakly in the polls even among independents. I knew I had to go. I would make a long weekend of it – leave on a Thursday, come home Monday mid-day. That would give me a full Friday to feel the business rush, a complete weekend to sample the pedestrian air, and an easy travel day home. Markus was going to Chicago himself on the Thursday I was to leave, meaning I could be with the candidate for a nearly four-hour flight and be present for his remarks to Council 31 of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees. The AFSCME was one of the city’s most influential labor unions and as its voters went so went most of the other major labor organizations – the Bricklayers, the Boilermakers, the Transit Workers, the Police and Firefighters, all the good stock of broad-shouldered American voters whose love of a good game made even their politics a matter worth gambling on. Many a fortune had been made and lost on such political wagers.

I had no intention of betting. I liked sure things and the whole point of going to Chicago was to make sure we got it right, not to roll the dice. But then in truth it wasn’t the whole point, just the legitimate one. There was an ulterior motive, as scoundrel’s often have.

The night before I left town Lydia and I were at the Greek place. I broached the subject of my trip.

“So Chicago,” I said. “There’s a lot to do but I actually expect to have a lot of fun on this trip. I just love that place. And the candidate will be there. I fully intend to shoulder my way into an audience for as much of the flight as possible.”

“It sounds like just your sort of task,” she said.

“It is indeed. It’s this sort of thing that makes the work not work at all. I’m going to love this trip.” I sipped at a beer. “Hey,” I blurted, “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Seriously? She asked, incredulity or irritation, I’m not sure which, shaping the word.

“Yes, seriously. Come on. There’s nothing you can do in San Diego that you can’t do there. I’ve got a suite at the Intercontinental. It’s way too much for one person. Come with me.”

“I would appreciate the time with the candidate,” she admitted, “but no. That’s out of the question.”

“Why?” I asked with mild offense. “Can friends not travel together?”

“That’s not it and you should know it’s not. If we want to take a trip someday, that’s fine. I’ll book my flight, you book yours. I’ll get a room, you get a room. We’ll go somewhere and have fun after the election is over.”

“So what,” I protested, “you’re stuck in the office until the last vote is counted?”

“Practically speaking, yes I am,” she said. “But even if I weren’t, I’m not taking a trip at the campaign’s expense and laying back ordering room service in a five-star hotel all weekend while I could be doing the same work here.”

“But that’s just it. You could do work there. You can join me.”

“What as?” she asked.

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean what as; as your secretary, your assistant, your protégé? I’m a professional. I don’t need to lurk in your shadow and watch you work.”

“Now you’re just being snide,” I said.

“Well the alternative would be that I could go as your presumed date. You know how I feel about that. We push the boundaries as it is and I’m not giving the rumor mill a sniff of scandal that can mushroom into something.”

“Fine then,” I said, with the disappointed tone of a child being picked last.

“Don’t act offended,” she insisted. “It’s nice of you to think of me, but it’s also a little condescending. If I feel like I need a trip I can make my own way. And for what it’s worth, I’ve been to Chicago. I don’t like it.”

“No really,” I said. “It’s fine, honestly, and I’m sorry if I was condescending.”

“No worries,” she said. “It’s fine. Just make the most of your trip and I’ll hold down the fort.”

I most certainly did make the most of my trip. I took Veronica. A man spurned is truly vile.

I left with Markus in his jet on Thursday afternoon. I bought Veronica a round-trip in First Class on a commercial flight that evening and I instructed her to call in sick Friday morning. I don’t suppose there was any need for the cover up. If I wanted to take the receptionist to Chicago at the campaign’s expense for four nights of debauchery, who was going to say anything? There was less than a month to go and no time for upheaval. Any transgressions from that point forward would just have to be swept under the rug.

Veronica arrived late Thursday night and called in sick the next morning, as ordered. I spent Friday on the ground, first with Markus for his remarks to the AFSCME, then out and about, testing the waters, feeling about on La Salle Street, then down in the Loop, then up to the Gold Coast, then down to the Magnificent Mile, listening mostly, sensing the hum and meter of that great city.

It evaded me at first. I couldn’t get the rhythm. But then, as the sun began to disappear behind the skyline of North Michigan Avenue I caught it. Chicago is jazz – the polyrhythms, the swung notes, the improvised score – you don’t anticipate Chicago, you just follow it. Letting go of the need to read it beforehand freed me to really get the groove of the place. It can’t be explained. It can’t even be communicated, but it can be felt. One must lose oneself in the movement of Chicago and, having done so, one is in the flow.

I did not know what my understanding would mean in terms of a pitch to Chicagoans but I understood them finally. I knew the other campaigns did not. Somehow I would write the polyphonic score that would resonate with the beat of their town and the rhythm in their souls.

Veronica and I stayed out Friday night taking in the city in great gulps. The blues drifted on the night breeze, yielding to a swing interlude, then a bop clarinet and all the while harmonized with no plan, no script, no direction, just Chicago in early October. It all helped to put Lydia out of my mind – and Veronica did her part.

We woke early for a Saturday. There were a few stops I wanted to make before the day got well underway. I called for coffee and breakfast and took a shower, leaving Veronica to mill about in my shirt and little else. While I was getting dressed I heard a knock at the door. Veronica went to open it and I followed, fishing in my wallet for a cash tip. I rounded the corner from the bedroom to the open door and in the hall stood Lydia.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m disturbing you. I should go.”

“No!” I protested. “No, we’re just about to get breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, then turned and left.

Veronica grinned, smugly self-satisfied. “Should you go after her?” she asked.

“I think I should,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Go see what she needs. I’ll be here.”

There must be some deep gratification that comes to those who ply their feminine wiles when the plying works out even better than expected. Veronica could afford to be magnanimous in a moment of visceral triumph.

I trotted down the hall, pulling my shirt closed, watching Lydia head for the elevator. “Wait!” I called to her.

I caught her before the elevator arrived and persuaded her to sit with me on a love seat in the hall. “Just let me talk to you for a minute,” I begged.

“This was such a mistake.” She said, quavering just slightly. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m truly sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

“No. I’m glad you’re here…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

“No, I mean, just… I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I thought about what you said,” she explained. “I thought, why not take a trip? I’ll get my own flight and head out for a short weekend, Saturday and Sunday then back to work.”

“Well that’s great,” I said.

“Please don’t insult me,” she demanded. “It’s not great. I hadn’t really considered the fact that you could have company. I can’t stay. I made a bad mistake and I hope we can just let it go.”

“But…”

“Please,” she said, tears beginning to form. “If you care about me at all, as your friend, as a person, if you have any feelings for us, you’ll let me leave with what dignity I can still summon. I’m begging you to let me go and never speak of this. Please.”

“Well, all right,” I relented.

I watched her pull herself together and push the button to call the elevator. She stood with her back to me for a matter of seconds until the door opened and she stepped in. As she turned, just before the door slid closed, I caught her eye and she mouthed a silent, “I’m so sorry.”

She was gone.

The remainder of the Chicago trip was a waste of time and a test of patience. How Veronica could drone on about any mundane thing! She had her desirable aspects but all of them put together couldn’t wash away the image of Lydia in that elevator, her pitiful “I’m so sorry” falling silent as she slid from view.

A scoundrel makes his bed and in it he must lie. Though life’s vicissitudes may turn and toss us we are never more victimized than by our own treachery. I would return to San Diego but I knew there would be no going back.