Presents and Absinthe

“I wish they would stop calling these things ‘chicken-fingers.’”

“Yeah? Nail it in your platform.”

“No, I’m serious! Real chicken-fingers have claws and scales! How do I not think about that while I’m eating?”

“Have you tried shooting yourself? Fuckin’—how do you plan to run incognito?”

“Easy: all you have to do is keep your ambitions low. I run for president here. Stay well-liked, but keep references to the school, the mascot, and the surrounding area to an absolute minimum, and stay off national TV. All I’m aiming for is a recommendation and a résumé-stuffer. From there, I go to law school, then become A.D.A. for a bit. Everyone forgets I ever went here. In 20 years, I’ll be a real president.”

“Yeah, you mean A.D.D., by the way?”

“Yeah ... no.”

“Derek.”

“Yes, Andy, my honeysuckle?”

“There comes a time in every man’s life—every man, no matter how stupid or provincial—when he stands up and admits to the world that he’s full of shit.”

“This ain’t one of those times. There’s even precedent—look at what’s-his-name, presidential candidate, who won’t even acknowledge he went here.”

“Obama?“

“Don’t say it! If he forgets us, we forget him.”

“But you’re planning to forget us.”

“I’m exercising my hypocrisy muscles. How’m I doing?”

“Fine and dandy, Mr. Koch.”

“Mister Who?”

“Never mind. Explain again why this is worth thinking about?”

“Well, we go to a fine university. I’ve had a few professors I really liked and there are about six people here I wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring home to my momma.”

“Six whole people? Wow.”

“No, bits and pieces of about 20 people, but you get the idea. All I’m saying is, I don’t want to be associated with the aesthetic of this place longer than I have to. Look: what wins elections? Is it issues or is it conspicuous and funny ads?”

“Uh ... yeah, OK.”

“So as long as I have those, what could possibly go wrong?”

“Everything, ass-crack.”

“We’ve got the savviest political machine in the world.”

“Savvy enough to think of something this nuts.”

“Exactly, and we’ve got the cleverest one-liner-artist of woman born.”

“You’d better not mean me.”

“Sorry, but it has to be you.”

“Well, I just lost interest. I think it’s leaking out of my butt or something.”

“Dude, eww.”

“It’s all runny.”

“Dude! I said I was sorry.”

“You don’t have enough apologies for an infraction this—this fuckin’ gratuitous.”

“See? Take the ‘fuckin’ outta that line and it’s like Trollope! We’ve practically succeeded already!”

Sometimes, when you’re not paying attention, a whisper of spring shows up, takes a bow, and goes back behind the curtain. It was a day that would be welcome in any season—a cool summer day or a warm winter day, except for the lack of blooms.

He would make Derek buy the pot when they were working on the campaign together, but, Andy decided, “Fuck it. I could do with some weird shit in my life.”

He took off his coat and slung it over his back, two fingers in the collar. Derek thought for a moment, then did the same with his.

* * *

“Have you noticed how nobody cares anymore?

“Alvie, you’re not going to give me a ‘we have to get through to the workers’ speech again, are you, baby?”

“I’m going to run for Student Council President.”

“What?”

“That’s right.”

“Fine. Who’s going to notice?”

“See, that’s just it. My job will be to make them notice. They’ll care again. It’ll be like a love affair.”

“Yeah? A love affair with the whole student body? How much time does that leave for...”

“I know. For your body. For my Maggie. It leaves all the time in the world.”

“Except when you’re doing ... whatever it is?”

“Hanging roses from lamp-posts with messages in them, chalking poetry on the sidewalk, fliering like crazy, of course.”

“Fine. I guess you actually have a plan?”

“Yeah. How’s this for a haiku: ‘The hummingbird/turns and turns and alights on/the sweetest flow’r.’ Vote Alvin.”

“I think it has an extra syllable.”

“It’s not the syllables, it’s the balance.”

“It’s the balance and the syllables.”

“Think about it—I get a few dozen roses—cheap, of course, write messages on cards, and fix them to things like newspaper receptacles, frequently used hallways, and banisters, the works.”

“Sounds like people are going to step on your messages a lot.”

“Hey, can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.”

“Come on. You’re going to romance college students, who barely notice themselves, into noticing you enough to vote for you?”

“Yep. And from there, may the best man win.”
She looked at him, then she kissed the smug look off his face and held him that way for a long time. Finally, almost regretfully, she picked her brassiere back up off his newspaper-strewn floor.