the committee—“we all respect your behavioral research, and I’m sure we’ve all bought your book. I’m still on page eight but I’m enjoying it so far.”
The chamber erupted in uneasy laughter. All’s Well That Ends Well had been released four years ago, and though it had received brief attention in pop psychology circles, it had gone out of print within a year.
Since most of the committee members had published books, Forsyth’s veiled jab went directly to their own egos—scholarly tomes had notoriously low print runs, and unless you were featured on Oprah , Dr. Phil , or one of the network morning shows, the fruits of your loving labor ended up buried in the eBay graveyard.
Alexis managed her most winning smile, having learned that in the political world, the best response was often the exact opposite of your true feelings.
“Then I envy you the pleasure of discovery,” she said. “But many of the points in my book have already been covered in this session. The core question is not whether we can make people feel better about themselves, but whether we should .”
“If this was just a question of physical illness, there wouldn’t be no debate,” Forsyth drawled. “If a brain tumor was causing somebody to misbehave, we’d cull it out like a rotten apple in a bushel basket. But if somebody’s misbehaving all on their own, because God made them that way, would we really want to be messing in that?”
To his credit, Forsyth refrained from referring to the brain as “God’s domain,” as he’d done during his first few months on the committee.
“Mr. Forsyth, the deeper question is just who we are,” Alexis continued, noticing Mulroney had opened his mouth to interject. “If our thoughts are nothing more than a series of electrical impulses, and our actions are nothing more than responses to those impulses, then you could argue we have no self-control at all. And whether you couch it in physical or spiritual terms, it comes down to chemistry versus individual will.”
Mulroney leaned toward his microphone in an overt gesture of control, perhaps sensing Forsyth was about to shift the discussion toward God’s will trumping the will of man. And especially the will of woman.
“You’ve given us much food for thought, Alexis, and now it’s time for some food for the belly,” Mulroney said, tapping his gavel. “We’ll reconvene at one thirty.”
Alexis busied herself sliding documents in her briefcase. Dr. Rita Wynn of Harvard patted her on the shoulder in passing, as if to congratulate her for fighting off the lions. Forsyth wiped his bald spot and gave his American eagle glare. She smiled in response and hurriedly left the conference room.
Nine of the fourteen people in there are doctors, and I wouldn’t trust so much as an aspirin from any of them.
The meeting was a two-day affair at the Crown Plaza Hotel, and while many of the council members gathered in the hotel cafeteria, where the brave would take a glass of wine with their Alfredo pasta, Alexis caught the elevator. Just as the doors were closing, company stepped inside.
“Hi, honey,” Mark said, leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“You were out late last night.”
“Damned Senator Burchfield,” he said. “He’s got a hammer-lock on the health care committee. We did everything but juggle and dance for him.”
Alexis reached past Mark and pressed the button for the fourth floor. In the first year of their marriage, she would have taken the opportunity not only to rub her breasts against him, but maybe even hit the “Stop” button for thirty seconds of frantic foreplay.
The honeymoon five years over, now she looked forward to sitting on the bed, removing her high heels, and maybe coaxing him into a foot rub.
“So what’s Senator Botox up to these days, besides keeping widows from getting cheap Canadian prescription drugs?” Burchfield had earned his nickname during his transition from congressman to
The chamber erupted in uneasy laughter. All’s Well That Ends Well had been released four years ago, and though it had received brief attention in pop psychology circles, it had gone out of print within a year.
Since most of the committee members had published books, Forsyth’s veiled jab went directly to their own egos—scholarly tomes had notoriously low print runs, and unless you were featured on Oprah , Dr. Phil , or one of the network morning shows, the fruits of your loving labor ended up buried in the eBay graveyard.
Alexis managed her most winning smile, having learned that in the political world, the best response was often the exact opposite of your true feelings.
“Then I envy you the pleasure of discovery,” she said. “But many of the points in my book have already been covered in this session. The core question is not whether we can make people feel better about themselves, but whether we should .”
“If this was just a question of physical illness, there wouldn’t be no debate,” Forsyth drawled. “If a brain tumor was causing somebody to misbehave, we’d cull it out like a rotten apple in a bushel basket. But if somebody’s misbehaving all on their own, because God made them that way, would we really want to be messing in that?”
To his credit, Forsyth refrained from referring to the brain as “God’s domain,” as he’d done during his first few months on the committee.
“Mr. Forsyth, the deeper question is just who we are,” Alexis continued, noticing Mulroney had opened his mouth to interject. “If our thoughts are nothing more than a series of electrical impulses, and our actions are nothing more than responses to those impulses, then you could argue we have no self-control at all. And whether you couch it in physical or spiritual terms, it comes down to chemistry versus individual will.”
Mulroney leaned toward his microphone in an overt gesture of control, perhaps sensing Forsyth was about to shift the discussion toward God’s will trumping the will of man. And especially the will of woman.
“You’ve given us much food for thought, Alexis, and now it’s time for some food for the belly,” Mulroney said, tapping his gavel. “We’ll reconvene at one thirty.”
Alexis busied herself sliding documents in her briefcase. Dr. Rita Wynn of Harvard patted her on the shoulder in passing, as if to congratulate her for fighting off the lions. Forsyth wiped his bald spot and gave his American eagle glare. She smiled in response and hurriedly left the conference room.
Nine of the fourteen people in there are doctors, and I wouldn’t trust so much as an aspirin from any of them.
The meeting was a two-day affair at the Crown Plaza Hotel, and while many of the council members gathered in the hotel cafeteria, where the brave would take a glass of wine with their Alfredo pasta, Alexis caught the elevator. Just as the doors were closing, company stepped inside.
“Hi, honey,” Mark said, leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“You were out late last night.”
“Damned Senator Burchfield,” he said. “He’s got a hammer-lock on the health care committee. We did everything but juggle and dance for him.”
Alexis reached past Mark and pressed the button for the fourth floor. In the first year of their marriage, she would have taken the opportunity not only to rub her breasts against him, but maybe even hit the “Stop” button for thirty seconds of frantic foreplay.
The honeymoon five years over, now she looked forward to sitting on the bed, removing her high heels, and maybe coaxing him into a foot rub.
“So what’s Senator Botox up to these days, besides keeping widows from getting cheap Canadian prescription drugs?” Burchfield had earned his nickname during his transition from congressman to
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