reached over and touched Alyssa’s hand, who jumped slightly.
“Your hands are frozen,” Alyssa said, moving away.
“See? Told you, I’m frozen. It’s cold in here.”
“You need some iron in your blood, Nina. I’m just now getting comfortable,” Ursula said, fanning herself with a file folder.
Ursula’s claim to fame was that in the early 1970s, she’d been a fashion model, Playboy cover and centerfold model, then married the governor of Maryland and become the toast of D.C. They divorced soon after, but she kept her political ties and later married a congressman who was now a political adviser. Still very attractive, she knew just about everybody there was to know and heard every speck of D.C gossip before anyone else.
Everybody looked around to their neighbor and smiled, knowing that they’d all just deal with it for the time being. Ursula, who’d be out of the office as soon as the meeting was over, was by far the most aggressive lobbyist on the staff. She arrived early every day and pretty much controlled the office environmental system and everyone just let her have it. That was, until after she left, then all bets were off and so was the air conditioner.
“Sleep well?” Nina asked Alyssa, smirking openly.
“Yes, very. And yourself?” she said, refusing to be goaded by Nina’s comment.
“Like a log, until a slight interruption.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Alyssa said, staring directly at her friend, daring her to mention last night. “What was the interruption?”
Nina chuckled, knowing she wasn’t getting anywhere. “Crank call at midnight,” Nina lied easily.
“They can be the worst,” Alyssa agreed.
“Ain’t that the truth?” Ursula chimed in. “My heart always jumps when the phone rings late at night. I just know it’s some accident or tragedy, but then when it’s some fool asking for some other fool I just want to reach through the phone line and strangle them, especially if I am sleeping soundly. And don’t get me started if it wakes up my husband, Morgan.”
Alyssa and Nina smiled as soon as Ursula brought up the subject. Morgan was Ursula’s second husband and she took great pleasure in bringing his name up as often as possible—while, of course, singing his praises both politically and socially.
After that, the conversation around the table continued in the usual cycle. First crank calls, then phone bills, then cable bills, then what happened to the Buffalo Bills football team. After that, they discussed buffalo, pheasant and other types of meat you don’t hear about anymore.
“Okay, people, we have a busy day ahead, let’s get started,” Pete Lambert said as he came dashing into the conference room, hurried as he usually was. He walked fast, talked fast and never took the time to slow down and enjoy anything. He always said, “Life is a game of musical chairs and you have to be fast and cagey to get the last seat.” No one had any idea what that meant, but his pearls of wisdom always sounded particularly intriguing and thought provoking.
Pete wasn’t your typical boss; he was a relic, a hippy flower child of the sixties who knew the lyrics to every folk and country song John Denver ever sang. He had played backup to Hendrix at Woodstock. He prided himself on being in Folsum Prison the day his one brush with another hero, Johnny Cash, sang. He was a died-in-the-wool rebel and quite often insisted on charging into every situation with guns blazing. He was Jesse James, James Dean, Frederick Douglass, and Malcolm X all rolled into one.
Admired by many, he was the bane of existence for others. When he got his teeth into a cause, look out. He was in for the long haul and not just for a few battles. And heaven help those who opposed him. His passion was unwavering and his idea of relaxation was changing the world in any way possible.
He quickly passed out a few papers, then sat at the head of the table and began the meeting. Thankfully these were always quick.
“Your hands are frozen,” Alyssa said, moving away.
“See? Told you, I’m frozen. It’s cold in here.”
“You need some iron in your blood, Nina. I’m just now getting comfortable,” Ursula said, fanning herself with a file folder.
Ursula’s claim to fame was that in the early 1970s, she’d been a fashion model, Playboy cover and centerfold model, then married the governor of Maryland and become the toast of D.C. They divorced soon after, but she kept her political ties and later married a congressman who was now a political adviser. Still very attractive, she knew just about everybody there was to know and heard every speck of D.C gossip before anyone else.
Everybody looked around to their neighbor and smiled, knowing that they’d all just deal with it for the time being. Ursula, who’d be out of the office as soon as the meeting was over, was by far the most aggressive lobbyist on the staff. She arrived early every day and pretty much controlled the office environmental system and everyone just let her have it. That was, until after she left, then all bets were off and so was the air conditioner.
“Sleep well?” Nina asked Alyssa, smirking openly.
“Yes, very. And yourself?” she said, refusing to be goaded by Nina’s comment.
“Like a log, until a slight interruption.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Alyssa said, staring directly at her friend, daring her to mention last night. “What was the interruption?”
Nina chuckled, knowing she wasn’t getting anywhere. “Crank call at midnight,” Nina lied easily.
“They can be the worst,” Alyssa agreed.
“Ain’t that the truth?” Ursula chimed in. “My heart always jumps when the phone rings late at night. I just know it’s some accident or tragedy, but then when it’s some fool asking for some other fool I just want to reach through the phone line and strangle them, especially if I am sleeping soundly. And don’t get me started if it wakes up my husband, Morgan.”
Alyssa and Nina smiled as soon as Ursula brought up the subject. Morgan was Ursula’s second husband and she took great pleasure in bringing his name up as often as possible—while, of course, singing his praises both politically and socially.
After that, the conversation around the table continued in the usual cycle. First crank calls, then phone bills, then cable bills, then what happened to the Buffalo Bills football team. After that, they discussed buffalo, pheasant and other types of meat you don’t hear about anymore.
“Okay, people, we have a busy day ahead, let’s get started,” Pete Lambert said as he came dashing into the conference room, hurried as he usually was. He walked fast, talked fast and never took the time to slow down and enjoy anything. He always said, “Life is a game of musical chairs and you have to be fast and cagey to get the last seat.” No one had any idea what that meant, but his pearls of wisdom always sounded particularly intriguing and thought provoking.
Pete wasn’t your typical boss; he was a relic, a hippy flower child of the sixties who knew the lyrics to every folk and country song John Denver ever sang. He had played backup to Hendrix at Woodstock. He prided himself on being in Folsum Prison the day his one brush with another hero, Johnny Cash, sang. He was a died-in-the-wool rebel and quite often insisted on charging into every situation with guns blazing. He was Jesse James, James Dean, Frederick Douglass, and Malcolm X all rolled into one.
Admired by many, he was the bane of existence for others. When he got his teeth into a cause, look out. He was in for the long haul and not just for a few battles. And heaven help those who opposed him. His passion was unwavering and his idea of relaxation was changing the world in any way possible.
He quickly passed out a few papers, then sat at the head of the table and began the meeting. Thankfully these were always quick.
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