The First Councel

a small crowd of people coming out of the only storefront in sight. It’s a large brick building that looks like it’s been converted into a two-story bar. In thick black letters, the word “Pendulum” is painted on a filthy white sign. A hip, midnight blue light surrounds the edges of the sign. Not at all my kind of place.

Nora pulls into a nearby parking spot and turns off the ignition.

“Here?” I ask. “The place is a rathole.”

“No, it’s not. People are well dressed.” She points to a man wearing camel-colored slacks and a tight black T-shirt. Before I can protest, she adds, “Let’s go-for once, we’re anonymous.” She pulls a black baseball hat from the shoulder strap of her purse and lowers the brim over her eyes. It’s a terrible disguise, but she says it works. Never been stopped yet.

We pay ten bucks at the door, step inside, and take a quick look around. The place is packed with the typical D.C. Thursday night crowd-most still in their suits, ties undone; some already in their Calvin Klein V-necks. In the corner, two men are playing pool. By the bar, two men are ordering drinks. Next to them, two men are holding hands. That’s when I realize where we are: Besides Nora, there’s not a woman in this place. We’re standing in the middle of a gay bar.

Behind me, I feel someone grab my ass. I don’t even bother to turn around. “Oh, Nora, how I wish you were a man.”

“I’m impressed,” she says, stepping forward. “You don’t even look uncomfortable.”

“Why should I be uncomfortable?”

From the gleam in her eye, I can tell she’s setting up another test. She needs to know if I can hang with the cool kids. “So it’s okay if we stay?”

“Absolutely,” I say with a grin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She stares me down with that sexy look. For the moment, I pass.

We squeeze up to the bar and order drinks. I get a beer; she gets a Jack and Ginger. Following her lead, we head to the far end of the L-shaped bar, where it runs perpendicular to the wall. In a move that’s been honed by years of being hounded and gawked at, Nora motions me into the last seat and puts her back to the crowd. For her, it’s pure instinct. With her baseball cap covering her hair, there isn’t a chance she’s going to be recognized. The way she’s set us up, the only one who can even see her is me. She takes one last overview of the room, then, satisfied, goes for her drink. “So have you always hugged your serious side?”

“What do you mean? I’m not-”

“Don’t apologize for it,” she interrupts. “It’s who you are. I just want to know where it comes from. Family issues? Bitter divorce? Dad abandoned you and your m-?”

“Nobody did anything,” I say. “What you see is me.” By the tone of my answer, she thinks it’s an issue. She’s right. And it’s not something she’s getting on a first date. Searching for a smooth segue, I try to steer us back to safer subjects. “So tell me what you thought of Princeton. Enjoyable or Muffyville snob factory?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to do an interview.”

“Don’t give me that. College tells you a lot about a person.”

“College tells you jack squat-it’s a rationalized decision based on nothing more than a vacuous campus visit and a prefigured range of SAT scores. Besides, you’re almost thirty,” she says with a lick-it-up grin, “that’s ancient history for you. What’ve you done in between?”

“After law school? A quick clerkship, then off to a local law firm. To be honest, though, it was just a way to fill time between campaigns. Barth in the Senate, a few local council guys-then three months as the Hartson Campaign’s Get-Out-the-Vote Chairman, Great State of Michigan.” She doesn’t respond and I get the sense she’s judging me. Quickly, I add, “You know what a zoo it is to do it nationally-if I wanted any real responsibility, it was better for me to stay in-state.”

“Better for you or better for your ego?”

“All of us. The headquarters was only twenty minutes from my house.”

She sees something in my answer. “So you wanted to be in Michigan?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know… smart guy like you… working in the Counsel’s Office. Usually you guys run away from the hometowns.”

“As a volunteer, it was a financial decision. Nothing more.”

“And what about college and law school? Michigan for both, right?”

It’s really incredible-when it comes to weaknesses, she knows exactly where to look. “School was a different story.”

“Something with your parents?”

Once again, we’ve reached my limit. “Something personal. But it wasn’t their fault.”

“You always so forgiving?”

“You always so pushy?”

She rests an elbow on the bar, leans in close, and forces me back against the wall. “What you see is me,” she says with a dark smile.

“Exactly,” I tease back. “That’s exactly my point.” I hop off my stool and head toward her. In the Counsel’s Office, it’s the first rule they teach you: Never let them pin you down.

“Where you going?” she asks, blocking my way.

“Just to the restroom.” I squeeze past her and everything between my chest and my thighs brushes against her. She grins. And doesn’t give up an inch.

“Don’t be too long,” she purrs.

“Do I look that stupid?”

I return from the restroom just in time to see Nora taking a sip of my beer. I put a hand on the back of her shoulder. “You can order your own-they have plenty for everyone.”

“I just needed it to take some aspirin,” she explains, placing a small brown prescription vial back into her purse.

“Everything okay?”

“Just a headache.” Pointing to the vial, she adds, “Want some?”

I shake my head.

“Suit yourself,” she says with a grin. “But when you see this one, I think you’re going to need it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

As I take my seat against the wall, Nora leans in close. “When you were on your way to the restroom, did you happen to see any familiar faces walk in?”

I look over her shoulder and scan the bar. “I don’t think so. Why?”

Her grin goes wide. Whatever’s going on, she’s enjoying herself. “Far left corner of the room. By the video screen. White button-down. Saggy khakis.”

My eyes follow her instructions. There’s the video screen. There’s the… I don’t believe it. Across the room, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, is Edgar Simon. White House Counsel. Lawyer to the President himself. My boss.

“Guess who just got the best office gossip?” Nora sings.

“This isn’t funny.”

“What’s the big deal? So he’s gay.”

“That’s not the point, Nora. He’s married. To a woman. At his level, if this gets out, the press’ll… ”

Nora’s smile falls away. “He’s married? Are you sure?”

“For something like thirty years,” I say nervously. “He’s getting ready to send his first kid off to college.” I lower my head to make sure he doesn’t see me. “I just met his wife at that reception for AmeriCorps. Her name’s Ellen. Or Elena. Something with an E.”

“Dumb-ass, that’s where you met me.”

“Before you got there. Right when it started. Simon introduced me to her. They seemed really happy.”

“And now he’s here hoping for some extra tricks on the side. Man, when it comes to adulterers, my dad can pick ’em.”

In the two weeks since we met, it’s the fourth time Nora’s made a reference to her father. And not just her father. The father. The father of the American people. The