Chitter, Chatter, Bang, Bang

I really like margaritas but I drink martinis because they're more manly.
The lady before me in her calf-length sequined dress is still babbling about artists to this
denim clad, bearded fellow whom I'm sure is a painter. I couldn't care about painting; I'm not an
artsy type fellow.
Anyway, this broad's saying, "Renoir was by far the most accomplished." Her lips part
and she asks, "Wouldn't you agree, Clay? You're the expert." She runs a long finger around the
inside rim of her glass.
Both are standing in my circle but neither are looking at me. I drain my drink and look
around for the roving waiter.
This guy Clay looks at her from creased eyebrows, sips a concoction reminding me of
Maalox, and says, "That depends on what criteria are used in the comparison."
Sounds like b. s.
Clay asks in a pitch louder so I'll hear him over the clink of glasses and outbreaks of
laughter, "What'd you say your name was again?"
Events like this are so noisy and superficial that you don't really get to know anyone. This
is a fundraiser for a hot-shot woman I know who is shooting for the senate. As part of this
fundraiser we're supposed to be graced with the presence of a well-known politician who is also
running for high office. I'm hoping I'll find out soon who this secret guest is; I hate surprises. But
I especially hate politicians; I used to be married to one. I'm only here because I like the lady's
style and I think she'll make a good senator.
"Les. Les Barnard," I answer, chewing my ice and spitting the big chunks back into the
glass. The prim lady rolls her eyes when I do that.
"What do you do?" Clay asks almost nonchalantly.
"You mean how much money do I make?" He looks taken aback, but he deserves that.
"I'm a real estate broker."
"Oh," they both say on cue.
"I own several offices and have 200 or so agents working for me."
"My oh my," says the gal, now impressed. I'm enjoying the change in her behavior.
She doesn't know how I bled my guts to get where I am today.
I light a cigarette. Our circle widens to admit a redhead and a tuxedo-dressed gentleman.
Clay introduces me and suddenly I have the floor as I offer property investment tips. I'm enjoying
the attention. Before, my politician spouse gobbled up the limelight for both of us.
My investment secrets spark a bevy of flying comments on whether property will appreciate
as fast as CD's or mutual funds. Everyone's out-talking and out-drinking each other. I laugh at
them...people are such animals at cocktail parties.
"Hey, Les," greets Gloria, our hostess, running her hand across my chest, fondling my
starched collar, my dark tie; teasingly she slides her hand inside my belt. "Can I get you a refill?"
I nod.
"Lots of people here want to meet you. They've heard about that 400-apartment
village complex you're developing. It will make you a rich man."
"I'm already rich."
"Everyone knows that too." Her hand is back at my chest, gliding over my shirt. "I love the
way you're built."
Alcohol has a way of loosening inhibitiions; rumor has it that Gloria hasn't been to bed with
a man since since she lost both breasts to cancer.
"Really, Les. You're so fine."
I smile. My trip abroad was worth it.
"He's here! He's here!" The chorus of shouts grows louder as guests break into applause
and scramble after him.
My hostess squeezes my arm, looks in the direction of the doorway where this messiah is
apparently standing, and says, "Our honored guest has arrived. I've got to go, Les."
I nod. Try as I might I can't get a glimpse of this wunderkin. I crane my neck. Hordes of
people are around him. His voice is booming, just like a politician.
He soft-shoes into my periphery. I freeze. Holy shit! Ohmigod! I spin around, shaking my
head. Can't be him!
It is him. I can tell. I may have been abroad for awhile, but this guy hasn't changed any. It's
impossible for me to hate anyone as much as I hate him.
Nauseous, I stagger over to the bar. "Double martini," I tell the red-vested bartender. "No.
Triple." He looks at me with lifted brows.
Sensing movement next to me, I turn. It's the hostess and him. "Keegan, I want you to meet
Les Barnard. Les, this is Keegan Maxwell, our guest of honor."
He eyes me quizzically but sticks out his hand.
I chug my drink, chew my ice.
Burned, he pulls back his hand and shrugs at the hostess, saying, "Man doesn't shake
hands, or what?"
"Man doesn't shake Keegan Maxwell's hand," I say a bit too loud. "Another triple." I see the
hostess wince. "Gloria," my voice is raspy as I talk to her yet remain focused on the bartender, "if
you had told me this bastard was going to be here for this fundraiser, I'd have stayed home."
"Hey, buddy, what do you have against me?"
He's trying to come off like he's the good guy and I'm the lunatic. I can only hope he doesn't
remember me, because if he does, I've got to expose him...and me too.
"Forget it." I wave him off. It's best if I set my newly filled drink on the bar, bid my lovely
hostess a goodnight, and get my ass out of here.
He's staring at me. Studying my eyes. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
I shake my head.
"Too much to drink, ol' boy?"
I hate when he needles me. I hate it. "Forget it," I offer again.
"Look, fellow, you started in on me when I walked in this room, and now you want me to
forget it. I think you ought to apologize in front of my 'constituents' here." He chuckles.
A politician's chuckle. Slaps me on the back. A crowd has gathered.
I turn around and look him right in the eye. "I'll never apologize to you."
The crowd gawks. Mutters.
Shut up, Les. But I can't help myself.
"Hey, Barnard! You got a problem?" He's scrutinizing me now.
"Gentlemen. Please." Gloria is in between the two of us. Maxwell's gently shoving her aside.
His dark eyes inspect me. "Barnard, I know you from somewhere." Grabbing his silk handkerchief
from his three-piece suit pocket, he wipes his brow. A nervous habit he always had. "Well. Speak
your piece. You've got something to say to me, say it now!"
Making decisions on several martinis, in a stuffy room full of stuffy people, and with an
abhorrence so thick it clogs up the brain, is not a healthy thing to do. But I owe this creep. I could
ruin him now.
"Oh, nothing to say, Barnard? Hot air, are you? How dare you treat me like this? Do you
know who I am? I bust my rear from morning till night working for my voters, helping to make
this a better country!"
'Yeahs' resound in the room.
I stand, light a cigarette, walk over to him, and blow smoke into his face. He reddens. The
throng hisses me. "I can tell your constituents who you really are," I goad him.
I like how the room gets very quiet, subdued, wanting to catch my every word.
"Barnard, I know you, don't I? Something about you. Can't put my finger on it. Did I do a
number on you somewhere? And now you're getting back at me? Did you get jerked around? Play
hardball and lose? C'mon, Barnard. That's the name of the game in politics."
"None of those, Maxwell." I am amazed at how calm I am. Forever I have waited for this
minute, and now that it's here, I'm not even trembling. Yet my heart's speeding as fast as a gerbil on
his toy wheel. "Remember 1972? You worked hard at campaigning and brought in a lot of money?
Only you reported less than half of your campaign funds."
Maxwell catches his breath. "You're a liar!"
The crowd murmurs.
"You told the blacks you were on their side, but then behind closed doors you said-"
"Stop it, Barnard!" He turns to our hostess. "Gloria, get him out of here." Under his breath
I hear him say, "The man's going to ruin me." He spins back around to me. "Lies. How would you
know such things?"
"And your children, Maxwell. Remember them? How you abused them. Demeaned them.
Told your daughter she had no friends because she wasn't pretty; told your son that he had no
talent for sports or hobbies. Neglected your children. And your wife. It was always more important
to you to ingratiate yourself to the press, to forget your obligation to your family who sacrificed so
much for you. How many times did your son ask you to go fishing? To a baseball game?
Father-son banquet? And each time you shooed him away, saying, 'Not now, Tommy. I have
more important things to do.' And the poor ten-year old would turn on his heels, wipe tears from
his eyes, and walk away."
"This is preposterous!"
On a roll, I push on. "Your wife was talented, and in love with you, but you treated her no
better than a whore. Kicked her around, demanded she serve you. And you tore her apart, called
her ugly, useless, that she was homelier than a man. That she should have been a man!"
He flinches, steps back, blinking in surprise, then takes in the growing crowd, while saying,
"This man's a liar. There's no way he'd know those things about my family."
I ignore him pointing at me. "You never allowed your daughter to have friends in the house
because they interfered with your day, never let her dress the way other kids did because she had to
uphold your image. You never let her live like a normal kid, until at seventeen, she had a nervous
breakdown. Still in an institution, isn't she?"
He moans; the room whispers and oh's and ah's.
Feeling good inside myself, on a high from the martinis, floating with the joy of revenge, I
challenge him, "Are you still mentally sick? And what about all those one-night stands in every city
you campaigned in? How do you think your wife felt?"
He goes to take a swing at me but quickly others restrain him. I'm almost done with him.
One more thing his "constituents" ought to know before they vote him into high office. "I'll never
forget the day you told your wife how you felt about your son's death. Remember that? You had
been driving drunk, hit a telephone pole. He died immediately. Days later you were released from
the hospital, after your staff fixed the police report. Instead of consoling your mourning wife, you
shut off your bedroom light, leaned back on your bed, and said, 'I feel bad about the kid, but at
least now he won't be bothering me about doing this and doing that.'"
The crowd groans. Maxwell drops his head. I'm done with him now. I return to the bar,
motion to the barman to refill my glass, and I light another cigarette.
"You're not going to get away with this, Barnard. Making all these stories up. Slandering me.
You yourself said these things happened behind 'closed doors.' There'd be no way you would
know, would there?"
A hush forms over the large group encircling us. He thinks he has discredited me. I take a
drag on my Marlboro and say, "I just know."
The crowd snickers.
I guess I'm going to have to tell my secret in order to damage him. I can't allow him to
become the victor once more.
He's laughing with them. "See, gang? What'd I tell you? This man's a fraud."
They're nodding in agreement.
I have to tell them, or he might actually win the election. If any powerful bloc of people can
put him in high office it's this group here tonight.
Likewise, if any bloc can squash him smoothly and quickly, it is also this group.
I stomp out my cigarette and turn to him, interrupting his back-slapping, his chuckling,
"Maxwell, you don't remember me, do you?" A silence falls; once more I've got their attention.
"You should. I went to bed with you."
Gasps, squeals.
Keegan Maxwell's face is the color of Elmer's Glue.
"Never! Never have I gone to bed with...a man!"
This time I laugh. "Only because the gays are far too good for you." His jaw tightens like
a winch. "Your wife...her name was Leslie Barnes...she certainly could testify as to the veracity of
my accounts, couldn't she?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the crowd shaking their heads 'yes' to my question.
"Then let me explain that I, Les Barnard, was Leslie Barnes. When I left you after years of torment
and ridicule, I did what you said I should do...become a man. The Swedes have the operation
perfected, don't you think, Keegan?"
He's blubbering, his eyes glazing over. I'm the one chuckling now.
Someone is leading him to the doorway. He looks profoundly weak. Within minutes the
room is emptied. Emptied so quietly that its process should be entered into a Guiness World
Record.
Only Gloria the Hostess and myself are left. She's standing at the end of the bar, watching
me, her hands on her hips. I think she's trying to discern through my clothes any flaws in my
surgery.
"Another martini," I tell the shocked bartender.
He isn't moving. Instead he looks over at Gloria for some kind of sign.
I flip him a quarter, wink at Gloria, and say while departing, "Never mind. I always did like
margaritas better."