“Because he’s more their flavor. And I’m more Libertarian, so I’m in line with your platform of a smaller government that needs to get its nose out of our bedrooms, except that’s the opposite of what you actually do. And since I’m sure those are typographical errors, I thought I’d help proofread.”
Jansen shook his head. “We always need extra hands on our campaigns, but I have no idea how to use you.”
“Why?”
“We’ve had a lot of people volunteer over the years, but I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Half the time you’re enthusiastically in favor of what we stand for, and half the time you’re not. And often on the very same issue.” Jansen crumpled the hopelessly inconclusive litmus test. “In fact, just about everything you’ve said contradicts itself. There’s nothing consistent.”
“That’s no accident,” said Serge. “Consistency is the natural enemy of compromise.”
“Whoa, back up. Did you say ‘compromise’?”
Serge smiled and unbuttoned his tropical shirt to reveal the custom-made T-shirt underneath:
I LOVE MY OPPONENTS.
Jansen’s eyes bugged in alarm. “What in the hell’s the meaning of that?”
“It’s obvious,” said Serge. “I’ve got lots of friends who think I’m Satan’s elf and will burn in hell. In turn I make wisecracks like ‘Gay marriage threatens the sanctity of Newt Gingrich divorcing his next bedridden wife,’ and yet we still all get along and have lots of chuckles over Bloomin’ Onions at Outback . . . See, the brilliance of my plan is its simplicity. There’s only one thing holding America back from realizing her full glory. Ready? You want to write this down? No? Okay, here it is: We need to stop taking ourselves so seriously.”
“Uh, why don’t you leave your phone number and we’ll get back to you when something comes up. My assistant will lead you out.”
“Sounds great.” Serge stood and shook hands and was escorted through an office floor that was a hive of industrious activity. Staffers feverishly worked the phones and computers and practically crashed into one another running to and from the copy machine.
Serge crossed the street and entered another building. He looked around the empty reception desk. “Hello? Anyone here? . . .” He banged the little bell. “Helloooooo? . . .” Leaning over the desk: “Anyone behind there . . . ?”
Serge bypassed the reception area and opened a door to the main office. He stopped and surveyed dozens of neglected phones and computers. Everyone was clustered in a circle in the center of the room. Serge approached with curiosity. There was laughter and people throwing pencils into the ceiling.
Serge drew closer, but stopped in surprise when he noticed who had their attention in the middle of the group.
“Coleman?”
“Oh, hey, Serge . . . Everybody, this is my friend Serge that I was telling you about . . . So how’d it go across the street with the other party?”
“Not so good.” Serge pulled up a chair. “They said they would call me back, which means they’ll never call back.”
“Really?” said Coleman. “They all love me here!”
Everyone nodded with bright smiles.
“So what is this?” asked Serge. “Some kind of afternoon break?”
“No, we’re working,” said Roger.
“Working?” Serge looked around an office of abandoned desks and ringing phones.
“We work in theory,” said another staffer. “Very high-concept stuff, such as what wind farms will look like in the twenty-third century.”
“Serge, this kind of work is cool!” Coleman threw a pencil that stuck in the ceiling.
Someone else nudged Coleman. “Tell us again about the chicken bong.”
“Okay, I opened the fridge . . .”
“Excuse me,” said Serge, working his way into the circle and taking Coleman by the arm. “We have to be somewhere.”
The disappointed staff:
One of them suddenly pointed at Serge’s chest.
“What?” said Serge, opening his tropical shirt and looking down. “This?”
I LOVE MY OPPONENTS.
Coleman raised his hands to the group. “Everyone mellow out. Serge is cool.”
ACROSS TOWN
A load of untaxed cigarettes sailed up the Miami River.
A man in a porkpie hat watched from a second-story window of an all-but-abandoned office building. He tossed the hat on an antique rack in the corner and propped his feet up on the desk next to three fingers of rye in a dirty glass.
A rotary phone rang.
The man glared at it. Possibilities rattled his noggin: a busty divorcée with a framed brother in Sing Sing, another floater in the bay, or—dare he hope—a break in the 1947 Black Dahlia case?
He grabbed the receiver on the ninth ring. “Mahoney here. Gargle in the soup can.”
“What?”
“Talk in the phone.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Mahoney, my name is Brook Campanella, and I want to hire you to find who tried to scam my father—”
“Where’d you scarf my digits?”
“What?”
