Date: Sat, 14 Apr 2007 06:34:54 -1000 From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com> Subject: Strange Bedfellows, Chapter 25 Disclaimer: What follows is a mostly fictional narrative, based on the author's many experiences and relationships while a college student. Some chapters contain rather graphic depictions of sexual activity between consenting men and other men, and between men and women. If it is illegal for you to possess or read such content in your jurisdiction, then please don't read any further. This story is copyrighted, 2007, and may not be reproduced or reposted without the expressed written consent of the author. STRANGE BEDFELLOWS Chapter Twenty-Five Scott nodded to his right as the gentle man in his eighties walked carefully away from the lectern. "Thank you, Pastor Robertson." The minister had confirmed Scott Turner, Jr. six years earlier, and Scott still admired him immensely. He had just introduced Scott to those who knew him, and who had gathered to honor the life of Scotty's grandmother, Evelyn. The pastor took a seat in the pew against the wall on the side of the altar. Scott placed a single five-by-seven note card in front of him, breathed deeply and gripped the corners of the podium. "Thank you for being here today; for me, for my parents, and most of all, for Evelyn Nesmith Turner, my grandmother. My Gran." He looked out at the large crowd. Right behind his mother and father were Maureen and Kelly. Marty was holding Kelly's hand, and Craig, Brett, Frank and Jesse filled out the pew. The governor's wife, and the leaders of a handful of activist organizations and labor unions from all over the state occupied the row behind them. The rest of the church was filled to capacity. Standing room only. It was as it should have been. Scott sucked in as much air as he could and then exhaled. "When I was twelve or thirteen, Gran' made me read my first Shakespeare. Well, she didn't really make me. She more like dared me to read him. I didn't want to, but I did it `cuz she said I should. At first I didn't get a lot of it. It was hard, but everything she ever challenged me to do was that way. She could get people to do the hard stuff, because they knew she had their backs. "But, like I said, I did it because she asked me to. And, gradually, the stories started to speak to me. Over the following weeks, I looked for any chance to show her that I'd read and understood some of that stuff. Then one day, I finally found an opening. I don't remember the particulars, but Gran had made some comment that sounded like it would work. So, I went out on a limb to impress her. "I looked up at her, doing my best to appear thoughtful and smart." He put on a little boy face. "So, Gran, as The Bard would say, `All the world's a stage,' huh?" "She gave me her usual `good boy' pat on the head to recognize my effort, and then she shook her head." Scott took another deep breath, cleared his throat and looked again to his right toward the minister. "Pardon the language I'm going to use, Pastor." The minister waved a hand with a smile, and he spoke loudly enough for the congregation to hear without the benefit of the microphone. "I've heard it all before, Scott, and a lot of it from Evelyn herself. This is her day. Go ahead and speak for her!" The congregation laughed in unison, some clapping their hands. Scott gripped the podium and his face radiated Evelyn's blunt confidence. "Okay then." He bit his lip for a second and straightened his back. "''The Bard,' she told me, `is full of shit a lot of the time.'" The crowd, including the good pastor erupted. Another tear blurred Scott's eye, from grief, devotion and relief. He reached beneath the podium's surface and grabbed a water bottle to take a quick sip. "'All the world's not a stage,' she said. `Most of the world's really the audience. Most of the world sits in the seats, so to speak. Usually in the cheap seats and often in the dark, and they watch and wait for the folks up front to make the real shit..." he glanced right again nervously and got another friendly nod from the good vicar. "'They sit in the audience, and they watch and they hope, while others make it happen.' Again, sorry Pastor, but that's really what she said." The minister just nodded again and smiled. "She went on to tell me, `the stage isn't all that big, and center stage is even smaller. Those who make it to the center are few. The ones that actually belong there are fewer still. Some of those dopes fought like hell to get there, and a lot of `em don't belong there. They aren't worth listening to. But the ones on the world stage that make it all really worth it aren't even in the center. They're the extras. They're the supporting cast. "'In their daily lives, they work on our cars. They cut our grass. They deliver the mail. They turn the lights on the top of their squad cars and pull us over to write a ticket for rolling though a red light. And while they're doing their best, they're backing up the ones on center stage, for better of for worse. "'They're doctors who save lives by performing miraculous surgery or who simply give an allergy shot or put a Band-Aid on a kid on before giving him or her a Tootsie Pop. Or, they're med students who aspire to such lofty heights. They're the teachers who change lives when the kids are only six or twelve, or fifteen or twenty. They motivate them to do the right thing and to ask the tough questions. They won't ever be fully appreciated for their efforts or their impact, and they're okay with that. He paused, and took another drink of the water. "If there was an Academy Award for lives well lived, Evelyn Turner would be the best supporting actress in just about everything. She never craved the center stage, but she was in the supporting cast when folks fought for fairness everywhere there wasn't. She was in the cast when `Johnny Six Pack' as she liked to call him, and his wife tried to get a fair shake. She introduced me to `Johnny.' He's the guy who works a hard forty or fifty-hour week, and takes all the overtime he can get. Just about every Friday afternoon he stops off for a few tap beers with the guys and a couple of rolls of the dice, and then picks up a six for the weekend on his way home to `the missus.' He obeys the laws, for the most part. He pays his taxes on time, he loves his wife and kids and they know it. Gran was always there for him...for them. "And she was also in the supporting cast when they walked Bobby Kennedy's pine casket to Arlington. She was in the cast for Caesar Chavez and Rosa Parks and for Dr. King. "But Gran was an equal opportunity offender. She was even in the cast when the Klan and when the Nazi Party wanted to march, and they had to sue for the right to do so. The old girl filed a brief, I think it's called a `friend of the court,' although I seriously doubt that she was really a friend of any court," the crowd rumbled another collective chuckle, "but she filed it anyway, and she did it in support of the bad guys. She always told me that goons needed a lot of exposure; otherwise we wouldn't know how absurd they really were. She caught hell for that from a lot of friends, but she stood her ground in favor of free speech. She liked to say that the morons of the world have not just the right, but a firm responsibility to demonstrate their stupidity to the rest of us, just so we'd know who they were." Another chuckle rumbled through the assembly. "And then, when she should have been doing nothing more than resting on her laurels or bowing to our applause, she was struck with this terrible affliction. It forces one to wonder, `where's the justice?' It seriously tests one's faith when someone who always gave and never took, who only built us up and never tore us down, who always loved and never hated, who only wanted to make things right in the world; why would a saint like this be set upon by the demons that wracked her last years? But she faced those demons with such courage and grace, like everything else she did. She suffered mightily in silent dignity, never complaining, never feeling sorry for herself. Finally, it occurred to me that Alzheimer's gave her one final opportunity to show the rest of the world how to live life well, even a tough life. She showed us one last time how to look adversity in the eye and tell it to go to Hell. In the end, after decades of showing the rest of us how to live, she finally showed us how to die." He looked down, used the backs of both hands to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and stared at the card on the podium. It was the postcard Scott had sent her from New Orleans. Across the top of the card, in her somewhat shaky hand was written, "Stand tall, speak clearly, and don't blubber. Love, Gran." A gentle smile crept across Scott's face and he swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and whispered. "I'm trying, Gran. I'm doing my best." He opened his eyes again and scanned the crowd. "Evelyn Turner was a mosaic of conflicting forces. She was demanding and yet she was always forgiving. She'd raise the bar high, and then she'd give you a leg up. She was tough as nails, and she was soft and sweet as cotton candy. She would use biting sarcasm and humor to make a deadly serious point. She was a disobedient rebel who raised hell with the establishment, and who also raised a magnificent son to respect, protect and help maintain the rule of law." He choked when his eyes locked on his father's. "But best of all," his voice cracked and quivered, "she was my Gran." "I thank you for loving her, and for coming here today. I know that you all meant a great deal to her. And I have no doubt," he pointed at the cherry casket, "if she could sit up out of that damned box, she'd give us all Holy Hell for weeping this way. She'd tell us all to suck it up, and then she'd order a round of drinks for the house." The crowd erupted once more and applauded. Scott smiled down at the shiny casket at the front of the church and wiped a tear away, then backed away from the podium. He slowly stepped down the three steps, paused and bent to kiss the casket. He walked to the front pew, sat down, buried his forehead into the crook of his father's neck and spilled his tears onto Big Scott's lapel. Kip and Walter rode in silence in the cab on their way to the airport. As soon as Scott had come into the office the previous Monday morning, Walter could tell something was wrong. He followed the president up the steps to his office and sat down. "I can't go to San Diego, Radar. Kip's going to have to go in my place. I left him a message to contact me a.s.a.p., or to contact you if he can't reach me. I'm leaving for home in a couple hours, to bury my grandmother." Under other circumstances, Walter might have complained a little about the prospect of having the vice president as a travel companion. But Scott was grieving, so the loyal clerk just sucked it up. Scott could detect his displeasure in the curled lip and wrinkled nose. He let it pass. They hardly exchanged words as they boarded the plane. Walter leaped at the offering of a set of headphones to listen to the in-flight movie rather than having to engage Kip Monmouth in conversation. Both young men were uncomfortable and basically dreading sharing a room in San Diego for the next three nights. After a painfully awkward and quiet evening, they called it an early night on Thursday. At the end of Friday's sessions, Kip walked into the lounge and looked around. He and Walter had agreed to meet in the lobby before the dinner that was supposed to be held one floor up, but Walter wasn't there, and he had the tickets. He hadn't been in the hotel room when Kip got back from his session, either. "Kip! Over here." There was a group of eight gathered around a couple of tables in the back of the bar. Walter was in the center of the small mob. As he approached he sensed the mood to be jovial at a minimum. "Sorry, but we got done early and decided to take advantage of happy hour." Radar took another sip and wiped his lips. "Everybody, this is Kip Monmouth, our vice president back in Madison." He took off his glasses, squinched his eyelids together and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I can do this...let's see." He started jabbing his finger around the table. "This is Carrie from Sacramento, Mike from Billings, Tad from Columbus, Melanie from Iowa City, Todd from Tempe, John from Spokane and this is Beth from Miami." They applauded his memory as Kip nodded at the group. "We're all the `grunts' for our organizations, comparing notes and telling tales about keeping you elected guys in line and on task." Kip grinned and nodded again. Melanie from Iowa City looked at her watch. "Guys, they're gonna serve the meal in about five minutes. I gotta go. Nice meeting you all." She patted Walter's shoulder. "Especially you, Walter. You're a friggin' scream!" He smiled. "I have my moments, but don't tell anybody. It's a well-kept secret." The other six drained their glasses, said goodbye and headed for the exit. Walter looked up at Kip. "Jeez. You really know how to clear out a room!" He chuckled at his own jab. "Well, we can join the others upstairs for another rubber chicken or Salisbury steak plateful of crap and a speech by that spell-binder, Bob Dole. Or, we can sit here and have a few more cocktails, a decent steak and none of the falderal they're going to go sit through. Kip slid into a chair. "Put it that way and you don't give me much to think about." Walter waived at the waitress. "Give us a couple more Long Island Iced Teas, and bring this guy a shot of tequila. He's got some catching up to do." An hour later, Kip had a powerful buzz on. He eyed the WSA clerk. "I gotta admit that I'm surprised by the sociability, Walter. I got the distinct impression that you didn't like me very much." Walter shrugged. It was as much as an admission. "The truth? Can't say that I do, really." "What did I ever do to get to where you don't like me?" Walter looked away and mulled it over. "You didn't do nuthin'. That's just it. You've never even regarded me at all. You've always ignored me. Treated me like I was a piece of furniture. Someone to be ignored, `cuz I'm somehow beneath you." Then he smiled, reached over and patted Kip's shoulder. Kip flinched at the sudden familiarity. "But that's okay. It's not like I thought I was missing anything." Walter exhaled a short chuckle. "And I understand the attitude." Kip's head shot backward and his eyes widened. "Jeez. Sorry I didn't give you your due." "Not to worry, Kip. I really do understand. I'm a charter member of `Prickanon.'" "Huh? Whatanon?" Radar giggled. "No, dumb shit, listen up. Prickanon." He waived the waitress over. "Pricks Anonymous. It might be a club of one, but I doubt it. I've fooled myself into believing that it's a real 12-step program. It's for folks like me, in my mind anyway, who've decided to stop being assholes and try to make a good mark wherever they've been." He leaned on the table and put on a serious face. "You see, Kip old man, my name's Walter and I'm a recovering prick." He raised a finger to make his point. "Of course to be a recovering prick, you have to BE a prick first. That's the easy part." He opened his hand and plopped his chin onto his palm. "It came in bits and pieces, mostly from my folks. I'll let you in on a little secret, Kip. I'm rich." He chuckled. "At least I was, `cuz my parents are, and their parents, too. I come from what we might call `the right' family, but have pretty much given up on all that shit." Kip stared, stunned. "Yup! Daddy's a big-time broker who married into what you'd call `old money' with my dear mother. And, they're first-rate, class-A snobs. Don't get me wrong. They're not arrogant jerks because they're wealthy." He emphasized the word because. "There are a lot of middle and lower-class pricks out there too. But in our case, the two seem to go hand in hand. And when folks like that have kids, then a subtle gesture here, a bad example there, and sooner or later the kid becomes a confirmed, dick-head son of a bitch. "Ever see `South Pacific' Kip?" He didn't wait for an answer. "There's a song in there that says `You have to be taught to hate.' Kinda sappy and smarmy, like most of the movie, but it's still true. We're not assholes by nature. We're made that way against our will. I'm an only child, spoiled rotten from an early age. Raised to believe that I was, by birthright, somehow better than everybody else. Oh, I was smart, and still am. But I was also an obnoxious, snobbish first-rate fucker who sneered at the lowly commoners who resented me for who I was. The thing is, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. You look down on `the little people,' and you give them reason to resent you even more." Kip thought of his own parents for a moment, and then looked back at the normally innocent looking clerk. He raised one eyebrow in question. "And you got past the attitude, huh?" Radar giggled. "How do you to that?" "What?" He pointed at Kip's face. "That Spock thing. With your eyebrow. You raised only one eyebrow just now, like Mr. Spock. That is so fuckin' cool!" Walter emptied his glass, and waved it at the cocktail waitress who nodded her understanding. "Anyway, it started when I got tired of being disliked. When you got money, people resent you already. It might not be fair, but it is what it is. A lot of them want to see the worst in you. The problem a lot of us have is that we react by returning the disdain and compound the problem. And I just got sick of feeling angry and resentful all the time." He chewed on a chunk of ice while he waited for the refills. "Shitty way to go through life, huh?" "Ya' see, when I looked at it I finally realized two things. First, if you want to feel better about yourself right now...I mean fast and really good, then you find a reason, or make one up, to look down your nose and heap scorn on somebody nearby. But then, the fuckers are gone, and your reason for feeling superior goes with them. But if you want to lock it in...to feel good about yourself long-term, then leave a footprint. You make your little corner of the world a little, at least a little, better than you found it. It doesn't have to be some huge fucking accomplishment, just a little better. Or, sometimes, the best you can do is to stop things from becoming worse." Kip looked at him like he was deranged. "You're drunk." Walter giggled. "Yeah, and a little high, too. A few of us snuck up to one of the guy's rooms and smoked a couple bowls. Good shit, too." He giggled again. "Anyway, at first I thought it was crazy, too. But, it works. I'm a nice guy, people like me and I'm one of the happiest people I know. It's kinda cool, actually. You should try it. `Prickanon' is taking new memberships all the time." He looked around the bar and surveyed the other patrons. "We all bring something to the banquet. Everybody's suited to do certain things. Not better, not worse, just different and varied. I happen to have a flair for organization and planning. Scott's a leader, a visionary." He pointed at Kip's chest. "Not sure what you're good at, but there's gotta be something in there. You must have something to contribute and leave the place better than you found it, no?" As he mulled it over, it occurred to Kip that he wasn't quite sure. It was early Sunday evening, and Scott lay dozing on his bed. Craig was out playing basketball and "Sixty Minutes" was providing background noise to his ruminations. He was exhausted. The end of March and first week of April had flown by. First the funeral, and then getting caught up on missed schoolwork had left him feeling whipped. He was relieved that the Regents and the WSA hadn't distracted him from family or academics for the past couple of weeks, but his mind wandered back to those topics. `What to do?' he pondered. Pennington was on a mission and he held all the cards. Scott could take his marching orders from the WSA resolution, argue against any increase at all in tuition and look like an irresponsible kid with his head up his ass. What really pissed him off was that Pennington apparently had a deal with the governor. Screw the students and get some sort of payoff in return. His last real conversation with Kelly had made that clear. He wondered if Andy would have been more reasonable and possible to work with had the governor not twisted his arm and then put something on the table for him. Sounded like a classic carrot-and-stick arrangement that Scott couldn't quite get his brain around, and that frustrated him even more. He thought about calling Maureen again, but didn't have any new information to cover with her. Plus, he feared she'd give him the same old lukewarm `not much I can do at this stage' routine she'd given him last time. He decided he'd kick it around with Big Scott when they came to town the in coming week. The scholarship banquet was Wednesday. He'd planned on spending the entire morning with his parents. They were going to have breakfast together and then visit the attorney's office for the reading of Evelyn's will. After that, they'd go to the luncheon and do a little celebrating. Scott needed a little celebrating. His cell phone rang. He looked at the number on the screen. It looked vaguely familiar but didn't have a name attached to it. "Hello." "Turner, it's Kip Monmouth." Scott sat up on his bed and cleared his throat. "Yeah, Kip. What's up? How was San Diego?" "Uhm, that's kind of why I called. First, sorry to hear about your grandma. Radar told me you and her were pretty tight. Tough loss. I'm really sorry." Scott smiled. "Thanks, man. I need to remember to send thank you notes to all you guys for the flowers sent from the WSA. That was really thoughtful." "No problem. Anyway, San Diego. It was a good trip. We brought a lot of stuff back to share with various committees. I'm meeting with Radar tomorrow to review it and look at who should get what. You and I haven't had lunch in a while. How about Tuesday? I can review the conference and share our thoughts with you about how to best put the info we brought back to good use. And, uhm, I think I have some stuff you can use with the Regents job." Scott checked his calendar. "Yeah. Tuesday should work. Same time, same place?" "Works for me." "Okay, Kip. And, uhm, thanks. See you then." After his Tuesday morning class, Scott hurried back to the dorm, grabbed the mail from his and Craig's box and jogged the stairs up to their room. He hurried down the hallway, dropped his backpack on the floor and the mail on the desk and then headed over to McDonald's to meet Kip. He was surprised to see that his vice president had beaten him there. That had never happened before. Kip was sitting in their usual booth. The irony that they even had a usual booth tweaked Scott as he came through the front door. Kip was leaning against the wall with one leg propped up on the seat and his arm resting on top of the bench's back. He nodded and raised his hand at the wrist in something short of a wave `hello.' Scott nodded and walked to the counter. "Been here long?" Scott slid into the seat. Kip turned his torso and put his foot on the floor as he shrugged. "Not really." Scott opened the box of his quarter pounder and dumped the fries into the lid. He munched on one. "So," he grinned slightly and motioned to the large manila envelope on the table. "Don't tell me that's all you brought back from a three-day conference." Kip smirked. "Naw. The other shit's all back at the office. Radar has a list of the stuff and whose mailboxes we stuffed it all into. We can give a full report to the Student Senate, or individual updates to various committees; however you want to do it. He's ready to run it all down for you whenever you have time." Scott was confused. "Then why the call for lunch? I'm not complaining, and I had to eat anyway, but you said we should meet to go over a lot of that stuff." Kip looked around and appeared a bit nervous. Scott could see that his right leg had begun bouncing on the ball of his foot. "Uhm..." Kip cleared his throat and nearly whispered. "Shit, I can't believe I'm doing this." Scott stretched his neck to bring his head forward. "What's up, Kip? You suddenly look as nervous as a whore in church." It was a favorite expression of Evelyn's and it made Scott smile to say it. Kip hissed a light chuckle. "Interesting metaphor, under the circumstances." He tapped the corner of the envelope on the table, then set it down flat and folded his hands on top of it. "Okay, Turner. Here's the deal. Andy Pennington is bad news, and he's a top-notch motherfucker, and he's got it out for the students." Scott's hands came off the table and turned up toward the ceiling. "Well I know that." "No, Scott. It's more than that." He shifted nervously in his seat and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "He's got a scheme to ram a budget through that royally fucks the students, like almost twenty percent in just one year, and he's going to pull it off without your participation. I don't know how, but he said you were going to miss the key meeting and wind up looking like an idiot in the end. And he's going to be rewarded with a judge's appointment from the governor." "A judgeship?" Scott narrowed his eyes. "How do you know all this Kip?" Monmouth sat back and ran his fingers through his hair and he sighed heavily. He started bouncing his leg again. "Aw, what the fuck? You saw those pictures of me and that other dude in the dorm. Otherwise I might not be telling you this. I don't know. Anyway, Andy and me have had an...interesting, complex...uhm...let's call it a `friendship' for a few months now." A slight smile crept across Scott's lips and his eyebrows raised. "Really? I had a gut feeling the first time we met in the WSA office that there was a certain...uhm...chemistry between you two." He nudged Kip's calf under the table with his foot. "You dawg!" Kip rolled his eyes. "Well, it's over. Andy doesn't know that yet, but it is. He's a fucker, Scott. A mean-spirited, self-serving fucker who's going to stick it to a hundred and sixty thousand students in exchange for some judicial robes." Scott's grin evaporated and his face darkened. "So what about this meeting I'm supposed to miss, you know, when the dirty deed is going to be done? We're not due to meet again until some time late this month, and I haven't even gotten the notice or the agenda yet. You gotta tell me what you know." Kip shrugged. "Not a lot. He wasn't real specific. Just that the stage was set for you to miss a big meeting, the thing would be done; then you'd bitch and moan about it and look like an irresponsible twit in the process." Scott looked down at the envelope. "And...?" Kip slid it across the table. "Use these, Scott. You can shut him down, I think. Andy's kind of a sick fuck at times, and there's pictures and emails in here that he's sent me over the past couple months. He's married, with children, he's an Elder in his church and he's an up and coming lawyer. I think this kind of shit is about the only thing that he might respond to. You can maybe derail the lunatic. Do what you gotta do." He looked across the table at Scott's smirking face. "What?" Scott chuckled. "I hope the irony in all this isn't lost on you, is it?" Kip looked down and grinned shyly. "You mean me takin' a page out of Marty Anderson's play book?" He was thinking `you should see what I just did to my fucker of a brother,' and part of him wanted to actually say it. Instead, he just shrugged. "Yeah, I've got to admit that it had occurred to me." Scott smiled his satisfaction and nodded. "Good." Andy Pennington pulled his car into one of the short time, loading and unloading spaces against the curb at the end of the block, in front of Scott's dorm. As he walked down the sidewalk, he reached inside his coat and retrieved a standard business envelope. It was addressed to Scott Turner, Jr., although the metered postmark was three weeks old. He walked through the dorm's front door and up to the reception desk. The cute young lady working the desk looked up from her textbook and smiled. "May I help you, sir?" Andy flashed a smile. "Nothing much, really. I was just walking by, and found this laying on the sidewalk. It looks kind of official, so maybe you could help..." he read the name on the address, "...a Mr. Scott Turner, Jr., by returning this to his mailbox. Looks like he might have dropped it out front." The girl smiled and took the envelope. "No problem. Thanks a lot. I'm sure he'll appreciate it." Andy just nodded and exited, strolled back to his car to drive to the Madison office of his firm. He'd check into The Concourse later in the day and probably give Kip a call. Then he'd finish preparing for tomorrow's budget committee meeting. Scott had now been notified after all, and the envelope said he'd been notified three weeks earlier. If the meeting notice wasn't important enough for him to respond to after all this time, that was all on him. "Fuck `im," he muttered as he started the car. It was still dark out when Scott went for his morning run. It had been a restless night. Off and on, throughout the previous day, he'd chuckled at the contents of the envelope Kip had given him. But he was still perplexed by Kip's eagerness to hand it over when it would bring no apparent benefit to himself. `That's not like Kip Monmouth,' he thought. He'd spent most of the night pondering his own next move. What to do with the envelope's contents? What could or would he say to whom, and what would the goal be? That would all have to wait. It was going to be a big and a busy day. He'd meet `Big Scott' and Suzanne for breakfast, and then they'd go to meet one of his dad's law school chums for the reading of Evelyn's will. She'd had her son write out in legalese her posthumous orders. But, because of his conflict of interest, he couldn't actually execute it. Gran had asked for the skinny nerd with whom her son had attended law school to do that job. She'd known his uncle and thought highly of him. His firm's office was right across the street from the capitol. Then they'd go to the banquet where the Turners would bask in the pride of seeing their son feted by some of the finest academics at the university and other honorables. As usual, he sprinted his hardest for the last five blocks, gracefully dodging traffic when necessary. Once inside the dorm's lobby, he paused to catch his breath. He leaned forward, planting one hand flat against the wall and the other one on his hip. It was still way too early to pick up the mail, not quite six a.m. Still, through the little window on the door to their mailbox he saw an envelope. He double-checked his memory from the day before and was positive he'd emptied the box. He retrieved the key from the plant where he always hid it when he went running and opened the box. Instantly, he recognized the font and color of the law firm's return address and scrutinized its front before opening it. The metered postmark was three weeks old. "Shit!" he muttered under his breath as he tore it open. He scanned both pages quickly, and then focused on the first one. It was a notice and an agenda bearing the same date of the mark on the envelope. Then he saw the meeting date. "Today?! That fucker!" Scott shouted, and then self-consciously looked around to make sure the lobby was indeed still empty. He raced up the stairs to the third floor and jogged down the hallway. He quietly slipped into the room, not wanting to wake Craig. In the dark, he found his cell phone and his coffee mug. He poured a cup from the pot he'd started brewing just before going out for his run, fumbled around his desk to find a pen and note pad, and then stole back down the hall to the floor's community room. He dialed information. "Milwaukee please. Pennington. First name, Andrew." He jotted down the number and thanked the operator. He checked his watch. Six ten a.m. "What the fuck," he muttered and dialed the number. After five rings a woman's sleepy voice answered. "I'm sorry to bother you so early, ma'am, but could I please speak with Mr. Pennington?" "Not here," the woman mumbled. "He's in Madison for meetings today. Went over yesterday and stayed the night." "Thank you, ma'am. Sorry to bother you." He scrolled down the call log of his phone's memory, found Kip's number and pressed `Call.' Kip's voice came on after the third ring. "What the fuck?" "Kip, it's Scott. Sorry about the time, man. Hey, did you see Pennington yesterday?" "Huh? Hell, no. He called a couple of times, but I didn't answer. He left a message, but I didn't call him back." "Okay. When he's in town, where does he stay?" "The Concourse is the only place I've ever met with him." "Okay. Thanks. Go back to sleep." He mulled over the time. He needed to meet his parents for breakfast in less than an hour. He leaned back on the couch, took a big gulp of coffee and pursed his lips tightly as he swallowed. "Okay, then." He got up and went to the elevator. A few minutes later he banged on Marty's door. "What the fuck?" Marty whined weakly from the other side. Scott smirked and thought, `been hearing a lot of that so far this morning.' "Marty," he loudly whispered, his lips only inches from the door. "It's me. Let me in." The knob turned and the door cracked open a couple inches. Scott pushed and stepped in. Marty had fallen back on his bed in the dark room. Scott turned on the light and Marty's forearm instinctively shot to his face in order to shield his eyes. "Where's Brett?" "Where else? Banging the ho' last night. Fuckin' A, Scotty. It's about six!" Scott took note of the morning wood tenting his friend's boxers and he smirked again. He sat down on Brett's empty bed. "Sorry, buddy, but I need the help of my Special Advisor." Forty five minutes later, Scott followed Bradley Manning to his parents' table. He kissed his mother on the cheek and patted his dad's shoulder. "Sorry I'm a little late. Went for a run and lost track of time, I guess." Shortly afterward, Maureen walked between the tables and joined them. "Glad you could join us, Mo'" Suzanne smiled. "Wouldn't miss the opportunity. I have some business going on this morning, but I'm going to break away to attend the luncheon." She patted Scotty's hand. "Thank you for including me on the invitation list, dear." The desk clerk at The Concourse looked up and smiled. "May I help you sir?" A sharply dressed Martin Anderson smiled back. Once again, Scott had loaned him the necktie and tied it for him. "I'm here to see Andrew Pennington. Could you please tell me his room number?" The clerk's smile disappeared. "Sir, I'm afraid we don't just go giving out the room numbers of our guests to anyone who just walks in the door. We assume that if you're expected, he would have given you the room number." Marty's smile also evaporated as he leaned on the counter. He waved the envelope. "Look. I'm a courier who needs to deliver some very important, but unexpected, legal documents that Mr. Pennington is going to need this morning. I don't have his cell phone number and don't know how to contact him. But I can promise that if he doesn't get this right away you're going to have a very disappointed regular customer on your hands. Probably former regular customer at that." The clerk held her ground. "Then, sir, you can leave the envelope here and I'll have a staff member deliver it to his room." Marty shook his head. "I need to speak with him, in private. There are some important instructions I have to share with him. Without that, what's in here won't have much meaning." She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Pennington, but there's a courier at the front desk insisting on delivering something to you." She paused. "No sir, he says he needs to speak with you as well." She handed Marty the phone. "Mr. Pennington, my name is Martin Anderson. I'm here on behalf of Mr. Scott Turner, Jr." He paused. "I have some very important information here that Mr. Turner wants personally delivered." Marty's smile returned as he handed the phone back. He winked at the clerk. "You do good work. I'll have to stay here some time." He walked briskly toward the elevator. Andy was in dress pants and a tee shirt when he answered the door. Marty's expression was pleasant, though not smiling. "May I come in, Mr. Pennington?" Andy stepped aside and closed the door behind Marty. Marty handed him the envelope. "Scott wanted me to get this to you before today's committee meeting." Andy unclasped the fastener and opened the top flap. "He expects the meeting to be cancelled right away." Andy snorted as he slid the contents from the packet. "Now why the hell would I do that? These are busy people. He got the meeting notice just like they did. If it's not important enough for him to put it on his schedule and plan accordingly, that's his problem." Marty didn't answer, giving Andy a chance to survey the pages in his hands. His jaw dropped and his face went ashen. There were perhaps ten different emails to Kip, recounting their escapades or his fantasies about future meetings. There were several grainy, but recognizable photos he'd sent to Kip. None of them with faces, but recognizable by the very visible mole on his inner thigh and by the heading on each electronic message to his young friend. "With all due respect, Mr. Pennington, that's bullshit. Don't know how you did it, but you obviously knew about today's banquet to honor Scott, and you scheduled the meeting accordingly. Then you withheld the notice from Scott until you figured it was too late to react. Good thinking with the dated meter post on the envelope. But it didn't work and you're going to postpone." He paused to allow Andy to finish scanning all of the pages. "And, if you don't, I'm going to take another set of these, drive to Milwaukee and hand deliver them to your wife." Andy was speechless. "You are going to call the other members of the committee, make up an excuse as to why you need to reschedule for the same time, one week from today. Then you're going to meet Scott in front of The Union at three o'clock this afternoon. I might join you two, just for the fun of it." Andy looked up and saw Marty smiling. He winked. "Don't fuck with Scott Turner, Jr., Mr. Pennington. You're out of your league. Most people are. Gotta go. Scott's being honored this afternoon, and I'm going to be there to applaud. Based on your expression, I'll tell him you decided to do the smart thing. Have a great day." He turned and left, and giggled his way down the hall, recalling the priceless look on the face of the guy he'd just met for the first, and probably the last, time. Scott wiped his eyes as they left the attorney's office. His mother hooked her arm in his, and his father put a hand on his shoulder. "Let's walk," Suzanne suggested. "It's a beautiful day, and I haven't strolled State Street in years. We have time, don't we?" Scott nodded. "Plenty of time." They strolled slowly down State in silence for a few minutes. Finally Scotty looked up at his dad. "Jeez. I had no idea the old girl was so loaded." His father chuckled. "My father was a shrewd investor, Scotty. While Mom was out raising hell here and there, Dad was making a good living and putting his income to work. Among other things, he bought a shitload of land out in Phoenix when it was cheap. It's been the fastest growing area in the country for a lot of years now, and the real estate went nuts. I convinced her to sell a few years ago because it looked like the market was about ready to peak. She sold most of it off, and left the last few acres to us. I think we're going to build a retirement home there and become `snowbirds' when we decide to hang it all up." Scott frowned. "I feel bad about the house. She should have left it to you guys. I mean, you grew up there Dad." Suzanne took his hand in hers. "She wanted you to have it, Scotty. The two of you had such fun there when you were little. You remember how after your grandpa passed, you used to make up reasons to have sleep-overs just to keep her company?" Scotty smiled. "I know every square inch of that couch." His father patted his back. "There's a modest fund set aside to cover the taxes on the property and any maintenance as long as you're still in college, unless you decide to sell the place. But if you hang onto it, the upkeep and tax liability become all yours once you've graduated and get a job." They walked a while longer in silence. Big Scott looked down. "So what else is eating you on this fine day? You should be walking on clouds. You just inherited a pretty good piece of property, you're about to be celebrated as an up and coming academic star, and yet you look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders." Scott shrugged. "Well, yeah. I got a bit of a problem." He explained to his parents the resolution that Morrison had shoved through the WSA. Without describing the nature of his leverage with Andy, he simply explained, "When we're done at the banquet I'm going to one more meeting with that asshole Pennington, and think I'm in a position to negotiate a modest increase in tuition, a reasonable one; one that we might be able to force the governor to accept." His dad's eyebrows arched. "But you're under specific marching orders from the folks you really speak for to fight against any increase at all. Sounds like one of those situations where the best is the enemy of the good, huh?" "Exactly. The best would be a zero increase, but it's not possible. It never has been and never will be. I want to fight for the good, but I'm under direct orders to not do that." "And they're the people who basically put you there, right?" Scott just nodded. "How can you defy their orders and remain a member of the Board? You just going to pretend to be the voice of the students within the Regents and then ignore what the students have demanded? A little arrogant, don't you think?" "But Dad, what they're demanding is insane! I told them that, and they basically said `tough shit.'" Big Scott smiled. "Scotty, by now you've run into the `delegate versus representative' discussion in class, right?" "Of course. A delegate is a mouthpiece, a puppet. They're sent somewhere with specific directions from a specific group of people. A representative has some latitude `cuz they almost always have better information than the people they represent. Sometimes their job is to educate the folks back home to the realities of any given issue or situation, and then take the heat for the judgment of their decisions if they earn it. There's always another election coming, and they can be held accountable if they screw up. But which one am I, a delegate or a representative?" The father grinned again. "You're the Poli-Sci whiz in the family. Figure it out." The son elbowed the father in the ribs and rolled his eyes. The luncheon was a nice affair. After Dr. Cushing had introduced Scott to several other scholars, he led his newest protégé to his seat at the head table. Fifteen large round tables of eight made up the audience, and Scott immediately felt self-conscious as he took his seat between Dr. Cushing and historian Stephen Ambrose. He looked out and took some comfort in seeing his guests' table. Maureen had joined his mom and dad. Kelly sat next to her and smiled back with a wave when their eyes made contact. He'd forgotten that he'd included her on the guest list, but was glad that she still wanted to attend. Craig had found Big Scott and Suzanne in the crowd and introduced the proud parents to their other Rockford buddy, Brett. Maureen caught the eye of Randy Oakes, and waved him over to join them and managed the introductions to Scott's parents. Finally, Marty appeared, walking across the room with a smile and took the last empty seat at their table. He looked up at Scott and flashed a quick thumbs up. He smiled broadly and winked at his friend. "If you don't mind my asking," Scott said meekly to Ambrose, and then a round of applause interrupted. The Honorable Theodore Hackett had entered the room and waved his thanks to the crowd as he took his seat next to Mr. Ambrose. `The guy knows how to make an entrance,' Scott thought to himself. Ambrose shook the governor's hand, then sat back down and turned to Scott. "You were about to ask...?" "Yes, sir. How is it that a historian earns a prize like this one from the political science department?" The historian smiled. "There's no separating the two, Scott. When I was your age, I hadn't yet declared a major. You can't do history without a deep understanding of political science. You can't exist in politics, at least not with much conviction or direction, without the same understanding of history." The salads were served and the governor looked past Ambrose and asked, "How's the Board treating you Scott?" He quickly explained to Ambrose that he'd appointed Scott to the Regents. Scott sipped his water. "Interesting stuff, governor. Seems every day brings a new challenge. I'm pretty sure that Mr. Pennington's leadership will get us through, though." Nearly two hours later, Scott looked at his watch. The reception before the lunch had gone long, the meal was late being served and both Ambrose and Hackett had spoken longer than they should have. It was after two thirty. He'd sent directions to Pennington to meet him at three. After his own lengthy remarks, Ellison Cushing paused and finally said, "Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to present to you the newest member of a very exclusive club. This year's LaFollette Scholar, Mr. Scott Turner, Jr." Scott stood to the applause, cleared his throat and took a quick sip of water. "Dr. Cushing, Professor Ambrose, Governor Hackett. Mom and Dad; ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. I am honored, deeply honored, to accept this scholarship, and I am humbled when I pause to appreciate the level of excellence that it calls for. But I can't claim this distinction to be all mine. I know how lucky I am to be supported by such a talented faculty," he glanced at Randy, and then nodded toward Cushing, "by such loving and understanding parents," Suzanne wiped away a tear while Big Scott patted her back, "by such talented mentors," his eyes locked on Maureen's smiling countenance, "and by such dear and dedicated friends." Marty looked down shyly and he swallowed hard. "Robert M. LaFollette was a hell-raiser and a driven, visionary leader. To hold this plaque and accept this scholarship bearing his name is undoubtedly one of the most humbling and inspirational experiences I'll ever know. My only regret is that another noted hell-raiser and my most shining light, my late grandmother, Evelyn Turner, can't join us today. We celebrated her long and fruitful life not too long ago, and I'm warmed by knowing she's here in spirit. I'll accept this wonderful gift in her name and in her memory. She fervently believed in the power of one person to make a difference for the better. Like "Fighting Bob" LaFollette, she was an unabashed and uncompromising defender of all that we hold dear here in the land of the free, the home of the brave. And so, I dedicate, here and now, all of my scholastic and professional future to striving to become the kind of leader she would expect of me. Thank you very much." Big Scott was now wiping away the tears. There was a moment of silence quickly smashed by a booming round of applause. Stephen Ambrose patted his back as Scott took his seat. "Nice job, son. Your grandma would be very proud, I'm sure. I'm happy to welcome you to the club. If I can hang around long enough, I might be writing about you before too long." Ellison took the podium, congratulated Scott once more and thanked the guests before drawing the curtain on the afternoon's celebration. Scott stood, shook the professor's hand once more, thanked Ambrose for his kind words and then shook the governor's hand. "If you'll excuse me, I gotta get back to work, gentlemen. No rest for the wicked." He winked at the governor and practically leaped off the platform, into his father's embrace, and then said, "I gotta go." Suzanne was nearby and overheard, so he kissed his mother's cheek and said, "I'll call. Thank you so much. I love you." He quickly hugged everybody else around the table. He handed the plaque to Craig. "Bring this back to the room, will you? I have to get to a meeting." He paused with Kelly and said, "It's great to see you. Thank you for coming." Kelly just smiled and nodded. Before he could step away from the table, Marty had him in a firm embrace. "Ol' Andy's shitting bricks, and he's really pissed, Scotty. Go get'im!" Scott stepped back and smiled. "Thanks again, Mr. Special Advisor." He winked. Scott exited one end of the building, turned a corner and headed for the front entrance of the same mammoth structure. He strode confidently, glad that he'd invoked Evelyn's spirit in his acceptance of the award a little earlier. Her courage and her spunk now embraced him, coursed through him on his way to meet Andrew Pennington in what promised to be a serious showdown and a test of wills. Pennington was at the bottom of the front stairs, pacing back and forth. A good sign, Scott thought. He was, so far, doing as directed. "Mr. Pennington!" Scott smiled. "So good of you to meet me." Andy sneered. "Shitcan the niceties, Mr. Turner. I have to get going back to Milwaukee." Scott grabbed the handle to the front door. "I know you have to get back to the wife and kids, sir, and I don't want to impose on your happy family life. But surely you have time for a cup of coffee. Come on in. I'm buying. I have a few ideas I'd like to kick around with you." Author's Note: I'm sure that the relatively lightening speed with which this installment appeared stunned you. The thing is, I finally developed a road map to the finish line, and these last few chapters are shorter that what we've become accustomed to. The curtain comes down in Chapter 27, so I hope you'll stay tuned. Thanks again to Kory for his generosity in lending us his editorial skills, to Billy for his continuing input and encouragement, and to everybody who stays in touch with their comments and observations on the story and the evolution of the various characters. You know the drill: if the mood strikes, please feel free to contact me at scotty.13411@hotmail.com Be Well.