Mr. Mayor (unfinished)

"I sold handkerchiefs in a department store, which means I was real bored."- That's how Patrick Moffet likes to explain his beginnings in local government. When justifying a stance against any and all things the president campaigned for, the distinguished gentleman from Richland Pennsylvania would simply say "He's an idiot."

Moffet tended to be frustrated, arrogant, anxious, and kind of showy. Drove to work every morning in a car that was the envy of those who couldn't afford it, and the fantasy of those who liked to think they knew better. Now it's been said he was compensating for a childhood full of OCD, medication, and embarassment. Then again, obsessive compulsives tell you they have radar for the same deficiency in others, and politics seems like the ultimate twelve step group.

Anyway, Moffet flashed his charm for the State Supreme Court when he protested his constituents removal of their edgy mayor from office. The charges he fought were anything and everything- but mostly in between. Some claimed he backed the mob, others called him a closet communist. Said he was a liberal, said he was bitter, a few even said he was Canadien. No one wanted Moffet in charge, in Richland--more than that, none could agree on a reason why! Finally, they cornered him for employing an alien housekeeper- a story one weekly paper had a lot of fun with- and he was gone. Banished from Richland government, but in no way forgotten.

His home away from home has become the world of ham radio. 930-1230 every night, it's where you can find him. "I'm not bitter" Moffet says, of past experience. "I get more done, work less hours. What's to complain about?" And his overnight radio success is due to not being in a position to inflict any real harm. So the former mayor of Richland succeeded where only he could- getting people angry, but never angry enough to do something about it.

July 16, 1996- 'The Patrick W. Moffet radio show.'

"Word out of the D.C. today is peacekeeping efforts with the country of Franconia have gone terrifically wrong. They refuse the release of sixteen American hostages taken during last Thursday's deadly attack at... a circus? (mumbles) Is that right? (pause) Yeah, a touring circus. Wow I guess there really is nothing sacred anymore." Moffet talks slowly, carefully, he's the type A personality who always thinks ten steps ahead. Some call that the mark of an intelligent man, others say it's the surest sign he's hiding something.

"In other news, the presidential election is heating up folks. Media everywhere debate Walter Smalley's chances for a second term. Key issues- in this, and every other election- are family values, tax breaks, and the debt.

"If the past be indicative of the future, Smalley's outta here come November. But with the current crises in Franconia, our boy in Washington may have just what he needs to swing public favor back his way."

July 21, 1996 NBS Studios- Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Barb, Roxie's assistant, said he was an ex- boxer. "You really should've read the notes they gave you for the interview."

Grinning, she fired back, "That's why I have you sweetie."

"Alex Marrs, two Olympic titles, heavyweight champion of the world four years running up 'til May of '93. He lost to some young kid, lost the rematch two weeks later and the critics panned him. Forced him out of a twelve year career where he fought everyone from Sugar Ray to Foreman."

Poor Barb, thought Roxie. She could use a boyfriend. Then Roxie imagines her career without Barb by her side- massive chaos. Even now, there are some nights when 'Roxie Waters' barely comes together by air-time.

"Let me get this straight. He wants to go on tv and confront the people who pushed him out, right? He's trying for a comeback?"

"If that was true, he wouldn't wait ten months to do it." Barb chewed her lips religiously, and as such, she regularly slathered her mouth with a tube of lipstick she'd bought sometime during Jimmy Carter's administration. "No, he quit all right. Left without a harsh word to all the jokes. Even did a couple late night talk shows. He plays basketball every Saturday with Arsenio now."

Roxie isn't listening, her mind's still on the day's events. Chasing kids to and from school, picking up the laundary, cooking supper, walking the dogs, and now about to go on television with an interview they'd given her yesterday night. "I don't get it. Why does he want to be on the show?"

Barb shrugs, "Do that thing you do so well and find out."

Then Roxie's assistant wandered off- muttering into her headset- and the journalist winked at Bobby, the cute burly guy on camera two. Ah, well. Tomorrow's Friday, and that means yoga.

Marrs appeared about twenty minutes later wearing an aviator jacket and an uneasy smile. He was humming something by Paul Simon.

"'Silent Eyes?'" she asked, and he nodded in response.

Good conversationalist, that's a plus.

Marrs collapsed into one of the tiny interview chairs so they could prepare for the broadcast. "This is when we warm- up, right?"

She shuffled some yellow pages and took a deep breath. "Okay . . . this isn't like boxing, Mr. Marrs. No 'sparring', all right? Just give me clear- cut answers and we'll make sure the audience doesn't decide to flip to the infomercial on eight."

They prepared, the two talked, and she found him almost charming after awhile. He was rather unpretentious as celebrities went. Except that he seemed sort of ambivalent.

Cut to air- time 1130 pm.

Roxie's always afraid of losing her train of thought halfway through the interview. Her mind tends to wander when there are problems with the kids. Or there father. And lately, they don't really seem to have one.

In school, teachers had said over and over for every bad interview the one holding the questions, and not the answers is at fault. "Know where the subject is headed before they do. Stay a step ahead at all times," was the conventional wisdom.

Anticipate. "Anticipate! Anticipate! Anticipate!" She could still here her old German professor pounding on the desk with his ruler.

"So, Mr. Marrs, what now? Now that you've reached the pinnacle of your career and decided to step down, where will you go?" She looked at him, prepared to wait silently until he answered her satisfactorily.

"I'm staying right here--on television," he chuckled.

"What will you do next?"

"I'm going to Hollywood!"

"Acting?" she croaked.

"Like Rocky," he grinned confidently.

"Don't we already have one of him?"

"Eh," he mulled this over for a moment. "Stallone came to California, wrote that movie, and got all sortsa recognition. If he made it, I figure I can. I've already got connections in the biz."

"Who?"

"My uncle Ned. He's Tom Cruise's pool guy."

She just nodded, chewed her lower lip. "I see, so your future is movies?"

Marrs cocked his head. "I'll do it all. Give writing, directing, acting a try. I'm even up for a play, if anyone'll send me a script," he stared right into the camera over Roxie's left shoulder. "What can I say? I've got the bug."

"Indeed," the newswoman grinned, trying to sound like her idol- Connie Chung. She exhaled slowly. "Great. Well, umm . . . Since actors are very vocal with their opinions about everything, what do you think of abortion?"

"See, I never needed one so really, I don't care. I've got no experience to come from."

"Fine. How about Franconia?"

"What about it? Isn't that north of Philadelphia?"

"A little closer to Asia, actually."

His eyes lit up. "Oh! The hostage thing?"

She nods.

"I say let the people who know about that stuff decide. I really haven't got a right to say."

"Where you're going- Hollywood- shouldn't you at least pretend?" she mumbled.

"Onstage- when they pay me- I'll recite the horrors of the period just prior to women's suffrage. Offstage, my knowledge is confined to sports statistics, Dallas cheerleaders, and Mama's Family."

She was surprised to find herself grinning. "And Paul Simon?"

Marrs nodded. "And absolutely Paul Simon."

July 28, 1996- Pat Moffet radio show.

"Marrs is right! Paul Simon would make a good president. (laughs- refreshed) God, I love this guy. The honesty is so refreshing. 'Show me your questions, folks, and where I can help I will!' It's time our legislators stood up with that kind of thinking- that kind of pure frankness- and admit their own ignorance when it becomes neccesary. Here we have Marrs- a man who was literally kicked when he was down. Someone moved the whole boxing profession without telling him and he had no way of getting back in, nowhere else to go. But he did have the grace not to make a scene- to go quietly- and to see this chance for what it was. An opportunity. A chance to pursue a different dream. A way to introduce another world to his brave ambivalence . . . Did you read it? Did you see it- front page, Philadelphia Inquirer? 'Ambivalence lands Marrs concrete movie deal with Warner.' They're thinking of calling it 'The man who knew certain things, but not others.' The nation loves him. And why shouldn't they? It's time the American public was introduced as a whole to this kind of invigorating honesty in a day when the political and social wells have all but dried up!"

He was silent for a moment. Then, his speech picked up again- even faster and more feverish. "That's it, folks! Maybe there's our answer. Maybe it's time for a change. Is it just me, or does anyone else see Marrs in office? Senate, maybe? Why not? Bono did it, Reagan did it, there are plenty more who wish they could . . . "

July 29, 1996- Marrs responds to increasing calls that he run for office.

"I don't want to be a senator. I want to be a movie star. Actors make good money. Granted, we're all just liars anyway, but I'll take the highest paycheck.

"I started my career at seventeen. Seventeen! I was so late entering the sport, I was lucky to get anywhere at all. You know how I did it? A heavy bag in the attic of my parents' little house outside Philly. A heavy bag and a dream. It got me to the Olympics- twice. That's only one goal. My other is to make it to the Oscars.

"And about Franconia, honestly, I don't know enough to care."

Later that night, at NBS studios.

Roxie smiled preenily at Willem Bradley, so- called new 'heartthrob of the daytime soaps.' The old nervousness was gone. Roxie felt more confident this past week, like she wasn't as scared anymore. Like it wasn't important to hide those fears from everyone and pretend to be something she's not. "So . . . you think Smalley shouldn't send troops to Franconia?"

"Well, no. I'm aware that they haven't listened to reason, but what's force gonna do? It'll make them play their hand and I bet anything they didn't come into this unprepared to go down fighting. Either that, or they would've given up when we sanctioned them over a week and a half ago." The young man twitched nervously in his seat. He had yet to do his trademark wink for the cameras and all the women watching at home.

"Really Mr. MIT? And what makes you such an authority? Didn't you go to community college?" She glanced down at her notes. "Says here you studied animal husbandry."

The actor turned bright red and averted his eyes from the camera, and from Roxie.

"You think the president should just ignore such a hostile act?" Her eyes narrowed. She feigned 'serious journalist' whenever the camera turned in her direction.

Bradley didn't answer her, swallowed several large gulps of air that reverbrated in the microphone on his lapel. He thought of his puppy back home, and the farm in Indiana.

"The truth of the matter is, how would you know? You weren't even alive when we went to Vietnam, were you?"

And . . . things continued in that fashion for the rest of the session.

Highest evening ratings in months.

August 2, 1996- Special News Bulletin

"Early this morning, a submarine registered with the Franconia National Guard sunk an American cruiser in waters just outside the Gulf of Dardanelles. Four seamen were reported killed. We are awaiting confirmation of this report.

"The president has been fearing this day for weeks. Advisors have warned him to tread carefully, for the entire election may hinge on how he handles the Franconia threat. And he's finally decided on indecision in the matter. No one wants to be remembered for sending the country into war, so Smalley will turn to the populous, in an effort to gauge public opinion about a military occupation of the small Asian country until a full investigation has been reached, and the hostages have been released.

"Tomorrow morning in Washington, President Smalley had arranged for a town meeting of sorts. At the Jaycee auditorium on Buickmuller circle he will open the topic for discussion among concerned citizens, media, tv cameras, the whole nine (yards). He needs our help folks. He needs our courage now, more than ever."

August 3, 1996. Jaycee auditorium in Washington, D.C.

Smalley cleared his throat, prayed to God again and for the third time that morning to give him the strength to end his addiction. Nicotine, devil's drug of choice. So far, he'd gone through one and a half cigars, his throat was achingly soar, and his hands trembled in disbelief of the entire situation.

He thought of Ziggy, thought of the cartoon where Ziggy approached the information desk and asked 'Why me?'. -- Recite the periodic table of elements, that's what mother would say could calm the nerves better than anything else. The first element escaped him. He leaned over to his press secretary and requested the answer.

"Hydrogen," Kneale whispered back.

He gulped. "Right, like in the bomb."

"Can you get me some water?" Smalley called out to no one in particular, and a few small guys in suits rushed out of the room. "All night, all night," he muttered to himself. The president had been in constant contact with both branches of government till early this morning. Each advised him, each succeeded only in disagreeing with the other. "Did we get an answer from them yet?" he asked Kneale something else that made the bum turn away from his Tetris.

"From the Franconians? No. From your mother? Yes. From Cokie Roberts, yes. From George Bush, yes."

"What did they say?" He couldn't believe he was asking his mother's advice on military strategems.

"And I quote, 'go with your gut.'"

"I wasn't even in the Boy Scouts for Pete's sake. What do I know about the army?!"

"Your the Commander in Chief of the armed forces. Of all the forces. I hope you read some of the rule book they gave you."

Smalley loosened his tie, cleared his throat again, and vowed never to touch another cigar. Even the half of one still in his breast pocket. "Paul Simon would make a good president," he said beneath his breath.

"What?"

"I said I'm gonna set a precedent. Let them," he pointed out to the rows of people just beyond the curtain that hid him, "make the tough decisions for me."

"Well, go to it, then. You're on," the press secretary pushed him through the curtains and the room erupted in spontaneous questions. Flashbulbs flickered, the effect was dizzying.

As usual, the rumour mill in Washington had spent all night grinding away. By the time Smalley stumbled to the podium at Jaycee auditorium, the death toll on the sunken American cruiser had risen to the hundreds. Nobody could be sure what was truth and what was fiction. All they wanted were numbers, facts, solutions.

"That's what I came to you for," he began. "I'd hoped we might solve this thing together. Now people are talking war, bombs, casualties- I wanted my administration to be known for peace. And I wanted the public during that time to be known for not jumping to conclusions."

A reporter- a man named Jason- interrupted him calling out, "Will you really do as the people here, today, decide?"

"I've no other course of action . . . As I see you're anxious to begin, let's do that, shall we?" Smalley motioned to a woman wearing a blue and pink pantsuit who stood at the microphone far to the left in his field of vision.

"You've got to do something," Pantsuit exclaimed. Others cheered as she redefined her seat, sitting on the floor, in front of the stage where Smalley was.

He looked down at her. "What do you suggest?"

She was quiet for a long moment. Seemed to be weighing her options heavily. Pantsuit shifted her bulk form one foot to the other and glanced back at a row of boys seated a few feet away. They were dressed in army fatigues.

"I don't know," was- in the end- all she could afford.

"How about you?" Smalley pointed at a man wearing black and white.

He just shook his head. "How would I know boss?"

And another, Smalley turned toward a short, stocky lieutenant whom he recognized from several dinners at the White House. "What do you think about going to war? Would you have any reservations against fighting again? Against possibly killing Franconians, if it came down to that?"

The lieutenant- named Kareem Smith- shrugged. He considered the men on that sunken ship, remembered all the kind words said about them at a memorial held last evening at the base. Kareem did know. He hated the anger that killed his fellow enlistees but knew that revenge was all these quiet people thought of, all they were trying to express . . . Or maybe, maybe it was fear. He considered that the pregnant woman seated two rows down from him knew what she wanted to say, but couldn't. What would a young woman carrying a child know about the army? Anymore than Willem Bradley? Still, Kareem met the eyes of the officers seated around him.
"Sir? I don't care. I don't care either way, right or wrong. I don't care what happens to the Franconians. They started this. It's our turn to finish it."

Smalley nodded solemnly. He wore a peculiar expression. No one could be sure if it was because of his brother, who died in the Persian Gulf, or his own debilitating knee injury that prevented him from fighting, and ever knowing the stark realities of cold war. Either way, he left the Jaycee Auditorium right then, and didn't look anyone in the eye for weeks.