Fork in the Road

FORK IN THE ROAD By Scott Turner Chapter 9

"If you come to a fork in the road, take it." -Yogi Berra

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that occasionally contains rather graphic depictions of sexual activity between consenting adult men. If that's no your cup of tea, or if it is illegal for you to possess or read such material, then please go elsewhere. This story is copyrighted, 2008, and may not be reproduced, reposted or published without the expressed permission of the author.

Scott bound into the WSA office in a great mood. It was a beautiful, crisp fall day and he'd put in a good five miles that morning before laughing through a decent breakfast with both of his roommates. Things at the capitol were pretty cool and calm, and he was well prepped for his afternoon classes. He smiled. "What's up Radar?"

The clerk rolled his eyes. "Check your mailbox. Mr. Lyman has been busy the last couple of days. You're gonna love it."

He pulled the committee's recommendation out and took a couple minutes to peruse it. His face slowly became clouded in gloom. He raised one eyebrow and looked up at Walter. "This is some sort of a joke, isn't it?"

Walter shrugged. "Well, he was grinning when he dropped it off, but I think it was more satisfaction on his part than it was a sense of humor. I'm not sure he has one of those."

Scott shook his head. "Un-fucking-believable! This is lunacy." He headed toward the stairs. "I gotta call this crazy fucker."

Walter hollered behind him. "Good luck with that!"

Scott dug out Elliot's cell number and dialed it. It went straight to voicemail. "Hi, Elliot. This is Scott Turner. Got your committee's proposal this afternoon and would like to discuss it with you at your convenience. Give me a call when you can. Thanks."

He sat back and looked over the proposal again. Lyman's committee had gutted three organizations entirely, and significantly cut the fees allocated to two others that would have been considered as `gay friendly' to most who were paying attention.

He sighed and thought, Well, I could shelve it, but I think that would cut off everybody. I don't have to bring it up for a vote, but then no money would get sent out at all. Bad plan.' He snorted. Shrewd move on Elliot's part, if he's trying what I think he's trying. Hold the funds for all the other organizations hostage in order to cut the funds to the groups he doesn't like.'

He picked up the phone and punched Radar's extension. "Yep? What's up, chief?"

"Walter, correct me if I'm wrong, but under our bylaws and constitution, I don't really have veto power, and by protocol I really shouldn't be offering amendments to committee proposals, right?"

"Uhm, yeah, you got it. You can schedule meetings, set the agenda, decide if and when something's going to come up for a vote, except under certain specific circumstances, and preside over the discussion and debate. But, no, you can't veto anything they adopt, and the motions to amend have to come from the floor."

Scott's jaw clenched for a second. "Shit. That's what I thought. We'll have to discuss those `certain specific circumstances.'"

Walter sighed. "Yep. Let me know when. Sucks being you some days. Lonely at the top sometimes, Scott."

Scott chuckled. "Thanks a bunch, Radar. You're a shit load of help."

The clerk giggled. "Hey, I do what I can."

Maureen sliced her fork into the salmon filet in front of her and shrugged. "Well, can you muster the votes to amend it?"

Scott sighed and shrugged. "Not sure. I called the two committee members, Phil Wharton and Tara Bjorn who voted against it in committee, and I'm going to talk to one other who is a very `out' lesbian activist, but they'll need thirteen more to join them to make a majority. I told them they'd have to do most of the heavy lifting, but that they were free to say they had my support, if that matters at all."

She put down the fork and sipped her water. "And what about the twerp, what's his name? Lyman?"

Scott rolled his eyes. "Asshole isn't answering my voicemails or my e-mails, the little weasel."

Maureen scoffed. "Sounds like a gutless shit. I'd say it might be time for a little game of chicken with the bastard. Send him another message that says `this isn't going to see the light of day until you've at least had the chance to discuss it.' You don't have to schedule it for a vote at all, do you?"

"No I don't. But if I take that path several dozen other organizations will have their funds frozen, too, and a lot of them do great work: `Coats for Kids,' another group that volunteers at the Humane Society, groups of students who tutor and coach kids in the community; that kind of stuff. I don't want to cut them all off just to spite this shit head."

Maureen leaned on the table. "Double check that in your organizational rules, Scotty. Where I work, if we fail to pass a budget by deadline, which is often the case, the old funding stays in place until we get our shit together. But then, make it clear to your Mr. Lyman that what his committee has proposed is simply unacceptable, that you're still the friggin' president of the WSA and that HE is the one putting all those good causes at risk. Make HIM own it. Do it quietly at first, behind closed doors, but make sure he knows you're willing to hang him with it publicly if he doesn't step back and give a little. This doesn't have to become a public pissing match, but if you believe in it you should be ready to take it there and make him believe it. You might have to compromise on the dollar amounts, but if zero funding for those groups isn't acceptable to you, then don't accept it." She chuckled. "Time to strap on an extra set of balls, Scotty."

He choked on a bite of his prime rib and almost knocked over the glass of water when he grabbed for it.

Maureen smirked and shrugged casually. "God knows I've had to do just that more than once. It's not usually comfortable, but sometimes necessary."

The Badgers were up by ten points over Michigan State with only two minutes to go. Greg and Scott sat next to each other in the student section, and their thighs hadn't broken contact since the first kickoff, except when they'd stood to cheer.

During a TV timeout, Scott leaned over. "Hey, next weekend the Badgers are on the road. Let's get out of town. I know it's the Halloween Party and all that shit, but I've been there, done that. Honestly, I don't think it's your scene. Mobs of drunks, shoulder to shoulder, or in your face. It's kind of amusing, but it's also more than a little bit of madness. Let's head up to the Dells or over to Milwaukee or something."

Greg bit his lip. "Uhm, next weekend isn't good for me. Team commitments. I wasn't planning on heading to State Street for Halloween anyway, but Coach Bidwell would have a cow if I was gone. Maybe some other weekend."

Around seven p.m., Scott lumbered up the stairs in the apartment. It was something of a struggle, as his thighs were shot. `Shit, I gotta start running every day again,' he told himself. After the game, he'd pummeled Greg for a good twenty minutes following some very erotic and imaginative foreplay, and they both worked hard for the explosive orgasms they enjoyed. Scott could still see Greg's hands gripping the comforter on his bed as he held Greg's ankles high and pounded away while Greg moaned from below.

Brett was over at Angie's place, but Craig was in the living room watching ESPN, catching up on the day's NCAA football action across the country. Scott grabbed a beer and sat down to join him.

"Good game today, huh?" The dog wandered in and promptly buried his snout into Scott's crotch.

Scott grabbed the collar and pulled the dog back, telling him to sit. He did as ordered and looked up with great expectations of a good ear scratching. Scott took a long swig of beer and then did as the dog's eyes asked. "Yeah. Nice day, another win for the good guys. Shit! They could repeat at the Rose Bowl if they keep it up." The fattest cat in the world wandered in and obviously wasn't going to tolerate Scott's singular attention to the dog. He bounded up onto Scott's lap demanding equal time and treatment. Scott set down his beer and worked the dog's ears with his left hand and the cat's chin with his right.

Craig looked over during commercial break. "You hungry?"

"Yeah. Had a dog at the game, but that's about it since breakfast. Whatca got in mind?"

"Picked up some French bread, some sauce, pepperoni and cheese. Was gonna make a French bread pizza. Want some?"

"Sounds great. I'm gonna shower and get into my jammies. You can cook and then I'll beat your ass in Cribbage."

"Dollar a game, penny a point?"

Scott shoved the cat onto the floor and got an evil glare in return. "You're on. Back in twenty."

As he dried himself after the shower, he saw the first hickey between his scrotum and right thigh. He chuckled. Then, as he raised his arm to finish the job he saw the second one in the mirror. It was barely inside his left armpit. `What a fucking animal,' he grinned.

After putting on some fresh shorts, sweatpants and a thermal long sleeved t-shirt, he wandered back to the living room. Craig was on the phone. "Nope. Had a rare Saturday off, but spent most of it at the library. Not a bad day all in all. Your prodigy just walked back in all squeaky clean. You want to talk to him? You don't have to, but he might get jealous if you don't." Craig chuckled. "Okay here he is." He handed the phone over. "It's Big Scott."

"Hey. What's up bud? Great game today."

"Yeah. Caught it on TV. Can't talk long. Your mom is delirious and thinks she's going to give me a lesson in Scrabble."

"Ah, the excitement of the older folks on a Saturday night. We're going to munch on some pizza and play Cribbage. I'm guessing there's maybe four or five extra dollars on my horizon with this sap. Craig's eyes didn't leave the TV, but he flipped off his roommate anyway.

Big Scott scoffed. "Screw you, sonny. You're home at eight on a Saturday night, getting ready to nibble on some French bread pizza and play cards. And you call yourself a college student?"

"A responsible college student, being a good boy on a Saturday night." He thought back to the afternoon. `After being a pretty naughty boy a few hours ago,' he thought.

"Well, we're not going to make it down there for Homecoming, but do you want to have lunch on Tuesday?"

Scott's eyes widened. "You're going to be in town?"

"Yeah. Meeting with some of the party folks to prep for the candidate training workshop I'm going to in a couple weeks. And, I need to meet with a client I have down there who wants to re-work her will. Thought about hot pastrami at Ella's and a sit-down with my favorite son."

"Your only son." Scotty walked to the kitchen and propped the phone between his ear and shoulder. He reached into the fridge.

"How'dya think you became my favorite?"

He set the bottles on the counter and held onto the receiver again. "Tuesday it is, then. Call my cell when you get into town. I'll be at work til noon, and don't have class til two on Tuesdays. Should work out perfect."

"Sounds like a plan, man."

"Is Mom there? Lemme talk to her." As he waited for his mom to grab the phone he opened the beers and walked back to the living room. Scott and Suzanne chatted for about ten more minutes. Craig walked in with a big plate full of pizza. "Well, my dear, dinner is served by my able manservant." Craig set down the plate, handed Scott a new beer and then grabbed his crotch. "So, I guess I'll talk to you later. Take the old boy to the cleaners on the Scrabble board. Uh-huh. Love you too. G'night."

Underestimating others was not Scott's habit, but he'd been emboldened by his dinner conversation with Maureen. He bought into her `game of chicken' argument but he still didn't fully appreciate what made Elliot Lyman tick. He was reading an e-mail from Marty when the phone rang. Jill was still sick and they'd scrapped the Homecoming plans.

"Yeah, Radar. What's up?"

"Lyman's on his way up the stairs."

Scott was determined to come out swinging, hoping this worm would fold right away. He stepped into the hallway to greet him. "Elliot. Thanks for coming in." Scott stepped aside to allow entrance to the office. They did not shake hands.

Lyman wore a thinly veiled sneer and plopped into a chair. "Well, this feels like a command performance. Your last message wasn't exactly an invitation, it was a directive."

"Well," Scott sat down. "You completely ignored two voice mails and two e-mails. I needed you to understand that your committee's proposal was going nowhere until we'd had a chance to discuss it face-to-face."

Elliot shrugged. "Okay. I'm here. What's on your mind?"

Scott paused, and picked up the committee's recommendation. "Honestly, what's on my mind is that you folks must have been under the influence when you passed this piece of crap."

Lyman actually laughed. "For the record, Mr. Turner, I don't drink at all and I've never consumed a drug that wasn't prescribed by a doctor. Just because a righteous majority stands up doesn't mean they're messed up. The only influence I'm under is that of the Word of God and Jesus Christ my Lord."

Scott paused again, then leaned on the desk. "Well, I speak with both of them, my Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ my Lord every day. They're good guys chocked full of love and tolerance. We're actually pretty good friends. And while your faith and piety might be admirable, I guess, you're asking us to shove your narrow theology down the throats of some forty-four thousand students, many of whom don't share your views. You and I represent Christians of all stripes, Jews, Muslims, agnostics and atheists. We represent straights, gays, bisexuals and who knows what else I've never even though of. They all pay these fees and can vote if the spirit moves them to do so on Election Day. I don't think it's fair to base the fee disbursement on any one position of religious faith. This is a public university after all."

Elliot slapped his knees. "And, as you said, many of them are fags and dykes who have been robbing the rest of us who abhor their lifestyles of student funds through the WSA. It's wrong and it has to end. And I aim to end it. Now."

Scott pursed his lips. Reason isn't going to work here,' he thought. He was reminded of an old line of his dad's and his grandmother's: It's like trying to teach a pig to sing. It ain't gonna happen, it makes you look like a dumb-ass in the process, and all it does is annoy the pig.'

Scott picked up the committee's proposal again. "Well, tell you what. Here are the likely scenarios." He waived the recommendation at him. Either you can take it back and make some reasonable changes, or this is going to be amended by the full body. In the process, we'll have a big, ugly public debate and you're going to look like a nut before the good folks who sent you to the WSA."

Elliot shrugged. "Many more righteous men and women than I have been called `nuts' in public. I'll wear it as a badge of honor. I know the Lord my God is smiling on my efforts, and He and I don't need your vote. Besides, you can't sit on this indefinitely, as you threatened. You'll be cutting off everybody else's funds too. We'll carve you up and have you for lunch if you try that ploy."

Scott's face clouded. "Not too sure about cutting everybody else if we don't act, Elliot. It's never happened as far as I know, but our capable clerk and me are combing over the archives, the bylaws and the constitution of this fine body to determine what would happen if we didn't act. But, and mark my word. I'm ready to hold onto this and all the other fees if you're not ready to reflect and reconsider and come back to us with a proposal that has some semblance of sanity to it." He held up the proposal once more. "And I'm telling you now, this joke of a recommendation is D.O.A. as far as I'm concerned." Elliot stormed out, but grinned on his way down the hall. `Perfect.'

True to his word, Elliot struck first. The following morning, Scott picked up a copy of `The Badger Herald,' the conservative daily student newspaper on campus. "Turner Freezes Student Fees" read the headline. He read the article that described the WSA president's unwillingness to bring the finance committee's recommendation up for a vote. "The likely result would be a stoppage of all student fees to all student organizations," the article predicted. On page 6 was the editorial. "Pro-Gay Agenda a Travesty for All Students." Michael Billings, editor of the paper opined: "Mr. Turner and his like-minded cronies at the WSA are holding hostage funds to all student organizations solely for the purpose of advancing the interests of gays and lesbians at the UW. He seems more interested in same-sex couplings than in academic support services, helping local kids and senior citizens and intra-mural athletics. We call on Scott Turner, Jr. to bring the committee's budget up for a vote and demand that all members of the WSA to earn their stipends and our trust by voting on it."

Scott pulled up the directory he had on his computer's desktop of the current membership. He didn't know Sonja Weiss very well, only by reputation. It seemed that she relished her public persona of a ball-busting, in-you-face lesbian. Scott considered her a "one-issue wonder" with a very narrow agenda. But when she spoke, people shut up and listened, if only because she could be good theater. And Radar had told him that she didn't take herself all too seriously and had a great sense of humor.

"HI, is this Sonja?"

"You bet. Who's this?"

"Hi Sonja, it's Scott Turner."

She scoffed. "Well, President Turner. I was wondering when you might get off your ass and check in. The next meeting's only three weeks away and we still have some heavy lifting and maybe arm twisting to do."

"Sorry, Sonja, I thought it best if I stand out of the way and not meddle in your and Tara's and Phil's efforts to line up the votes needed to beat Lyman on this crap."

"And you want to know how much water we've been able to carry for you so far. Is that it?"

Scott decided that this was a woman who just got a kick out of mixing it up and that he wasn't going to take any crap from her. "Well, it's not like you're carrying water for just me ya' know. You and your constituency, and my constituency too, have more than a little at stake here. But it's important, if Lyman is going to get his ass kicked, that it come from off the floor and not from the chair. Like it or not, those are the rules. You're carrying water for yourself too, ya' know. Let's face it. If I just sat on my hands and let this thing come to a vote, you'd be making this call and going berserk."

She laughed devilishly. "Okay, ya' got me. Just givin' you some shit." Scott could hear her drag from her cigarette and exhale. "I'd love to bend that little puke over and spank him hard." Scott laughed. "And I'd make him like it, the evil little fuck."

"I'd like nothing more, Sonja. So where are we on the vote count?"

"Ha! `We?' Like you've had anything to do with it." She was testing him further.

"The hell with that. Who is it getting beat up by `The Herald?' Haven't seen your name dragged through the shitty ink lately."

She took another long drag from her smoke. "Fair enough, but you haven't been here long enough. I've taken my share. So, Turner, fuck The Herald.' That right-wing nutcase Billings is preaching to the choir. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that he and Lyman were sucking each other off. I got some buds at The Cardinal" and on the campus radio station. They're gonna start raising Hell the week before the next meeting. Lotsa good equal rights and civil rights stuff will be coming out that week with Lyman's name prominently included in both print and radio."

Scott grinned. "Sounds great!"

"But to answer your question, we're probably at 13 votes of the 16 we need to amend. I hope the fucker sticks to his guns until the meeting, cuz I want this bloodletting to be public. I don't want him to get all reasonable between now and then and do anything that might affect a settlement. I want to ram it down his throat in a public forum. Hopefully, he'll have a holy roller' meltdown right then and there. So, we're keeping our cards close to our chest for now. Phil thinks he can deliver one more vote to amend and so does Tara. That probably puts us one vote short. I've got the other queers and dykes on the WSA in line, regardless of how far back in the closet they are. We might have to count on pressure brought to bear by our own friends in the campus media to press the right buttons to deliver the one or two more that last week."

"Ms. Weiss, I'm very impressed. But I don't want to let Elliot's lunacy come up for a vote until we have a lock on 16."

"Well, you oughta be impressed. But Elliot Lyman is about to learn that you don't fuck with the rights of Sonja Weiss without paying a price. If we don't have the votes, then don't put it on the agenda. You still have two weeks before you post it publicly." There was a brief pause. "Well Scott, I gotta shove off. Goin' to a pre-party Halloween party to get into makeup and costume. Me and a bunch of friends are going downtown tonight as the entire cast of `Rocky Horror.' It's gonna be great."

Scott laughed. "Sounds very cool. I'm not going this year, but my buds and me tore it up last year. We nailed down most of the best parts of `Batman.'

She snickered. "Yeah, I know. I remember. You guys owned the place."

Scott grinned with pride. "Yeah, just me and two hundred thousand of my closest friends."

She chuckled. "But remember, Turner, if push comes to shove, you just might have to cast the tie breaker and then take about a hundred percent of the shit for it."

"And you don't think I'm bright enough to have already thought about that?"

"Not what I said. Just had to say it. Don't sweat it. You'll get used to me."

Scott's smile hadn't faded. "I already am, Sonja."

"Just do me this: make sure I have the floor as often as possible. I want to take this slimy fucker to `Sonja School.'

Scott giggled. "I'm sure it will do the minister's son some good."

"Okay, Scott. I gotta run. Let's talk again the week before the meeting.

"Whatever you say."

"Good attitude. Have a good night."

"And you have fun."

"I always do. Talk to you later." And the line went dead.

After the chat, Scott was feeling a little bit better. He leaned back in his chair and relaxed for a few minutes, watching the fattest cat in the world wash his face, his gut drooping onto the wood floor. He rested a few minutes more before getting up to grab his sweats and running shoes. As he tied his shoes his mind went back to Elliot Lyman. That fucker,' he thought to himself. And his friend or friends at the Badger Herald. Jesus Christ! We fund fraternities, sororities, environmental groups, intra-mural athletic groups and a nerdy library group among others, and that fucker Lyman has a hard on for a few groups that are friendly to the same sex crowd.

And then he went back to Maureen's counsel. "Time to play a game of chicken," she'd said. "Tell him to make adjustments in the budget or it's not coming up for a vote at all." He muttered out loud. "Thanks a lot honey. This is gonna be a shit-load of fun. This nasty bastard ain't backing down." How the hell could he justify to the whole body holding the budget back just because of the gay and lesbian funding thing? "Fuck."

He ran hard for the first twenty minutes. Passing State Street he had to slow because the barricades were already up and the bars were beginning to fill with all sorts of ghouls and demons. The sun hadn't even set yet. He notched it back into high gear for another twenty minutes and then kicked it back down to a pretty mellow jog. He'd hoped to spend at least part of the weekend hanging out with Greg. Even if the coach did have plans for the team, he suspected it was more about keeping them away from State Street during the weekend without actually saying so. Surely Coach Bidwell wasn't holding them hostage somewhere from Friday night until Monday morning. An hour into his run he found himself trotting past Greg's dorm.

He knocked on the door to Greg's room. "Whoa! Hang on! Be right there!" Greg shouted. Scott could hear what sounded like a flurry of activity inside and some muffled giggles. The door cracked open and Greg peered out between a couple inches of the opening. "Oh, Hey!"

Scott forced a smile. "Just running past. Thought I'd drop in and say howdy."

Greg's eyes glanced right and he nodded once before he opened the door. He was shirtless in sweatpants, and slowly opened the door inviting Scott inside. His chest had a light sheen of perspiration. "C'mon in." A very hot young man in gym shorts sat on the edge of Greg's bed. "Uhm...Scott, this is my high school buddy Nick Torres. Nick, this is Scott Turner."

Nick was a short, well-built young man whose Cuban heritage showed. He failed miserably in the effort to hide the wood behind his gym shorts as he stood to shake Scott's hand. Maybe about five-foot seven with a broad chest that shone in sweat just like Greg's. He sported the beginning of a goatee that framed a very pleasant if nervous smile.

Scott leaned against the wall. "Hope I didn't wake you guys. Like I said, I was just out for a run and was cruising by here..."

"No problem." Greg forced a smile. "Nick's in town for the weekend. We went out to a party last night for a while, but didn't misbehave too badly." He laughed nervously and Scott just nodded.

Scott looked at Nick. "So you're the buddy who used to play against this mope back in high school?"

Nick grinned shyly. "Yeah. Our teams were mortal enemies, conference rivals forever. But we always got along pretty good."

Scott propped up off the wall. "Well it's cool you could come for a visit." He looked at Greg. "I should get going. Just wanted to say `hey.' Hope you guys have a great weekend."

Greg just nodded nervously.

As he opened the door, he just couldn't resist. He looked right. "And Nick?" Scott brushed the right side of his own head with his fingers. "You have what looks to be a glob of cum in your hair. Might want to take care of that before you guys go anywhere today. Good to meet you." And he was gone.

He ran hard on his way back to the apartment. Walking past a yawning Brett without saying a word, he went straight for the bathroom. He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature. He pulled the knob to engage the shower and got in. He cursed himself for feeling jealous and jacked his tool with a vengeance. He dried himself, wrapped the towel around his waist and went to his room. He picked up his cell phone. He got her voicemail. "Hey, Kelly. It's me. Gimme a call when you can. Let's talk about Homecoming when you have a few minutes."

He put on a pair of boxers and lay down to take a nap.

The November elections that first week of the month had been light in terms of challenged seats and in turnout on Election Day. But it was a good day for Maureen and the party. One more vote in the State Senate for Maureen, strengthening both she and Jeremy Frick. The election night party downtown was a relatively light affair since the party's winner was from a district in far northern Wisconsin about seven hours away by car. Still, the party had a nice little shindig downtown. Scott stopped in, munched a couple appetizers and had a Coke. Then he kissed Maureen on the cheek and headed back to the apartment early.

Will shuddered when he picked up the envelope with the Iowa postmark. Fall elections had just come and gone, but here was another thick envelope. It didn't make any sense at all, donations coming in right after the elections. Will sighed and split the seal with his letter opener. Seventy-five thousand in all. Will just shook his head and went to work on the documentation and the paperwork.

"Okay, Scooter, time for us to get busy. We're one vote stronger. He handed Scott a synopsis of the environmental proposal he'd crafted. "Need you to run down all thirty-three members and summarize their voting records on stuff like this. Going to introduce it early in the coming session, and I need to know where everybody in both parties stand." There was steel in his gaze. "We need this to pass without any bluster or noise."

The Department of Natural Resources, "The DNR," one of the most powerful agencies in Wisconsin's state government; powerful in the sense that it touched practically every citizen whether they knew it or not. They harbored nearly four hundred employees to cover seventy-two counties, and managed everything from mining to timber to hunting to farming to land development regulations. "Damn Near Russia" was a favorite euphemism among many cheeseheads.

Tony Merle had worked his way up the bureaucratic ranks to become the department's secretary and prided himself for his environmental stewardship. He'd been a loyal lieutenant to former governor and U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson, the father of Earth Day, and he was an easy choice for Ted Hackett to head the department. Even at the age of fifty-five, he was still stuck in the Sixties mentally, and wore his graying hair in a ponytail. Although that brought snide remarks from some in the Capitol and the media, he didn't give a damn. He was secure in his position and confident in what he was doing. And he was pissed at Jeremy Frick as he sat in Maureen's outer office waiting to speak to the Majority Leader.

"With all due respect, Senator, what the hell is this all about?" He held up a copy of Frick's environmental bill for southwest Wisconsin.

Maureen squinted, pretending to read the number and title of the bill, even though she knew why he was there. "That's proposed legislation from Senator Frick and others to encourage economic development in seven southwest counties."

Merle set the bill on the chair next to him. "Never...never has a proposed change in land use laws come up for a vote without first clearing the DNR. It's absurd. It castrates the department in that region and endangers wildlife, ground water, rivers and streams. And that's just for starters."

Maureen put down her coffee mug and crossed her legs. "With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, it sounds to me like a turf battle. It sounds like you're in a huff because you weren't consulted first. Your job, as I read the state's constitution, is to carry out the legislature's directions at the discretion of the governor, not to write those laws."

"But it's an abomination of a bill!"

"In your opinion, to which you are entitled. And it has the support of the majority caucus, as far as I can tell. It will get a hearing before committee, and you'll be invited to testify."

"And I'll be there with bells on, bellowing two main themes as far as I can see. First, that the legislature is drafting radical bills without the benefit of expert input. Secondly, I'll be loudly yelling about the potential impact this bill could have on our many natural resources in the region.

Carolyn Comstock, "CC," was just about the most disproportionately fat woman Scott had ever met. At about five foot four, she had to go 225, maybe 250. When she stopped walking it took a few seconds for her ass to quit wiggling. Well, more like quaking or shifting, not so much wiggling. She breathed heavily under her weight in the simplest activities or conversations. Scott guessed that she hadn't seen her feet in a couple of decades, as her gut far exceeded even her enormous knockers. A Humpty Dumpty with tits. The flab under her arms jiggled with just about every move she made. But damn, was she ever a sweetheart. She reminded him of a short, white and heavier version of Daisy, his dad's executive assistant back home. Daisy was a mountain of a woman herself and a force of nature, and he kept reminding himself he needed to call her one of these days. Carolyn had curly brown hair, a joyous flabby face with enormous glasses framing the upper third of it and the happiest disposition of practically anybody he'd ever met. She giggled easily and was a hands-on demonstrative woman who was loved by everybody under the dome.

She worked in the Chief Clerk's office, keeping track of most of the hard copy records that were archived going back to the days before computerized record keeping. He'd isolated six key environmental bills that had come up since 1980. Happily, of the 33 members, 12 had been elected after the voting records were recorded and accessible electronically from his desk. That meant that their relevant votes were immediately available. That also left 21 members to look at, but it whittled the number of bills from six to four during the time in question. Scott was confident that he could have guessed all their voting records, but Frick was demanding facts. He was going to deliver.

Scott leaned on the counter. "Good morning CC and how are you this fine day?"

She turned from the filing cabinet and beamed. "Oh goodness!" She waddled over to the counter and put her wide hands on top of his. "Scott! You've been such a stranger!"

`She's got more chins than a Chinese phone book,' he thought, and then scolded himself for being so crass and politically incorrect. She was a genuinely lovely lady. "Well, I don't want to bug you if it's not necessary. This time, though, I really need your help."

She patted his right hand. "Anything for you, honey. You know it's no bother. I love my job. Now tell CC what you need."

He handed her a copy of a spreadsheet he'd started on. "I need the voting records of these 21 senators on these four bills. Working on some issue and voting analysis for Senator Frick."

Carolyn rolled her eyes. "Well, well! We can't keep the honorable gentleman waiting now, can we?"

She scanned the list. "There'll be procedural votes and votes on amendments to every one of these bills you know. You want them, too?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Don't go that far. Just up or down votes on the final version at passage. That's all."

She smiled. "Thanks honey. This'll be a breeze. I'll have it for you by tomorrow, probably the afternoon. Why don't you e-mail me a copy of this spreadsheet? I'll just enter the ayes' and nays' and send it back to you. You should see it the next morning when you get in. If not, then c'mon over and give old CC a little hell."

This time he patted her hand. "I could never do that, and you know it"

"Well, stop by now and then, if only to say hi." She leaned over the counter and whispered. "I love to see you, but the younger gals in here just swoon whenever you stop by."

Scott blushed. "Nice to know. I'll do what I can. Thanks a lot, sweetheart. Gotta run." He squeezed her hand again and headed for the door.

"Always a pleasure, Scott. Have a good one."

He waved over his shoulder. "You too, Carolyn."

A little before eleven, Scott's phone rang. The screen told him it was Clara, Maxson's secretary.

Scott grabbed the receiver. "What's up gorgeous?"

Clara giggled. "Okay smooth talker. Put a lid on it."

"Having a good day today?"

"No. That's why I called. I missed the outgoing mail this morning. I have a package that needs to be overnighted to Milwaukee, and a few other things, but am going to a dental appointment over my lunch today."

"Ouch. And you need me to be your mule."

"Well, I'm told you can be something of a jackass now and then." She giggled as Scott grinned. "But, yeah, I need you to run to the post office. I'm bugging out early, but will leave the stack of crap on the corner of my desk. The one on top to the Milwaukee County Party needs overnight delivery. The rest is just regular first class. I'll tape a few twenties in an envelope out of petty cash for the overnight. Just bring back the change and the receipt."

"Your wish is my command."

"Good thinking. I'll see your tomorrow then."

A half hour later, Scott logged off his computer, checked the contents of his book bag, pilfered a pad of post it notes from his desk and moseyed toward Clara's office. The post office was only a half block away, but if he was going to stand in line then he was heading out early. He'd stick his head into Will's office to let him know. Just as she'd said, Clara was absent, but there was a short stack of mail with an envelope taped the overnight package. It had two twenties in it. Will's office door was open, but it was Frick's voice he heard.

"Will, it doesn't matter if the donations are coming from the God damned moon!"

"Fair enough senator, I was simply curious. It doesn't make sense. The fall election cycle has run its course, and here we have all this money coming in from Iowa and Illinois."

"The folks on our borders have legitimate interests in the activity of the Wisconsin legislature. They're free to donate, within our limits, to whomever they want."

"I realize that, senator, but..."

Frick interrupted. "Look, Will, you're inside a year of retirement. You've had one heart attack already. No sense in worrying about something that's not worth worrying about. My advice is to just keep doing the good job you always do and we'll throw a hell of a party for you when the time comes."

The tone of voice suggested to Scott, `Now shut the hell up and mind your own fucking business!" Scott just picked up the mail and quietly left the office.

Frick strode back into his two-room suite down the hall and found Martine waiting in the outer office. Martine stood up. "Hello, Senator Frick." The two shook hands. "It's good to see you again."

Frick smiled. "Same here." He nodded toward his office door. "Come on in."

Frank settled into a chair in front of Frick's desk while the senator hung his suit coat on a hanger and he rolled up his sleeves. "You're doing good work, Frank. Very good work. But I'd like you to think about bumping it up a notch."

Martine looked quizzical. "How so?"

"Well I do have a thought or two. I'd like you to think about setting up an issue/interest group. It's basically a political action committee of like-minded citizens interested in affecting the outcomes of elections."

"Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"Well, yes and no. The thing about sending donations to a specific committee is you're restricted by our campaign limits. I'm talking about independent expenditures."

Frank's face gave lie to his lack of understanding.

"You see, if you raise and spend money on advertising or mailings rather than donating directly to someone's campaign, then you're not making a campaign donation. Rather, you're merely exercising your right to free speech." Frick grinned. "God bless the First Amendment. If the ad focuses on an issue and doesn't necessarily advocate the election of any one individual, then it's an issue or interest ad, not a campaign contribution. You're free to tout your position on an issue and point out how the opponent is all screwed up on the question without coming right out and say vote for our guy or gal.' Let's say this environmental bill is coming up for a vote, and this lawmaker or that one is against it. All you do is buy ads in the local paper or on TV or radio, depending on the market, or you pay for a mass mailing that says, We believe that every American should retain the God-given right to use their own property as they see fit. We don't need some bureaucrat in Madison telling us when we can plant a tree, start a farm or remodel a factory. Unfortunately Representative Joe Schmoe doesn't agree. Call Joe Schmoe and tell him to get behind this movement to reclaim our rights to our own land."

The light went on in Martine's head. It showed on his face. Frick grinned again. "When it works, Mr. Schmoe either starts thinking right, or he loses the next election. And, Mr. Martine, we have more than a few Joe Schmoes around here. Trust me on that one. If you form the committee and can raise the cash, we can select the districts and write the ads appropriate to the issue and the area of the state. Then you folks buy the air time or the print ads or the mass mailings."

"Well, don't the folks know where the money is coming from?"

"Sure. You have to have an `authorized and paid for' disclaimer, even on issue ads. But give the group an innocuous or patriotic sounding name and nobody really pays attention."

"I'll bet some of these `issue ads' could get pretty nasty. Don't the good guys take some heat for them?"

"That's the beauty. The good guys' running to win or keep their office can say with a straight face, That's not my ad. Look at the disclaimer. I don't even know who that is and I certainly can't do anything to interfere with their free exercise of interested speech. It's their right and I don't control them.'"

Frick pinched his bottom lip and nodded slowly.

As he stood in line at the post office, Scott felt the phone in his coat pocket vibrate. He checked the screen. Greg. He rolled his eyes and put it back in his pocket, ignoring the call.

Scott was half way home after his last class of the day when his phone buzzed again inside his book bag. He figured it was Greg again, and didn't like talking on the phone when he drove, so he let it go. Once settled back in at the apartment, he checked the phone. "One Missed Call" he checked the number. It wasn't Greg's but it looked familiar. He pressed "Back" on the key panel. "One Message Received."

He checked his voicemail. "Hey, Turner, it's Sonja. Been talking to some folks and there's a pretty general agreement that we need to turn up the heat on Lyman and his goons before the November meeting. Not sure we're going to have the votes by then, but his Neanderthal views can't go unchallenged between now and then. I'm gonna call a buddy over at the campus radio station and get some available dates and times and will call you back later. Get ready to become a radio star, Mr. President."

"Aw, shit."

Author's Note: Comments or questions are always welcomed, and may be e-mailed to scotty.13411@hotmail.com. I love the feedback!