flattens out.”
“Bullshit!” I informed him. “There has been a two-point swing to O’Connell in South Carolina and Alabama. A two-and-a-half-point swing in Louisiana, Georgia, and Mississippi. That’s a fuckingtrend, Matthew.”
“Hell, the Presbyterians are your people, Mr. President.”
“That’s my point, Matthew. The Southern Baptists are your baby. There are sixteen million of them. We are losing ground in Baptist land. Maybe their women haven’t submitted graciously.”
Matthew Hope, my would-be deliverer, waffled and spoke Potomac gobbledy-gook. I hung up. The door to the adjoining room was open, and Darnell came in.
“I thought I heard a lark singing,” he said, “so I supposed you were up.”
“I sent for Matthew. If I can win without the Baptists and get that Baptist gun off my head, I’ll have Matthew Hope shoveling horseshit like a vice president should.”
“My hunch is that what O’Connell announces is going to be a national issue. The South may only be one player.”
“You’re usually right, Darnell. We’ll use Matthew this final week to lock up Texas and Florida.”
Darnell knew my discomfort.
“We’re in very gray territory, Thornton. However, we’ve been in gray territory a good part of our lives. Talk about getting through by the skin of our teeth; we didn’t have a slice of baloney to put in the middle of two slices of bread when we hit bottom. We were sharp, we were bold. We were unethical and bailed ourselves out by our wits. Do you miss those days, Thornton?”
“Hell, no.”
“This election is not over. Something is in the air. I can almost smell O’Connell’s blood from here.”
I sent Darnell to get the latest updates.
No use of me trying to fall back asleep. I never had trouble sleeping before I became president. Itried to set up a physics problem in my mind, but I simply wasn’t clicking in.
It is strange how Darnell sees our lives in two sweeping cycles. He’s right that the early days set the tone of our toughness and resourcefulness. Can you believe that the nineteen seventies were nearly four decades ago?
Do I really miss it? Hell, no! Well, maybe.
PAWTUCKET, THE 1970 s
Thornton Tomtree clung to the square block of the junkyard by the hair of his rinny-chin-chin, so absorbed in his work he scarcely differentiated between light and darkness. He hand-made a fleet of prototypes with their own bells and whistles and exotic functions.
The great electronic revolution that had growled and growled now burst through the top of the volcano.
Because Thornton did not study the wizardry of his future competitors, he was alone in a technology of one. Yet, how would the Bulldog fit into this brave new world?
Darnell, who was supposed to market it, wondered even more. To what avail was the Bulldog? Darnell did not return to Providence College in his senior year but joined Thornton in the yard. Darnell had already chucked in his entire inheritance, a hundred thousand dollars, which Thornton had no trouble eating up.
The yard had ceased to trade in junk. The bank account—nonexistent. Darnell organized a fire sale.
As the various piles of scrap and paper disappeared, they ended one life and entered into another. Neither of them had inherited Henry and Mo’s love of trash.
Finally, the good stuff went. The stained glass andantique embellishments were carted off, and all that remained was a single shacklike warehouse building and Thornton’s rat’s nest of wires.
Darnell charted the most likely paths the new enterprises would take. Much of it was happening too fast to comprehend. The top new inventors and marketers could not give a rational answer as to where it was all heading. Some companies soared, some crashed. They bashed into one another in merciless attempts to have their product become a standard item.
Darnell and Thornton spoke throughout more than one night trying to evolve a strategy. They knew they would not take the Bulldog into the middle
“Bullshit!” I informed him. “There has been a two-point swing to O’Connell in South Carolina and Alabama. A two-and-a-half-point swing in Louisiana, Georgia, and Mississippi. That’s a fuckingtrend, Matthew.”
“Hell, the Presbyterians are your people, Mr. President.”
“That’s my point, Matthew. The Southern Baptists are your baby. There are sixteen million of them. We are losing ground in Baptist land. Maybe their women haven’t submitted graciously.”
Matthew Hope, my would-be deliverer, waffled and spoke Potomac gobbledy-gook. I hung up. The door to the adjoining room was open, and Darnell came in.
“I thought I heard a lark singing,” he said, “so I supposed you were up.”
“I sent for Matthew. If I can win without the Baptists and get that Baptist gun off my head, I’ll have Matthew Hope shoveling horseshit like a vice president should.”
“My hunch is that what O’Connell announces is going to be a national issue. The South may only be one player.”
“You’re usually right, Darnell. We’ll use Matthew this final week to lock up Texas and Florida.”
Darnell knew my discomfort.
“We’re in very gray territory, Thornton. However, we’ve been in gray territory a good part of our lives. Talk about getting through by the skin of our teeth; we didn’t have a slice of baloney to put in the middle of two slices of bread when we hit bottom. We were sharp, we were bold. We were unethical and bailed ourselves out by our wits. Do you miss those days, Thornton?”
“Hell, no.”
“This election is not over. Something is in the air. I can almost smell O’Connell’s blood from here.”
I sent Darnell to get the latest updates.
No use of me trying to fall back asleep. I never had trouble sleeping before I became president. Itried to set up a physics problem in my mind, but I simply wasn’t clicking in.
It is strange how Darnell sees our lives in two sweeping cycles. He’s right that the early days set the tone of our toughness and resourcefulness. Can you believe that the nineteen seventies were nearly four decades ago?
Do I really miss it? Hell, no! Well, maybe.
PAWTUCKET, THE 1970 s
Thornton Tomtree clung to the square block of the junkyard by the hair of his rinny-chin-chin, so absorbed in his work he scarcely differentiated between light and darkness. He hand-made a fleet of prototypes with their own bells and whistles and exotic functions.
The great electronic revolution that had growled and growled now burst through the top of the volcano.
Because Thornton did not study the wizardry of his future competitors, he was alone in a technology of one. Yet, how would the Bulldog fit into this brave new world?
Darnell, who was supposed to market it, wondered even more. To what avail was the Bulldog? Darnell did not return to Providence College in his senior year but joined Thornton in the yard. Darnell had already chucked in his entire inheritance, a hundred thousand dollars, which Thornton had no trouble eating up.
The yard had ceased to trade in junk. The bank account—nonexistent. Darnell organized a fire sale.
As the various piles of scrap and paper disappeared, they ended one life and entered into another. Neither of them had inherited Henry and Mo’s love of trash.
Finally, the good stuff went. The stained glass andantique embellishments were carted off, and all that remained was a single shacklike warehouse building and Thornton’s rat’s nest of wires.
Darnell charted the most likely paths the new enterprises would take. Much of it was happening too fast to comprehend. The top new inventors and marketers could not give a rational answer as to where it was all heading. Some companies soared, some crashed. They bashed into one another in merciless attempts to have their product become a standard item.
Darnell and Thornton spoke throughout more than one night trying to evolve a strategy. They knew they would not take the Bulldog into the middle
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