I felt I was growing old by the time I reached thirty-five. By then, any music after the 70’s was crap; I had to turn the radio down to see where I was going while driving; and my kids assumed I knew absolutely nothing about how “things are these days”. I knew how things were, I just didn’t like it. I didn’t like the phoniness of life. The carefully crafted picture of life that we all want to present to the world—I wanted to rip it to shreds and show the hidden truth underneath it.
That was near impossible to do though, considering my wife was the mayor of city, three of my kids were something called, internet influencers—while, meanwhile, we paid for the internet. The fourth was a sophomore in high school but he should have been a senior. That, of course, was carefully hidden from the media.
I used to be a teacher before having that one bad day when trying to explain history to a bunch of kids who felt they didn’t need to know anything about “some dead white dudes in wigs”
“I’m not talking about your mama,” I replied,
And that was the end of my lucky number thirteen years of teaching. Truth to be told, the kid I told that to respected me for the rest of the day.
That incident too, was squashed when my wife became mayor. How do I describe her campaign? She ran it like she had the hand of Thatcher, the eyes of Meier and the drive of Hilary: meaning, nothing got in her way.
Including me.
As far as the campaign was concerned, I didn’t exist…and I guess it was okay to be invisible. No paparazzi and no one from CNN or Fox News ever knocked on my door to ask how I felt about how my wife was the breadwinner.
There were nights when I sat on the couch, alone, and wondered if I was bring left behind. I never got to attend the galas and glad-handing parties. There was a calmness to drinking a glass of scotch without bobble-heading to some peon or saying the same catch phrase over and over and over again. At least until the night of August 13th, two election cycles ago.
It was raining and I was driving home when my cell phone rang. I seldom ever answered while driving but it was after ten and maybe it was an emergency…but it could have been someone wanting to discuss my car’s extended warranty. I kind of wished it had been.
“Is this Paul Baker?”
“Speaking.”
“Are you driving, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to listen very carefully to me. After this call, do not answer your phone or observe any form of media.”
“I usually don’t, but since you’re saying not to. Who is this?”
“This is Tony Angeles.”
Tony was a member of my wife’s security team. Twenty-years earlier he could have been a part of the Corleone family. I wanted to call him “the eraser” but that was too on the nose for what he actually did.
“Okay, Tony, can you tell me what I need to not know about.”
“No.”
Based on the song “Touch of Grey” (J.Garcia/R.Hunter). Cover version by The War On Drugs
Tony—as bright and sunny as he always was—gave me short non-answers. Typical politician yes ma’am BS. I had the options to play a game of “21 Questions,” lose and rack up an ulcer or to just hang up on him and think of anything else. There was the thought that something had happened to her. Perhaps a kidnapping, bombing, or a town hall meeting with Ben Shapiro.
I felt an ulcer coming up anyway and hoped that it was just a fall, Gerald Ford style.
“Welcome home, Mr. Baker,” Tony stated as I tapped at the gate controls.
“Tony.”
“The garage will be opened for you.”
I only nodded as I looked at a man in black standing on the other side of the gate.
The Gestapo were out tonight.
He flashed a badge and walked to the car.
“Mr. Baker.”
“And you are?”
“Smith.”
“Right,” I replied with a small chortle to myself.
Smitty was not amused and flashed a high beam light at my face and the rest of the car.
“Security check sir.”
“Yes, I have a vial of di-hydrogen monoxide in a cup holder and a small amount of uranium in my hand here.”
“That is amusing, sir.”
“This isn’t Buckingham Palace or the Tomb of the Unknowns, have some humor.”
“You’re clear to come in, sir.”
The gate finally swung open and I floored the accelerator. I’m sure Tony heard it. I had hoped the “A-Team” would appear to stop me as I approached.
“What is going on, Anthony?” I barked as I stomped into the main hall.
Tony stood at the end of the darkened hallway. All of the lights were out except for the emergency ones. One would have thought we were invaded, Red Dawn style.
“Mayor Barker had an accident at a political functional.”
“Accident as in what? Where is she?”
“I’m in here, Paul,” my wife’s voice yelled from behind Tony.
I motioned for Tony to move and he reluctantly shuffled to the side.
My wife was lying back on a sofa that could have paid the college tuition of three students for a year. Her right leg was elevated and in cast.
“What happened, Geri?”
“I fell down half a flight of stairs.”
“Is it broken?”
“X-rays haven’t come back yet,” she replied as she reached for a glass on the side table next to the couch.
“Well, I’m glad you’re alright. What was the agenda for this evening.”
“Fundraiser.”
“I’m glad I missed that.”
“Yes, it was boring, but it is a necessity.”
“So why the radio silence and the DEFCON 1 level here?”
“Because, Paul, this makes me look weak.”
“Weak, no. Clumsy, maybe.”
“Shut up, Paul.”
“It was a joke, Geri.”
“You’re not a comedian, Paul. Not in the slightest. I’m going to bed. Tony?”
Tony marched over, assisted her off of the sofa and helped her hobble through the hall and upstairs.
My room was at the far end of the house.