Disclaimers in part 1
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"I would rather lie on a sofa than sweep beneath it."

~~Shirley Conan -- Superwoman~~
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WEDNESDAY, MARCH 31, 2000
SARI THOMAS' OFFICE
10:14 AM

SARI:

Time to check the email again. In spite of the spam filters that are supposed to keep the crap out of our system, I still get far more mail than I'd like, and usually from people I don't really want to hear from, but that's one of the perks of being a lobbyist. I have 137 new messages, oh glee, oh bliss. I don't want to read at least 100 of them. One sticks out, from Blondie@wastedminds.com. I haven't seen the address before; probably yet another porn spam. I open it anyway, just to make sure it's not from the aide of some legislator I'm trying to influence who might actually have a sense of humor. To my surprise, the address belongs to Ringo. I wonder if the guys have come up with something new in their search for the hacker that thrashed my system, but I doubt they'd say anything by email. I can't imagine why else he'd be writing me, though.

"Hey Sari -- what's up? Hope you don't mind me bugging you and all, I know you're real busy, but I got a problem." I hate it when messages start out like that. It's rather like starting a conversation with, 'I'm at the police station.' I read on. "My girlfriend's coming down in two days and I'm freaking. I want to see her so bad it hurts, but I'm scared that she's going to get the wrong idea about me and the guys and all that. I kind of told her what we do, so she knows that we're not like just journalists or computer consultants, but I don't want her to get a bad idea about us. I really have to make this happen. Got any advice? Thanks, RPL."

He even ran spell check on it. It's funny but rather sad that he would be coming to me, of all people, for relationship advice. After my five-year Barry fiasco, I'd hardly consider myself an expert. I'm more like the person to ask about what to avoid, like the warning signs of imminent physical abuse. But maybe he's not looking for an expert, just a woman's perspective. I'm certainly qualified for that. Last time I looked, the plumbing was XX, at least. I warm up the recently-installed voice input system. It's nowhere near as fast or efficient as Janet, my temporary office aide, but I'm not interested in responding to personal messages through an essentially unknown intermediary. I'll have to edit quite a bit once it's dictated, as these systems aren't all they're cracked up to be, but at least I can do that with one hand.

"Hey Ringo; It's no bother at all, honestly. You've been a good friend to me, and I'm happy to help if I can. It's the least I can do, after all that you, Mel and John have done for me. From what you've said, Dr. SaintJohn is a third-year ER resident. I suspect that rest will be right up there on her list of things to do. Maybe she'd enjoy some movies? I doubt she gets out much. Actually, I doubt she gets out, period. I think she might enjoy movies more on video, so she can stop the tape if she gets tired. A few of my fellow Reedies went into medicine, and they lost any semblance of normal life for years, so don't expect her to be up on the latest gossip, or the current crop of SF shows. Feeding your friends is always a good idea. I highly recommend the Ethiopian place near my apartment, assuming she's into foreign food, and it's modestly priced. You said she's from New Orleans, which is a great city for good food. Living there isn't a guarantee of an adventurous palate, of course, but I'll bet she doesn't live on McFood by choice. Has she been to DC before? If not, show her around the city. Give her a tour of the museums, or show her around the monuments. John can tell you about some wonderful galleries. I don't know if either of you are into poetry, but I'll be doing a reading at the Soylent Bean this Saturday at 1 pm. If you've never been there, the food is good, and inexpensive. I'd love to see you there. My best advice, though, is: ask her what *she* wants, then actually do it. This goes for everything. Believe me, it's the best possible way for you to impress her. Oh, and Ringo? Three little words. Clean Your House. Your Obdurate Serpent, Sarasvati."
 
I hope he'll find that at least a little helpful. My morning consists mostly of talking on the telephone. Thank all the Gods for headsets, otherwise my neck would have a permanent and very painful kink. It's often said that lobbyists have phones growing out of their ears, and having done this work for a while, I can tell you, it's true. I hate having to use the things when I'm off. I'd much rather talk to people face to face.

I'm still getting a lot of fallout from the Pinck white paper. Some of it, as expected, has been disbelieving, even derisive. I've been called everything from a charlatan to things that should never be repeated in polite company, but I'm also getting an overwhelmingly positive response and deeper inquiries. Some of my inquiries, asking the most difficult questions, are from old-line Republicans. I guess the paper did manage to cut across party lines, and for that, I'm grateful. It means that the full investigation will have proponents, or at least genuinely interested parties, on both sides of the aisle.

SARI'S OFFICE
1:05 PM

I have a dinner meeting tonight, and I've always preferred to eat lightly during the day. Shortly after a light lunch of ordered-in falafel plate, the traffic lightened up a bit -- never let it be said that members of Congress miss a meal -- and I returned to check my email and see what disasters have descended in the hours since I last read it. I've got another message from Blondie. I groan; Ringo is a dear, but he reminds me of Kris when he was five and wanted mom's expensive chocolate truffles instead of his chocolate chip cookies. I'm expecting him to quibble with my advice, if for no other reason than he argues about things just to hear himself talk. So I'm surprised when his response reads: "Sari, I know this sounds stupid, but I've never really cleaned before. Where do you start? How do you do it? Thanks, RPL."

I burst out laughing so loudly that Janet pops her head in to make sure that I'm not ready to be dragged off in a straitjacket. She just shakes her head and closes the door. There's plenty of weirdness in the lobbying business; I suspect she imagines it's just another over the top request from a legislator I've contacted. I try to dictate a response to Ringo. I'm amazed that he has no idea how to clean; but then, I've seen where they live, and from what they've said, John is the only one that cleans with any regularity. He's been unable to do much for a few months now, and the place is looking a lot like a Superfund landfill. I wouldn't be entirely surprised to find a few barrels of nuclear waste sitting in there under Ringo's dirty socks and underwear. And I keep getting messages throughout the afternoon, asking 'what's Bon Ami?' or 'why do I have to wash under the lid?' I don't understand how John tolerates living with the guys under these conditions. I'm in the midst of yet another attempt to guide Ringo in getting the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval when the email beeps again. It's from him. Naturally. Now what  -- 'what's a sponge?'

"Sari -- got some developments about your unwanted visitor. Can you get over here tonight? RPL."

I sigh. I'm exhausted. I have a dinner meeting, which I would prefer not to attend, but seeing as I've missed two of them so far due to my broken arm, I really can't dodge this one. Still, it starts early, at 6 pm, which means that it should break up around eight. I haven't had much time to spend with John recently, either. I get the feeling that my reading to him is one of his few diversions right now, and I almost feel guilty for not having been able to be there more often. Last night was a deathly embarrassing fiasco, but perhaps I can make up for it this time. I reply: "Right, I'll try to be there around 8:30. In the meantime, if it crawls, kill it. Yours, ST"

SARI'S PLACE
8:07 PM

Dinner was a bust. I knew it would be when we ended up at a steak house. I don't mean a bust politically, just in terms of my  actually eating dinner. I live on a mostly vegetarian diet, and as a Hindu with Buddhist tendencies, beef is the one thing I absolutely won't eat. As a sanyasa at the ashram, I ate what I  got in my begging bowl, which sometimes included fowl or fish, but only rarely. I'll generally accept fish, seafood or fowl from friends these days, as I don't want to be rude when people go to the trouble of cooking for me -- this is the Buddhist way -- but the ones who know me best offer me vegetarian food. Unfortunately, when I'm at a dinner meeting with a brace of senior Republican congressmen, we go where they want and eat what they eat. I ordered a salad. It consisted of four leaves of exceedingly pale inner iceberg lettuce leaves, a cherry tomato, and three croutons, topped with a little grated carrot, then drowned in low-quality ranch dressing. The sautéed mushrooms were nice, but not particularly filling. My stomach aches for more substance, and if I don't get out of this suit right now, I'm going to kill something. Happily, I was able to answer several of their questions about the human birth defects in the areas surrounding Pinck's Midwest test fields. Even they couldn't find any other satisfactory explanation for the sudden spike in neurological damage and deaths that began the same month the testing did. Something incredibly toxic is going on out there, and it's skipping from species to species with alarming ease.

I toss the suit in my laundry basket and debate taking a shower, but I'd really just like to get over to the guys' place and have some dinner. Mel promised he'd fix something nice for me when I called to bitch a few minutes ago. I settle for a quick swish off in the sink, and slip into a pair of black 501's and a teal silk turtleneck tunic, then wrap a black leather belt around my waist. It's a nice medieval style belt that knots easily around a metal loop, from my SCA days, and the end hangs down to mid-thigh in front, with a lovely bronze belt tip decorated with Persian designs. My loafers have the advantage of no laces, making them easy for me to get in and out of over my Marvin the Martian socks without needing both hands. I top it all with a knee-length black duster vest and my tropical fish sling (there's a lot of teal and black in it), then get out the cat carrier. I promised John that I'd bring the Cardinal next time I came, and this certainly qualifies. "Hey sweetie! Where's my purr kitty?"

I see a nose poke out from under the living room couch. "I see you now, fur boy. C'mon out, time to go see the guys." He takes his own leisurely time sliding out from underneath the couch frame, stretching slowly to show me how unkind I've been to disturb his beauty sleep. I pick him up in mid-stretch. "Hah, you think you can guilt me? You've got another thing coming." After a snuggle and a few scratches behind the ears, I push his tailless butt into the cat carrier. He looks up at me as though I'd just offered him sawdust for dinner, and yawps a complaint. For a moment he puts both paws up on the bars, looking for all the world like James Cagney. I almost expect him to rattle a tin cup against the bars and wail 'let me out, you dirty screws!' I laugh. "Don't worry, Richelieu, I'm sure uncle Mel will have a tasty treat waiting for you." In fact, he usually does. He spoils the cat horribly. Any more spoilage, and I doubt that the cat will have floor clearance.

It's funny to watch John's friends around the Cardinal. Ringo unabashedly adores him, and even tolerates him on the equipment from time to time, but Mel surprised me completely. His suspicious, standoffish demeanor absolutely melted once the ginger menace deigned to let Mel pet him. Ever since, it's been treats and snuggles and baby talk. Watching Mel with Cardinal Richelieu has got to be one of the funniest things on the planet; this short, gruff, older man who looks like a refugee from a veteran's home getting all squeaky and silly like a child with a twenty two pound ball of fur. I have to admit that I never expected such a thing from him, and probably wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself. The Cardinal has even taken to riding around on Mel's shoulders from time to time. It used to be that he'd only do that with me. I think I'm a little jealous.

It doesn't take me long after that to toss on coat, hat and gloves, and I'm off for my third one-handed drive of the day. Automatics are a wonderful thing, even if everything is placed on the right hand side of the steering wheel, where I have to perform contortionist's tricks to reach it. I've gotten pretty good at steering with my knee recently.

LONE GUNMEN HQ
8:25 PM

FROHIKE:

The bathroom hasn't looked this good since the Precambrian Era, which was roughly the last time Byers cleaned it, only this time Langly's our Merry Maid. I confess that when Blondie asked for the bleach, my first thought was 'when did he get into explosives?' On the off chance that he would use it for its intended purposes, I told him the bleach was under the sink in the kitchen. The upshot of this experiment was that he damn near burned his lungs out; apparently he was unaware that bleach requires both dilution and proper ventilation. After venting the area and reassuring both of us that he didn't require a trip to the emergency room, I was even more shocked when he returned to his task. In addition to the sparkling bathroom, his foray into housework kept Byers intensely amused, offering directions and advice from a safe distance. Anything that amuses Byers these days is a good thing. It's one of the reasons I'm grateful that Sari will be here soon.

The boys were on good enough behavior that I took out my chef's hat and apron and prepared some dinner, and upon hearing that Sari'd nearly starved at her dinner meeting, was glad that I did. I've cooked up some pasta primavera with baby veggies for the humans, sprinkled with fresh Parmesan cheese and fresh ground pepper, and tossed in the finest extra virgin olive oil. Sari is fundamentally vegetarian; I think she'll appreciate my current culinary effort. For our quadrupedal guest, I've roasted a turkey leg. Sari did promise that the Cardinal would make an appearance. I look forward to his presence the way little kids can't wait to open Christmas presents. This amazes everyone, none more than myself. I never cared much for cats, but the Cardinal is no ordinary feline.

"What time is it?" Byers asks from the sofa. It's the first time today his voice has taken on anything resembling a whine, and it grates just a little. Still, he's got a lot to deal with, and I realize that, so I bite my tongue and simply say, "8:25. She should be here anytime." He knows that Sari's on her way, of course, and has been asking that question about once an hour since 1:30 this afternoon, when she first said she'd be over this evening. Sure Byers, it's not like that. And the moon's made of lox and cream cheese.

I'm delighted that the place looks almost good enough to entertain a lady now. Langly's been discovering the mysteries, if not necessarily the joys, of housekeeping. Byers had to remind him to dust under the lamps and equipment, which mystified poor Blondie, but he went with it. I think he understands that he doesn't know jack. Byers urged him to rent a carpet steamer. I never knew the rug was pale green; I always thought it was brown. It's still shag, alas, but it's at least somewhat more sanitary than it was. No empty beer bottles, no plates that have been breeding penicillin for weeks lying around: I almost don't recognize the place.

"I finished the kitchen, man," Langly announces proudly, pulling off his rubber gloves. I encouraged him to invest in a pair after the cleaning solutions began to give him a rash. Last thing I need is him coming up with excuses to never participate in this activity again.

"Did you wipe down the counters?" Byers calls out to him.

"Counters? We have counters?" Langly sounds aghast.

"Those flat spaces next to the sink and the stove that you pile shit on," I tell him. He groans, swears a little under his breath, and returns to the kitchen. Byers and I giggle. This has been the best entertainment we've had in a long time. The buzzer goes off, and I check the video monitor. Sure enough, it's Ms. Thomas, toting what appears to be a cat carrier. Oh good, she remembered that she'd promised to bring the Cardinal. Byers begins to rise, but I shoo him back to the sofa, where he sulks mildly, until the lovely lady gains access. She enters and sets the cat carrier down. "Thank you for coming," I say to her, taking her hand. "May I take your coat?"

"How about you take him? He's heavy," she says, laughing. "Unless, of course, it's a problem."

"What? A pwobwem for my kitty cat? No waaaaay." I pull the oversized Manx from his penitentiary, and he begins to purr appreciatively. "Whassa matta? Mommy wock you up in dewe? Mean mommy!" I scratch him behind his ears. "Unca Mel has a tweatsie for you." I can see Sari cringe. Byers stands up slowly, as he has to these days, to greet Ms. Thomas. She tells him he looks good today, and he smiles broadly at her. Granted, their greeting is chaste as usual; a simple shared embrace and a kiss on the cheek, but I bet you bucks Byers'd love to put some tongue behind it. "Dinner's almost ready," I announce as they sit down on the sofa next to each other. "Let me take care of my kitty here first."

"Well, we know who rates around here." Byers pretends to sulk, but he's smiling even as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"You're right about that," I tell him, vanishing into the kitchen.

Langly's finishing scrubbing down the countertops. "Jesus, where'd we get so much junk?" He moans.

"You oughta know, at least half of it's yours." I remove the cooling turkey leg from its roasting pan and begin to peel shreds of meat from it. The Cardinal is almost ready to kill for his treat; he's eating it up faster than I can shred. "I can't believe Mommy doesn't feed oo. Not from the looks of you, at any rate, you fat kitty."

Langly rolls his eyes. "You're disgusting."

I stare hard at him. "Deborah arrives when on Friday?"

"She gets off at one. Think it's about a three-hour drive."

I begin singing the theme to 'Gilligan's Island.' "Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…" It has the desired effect; Langly winces and grits his teeth in agony. I stop singing and look at him again. "Before you start talking about disgusting, we'll play back the surveillance tapes of you when Deb arrives. Then we can discuss the subject."

"Oh, fuck you, Frohike." Ah, a little food should make him more agreeable.

BYERS:

Sari leans against me on the couch with a sigh, and I put my arm around her shoulders. I can tell she's very tired. She's been running hard at work. Sari is one of those people who needs this kind of casual physical contact to feel comfortable and at ease, and I don't mind providing that for her. It's soothing and comforting for both of us, and she's been doing so much for me when she's been here. The guys harass me about it, but they miss the fact that she does this almost as often with them as she does with me. I don't know if they deliberately ignore it, or if it simply doesn't register in their pea brains. Her philosophy among friends seems to be 'nobody escapes without a hug.' My eye is giving me trouble again, though, and this distracts me from the warm comfort of her presence. "I have to do my eye drops. Would you help?" I ask her. "If not, don't worry, I'll ask Mel."

"It's no trouble John. I'm the reason you're using them in the first place." She smiles sadly.

"Will you stop that? It's not as if you could control your ex's behavior. If you could, you'd still be married to him." Still married, and not here with me. In a rather twisted way, I'm grateful for the events that have transpired. I really need to talk to her later this evening about my thoughts and anxieties of earlier this morning. She gets my meds, and I lie down, preparing for the painful and annoying ritual. "I can't wait till I'm done with this," I groan.

"I hear you. I'm so sick of having this cast on, I could scream. It itches underneath, and it's driving me up a wall." She pokes a pencil down into the cast for a minute, scratching frantically.

Langly pops into the room again. "Know what you do for that? You like take some baking soda and shake it down inside the cast. Deb told me that works."

"Really? I'll have to try that. You'd think after all these broken bones, I'd know the tricks by now." Sari smiles up at him. "I see you've been preparing for a career in home maintenance."

I know he's making a face. "Not even. I just don't want Deb thinking like, you know, 'gross.'"

Sari and I both burst out laughing, but upon seeing a look of utter discouragement on Langly's face, she stops. I make an attempt to do so, but I'm still snickering quietly behind my hand. "It looks very nice, Ringo. You've done a good job," she says.

He's so eager sometimes. "Really? You mean it?" Poor guy. I don't think he's been praised much in his life. He laps it up like a kitten with a bowl of cream.

"Yes, I do," Sari affirms. "How did it go with your room?"

"My what?" Langly is completely confused.

"Your room," Frohike echoes, as he sets what looks like a large bowl of pasta on the table. "You know, that place you go to sulk, jerk off, and occasionally sleep." Whatever Mel has, it's redolent of garlic and pepper. I'm starving; despite the antibiotics ravaging my stomach, my appetite is returning with a vengeance. This is a mixed blessing at best. It's nice to feel like eating again, but I'm getting so little exercise that most of what I eat is starting to pile up around my waist. I was appalled by how tight my jeans were this morning. At least in another few weeks I'll be able to do something about that. Fortunately, Sari doesn't seem to notice that I'm expanding.

"What about my room?" Langly sounds defensive. I can understand why. If my room looked like that, I'd be a lot more than defensive: I'd keep it hidden more securely than the NSA keeps the positions of our bombers. Although for us, that's not much of a challenge to discover.

"Where were you planning on her sleeping?" Sari asks him gently. "Is she staying with you?"

"Well, yeah, I think so. I want her to." Langly is squirming and even with my blurred vision, I can see him blushing. This brings me a good bit of glee. If Sari weren't here, I'd rub it in for him. It would certainly serve him right for the things he says to me about her.

"Then here's a hint, dude," Frohike tells him as he serves up bowls of pasta for everyone. I can hardly wait for dinner. "The Star Wars sheets have got to go."

"But those were a Christmas present!" Langly protests.

"In 1977," I remind him, "which was probably the last time they saw the inside of a washing machine."

Sari laughs gently. "Ringo, one thing women appreciate is good sheets. Get some new sheets and towels. The sheets should be 250 thread count or more. And the bath sheets should be the big, fluffy ones that you can wrap most of yourself up in."

"250 what? Bath sheets? I thought we were talking about towels?" Now he's completely confused.

Frohike waves his arms. "Okay folks, eat, then talk. We've got a lot of ground to cover tonight."

End part 4