From: narkiewi@london.pilgrim.umass.edu (J. DavidNarkiewicz)
Subject: In All Fairness, 2340 words
Organization: Project Pilgrim, Umass
Date: Fri, 4 Sep 1992 15:26:45 GMT
X-Posted-From: london.pilgrim.umass.edu
X-Posted-Through: sol.ctr.columbia.edu

In all Fairness, J. David Narkiewicz


     Every other college student in the greater D.C. area was
trying to get an internship with a member of Congress.  There were
three ways to get such a position: have a well connected family,
pick up the soap in the congressman's shower or stick your nose in
a place I found olfactorily repulsive.  Besides, interning paid
crap compared to other government jobs.  I'd set my sights on
Custodial Assistant at the Capitol Building, search number
A8042299625.

     I'd decided a suit was not in order for my interview, but I
did go with a shirt and tie.  As I'd been instructed when informed
of my interview, I walked through the gardens at the back of the
Capital Building until I reached the East door.  It was opened
before I could ring the bell.  I was greeted by three rather large
men in suits complete with little microphones in their ears and
conspicuous bulges under their arm pits.

     "Clark Thomas?" asked the tall black man who, amongst the
three, seemed to be in charge.

     "Yes," I stammered, feeling just a tad intimidated by the
not-so-Secret Service.

     "Identification," he demanded and I provided in triplicate. 
I was photographed, finger printed, metal detected and thankfully
not cavity searched -- no job was worth that.  With a visitor's
pass clipped to my shirt pocket, I was personally guided to my
destination by two football types also draped in suits and wearing
sun glasses even though they were indoors.  They grunted for me to
proceed through a set of huge double doors.

     My fantasy of being interviewed in a decrepit boiler room by
an old codger with the name "Bubba" sewn on his shirt were
quickly dispelled.  There were no less than ten people sitting at
a large wooden table, all ready to interview me.  Counting the
camera man and the stenographer, complete with mysterious
stenographer type machine, I felt like Christ at the last supper. 
The difference here -- aside from the fact that I didn't have a
sixties lack-of-a-haircut and wasn't wearing a toga -- was that eight 
of the disciples were female.  They all sat at the table and had that
"send chills down your spine" look I commonly attribute solely to
militant lesbians.

     I stood there until the blue-rinse woman sitting in the middle
of the table spoke into her mike, "Good Morning, Mr. Thomas. 
Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

     I caught myself looking around behind me in search of my
father, Mr. Thomas.  Left with no one else to blame, I sat down at
a table of my own.  For comfort they'd provided a pitcher of water
and two glasses -- I was feeling more comfortable already.

     With camera rolling and stenographer typing away, the blue-rinsed 
woman, Congress woman Katrina "Kat" Schroeder, started with
my birth and asked me every conceivable question about my life.  It
got weird when she reached the part about the eighth grade dance. 
"Did you take one Kimberly Campbell to your eighth grade dance
when you were thirteen?"

     "Yes, I did, ma'am."  I had no idea how any of this would
make me a better broom pusher, but bureaucracy was not to be
trifled with, especially at the federal level.

     "During the course of the evening, did you say, and I quote
`I guess it was a date.  That means we're supposed to kiss good
night.'"

     I just stared at her completely bewildered.  Schroeder didn't take
that as a response.  "Answer the questions, please," she said.

     "I guess I did," I stumbled.  That was seven years ago, as
if I'd remember exactly what I'd said.

     "Ha!" she screeched causing one of my glasses to
shatter.  "So you confess to making sexual advances towards a
thirteen year old girl."  The other women at the table all nodded
in agreement and murmured like an impassioned lynch mob.  Out of
desperation, I turned to one of the men at the table hoping for a
glimmer of support.  It was only then that I recognized him as Ned
"pants-around-the-ankles" Kennedy.  Since this had nothing to do
with a Congressional pay raise, he was staring at the ceiling doing
his best to ignore me.

     Kat Schroeder had finished and promptly introduced, the right
honorable Anita Quill, Congresswoman and legal scholar from
Oklahoma.  She was one of those fat, intimidate you with her
breath, black women.  At the snap of her sweaty black fingers an
intern-type entered the room carrying a sheet of paper.  It was deposited
on my desk.  From the way the intern walked, I could tell he was a
type 2 intern.

     Congresswoman Quill said, "Please, read the following letter. 
It shall be entered into the record as Piece of Evidence 94." 
Pieces of Evidence 1 through 93 were such epic and incriminating
documents as my kindergarten report card which stated I worked and
played well with others and a detention I'd received in tenth grade
for not having my Spanish book covered --Muchas gracias para nada,
Meastro Stewart.

     As I read Piece of Evidence 94, I could feel my face turning
red.  This document dated back to when I worked as a volunteer
during the last presidential campaign.  "Did you read the
letter?" demanded Congresswoman Quill.

     "Yes, I did, Congresswoman."

     "That's Congressperson," she corrected.

     Under my breath, I said, "If your ass were any tighter, you could
use it to turn a piece of coal into a diamond?"  Of course, since there 
was a microphone in front of me, the whisper became a shout and echoed 
from every corner of the room.  "diamond, diamond, diamond..." 

     The congressperson just glared and asked, "Were you the
author of this letter?"

	I'd long since given up on getting the job, but still,
this was a question I'd gladly dodge.  "Well, the signature
isn't mine."  It certainly wasn't.  The letter was written on
stationary liberated from the presidential candidate I'd worked for. 
It was a form letter of sorts, blank save for the pre-printed
closing at the bottom complete with "God Bless," and the candidate's
signature.
     "You didn't answer my question," Ms. Quill retorted. 
"Maybe I should refresh your memory."  She put her librarian
glasses on, picked up the letter and began reading:


	Dear Ms. Travis,

     		Knowing that I surely enjoy your support in the upcoming
	election, I'd like to bring your attention to another issue of dire
	importance.  A campaign worker of mine, one Mr. Clark Thomas, has
	been without your romantic companionship since you began your
	semester abroad in England.  During your three months hiatus, Mr.
	Thomas has become -- to put it politely -- rather tense.  I'd
	greatly appreciate if you might find it in your heart (among other
	parts of you anatomy, including those closest to your heart) to
	relieve Mr. Thomas of his burdens.  With his upcoming trip to
	England, I believe that you are in an excellent position to try a
	variety of excellent position with my most loyal campaign
	working...


     Completely dead pan and serious, Quill read the remainder of
the letter.  Needless to say, it became much more graphic including
the candidates reference to handcuffs, chocolate sauce and whip
cream.  When Quill finished, she placed her copy of the letter down
and turned to me.  "Are you or are you not the author of said
letter?"

     "She was my girlfriend and it was a private correspondence,"
I defended.

     "So!  You admit it," Quill replied slapping her palm on the
table.  "You admit to proposing a variety of sexual acts with a
woman in a foreign country and you completely ignored the
international implications of your sexual harassment."

     "International?"  I asked.  "She was an American and my
girlfriend.  We were intimate at the time."

     "So, you admit to having a sexual relationship with her, a
member of the opposite sex.  A man making love to a woman!
No!  Further!  Questions!"


     Anna Richards, distinguished senator from Texas, was next.  I
fended off several thousand more questions relating to my
"permanent record", including a spit ball incident during the
third grade.  Then she brought out the big guns and asked, "In your
parent's home, what type of VCR do they own?"

	Here it was, the buy American tirade.  "It's a Toshiba."

	"And what type of VCR did they have at the William Adam S.
Preston Junior High where you attended the seventh grade."

	"Shit," I thought to myself, having learned my lesson about
muttering under my breath.  "It was a Toshiba."

	Senator Richards knew my back was against the wall on this 
one.  "And would you like to elaborate what happened when your
seventh grade health class watched the film on sexual education."

	"The VCR malfunctioned," I said with solemn sincerity.  Hey,
if politicians could gloss over the truth, I could.

	The senator from Texas was not nearly satiated.  "And what
caused this supposed malfunction?"

	"My guess would be a series of encoded infrared pulses."

     "This is a congressional hearing," she said coolly.  "We
don't guess here.  And what caused those `infrared pulses.'"

	"Most likely some type of oscillator, a crystal, driven
by a power source."

	"Enough of this tomfoolery!"  She whipped out a folder
emblazoned with large black letters, "Clark Thomas's Permanent
Record."  She selected a page from the rather thick dossier and
began to read: "During the documentary "Your Growing Body," Clark 
[Thomas] used a remote control brought from home to freeze the
picture whenever a part of the female anatomy was shown and to
fast forward through shots of the male anatomy..."  Richards put
the paper down and asked, "Should I go on.  Should I humiliate by
announcing your sentence?" She paused and added snidely,  "One 
week's detention."

	To fully appreciate what I'd done, you had to picture the
scene.  The frantic teacher trying to figure out the VCR's
controls as the tv was filled with a pair of breasts in an 
advanced stage of development.  The girls turning red and the boys
laughing.   I didn't bother to elaborate about how the vice principal 
kept bursting out in laughter when he tried to lecture me.  I didn't 
tell her about the giggles that came from the conference the vice 
principal had with my parents about the incident.  I didn't tell her how 
I was elected president of my class next year, selected as captain of my 
soccer team and the numerous other junior high type honors that were
rained on me.  I simply said, "I am humbled by your revelations."

	She smiled smugly believe she had humiliated me beyond all
words.  "No further questions."

     Senator Stan Nunn, an expert on the military and foreign
affairs, was next.  At least he was a male interviewer.  After
taking a sip of water, clearing his throat, wiping his brow with a
handkerchief, loosening his tie, tightening his tie and strumming
his fingers on the desk nervously while loosening his tie, he
asked, "December 7, 1941 where were you?"

     That was a simply one to answer.  "I wasn't born yet."

     "So you had no fore-knowledge of Japan's impending attack on
Pearl Harbor?" he ventured but not without some hesitation.

     "Obviously not," I responded.

     He quickly terminated his portion of the interview.  "No
further questions."  He and old "pants around the ankles"
celebrated their victory by giving each other a nervous half
smile.

     To say I'd gotten annoyed at the entire proceedings was an
understatement.  Congresswoman Bethanne Dole was next.  "Is it
true that you had intercourse with a woman named Sherry Hewson
after you'd offered her temporary lodging in your apartment?"

     I could feel the wisps of steam coming from my ears as I
glared Ms. Dole.  I could really care about my first kiss in the
eighth grade or spitballs in the third grade.  Sherry was a taboo
subject.  In my best imitation of a "send chills down your spine"
militant lesbian reaction, I responded, "She and I were lovers."

     Dole shuffled her notes trying to thwart off my "if looks
could kill" glare.  "After engaging in sexual relations with Ms.
Hewson, did you not then assault her only sibling while she and her
mother watched?"

     "That's it!" I shouted standing up.  "Sherry and I had been
on two or three dates.  No big deal.  Then she calls me one night
in tears and says her brother has beaten her up, again.  So I let
her stay and yes, we made love.  But if your courts had kicked her
brother out of the house, the first or fifth time he'd beaten her 
up, Sherry wouldn't have been at my place having consenting sex.  
No, he was a minor and the courts refused remove him from the home."

     All ten of them were silent.  The clicking of the stenographer
had stopped and only myself and the hum of the camera continued
unabated.  "After she found a place of her own, I went to her
house to help her move.  Her brother picked a fight and I finished
it.  Christ, Sherry's mom even took me out to dinner to say thank
you."

     Meanwhile, in the boiler room in the basement, the most recent
Supreme Court nominee, also named Clark Thomas, sat talking with an
old coot wearing a shirt with the name "Dutch" sewn on it.  "Do
you know how to use a mop ringer?" choked Dutch as lit up another
unfiltered Marlborough.

     Nominee Clark Thomas solemnly replied, "Although I'd like to
answer that at this time, I cannot venture an opinion on the
matter."

     Meanwhile over in the White House, the President sat back and
smiled, knowing that long as his nominee, Clark Thomas, was
currently being interviewed by Dutch, a man who'd inhaled pure
ammonia on a daily basis for the last fifty years.  This was
destine to be the easiest confirmation hearing in the history of
the Supreme Court.  The President was not completely oblivious to the
plight of Clark Thomas, twenty year old college student in search of a
summer job.  After being grilled by the congressional committee, the 
President planned on rewarding young Clark by having him appointed
as a congressional intern.


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