Gus Chapman rubbed the yellow number two Dixon Ticonderoga across his left temple. It was a cool night outside, autumn coming on, time to box up the pears, he mused. He wanted to stick the eraser right in his ear and go after the wax, but he restrained himself.
For various reasons 22 guests were in the council chamber. Mayor Holman was reporting on his lobbying activity, and Gus mused that Orin consistently, professionally mentions all the conversations with legislators, economic development folk, and fellow lobbyists, but he doesn't mention once the utter loneliness of doing business in the capital city. Gus knew the strains of wielding the mayor's gavel, knew the burdens of this level of political action and finesse. Gus was proud of Orin. The West Hills councilor was ethical, practical and both as community-centered and pro-Warhaven as they came, a far cry from the days of Dutch VanderKamp, who could bleed a turnip. Dutch had played the lobbying field like a star shortstop, snagging anything that rolled anywhere near him. Always on the lookout for opportunity, Dutch brought considerable prosperity to the city, and like returns for his garish, colloquial lifestyle.
Gus thought back to the year 1985 when Dutch was in his heyday as fat cat of the neighborhood, and of the whole region in many people's minds. Gus's father, Hank, would hawk up a loogie when the man came up in conversation. "Phlegm wad," he would mutter. "Two legged leech." Hank went on to say he hoped folks in the capitol and in Garfield had enough sense to spot Dutch for the rogue maverick that he was, that in Warhaven Dutch was elected more out a source of entertainment than any particular esteem for his petty corruption. In the end, Dutch got his just comeuppance.
Dutch had ended up a silent partner in a salmon farm over at Majestic Bay. A skiff had been scuttled by some drunk, joyriding punks right near the aquaculture enclosures. Everyone agreed, the taste of salmon laced with two stroke fuel sucked. Dutch had to sell off his third and fourth cars, just to keep from getting his knees broken. It was all very mysterious and deeper than appearances looked. Those in the know were tickled pink to see the weasel squirm. Gus viewed Dutch and Orin as extremes of the spectrum, but deep down, Chapman knew that there were politicians far worse than old VanderKamp.
Gus did not miss the trips to the capitol and the nights at the Bunson Motor Lodge. He would usually eat dinner at the Warren Avenue Steak House, his one budgetary splurge on city business. He would have himself some steak and scampi, a drink and a wine, and coffee and dessert. He usually went beyond his per diem, only claiming what was allowed, which was fine with Gus. The expensive, relaxing dinner in the restaurant lounge made up for the time in the motel room, channel surfing or reading the paper or pending legislation, so alone, and so missing a wiff of the woods -or that revitalizing joy, a keen, clear view of the Craggies.
"At least," Gus thought, as Orin concluded his report, "At least I never had any desire to be a legislator -- brave, self-sacrificing, political, domesticated animals. All people ever want out of you is whatever you can do for them. Cross 'em, and you're pork chops."
While Gus traveled in some heady crowds for his business and philanthropic work, he kept his roots, kept his focus on home, on Warhaven. What Gus admired so much about Orin was his true inability to put on airs, not exactly realizing at the moment that this was his great strength as well.
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