It took me until sometime between my third and fourth cup to settle down enough to string together any coherency.  I apologized for the discomfort, then again for the public spectacle, then yet again for apologizing so much.  Finally, I scraped my face with paper napkins and forced, “I should probably switch to decaf, huh?”

“Take your time,” he soothed, “Administration gets paid by the man.  Hourly.”

He flagged down the waitress to and refill our mugs and order a danish – something fruity, but not lemon.  As Rikki returned to the counter, he slapped down a business card.

“Trey Heckerly.  One of our guys designed our logo, and a couple others work at a printing press.  You like it?”

The Cs were laid out like open handcuffs linked together with the O.  I stared at the card too long, still wishing I had a better idea why I called for help.  Was I looking for a job?  I’d spent too much time recently thinking of ways to remove John Hughes from his next ballot – smear campaign or poison?  Maybe this was my subliminal effort to provide security after I was put away.  I’d not spent any time in a penitentiary thus far, but I imagined the living accommodations were on par with (if not better than) my current status.

As the pastry arrived, I excused myself to the ladies’ room and emptied my bladder for a solid minute, thankful that my addiction was to coffee and not booze.  I washed my hands, scowled at the ugly reflection, and, discovering the blower was out of commission, wiped my palms dry on my hips.  Classy.

I returned to the booth where Mack stood, shook my hand, and let me sit first.

“What do you know about politics?” I asked.

He took an oversized bite and spoke before swallowing to help disguise his laughter.  “White collars do time, same as anyone else.  They don’t all get to spend their weekends at Summerville.”

The rehab center occasionally surfaced on the news, usually when some celebrity’s daughter partied too hard and crashed Mommy’s Mercedes into a tree or mailbox (or pedestrian).  I imagined John walking his Labrador retriever along the jogging trail through Highland Meadows, noticing an engine behind him in not-quite-enough-time, and cracking like a twig as the bumper shattered his legs, spine, neck.  Mack’s friendly baritone pulled me from my happy place.

“You want to run for office or something?  We’ve not backed a candidate before, but when you break it down, I guess most of it is grunt work.  I’m sure I can find a publicity agent to run the thing.  Yeah, we could probably get you elected.  What do you want to be?”

My smile grew.  “Senator John Hughes.”

“I’m pretty sure that position’s taken.”

I reached for my handbag, remembered it was claimed by a stranger before I woke up.  “I don’t want to run for office.  I need to get back on my feet.  What positions do you have open?”

“If you’re looking to work for us, you’re overqualified.”

“You don’t even know what I do.”

“Don’t have to.  Our employees have three walls and a toilet.  You live out here.”

Though I was breathing, eating, and peeing regularly, this otherwise barely qualified as a life.  Again, I pondered saving any of the senator’s future interns from the same hell I went through.  Was still going through.

“I need someone to show me how to fire a gun.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

Mack flipped his card and scribbled a name, turning it over again before I could read it.  “We cannot, in good conscience, provide that kind of service.  I tell you what.  How about I schedule a meeting with Delia, our career counselor?  It’s unorthodox to try to find jobs for our clients, but she’s put sadder sacks than you in good positions.  Maybe once you have a routine, find a friend to rent a room, establish a residence?  Maybe then we can work together.  Until then?  Give Delia a call and see what she can do for you.”

His chubby fingers tweezered a five dollar bill from his wallet; he dropped it on the table and stood.  “It was good to meet you, Julie.  Keep in touch.”

With that, he was gone.  I waited until he was out of sight before eating the last few crumbs of his danish.  I washed it down with the last few drips of java, held up my cup, and endured the server’s scoff.  She returned and performed her professional duty, collected her tip, and shot me a look to say I should let better tippers occupy this booth.  I made a face as she turned her back, uncaring if she saw our reflections in the mirror behind the counter.  

I kicked the table leg and a few drips of coffee overflowed onto the business card.  I blotted it with the napkin and checked Delia’s number.  Except the number wasn’t Delia’s.  Unless her last name was “Shooter.”