Threeway, ch. 3, Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb, pt. 1 of 3

In which we meet the old left and yearn for glory days. "Threeway" continues in serial form with a link to buy the book at the bottom of the post. To catch up on prior segments, start at the bottom of the blog. Enjoy. Tell your friends.

THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season

by

STEVEN LUBLINER

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112

Chapter 3: Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb (pt. 1 of 3).

Cynics say there’s really only one party in America. That conversation between Kriegman and Donaldson? Across town, Pipp, Stengel, and the boys were having the same one. A vexing hotspot of dourness was practically begging for it. To turn away, the Republicans argued, was weak. Fine. Pipp would tank the election. The Republicans could have their adventure, but they would have to pay for it with a tax increase. If enough blood and treasure sank into that sinkhole, they would be out in four years. To the numbers crunchers in the room, it looked like a net gain. Pipp was not happy. If he wasn’t president, what the hell was he going to do?

A savvy poker player watching high rollers trading antes thinks they are waiting for a fish. He runs away. The tapped out gambler from the weekly tour bus sees cowards leaving money on the table. He maxes out his last credit card, thinking he can fleece them. In Pipp and Kriegman’s case, he might be right. There’s a reason our seat of government is surrounded by bad neighborhoods—as a reminder to lock the doors of power lest the thieves come and steal the paint off the walls.

For a while, it seemed like this election would be the usual two-party horse race with the same tired nags. But then . . . can you hear it? Could it be? The challenge from the left that came from the east. First, a gentle thrum, it built steadily to a pounding beat. Who led it? Who else? Connie and Herb.

Kriegman’s hippie days had been about drugs and women. Connie and Herb were the real deal. At marches, protests, sit-ins, be-ins, die-ins, dance-ins, they were front and center, belting out the protest calls, getting the responses. They could run from the cops like cheetahs, go sublimely limp, or take politically expedient beatings. They had scaled bridges, climbed canyon walls, and rappelled down skyscrapers to hang banners and paint graffiti, and they had stooped in solidarity to pick produce. When the era of such things ended, Connie and Herb had accomplished much. They were also in really good shape.

With few options open to them, they married, went back to school, and clawed their way up into the rat race and a comfortable life. The moral flabbiness that accompanied this transition rankled at them. The physical flabbiness was worse. When Connie said to Herb one ‘80s morning that she didn’t recognize herself anymore, she was pointing at the mirror.

There was room in the basement for a home gym and two extra bedrooms to devote to writing and political organizing once all the undone crafts and old memorabilia were cleared out. As Connie and Herb contemplated the future, they felt spiritually reborn and ten pounds lighter. They were effusive at one of the neighborhood cocktail parties, the ones stocked with supporters of that actor in the White House. One of them unwittingly provided the spark for all that followed.

“Why don’t you combine the two?” he smirked through his cigar. “Get all those old lefties doing calisthenics like the Japanese autoworkers. That’s how you’ll take over the world. Get ’em all goose stepping like the goddamn Red Army.” He slapped Herb on the back, gave Connie the fearless leader’s thumbs up, and lumbered off for a refill.

Thus was born “Hit the Streets: The Workout. Featuring Connie and Herb.” An overnight sensation, it eventually grew to six volumes: “Passive Resistance,” “Active Resistance,” “Feel the Burn, Baby, Burn,” “Off the Couch and Into the Streets,” “Fight the Power Abs,” and their biggest seller, “Aerobic Disobedience,” which featured the dance club hit, “Now, Step it to the Left.” Each volume focused on personal and physical transformation, with a video of safe and gentle exercises and dance moves. Over time, the manifesto aspects of the enterprise grew slimmer, the graphics grew livelier, and the music louder. The dry, hectoring film-strip lecture inserts of the tapes were pared down until they disappeared entirely.

For years, Connie and Herb were everywhere. The national morning shows were their second home. Sometimes, they even guest hosted. They did cameos on the zanier sit-coms and competed ferociously on game shows. They showed up at clubs and led workouts at the White House. If there was a place worth hitting, they hit it. The only places they didn’t hit were the actual streets.

But now, here they were, in the middle of New York City, and they weren’t alone. Hundreds, maybe thousands, dancing and chanting in synch. What did it all mean? Was there a new DVD coming out? A new book? Would Connie be running for president? Would Herb? Years earlier, at the height of their popularity, they had sketched out the blueprint for a two-term co-presidency.

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