Threeway, ch. 7, Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. (pt. 3 of 3)
In which: Mandy for president! The Brown Baggers get their candidate! "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 7: Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. (Pt. 3 of 3)
After a year in L.A. with no good news for her mother—no movies, no Hef, no nothing—Mandy told her about the president and the end of the affair. Her mother thought she’d gone crazy on west coast drugs and needed to come home. Then, Mandy told her about the tape and the awkwardness with Kriegman. Her mother knew she couldn’t make that up.
“You send me that tape,” she said angrily, a mad mama bear, a caged one with long dormant visions of her own power and influence pushing forward. “I’ll put it on the Internet. We’ll run it at the cinema. We’ll bring that sonofabitch down.”
“No, mama. They’ll put some germ in the water. The whole town will be dead. This has to be done right.”
“Then take it to that Jewish feller who talks for the Brown Baggers. He’s supposed to know what he’s doing.”
“The Brown what?” Mandy asked.
“The Brown Baggers,” her mother said. “Jesus, Mandy, read the papers. It’s a real, kickass third party. My new man’s a Brown Bagger, so I started going to meetings, and now I’m a Brown Bagette. For the first time in my life, I’m being heard.”
Doing an online search for “Brown Baggers” and “Jew,” Mandy could have learned much, but she stayed focused. She found Mittelpunkt’s address and sent him the same e-mail she’d sent Kriegman. He sent her a plane ticket. The next day, they met in the front office Mittelpunkt kept in his first floor Manhattan apartment, like an old ear, nose, and throat man.
They chatted, and she made him laugh. She told him about the Purity Club and L.A. and what a fuckup that was. She told him about the affair, about making the tape, and how she’d been cast aside. She told him about the weirdness with Kriegman in the hotel room. Mittelpunkt perked up at this.
“Is it like they say it is?”
“What?”
“Mel Kriegman’s dick. Is it as big as they say?”
“Huh? Oh, I guess. There’s something wrong with our Mr. Kriegman and his friend, I’ll tell you that,” Mandy said.
Mittelpunkt drove the jealous thoughts from his head. He watched the tape, then watched again. He looked at Mandy. He’d seen worn southern beauty in films, and he’d stared at the stoic subjects of Depression era portraits until he had to turn away, but he’d never seen someone like her in person. She moved him in the way all things bruised and southern seem sadly beautiful in small doses to New Yorkers with no clue.
To Mittelpunkt’s surprise, he didn’t want her, not right away. Had he met her in another time and place, he would have just wanted to treat her well, to take her in hand, squire her around, and open her eyes to things. He imagined them strolling briskly through the city on a wintry day, bundled up in overcoats and scarves, her delicate gloved hand taking his strong supportive arm. When she said to him at this first meeting, “Maybe I could be president. Would that be too silly?” he imagined Audrey Hepburn saying it with a desperate, optimistic lilt in her voice, the wide-eyed waif begging him to agree that anything was possible in a world heavy with sadness.
The reality was different. Mandy didn’t sound like Audrey Hepburn, whose speech was a charming hash of Holland and Hollywood, but her southern barmaid sunniness was a distant kin. They were not strolling down Fifth Avenue as a light snow fell; they were on the couch in a 1920s walk-up with the steam heat blasting. Her words were not delicious and endearing. What she said was, “From what I hear, I could do as good a job as that asshole.” Mandy’s fingers were not delicately wrapped around Mittelpunkt’s cashmere covered bicep; they were slowly, rotely walking up his thigh. He took her hand.
“I could do as good a job as that asshole.” The words echoed in Mittelpunkt’s head. The Dump Truck movement had been grand, but this was on a different scale. Presidents mattered. Jackson, Lincoln, the Roosevelts, Reagan: America would have been different if those men had not held office. Better in some cases, worse in others, but definitely different.
Mittelpunkt thought about what it would mean if she ran for president and won. At least, he tried to. When a debate about ambition vs. the greater good should have raged within him, all Mittelpunkt could hear was the conniving voice of his wounded inner asshole. Too silly? No, it would be perfectly silly: a gentlemanly gesture taken to absurd levels, a grand, bad joke on the men that had spurned him and turned Mandy out into the cold.
He promised to make her president.
“Whatever, but you need to find me a hotel.”
“I can’t afford that, but there’s an open apartment on the fourth floor. It’s small, but it’s bigger than a hotel room. It’s a nice building, nobody bothers you, and they spray. I’ll pay for it at first, and then the campaign will pay for it.”
Mandy looked skeptical, but once Mittelpunkt explained about the money she’d make and the clothes she would wear, the places she’d go, and yes, the hotels she’d stay at, she agreed to run. There was an awkward moment where they just stared at each other. Mittelpunkt understood what had happened with Kriegman. He’d lose her trust if he left things like this, so he took her to bed and sealed the deal.
“Couldn’t I just stay here? With you? I mean . . . why waste campaign funds?” This was what Mandy didn’t say afterwards. Maybe that was for the best, Mittelpunkt thought. It kept his options open, and she wouldn’t be hard to find. If a man can walk a mile for a Camel, Mittelpunkt could climb three flights of stairs.
A week later, Mittelpunkt introduced Mandy publicly.
“I’ve always said that you or I could do as good a job as the politicians in Washington. This year, we’re putting that to the test. Ladies and gentlemen: I give you the next president of the United States: Mandy!”
People craned their necks to see. Mandy stepped forward. Wow, there she is. Mandy smiled, waved, and flew the double bird. The crowd cheered. Around the country, traffic stopped dead as people abandoned their cars to crap in solidarity on the median.
It was a phenomenal show of faith. For all anyone knew, Mandy could have been a drug addict or a welfare queen. She was a complete unknown. Two weeks later, it was as if she had always been there.
Buy Threeway.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
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 7: Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. (Pt. 3 of 3)
After a year in L.A. with no good news for her mother—no movies, no Hef, no nothing—Mandy told her about the president and the end of the affair. Her mother thought she’d gone crazy on west coast drugs and needed to come home. Then, Mandy told her about the tape and the awkwardness with Kriegman. Her mother knew she couldn’t make that up.
“You send me that tape,” she said angrily, a mad mama bear, a caged one with long dormant visions of her own power and influence pushing forward. “I’ll put it on the Internet. We’ll run it at the cinema. We’ll bring that sonofabitch down.”
“No, mama. They’ll put some germ in the water. The whole town will be dead. This has to be done right.”
“Then take it to that Jewish feller who talks for the Brown Baggers. He’s supposed to know what he’s doing.”
“The Brown what?” Mandy asked.
“The Brown Baggers,” her mother said. “Jesus, Mandy, read the papers. It’s a real, kickass third party. My new man’s a Brown Bagger, so I started going to meetings, and now I’m a Brown Bagette. For the first time in my life, I’m being heard.”
Doing an online search for “Brown Baggers” and “Jew,” Mandy could have learned much, but she stayed focused. She found Mittelpunkt’s address and sent him the same e-mail she’d sent Kriegman. He sent her a plane ticket. The next day, they met in the front office Mittelpunkt kept in his first floor Manhattan apartment, like an old ear, nose, and throat man.
They chatted, and she made him laugh. She told him about the Purity Club and L.A. and what a fuckup that was. She told him about the affair, about making the tape, and how she’d been cast aside. She told him about the weirdness with Kriegman in the hotel room. Mittelpunkt perked up at this.
“Is it like they say it is?”
“What?”
“Mel Kriegman’s dick. Is it as big as they say?”
“Huh? Oh, I guess. There’s something wrong with our Mr. Kriegman and his friend, I’ll tell you that,” Mandy said.
Mittelpunkt drove the jealous thoughts from his head. He watched the tape, then watched again. He looked at Mandy. He’d seen worn southern beauty in films, and he’d stared at the stoic subjects of Depression era portraits until he had to turn away, but he’d never seen someone like her in person. She moved him in the way all things bruised and southern seem sadly beautiful in small doses to New Yorkers with no clue.
To Mittelpunkt’s surprise, he didn’t want her, not right away. Had he met her in another time and place, he would have just wanted to treat her well, to take her in hand, squire her around, and open her eyes to things. He imagined them strolling briskly through the city on a wintry day, bundled up in overcoats and scarves, her delicate gloved hand taking his strong supportive arm. When she said to him at this first meeting, “Maybe I could be president. Would that be too silly?” he imagined Audrey Hepburn saying it with a desperate, optimistic lilt in her voice, the wide-eyed waif begging him to agree that anything was possible in a world heavy with sadness.
The reality was different. Mandy didn’t sound like Audrey Hepburn, whose speech was a charming hash of Holland and Hollywood, but her southern barmaid sunniness was a distant kin. They were not strolling down Fifth Avenue as a light snow fell; they were on the couch in a 1920s walk-up with the steam heat blasting. Her words were not delicious and endearing. What she said was, “From what I hear, I could do as good a job as that asshole.” Mandy’s fingers were not delicately wrapped around Mittelpunkt’s cashmere covered bicep; they were slowly, rotely walking up his thigh. He took her hand.
“I could do as good a job as that asshole.” The words echoed in Mittelpunkt’s head. The Dump Truck movement had been grand, but this was on a different scale. Presidents mattered. Jackson, Lincoln, the Roosevelts, Reagan: America would have been different if those men had not held office. Better in some cases, worse in others, but definitely different.
Mittelpunkt thought about what it would mean if she ran for president and won. At least, he tried to. When a debate about ambition vs. the greater good should have raged within him, all Mittelpunkt could hear was the conniving voice of his wounded inner asshole. Too silly? No, it would be perfectly silly: a gentlemanly gesture taken to absurd levels, a grand, bad joke on the men that had spurned him and turned Mandy out into the cold.
He promised to make her president.
“Whatever, but you need to find me a hotel.”
“I can’t afford that, but there’s an open apartment on the fourth floor. It’s small, but it’s bigger than a hotel room. It’s a nice building, nobody bothers you, and they spray. I’ll pay for it at first, and then the campaign will pay for it.”
Mandy looked skeptical, but once Mittelpunkt explained about the money she’d make and the clothes she would wear, the places she’d go, and yes, the hotels she’d stay at, she agreed to run. There was an awkward moment where they just stared at each other. Mittelpunkt understood what had happened with Kriegman. He’d lose her trust if he left things like this, so he took her to bed and sealed the deal.
“Couldn’t I just stay here? With you? I mean . . . why waste campaign funds?” This was what Mandy didn’t say afterwards. Maybe that was for the best, Mittelpunkt thought. It kept his options open, and she wouldn’t be hard to find. If a man can walk a mile for a Camel, Mittelpunkt could climb three flights of stairs.
A week later, Mittelpunkt introduced Mandy publicly.
“I’ve always said that you or I could do as good a job as the politicians in Washington. This year, we’re putting that to the test. Ladies and gentlemen: I give you the next president of the United States: Mandy!”
People craned their necks to see. Mandy stepped forward. Wow, there she is. Mandy smiled, waved, and flew the double bird. The crowd cheered. Around the country, traffic stopped dead as people abandoned their cars to crap in solidarity on the median.
It was a phenomenal show of faith. For all anyone knew, Mandy could have been a drug addict or a welfare queen. She was a complete unknown. Two weeks later, it was as if she had always been there.
Buy Threeway.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
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