Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

“Have you ever frequented a Washington, D.C., establishment called the Jewel Box, at the corner of Sixteenth and L streets?” The tufted purple walls. The bartender who looks a little like Alan Ladd. “No.” “Have you ever been present at a Washington, D.C., establishment called the Sand Bar, in Thomas Circle?” The old redheaded queen leaning on the big plastic anchor at two a.m., shouting to no one in particular. The piano player hammering out “Some Enchanted Evening” for the third time in two hours. “No.” Fuller looked at the blank far wall. Silently, he sang to himself: You’re calmer than the seals in the Arctic Ocean. At least they flap their fins to express emotion. “Mr. Fuller, who was the president of the United States when you were born?” A “baseline” question. “Calvin Coolidge,” Fuller answered. “Have you ever had inappropriate physical contact with a male foreign national either in the United States or while abroad?” Behind the bicycle shop in Oslo. Lars? Who had no undershirt beneath his heavy fisherman’s sweater. “No.”