northern boundary of downtown Austin. Eleven blocks down Congress Avenue, the Colorado River marked the southern boundary. In town, the river was called Lady Bird Lake, in honor of President Lyndon Baines Johnson's beloved wife, Claudia Alta Taylor Johnson, known to the world as Lady Bird. A ten-mile-long hike-and-bike trail looped the lake. Bode jogged the lake almost daily. He wasn't alone. The trail was crowded with walkers, joggers, bikers, dogs, and especially—
"Praise the Lord," Ranger Hank said.
—young, hard-bodied, barely-dressed women.
Bode glanced back at the girl who had just jogged past. She wore Spandex shorts that appeared painted on her tight buns and a tube top that barely constrained her prodigious chest.
"Amen, brother."
Running the lake was the part of living in Austin that Bode enjoyed the most, even if he and Hank were the only Republicans on the trail that day. Or any day. Point of fact, a Republican living in Austin was lonelier than a white guy in the NBA. Texas was Republican, but the capital of Texas was Democrat. Austin was the liberal, leftist, loony blue hole in the bright red donut that was the State of Texas. The newspapers, the UT faculty and students, the residents, even the homeless people—everyone in the the whole damn town was a Democrat. The only Republicans in town lived in the Governor's Mansion or worked at the Capitol.
Which drove the Democrats in town nuts. They couldn't stand the fact that Republicans outside Austin—which is to say, every Texan who didn't live in Austin—kept sending Bode Bonner back to the capital. To their city. To live among them. To govern them. So they vented their anger by writing scathing letters to the editor of the local left-wing rag that masqueraded as a newspaper and scathing messages posted on blogs no one read, so desperate to be heard—the Internet gave everyone a voice, but no one was listening. At least not to Democrats in Texas. So they consoled themselves with their abiding faith that they were morally and intellectually superior to the vast majority of Texans who pulled the Republican lever, assured that they voted Republican only because they weren't smart enough to vote Democrat. That's it! We're not wrong! They're just not smart enough to know that we're right! Satisfied with that explanation to this perplexing human condition, they patted each other on the back and got stoned. But they couldn't deny a simple fact: they lost. They always lost.
Which made jogging among Democrats in Austin considerably more enjoyable for the leader of Republicans in Texas.
"Sweet femále ," Ranger Hank said.
He pronounced female as if it rhymed with tamale . Ranger Hank wore jogging shorts and the massive leather holster packing his gun, cuffs, Mace, and Taser. He sounded like a car wreck with each stride. He gestured at the firm bottom of the girl jogging just a few strides in front of them. With the buds inserted into her ears and connected to the iPod strapped to her narrow waist, she was oblivious to their conversation.
"What do you figure?" Bode said. "Junior?"
"Sophomore."
Since Democrats constituted your nonviolent offenders for the most part, Ranger Hank served more as Bode's personal driver, caddie, jogging partner, and fellow appraiser of the female anatomy than his bodyguard. Hank likened their jogs around the lake to an episode of American Idol , except the girls weren't singing.
"Damn, she's only a year older than Becca. I kind of feel bad for staring."
"But she's not your daughter."
"Good point."
He stared. She was a brunette with deeply tanned skin. Her tight buns were mesmerizing. Hypnotic. Bode's concentration was so complete that when she abruptly pulled up to tie her shoe, he almost plowed into her. He grabbed her by the shoulders to prevent knocking her down. He lifted her up, and she turned to him, close, almost as if she were in his arms. He inhaled her scent. She smelled of sweat and estrogen and youth and vitality
"Praise the Lord," Ranger Hank said.
—young, hard-bodied, barely-dressed women.
Bode glanced back at the girl who had just jogged past. She wore Spandex shorts that appeared painted on her tight buns and a tube top that barely constrained her prodigious chest.
"Amen, brother."
Running the lake was the part of living in Austin that Bode enjoyed the most, even if he and Hank were the only Republicans on the trail that day. Or any day. Point of fact, a Republican living in Austin was lonelier than a white guy in the NBA. Texas was Republican, but the capital of Texas was Democrat. Austin was the liberal, leftist, loony blue hole in the bright red donut that was the State of Texas. The newspapers, the UT faculty and students, the residents, even the homeless people—everyone in the the whole damn town was a Democrat. The only Republicans in town lived in the Governor's Mansion or worked at the Capitol.
Which drove the Democrats in town nuts. They couldn't stand the fact that Republicans outside Austin—which is to say, every Texan who didn't live in Austin—kept sending Bode Bonner back to the capital. To their city. To live among them. To govern them. So they vented their anger by writing scathing letters to the editor of the local left-wing rag that masqueraded as a newspaper and scathing messages posted on blogs no one read, so desperate to be heard—the Internet gave everyone a voice, but no one was listening. At least not to Democrats in Texas. So they consoled themselves with their abiding faith that they were morally and intellectually superior to the vast majority of Texans who pulled the Republican lever, assured that they voted Republican only because they weren't smart enough to vote Democrat. That's it! We're not wrong! They're just not smart enough to know that we're right! Satisfied with that explanation to this perplexing human condition, they patted each other on the back and got stoned. But they couldn't deny a simple fact: they lost. They always lost.
Which made jogging among Democrats in Austin considerably more enjoyable for the leader of Republicans in Texas.
"Sweet femále ," Ranger Hank said.
He pronounced female as if it rhymed with tamale . Ranger Hank wore jogging shorts and the massive leather holster packing his gun, cuffs, Mace, and Taser. He sounded like a car wreck with each stride. He gestured at the firm bottom of the girl jogging just a few strides in front of them. With the buds inserted into her ears and connected to the iPod strapped to her narrow waist, she was oblivious to their conversation.
"What do you figure?" Bode said. "Junior?"
"Sophomore."
Since Democrats constituted your nonviolent offenders for the most part, Ranger Hank served more as Bode's personal driver, caddie, jogging partner, and fellow appraiser of the female anatomy than his bodyguard. Hank likened their jogs around the lake to an episode of American Idol , except the girls weren't singing.
"Damn, she's only a year older than Becca. I kind of feel bad for staring."
"But she's not your daughter."
"Good point."
He stared. She was a brunette with deeply tanned skin. Her tight buns were mesmerizing. Hypnotic. Bode's concentration was so complete that when she abruptly pulled up to tie her shoe, he almost plowed into her. He grabbed her by the shoulders to prevent knocking her down. He lifted her up, and she turned to him, close, almost as if she were in his arms. He inhaled her scent. She smelled of sweat and estrogen and youth and vitality
Similar Books
