prevalence of PTSD among returning soldiers, about the squalid conditions at VA hospitals and the army’s lack of interest in its wounded veterans, about the human cost of militarized murder. And of course they had to tell kids about “the real reasons for the wars,” which, he said in such an offhand way as to defy even polite disagreement, were gravely immoral indeed. Tasha tried to imagine what Marshall would have thought about an appeal like this.
T.J. made eye contact with her in the middle of his appeal, and a brief smile graced his lips. How long had it been, nine years? She had to admit: He looked good . Boy had great bones, a Hollywood face, plenty of planes for a cinematographer to light up from different angles. His hair was natty, the harbinger of dreadlocks, the tips slightly bleached, as if he’d changed his mind halfway through the process. He had dark skin and green eyes that shone with a certain playfulness, even when he was talking about “the atrocities committed by our military.”
She hadn’t thought of him in years, but now that she saw him, she realized it wasn’t surprising to find him in a place like this. He’d been a constant irritant to their college during his one year there, leading protests at the administration building over the school’s paltry financial aid packages, its anti-union policies toward the janitorial staff, and its bloody-fingered investments in crooked multinational corporations.
Her confusion and nervousness about what she was doing here built. Were these people good and well-meaning, sacrificing their time like this, willing to make themselves look like fools? Or were they fools, just plain crazy and angry, looking for any excuse to pick a fight with a world they didn’t understand? Seeing T.J. made it all the harder to sit there through the whole rigmarole, the reports and the minutes, the grudging way the organizers allowed anyone with a raised hand to speak his or her piece, even if it meant listening to some old lady go on and on and on with no discernible point.
Finally, when the meeting ended and a few people coalesced into “planning groups” for the different events they were orchestrating, Tasha walked up to T.J. and said hi. She was hesitant, but he smiled at her as if the last decade had never been, wrapped her in a hug, and called out, “My girl! What’s up?” He immediately asked if she was free for a drink, like, now.
“So,” he asked as they sat at the bar of Busboys and Poets, off U, “is that you who writes the Ask Tasha part of the Word on the Street ? I’ve read those wondering if it could be the same Tasha I knew back in the day.”
A few years ago she’d started writing a very intermittent column for one of D.C.’s arts weeklies. It was political comedy of sorts, modeled on advice columns, and Tasha crafted both the Qs and the As. “Dear Tasha, I just discovered that my husband voted the opposite ticket as I did. Would it be wrong of me to withhold sex for the next four years?” “Dear Tasha, I’m convinced that the cable guy at my house today was actually a CIA spy planting bugs. Should I cancel my anarchist book club this week?” “Dear Tasha, I’m a Dem but the Republican across the street from me is smokin’ hot. Can you recommend any GOP pickup lines, or would it be more politically pure for me to masturbate while watching her out the window?” It had started during the slow months of her final year at GW Law, an occasional thing she’d done for an old friend who edited the paper, and it had grown into a needed escape from her humor-impaired job. She hadn’t written a column in a few months, though.
“Maybe not the exact same Tasha,” she said, “but pretty much. The same DNA, at least.”
“I’m happy to see it,” he said, and she noticed him giving her a quick once-over, really a twice-over because she’d caught him doing it once already. “I loved the one about the staffer with the unnatural crush
T.J. made eye contact with her in the middle of his appeal, and a brief smile graced his lips. How long had it been, nine years? She had to admit: He looked good . Boy had great bones, a Hollywood face, plenty of planes for a cinematographer to light up from different angles. His hair was natty, the harbinger of dreadlocks, the tips slightly bleached, as if he’d changed his mind halfway through the process. He had dark skin and green eyes that shone with a certain playfulness, even when he was talking about “the atrocities committed by our military.”
She hadn’t thought of him in years, but now that she saw him, she realized it wasn’t surprising to find him in a place like this. He’d been a constant irritant to their college during his one year there, leading protests at the administration building over the school’s paltry financial aid packages, its anti-union policies toward the janitorial staff, and its bloody-fingered investments in crooked multinational corporations.
Her confusion and nervousness about what she was doing here built. Were these people good and well-meaning, sacrificing their time like this, willing to make themselves look like fools? Or were they fools, just plain crazy and angry, looking for any excuse to pick a fight with a world they didn’t understand? Seeing T.J. made it all the harder to sit there through the whole rigmarole, the reports and the minutes, the grudging way the organizers allowed anyone with a raised hand to speak his or her piece, even if it meant listening to some old lady go on and on and on with no discernible point.
Finally, when the meeting ended and a few people coalesced into “planning groups” for the different events they were orchestrating, Tasha walked up to T.J. and said hi. She was hesitant, but he smiled at her as if the last decade had never been, wrapped her in a hug, and called out, “My girl! What’s up?” He immediately asked if she was free for a drink, like, now.
“So,” he asked as they sat at the bar of Busboys and Poets, off U, “is that you who writes the Ask Tasha part of the Word on the Street ? I’ve read those wondering if it could be the same Tasha I knew back in the day.”
A few years ago she’d started writing a very intermittent column for one of D.C.’s arts weeklies. It was political comedy of sorts, modeled on advice columns, and Tasha crafted both the Qs and the As. “Dear Tasha, I just discovered that my husband voted the opposite ticket as I did. Would it be wrong of me to withhold sex for the next four years?” “Dear Tasha, I’m convinced that the cable guy at my house today was actually a CIA spy planting bugs. Should I cancel my anarchist book club this week?” “Dear Tasha, I’m a Dem but the Republican across the street from me is smokin’ hot. Can you recommend any GOP pickup lines, or would it be more politically pure for me to masturbate while watching her out the window?” It had started during the slow months of her final year at GW Law, an occasional thing she’d done for an old friend who edited the paper, and it had grown into a needed escape from her humor-impaired job. She hadn’t written a column in a few months, though.
“Maybe not the exact same Tasha,” she said, “but pretty much. The same DNA, at least.”
“I’m happy to see it,” he said, and she noticed him giving her a quick once-over, really a twice-over because she’d caught him doing it once already. “I loved the one about the staffer with the unnatural crush
Similar Books
In the Court of the Yellow King
Tim Curran, Cody Goodfellow, Gary McMahon, C.J. Henderson, William Meikle, T.E. Grau, Laurel Halbany, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris
