commute. I couldn't remember the last time I had been stuck in traffic in Tyler, except during the middle of summer at the beach. But not at this end of town. There were plowed mounds of snow on each side of the road, and I checked the dashboard clock and saw I had exactly five minutes to go before the official start of the campaign rally.
Some cars in front of me were pulling off to the side, and I decided to give up, too. I managed to squeeze into a spot and got out, locking the Explorer behind me. The cloud cover was still there, there was a sharp bite to the air, and my throat and chest hurt. Just slide in and slide out, I thought. Enough to make an appearance, and then time to go home. And then let my bed and sleep work their magic.
I slogged my way to the conference center, a four-story hotel with a low-slung building off to the right, a banner saying WELCOME SENATOR JACKSON HALE AND SUPPORTERS flapping in the breeze above the main entrance.
And the supporters were there. Scores of them. The parking lot was full of people holding up campaign signs, most of them for Senator Hale, but there were a few brave others working for his three opponents. These folks were getting jeered at by some Hale supporters, but in a relatively good-natured way. Three large buses were by the rear entrance of the building, diesel engines grumbling, Senator Hale signs hanging off their sides. I moved through the crowds, working my way to the entrance, and I stopped. The crowd was just too damn thick. Some people were chanting, "Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go!" Their voices were loud in the cold air. I moved away from the crowds by the entrance, about ready to give up, when there was a tug at my arm.
"Looking for something, Mr. Cole?"
I turned, smiled. The voice and face were a welcome sight. It was a woman about my age from the Tyler Police Department, wearing green uniform pants, a knee-length tan winter coat with sergeant's stripes on the sleeves, and the typical officer's cap, which looked very out of place upon her head.
"Detective Sergeant Diane Woods," I said, raising my voice.
"How very nice to see you."
"The same."
"Out of uniform today?" I asked, making a sly joke, since I hardly ever saw her in her official dress uniform.
"In uniform, on detail, making a nice piece of pay per hour. What's up?"
"Trying to get into the rally and not having much success." She smiled. "Didn't know you had such a burning interest in politics."
"Well... "
The smile remained. "Perhaps you have a burning interest in someone involved in politics."
"Perhaps," I replied. "But right now, I have a burning interest in getting inside to the rally. But that crowd isn't moving."
"That's right. But why go through the main entrance?"
"Excuse me?"
She reached up and gently tapped me on the cheek with a gloved hand. "Silly man. Lovemaking on a regular schedule is screwing up your mind. You're obviously not used to all that attention and it's scrambling your thinking process."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you're a magazine columnist. You have a press ID issued by the New Hampshire Department of Safety. Go through the press entrance."
“Oh."
"Come with me."
I followed Diane as she maneuvered her way through the crowd and went to a side door that was offset by a set of orange traffic cones and yellow tape. There was an older, beefy man with a red beard at the door, holding a clipboard, and when I turned to say thanks to Diane, she was gone. From my wallet I took out my press identification badge, which has my vital stats and a not-so-bad photo of me taken a couple of years ago by the same people in the state who do driver's license photos.
The bearded man, who had the nervous energy of being part of a process that might make his boss the most powerful man in the world, looked at my identification and me and then the list. For just a moment, there seemed to be a flash of understanding on his face, but I was mistaken. He shook his head.
"You're not on
Some cars in front of me were pulling off to the side, and I decided to give up, too. I managed to squeeze into a spot and got out, locking the Explorer behind me. The cloud cover was still there, there was a sharp bite to the air, and my throat and chest hurt. Just slide in and slide out, I thought. Enough to make an appearance, and then time to go home. And then let my bed and sleep work their magic.
I slogged my way to the conference center, a four-story hotel with a low-slung building off to the right, a banner saying WELCOME SENATOR JACKSON HALE AND SUPPORTERS flapping in the breeze above the main entrance.
And the supporters were there. Scores of them. The parking lot was full of people holding up campaign signs, most of them for Senator Hale, but there were a few brave others working for his three opponents. These folks were getting jeered at by some Hale supporters, but in a relatively good-natured way. Three large buses were by the rear entrance of the building, diesel engines grumbling, Senator Hale signs hanging off their sides. I moved through the crowds, working my way to the entrance, and I stopped. The crowd was just too damn thick. Some people were chanting, "Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go!" Their voices were loud in the cold air. I moved away from the crowds by the entrance, about ready to give up, when there was a tug at my arm.
"Looking for something, Mr. Cole?"
I turned, smiled. The voice and face were a welcome sight. It was a woman about my age from the Tyler Police Department, wearing green uniform pants, a knee-length tan winter coat with sergeant's stripes on the sleeves, and the typical officer's cap, which looked very out of place upon her head.
"Detective Sergeant Diane Woods," I said, raising my voice.
"How very nice to see you."
"The same."
"Out of uniform today?" I asked, making a sly joke, since I hardly ever saw her in her official dress uniform.
"In uniform, on detail, making a nice piece of pay per hour. What's up?"
"Trying to get into the rally and not having much success." She smiled. "Didn't know you had such a burning interest in politics."
"Well... "
The smile remained. "Perhaps you have a burning interest in someone involved in politics."
"Perhaps," I replied. "But right now, I have a burning interest in getting inside to the rally. But that crowd isn't moving."
"That's right. But why go through the main entrance?"
"Excuse me?"
She reached up and gently tapped me on the cheek with a gloved hand. "Silly man. Lovemaking on a regular schedule is screwing up your mind. You're obviously not used to all that attention and it's scrambling your thinking process."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you're a magazine columnist. You have a press ID issued by the New Hampshire Department of Safety. Go through the press entrance."
“Oh."
"Come with me."
I followed Diane as she maneuvered her way through the crowd and went to a side door that was offset by a set of orange traffic cones and yellow tape. There was an older, beefy man with a red beard at the door, holding a clipboard, and when I turned to say thanks to Diane, she was gone. From my wallet I took out my press identification badge, which has my vital stats and a not-so-bad photo of me taken a couple of years ago by the same people in the state who do driver's license photos.
The bearded man, who had the nervous energy of being part of a process that might make his boss the most powerful man in the world, looked at my identification and me and then the list. For just a moment, there seemed to be a flash of understanding on his face, but I was mistaken. He shook his head.
"You're not on
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