You weep.
There is a knock on the window. It’s Congressman Levin. You knew him when you were a little girl. He smiles at you.
“Are we treating our interns that badly?” he asks kindly.
“Long day,” you say. You wipe your eyes on your sleeve.
“Aviva Grossman, right?” he says. “We used to be neighbors in Forestgreen.”
“No, I don’t live there anymore. I’m in college now. I live in a dorm.”
“You’re all grown up,” he says.
“I don’t feel very grown up,” you say. “You just caught me crying in the break room.”
“How’re your folks?” he asks.
“Very well,” you say.
“Good, good. Well, Aviva Grossman, I hope your second day is better than your first.”
You had heard about the congressman’s charm. You must admit: his presence is warming.
You are leaving when Charlie Greene calls your name. He had been waiting for you in the love seat by the elevator banks.
“Hey,” he says. “Phone-a-Friend! Where’d you go?”
“I had to call my mom,” you lie.
“Well, I had a thought. What if we watched Conan together? You strike me as a Conan person. Maybe you’re a Letterman, though? You’re definitely not a Jay.”
“You can be a Conan and a Letterman person at the same time,” you say.
“That’s how it’s done, Grossman,” Charlie says. “Finish Letterman, flip to Conan. It’s how the ancient Romans did it.”
You laugh. You like Charlie Greene. He feels as comfortable as your Birkenstocks.
You both look up to see the congressman running toward the elevator. He has long legs. You think you read that he used to be a pole-vaulting champion and you can believe that. You imagine him in tight track shorts. “You left your keys,” he says. “Cute keychain.”
Your keychain is a spinning cloisonné globe, which was a gift from your father to commemorate a trip you took to Russia with your high school history class. The congressman spins the globe, and it strikes you how large his fingers are compared to the tiny world your father gave you.
“Thanks,” you say. When he hands you the keys, your fingertips touch the congressman’s, and through a curious feat of human circuitry, you feel his touch directly between your legs.
“Since I caught you, I was thinking,” the congressman says. “I don’t like the thought of one of my interns crying on the first day. I definitely don’t like the thought of Dr. Grossman’s daughter crying on the first day. I mean, I have a lot of stress in my life. I might need a quadruple bypass someday. Let me take you for a falafel or something. There’s a café downstairs. They do other things, too, but I’d go with falafel or frozen yogurt.”
If you introduce the congressman to Charlie and then tell the congressman you already have plans.
If you don’t introduce the congressman to Charlie—indeed, you forget Charlie is even there—and immediately leave with the congressman.
You forget Charlie is there. You’re about to leave with the congressman when the congressman holds out his hand to your Phone-a-Friend. “Aaron Levin,” he says. “You must be one of the new interns.”
Charlie manages to say his name, and then he says, “An honor to meet you, sir.”
“Thank you for coming to work for us, Charlie,” the congressman says, looking deep into Charlie’s eyes. “I appreciate it.”
The congressman suggests that Charlie come to the café.
“We actually had plans,” Charlie said.
“Nothing solid,” you say.
“What plans?” asks the congressman. “I like to know what the young people are up to.”
“We’re going to watch Letterman and then Conan,” Charlie says.
“Let’s do that,” the congressman says. “But let’s get something to eat first. It’s only ten thirty. We have time.”
“Whoa. What?” Charlie stammers. “My apartment’s pretty dirty. I have roommates. I—”
“Don’t worry, kid. We can eat downstairs and watch up here,” the congressman says. “There’s a TV down the hall.”
You go downstairs to the café, and the owner bows when the congressman comes into the restaurant. “Congressman!” he says.
“Where have you been? We’ve missed you!”
“Farouk, these are my new crackerjack interns, Charlie and Aviva,” the congressman says.
“Don’t let him work you too hard,” Farouk says. “He works all night long, six nights a week.”
“You only know that because you keep the same hours,” the congressman says.
“When anyone asks me, I say, no one works harder than my congressman . . . except me,” Farouk says. “I don’t know when you see those boys or that pretty wife of yours.”
“I see them all the time,” the congressman says. “In my wallet. On my desk.”
The congressman orders a plate of falafel balls for the table and a side of hummus. Farouk brings baklava, on the house.
“So let me pick your brains,” the congressman says. He has a spot of hummus on his upper lip. You don’t know if you should mention it, but you can’t stop looking at it. “I’m supposed to give a speech for the National Organization for Women about the leadership gap and what we can do about it, especially thinking about the next generation. You’re a young woman, Aviva.”
You nod too eagerly.
“You must know a few young women, Charlie?” the congressman says.
“Fewer than I’d like,” Charlie says.
The congressman laughs. “So, any thoughts, kids?”
Charlie says, “I think it’s the same thing with late night television. I’m really into late night . . .”
“Yes,” the congressman says, “I’m gathering that.”
“The person who hosts the late night show always wears a dark suit,” Charlie says. “The person who becomes the president always wears a dark suit. Maybe if a lady put on a dark suit, the problem would be solved.”
The congressman looks at you. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s right-ish.” You can feel yourself blushing.
“Ish?” the congressman says.
“Ish,” you say. “I’m not, like, a feminist.”
“You aren’t?” The congressman looks amused.
“I mean, I’m not not a feminist. I mean, I believe I’m a human before I’m a woman.” You say this because you are young, and because you have the wrong idea about feminism. You think feminists are your mom and Roz Horowitz. You think they’re middle-aged women with fond memories of 1970s-era marches and ancient trunks filled with buttons and message tees. “But I think—I mean I know—women are judged on their appearance. If a woman wore a dark suit, they wouldn’t make her president. They would say she was ‘trying to be a man.’ She can’t win.”
The congressman excuses himself to the restroom. Charlie says, “How do you know him?”
“We used to be neighbors,” you say. “And my dad operated on his mother’s heart.”
“Wow,” Charlie says. “Go me for picking an awesome Phone-a-Friend. I can’t believe he wants to hang out with us! Seriously, he’s so earnest. He really seems interested in what we have to say.”
You agree.