2030_ The Real Story of What Happens to America - Albert Brooks [54]
Paul laughed. “I don’t care if you live here. You don’t have to apologize to me. Before I was in a relationship I came here every night.”
“Are you in a relationship now?”
“Six years. What about you?”
“I was married for three years.”
“To a man?”
“A woman.”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it. Find out who you are, have fun doing it, that’s my advice.”
“Thanks. That’s good advice. So what do you do?”
“I’m one of the heads of AARP.”
“Wow, you look so young!”
“I’m not a member, I just have a great job there.” Paul laughed.
“That’s one powerful lobby. I’ve heard my boss bitch about it often, how you can’t get anything done unless AARP signs off.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Hernandez.”
“Hernandez? At Justice?”
“That’s the one.”
“Wow. Big-time boss. Whoever thought he’d bitch about little old us.”
“Right. Little old us. Everyone worries what you guys think. So what are you doing here tonight?”
“I’m actually trying to find out some information, and so many people in the know come here I thought I could score … information.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Do you guys know much about the latest bus massacre?”
“That’s all we’ve been dealing with the last few days.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Gee, I don’t think I can tell you anything. I could get in a lot of trouble.” Then Paul did something that might have backfired big time, but it didn’t. He leaned over and gave Jack a kiss. On the mouth. No tongue. But a real kiss. Jack was blown away, not just at the kiss but at the balls of this guy. Then Paul finished it off with some words of wisdom.
“Listen, there’s something you have to know. Our kind of people stick together. We always help each other—anonymously, of course, but that’s how Washington works. There are thousands of people who trade information, and one way to distinguish who to talk to is by who goes through the same shit all the time. And we do. That forms a trust. You help me, I help you, no one knows anything, but we’re bonded. Bonded by who we are. Does that make sense?” Jack’s answer showed Paul that it did.
“It looks like there might be a conspiracy,” Jack said, “although it’s in the infant stage and right now there is no organization. It’s just hostility coming out here and there, but we think it will only get worse. And more organized.”
“What kind of conspiracy?”
“Some young people are reaching the breaking point. They feel burdened and angry. It’s not widespread yet, but it’s growing. We expect the violence to ramp up.”
“And what’s the solution?”
“Nobody knows. Maybe the government has to step in and take some of the pressure off.”
“How would they do that?”
“I don’t know. That’s your department.”
“Any names? Any groups?”
“I haven’t heard a name of any group yet. Right now we’re looking at individuals.”
Paul reached into his coat and gave Jack a card. With all the new technology, the simple business card had made a surprising comeback. It was so retro. People had them in wild colors and with holograms, and sometimes they smelled like the ocean or the forest.
“Call me if there’s something I really need to know. And I will return the favor with anything I can do for you.”
Jack took the card. “Okay. That sounds reasonable.”
“What is your name?”
“Jack Willman.”
“Thanks, Jack. You don’t mind if I call you from time to time?”
“No.”
“I appreciate it. And maybe we’ll have a meal, all four of us.”
“I’m single now.”
“Well, that won’t be a permanent condition. You seem like a great guy. If I meet someone I think you’d like, I’ll set you up.”
“Not another woman.”
“No, I gathered that.”
* * *
The smell inside the tented Rose Bowl was horrible. The ventilation system was broken and no one had come to fix it. Brad Miller lay on his bunk and