Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [46]
Donald Trump: 19 percent
Other: 5 percent
NINETEEN
William Howard Taft had been many things: Yalie, Bonesman, federal judge, solicitor general, secretary of war, governor of the Philippines, president of the United States of America. Through it all, his highest aspiration in life, to become chief justice of the Supreme Court, had eluded him. Another thing he’d never been—not that he’d ever truly wanted to—was a teetotaler.
That being said, he mused as he exerted every effort, both mental and physical, to avoid slipping off his barstool, I don’t think I’ve ever been drunker than I am right at this moment.
“Hey, watch it,” said Kowalczyk, elbowing Taft in the ribs—or, rather, at the padding surrounding them. He was completely turned around on his stool, engrossed in Rob’s band as they set up their instruments on the tiny stage at the back of the bar. While guitars were unpacked and a drum kit assembled, Rob, still sloshed but sobered up enough to remain upright, walked to the center of the stage. It sagged visibly under the skinny man’s weight.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw a punk show,” Kowalczyk said, swaying a bit in his seat. “I guess if you’re gonna ring in the New Year, you might as well do it loud.” He pivoted around and yelled at Sam, “Hey, is your brother’s band any damn good?”
From behind the bar, Sam snorted. “No. They’re terrible.” She plucked a mug from a bin of dirty water and began drying it with an equally dirty rag. “That’s the whole point.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Taft said, assembling the sentence using the full focus of his concentration.
“It’s hard to explain,” said Kowalczyk. “Let’s just say that punk rock isn’t trying to be pretty. It’s … it’s kind of like protest music.”
“Protesting what?” spit Taft.
“Intelligence, mostly,” cut in Sam. “At least in the Lousy Kissers’ case. Don’t get me wrong. I’m more of a classic-rock girl myself, but I’ve got nothing against punk. Honestly, though, Rob’s band makes GG Allin look like Beethoven.”
To punctuate her point, the haggard guitarist of the Lousy Kissers let loose an exploratory stab of feedback from his amplifier. Taft picked up two napkins and used them to cover his ears. “Isn’t it a little early for them to be starting?” he yelled over the din. “I thought this was meant to be the evening’s entertainment. For lack of a better word.”
“Uh, Bill,” said Sam, slipping two more shots of bourbon across the bar to Taft and Kowalczyk as if performing a magic trick, “it is evening. It’s nine-thirty.”
“Nine-thirty?” He rooted around his body for a pocket watch, then remembered he no longer carried one. No one did. He sighed, took out his phone, and hastily thumbed past a few missed calls from Susan and Rachel to check the time. “Thunderation.” She was right. The last few hours had slipped by in a watery, whiskey-drenched haze.
Sam laughed and threw out her arms. “Welcome to my time machine.”
Taft stared hard at her. “Oh, don’t even get me started about time machines, young lady.”
Kowalczyk jabbed him in the ribs again. Rather than looking suspicious, though, Sam flashed Taft a dazzling smile. “Young lady! It’s been a long time since someone called me that. Let alone a distinguished gentleman like yourself.”
It may have been the booze, but Taft could have sworn he heard a note of something other than teasing in Sam’s tone. It had been a long time—longer than he cared to remember, seeing as how a chill had crept into the conjugal bed soon after he and Nellie had married—since a woman had spoken to him in that way. Taft grabbed the shot of bourbon before him and downed it like a giant draining a thimble. “This is really doing wonders for me.”
But neither Sam nor Kowalczyk heard him. Or anything else. At that moment, the Lousy Kissers started playing.
At first it was a dull roar. Then a sharp one. Then it sounded like a locomotive—no, a dozen locomotives, all crashing into one another. As if a switch had been thrown, the slouching, indolent-looking young men in the Lousy Kissers jumped to life. At the front was Rob,