|
|
American |
|
|
Write:
|
I was in a cold sweat, shaking beneath the normally warm and comforting flannel sheets and late fall-winter quilt that covered the bed. I didn’t know where I was or how I got there, and everything was fresh on my mind. I had been in the middle of my confirmation hearing. If you think that was shocking, consider the fact that I didn’t even know that I’d been nominated, or for what, but there I sat, looking eyeball-to-eyeball into Ted Kennedy’s (bloodshot) eyes, Patrick Leahy’s benign smile, Orin Hatch’s wry preacher’s scowl, and Committee Chairman Arlen Specter’s sneer. I was having trouble hearing. “Would you please repeat that question, Senator? Or was it a statement?” “Do not get smart with us, Mr. Mahn. We know all about you. We know about that letter you wrote in the fifth grade. Yes, the one that Sister Honoria intercepted. The one that you were trying to give to a young lady, a Miss O’Malley, I believe. Is that not true?” “What’s true? That I wrote the letter? That is was taken by Sister Honoria? That she paddled me after she read it? That it was supposed to be for Miss O’Malley?” “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!,” he screamed. “Okay,” I sheepishly answered. “I wrote that letter.” “Well?” the Senator said, dragging out the sound like an eraser on the old chalkboard in that little room at the Catholic parochial school where I went to school each day for eight (8) years. “Well, what, Senator?” I replied, as respectfully as that might be said. “Well, what?!” he shot back. The man had as much Irish as me, never allowing a question to go without another being asked. “Well, what?!” he repeated, increasing the volume. “Well, what?!” he exclaimed, a third time, gaining a cadence and a rhythm. Soon the benches behind me were responding with ‘Amen!’ and arms were waving to and fro (that’s back and forth, I believe, in the old English), and some were even humming, as if the Senator was about to break forth in song. I still do not know why I did what I did at that moment, but, suddenly, the power of a suggestion implanted by a dear friend years earlier suddenly came to mind, ‘when in doubt, jump up and dance,’ which is what I did, then and there, raising my arms and clapping, and turning to the audience. They were going crazy. I let loose my best Gene Kelly moves, grabbing an umbrella that a cameraman had, and doing the ‘dancing in the rain’ number, as the music materialized amazingly from nowhere, then, to top it off, giving them a dose of James Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandee, as that great patriotic hymn burst forth, its sound echoing off the walls of the Senate chamber. Two of the guards picked-up American flags and began marching behind me as I tap-danced on the desk top, leapt across to the dais of the Senators, and toe-danced lightly down it, even flipping off a top hat (where did that come from?) and allowing it to land on old Kennedy’s head, which brought a smile to his face and a roar from the crowd. Then I sat down, adjusted my tie, and leaned into the microphone. In my soto voce (I think that’s operatic or movie-script talk for low voice) , I spoke, “I’ll tell you what, Senator, and I’ll even tell you why. I’ll reveal information about who, how, and where, for the record, of course.” I had them in the grip of my hand. They nodded politely. Chairman Specter humbly said, “Thank you, Mr. Mahn, please continue. We would like very much to have this in the record.” “And, Senator, if you do not object, also on the record, so that we might play it later. Why not on a 45 or 33 rpm? What would be wrong with that? There is so much discrimination in the record industry, today. Old technologies are abandoned and left to sit on street corners, begging. Is that the kind of America we want? That’s not the America of my dreams.” The audience began to applaud. Some had tears in their eyes. Many rose and the applause continued. Soon, the entire room was clapping, and the Senators allowed it until I raised a hand, and the Chairman began to lightly raise the gavel. “Thank you, thank you,” I said, continuing. “Yes, Senators, I think you have every right to ask every question and to have all questions in and on the record.” Again the audience erupted, and the Chairman raised the gavel, again, admonishing, gently, “Please, please, allow Mr. Mahn to continue.” You could’ve heard a pin drop. It was a Sprint moment. “But, Senators, I think we all share the same concern about the emotional affect my answers could have on Ms. O’Malley, who now may have been married and raised a family and may even have grandchildren, some of whom may be watching us right now. Shouldn’t their own mother or grandmother be given the first opportunity to explain to them the circumstances of that event, or, better yet, why should she have to say a word about a matter so long passed and between a boy, a girl, and their teacher? ” “Think she’s still hot?” Kennedy whispered to Leahy, but gruffly, with every word picked-up by the high-tech, ultra-sensitive microphones. “Love this hat,” he mused, again soto voce, but clearly heard, as he played with the top hat. I wanted that back. Jimmy Cagney gave it to me, and that was worth something. Hmm. Maybe something that might get ole Kennedy on my side. “And what about dear Sister Honoria, Senators,” I pressed, “who spent 40 years with youngsters like me, and now, having her one action of invasion of privacy called into question, her potential child abuse also brought up to public scrutiny. What about her? She now rests in a convent nursing home. I’ve never filed a complaint and besides, the statute of limitations has run out, according to my counsel.” My Lord! There beside me sat Melvin Belli and F. Lee Bailey. They were smiling broadly, and smugly. The Senators were red-faced with shame. Not a word was said. It was time to take them off the hook. “Do you know what I say about this matter, Senators?” They looked puzzled. Even the Chairman sat back, wondering. I asked the same question and this time the Chairman caught the cue. “Please tell us, Mr. Mahn.” The cameras closed-in around me. 347 microphones were stuck at my face. I counted each and every one. The Thai broadcasting reporter was exceptionally attractive. I saw a trickle of perspiration slide down her neck towards her bronze cleavage, but this was not about me, this was for America, and I had no time to allow my thoughts to wander. That could happen later. I held out my hand and she slipped her business card into it, which I slid into my coat pocket as I began to speak. “I think that some things should remain private.” There was a long silence and then, slowly, one-by-one, the audience rose in tribute, politely clapping. I then stood up. “Senators, it’s in your hands now. I’m leaving. Thank you.” I leaned forward to Kennedy and whispered in a voice unheard by the microphone, “You may keep the hat.” I winked at him and began walking out of the room as the cameras flashed. Why were they using the old-fashioned bulbs, like in a Bogart movie? “What did he say?” Kennedy loudly whispered to Leahy. “He said you could keep the hat,” Leahy answered. “Nice,” Kennedy said, playing with the hat brim. I don’t know what they did after that. Somebody told me it was all over the TV and radio, but I went straight to the cabin on the Chesapeake, which, until then, I did not even know we owned. I poured a spitzer, which I don’t drink, but that’s what she wanted, so I joined her as we sat by the fire and I examined where that trickle of perspiration had gone. I had a lot to tell my wife, and some questions of my own I wanted to ask, like when we got the cabin. I don’t mind being kept in the dark about minor stuff, but a luxurious cabin, fully appointed? A man needs to know some things. Of course, she was going to have a few questions of her own, like, “What the hell were you doing in Washington all week? And who is Bong Jong Dai? Is that a woman? You were talking about her in your sleep.” “I think it was that Chinese I had last night.” “That wasn’t Chinese. That was Thai,” she said. I smiled and didn’t say another word.
|
