Maybe sensing the rhythms of the school year, he breaks up with you just before summer. He does it at the office, which you find appropriate. In the part of you that knows the truth, you didn’t think it would be forever. Still, it comes as a shock. He says, “We’ve had a great time, Aviva, and in another life, maybe. But the timing is wrong.”
You start to cry, and you feel like a dope.
“No,” he says, “don’t cry. It isn’t you. I like you more than I probably should. I think your future is enormously bright. But the more I think about it . . . I think I’ll sleep better if . . . I think we’ll all sleep better if . . . I’m not comfortable being the kind of man who sleeps with a subordinate. I know I’m not your immediate supervisor, but still . . . It’s selfish of me, and it’s wrong. I wouldn’t like it if someone treated my own children that way.”
“We’re just having fun,” you say. You’re starting to ugly cry.
“You sure don’t look like you’re having much fun, kid,” he says.
“Do you want me to quit?”
He wipes your tears on his sleeve.
“Of course not,” he says. “You’re one of the best interns we’ve ever had. Now that the school year’s over, Jorge wants to promote you to a paid staff position. I’m not supposed to be the one to tell you. Act surprised when you hear, okay?”
You nod.
He pats you on the shoulder. “We’re lucky,” he said. “We got to have this time, and we didn’t ruin anyone’s life in the process. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but one day, you’ll look back and think this was a very good outcome.”
An outcome, you think. When I was young, I had this affair, and wow, what an outcome!
“You’re smiling about something,” he says.
You’re a big girl, and you pull your shoulders back, and you don’t put up a fuss. Later, you yell at your mother, but you know it isn’t her fault. You yell at her because she’s there and because she’s your mother and she’ll take it.
If you continue working for the congressman.
If you stop working for the congressman.
You continue working for the congressman. You are good at this job, and your discretion when you were still having the affair means you don’t have any reason to leave. You congratulate yourself on your maturity. In the past, you have had trouble seeing things through.
You occasionally date, but you don’t meet anyone you like as well as the congressman. Charlie Greene has lost interest in you. In the years to come, he runs a presidential campaign, and then he becomes chief of staff, and then he semiretires from politics and moves to Los Angeles to become a consultant on an award-winning political soap opera. Sometimes you still see him as a commentator on news channels. He never changes. You will wonder, How is it that he gets to do so many things and he never changes? How is it that you have done so little and you change like a second hand on a clock? Why is he allowed to be constant, the eternal Charlie Greene? Why are you the protean Aviva Grossman?
Roz Horowitz sets you up with her nephew, Archie, who has recently passed the bar and has just begun practicing human rights law. “It’s the ‘good person’ kind of law, not the scumbag kind of law,” Roz says. “You’ll have a lot in common. And he’s not bad looking, Aviva. Trust me, he’s your type.” You wonder how on earth Roz Horowitz would know what your type is.
You ask your mother if she told Roz Horowitz about the congressman. Your mother says, “Aviva! Of course not! I’m a vault!”
Ultimately, you go on the date because your mother wants you to go and because it has been four and a half months—you have pined enough. Archie is handsome—in the looks department, he does remind you of the congressman—and funny and passionate about his work. (Maybe you should apply to law school after all?) You can’t fault his taste in restaurants (Japanese-Cuban fusion) or in clothes (conservative, but his socks have lobsters on them). Still, you don’t sense much chemistry there.
“I had a great time,” Archie says over dessert. “And we could definitely hang out again. But you should know, I’m gay. I’m not entirely out to my extended family. I should have told Aunt Roz, but once you tell her anything, you might as well have made a press release.”
“I can’t ever tell who’s gay and who’s not,” you say. “My old roommate used to say I have no gaydar.”
“Well, thank God for that. I loathe people who have gaydar. It’s just a kind of prejudice, but it’s got that funny word, so people think it’s funny. You know what people who have great gaydar usually are? Bigots.”
“Maybe we can start a campaign against gaydar?” you say.
“Let’s do it,” Archie says.
“It’s not as hard as you think,” you say. “You publish a few op-eds in prominent places, or you know, whatever places will have you. The first pieces can be of a more humorous bent. Anything to raise awareness. Maybe you get lucky and people start blogging about the issue. You call local TV stations. They’ll probably ignore you, which is why you try to recruit a gay-friendly politician—maybe it’s a city councilman representing South Beach or any area with a fair number of gay constituents—to introduce a piece of legislation or even just a proclamation about ‘casually homophobic hate speech, particularly the use of the word gaydar.’ You go online and you try to find a message board of like-minded individuals to come out with signs and rally against gaydar.”
“Gaydar, get yar ass out of here!” Archie suggests. “Out of har?”
“Yeah . . . ,” you say, smiling and wrinkling your nose. “Or something better even?”
“I’ll work on it,” Archie says.
“At the hearing, you get a photogenic high school kid to tell a story about how he or she has been negatively impacted by use of the word gaydar. You call the news stations again. This time, they come. You’ve got a politician, a high school kid, and a mob of people with signs. You’ve got the mayor or the head of the city council having to say the word gaydar awkwardly over and over—”
Archie makes his voice sound square and conservative, “So, what precisely is the gayyy-darrrr?”
“Exactly. I mean, it’s great footage. Like, how can they resist us?
“Even if you fail to get gaydar officially banned—which you won’t because no one’s going to ban a word—by the time you’re done, you’ve at least raised awareness, maybe, one percent. And maybe some of those people will pause before they say gaydar.”
“They’ll pause and say, ‘Now I know this isn’t PC . . .’ and then, they’ll say it anyway,” Archie says.
“But think how validated you’ll feel by that clause. It’s a win!”
“I don’t know if this is depressing or inspiring,” Archie says.
“It’s definitely inspiring,” you say. “Lots of drops in the bucket.”
“Would you call all of this politics or press?” Archie jokes.
“Press,” you say, and then you think better of it. “Maybe they’re the same thing.”