They met at a rally.  A war rally, though it doesn't really matter now.  It wasn't a war that was remembered beyond a blip on the after-work, shoes-off news.  Besides, they knew.  Don't think Hollywood on this one; the idealism of the day didn't put rose-colored glasses on those two.  If anything, their sight was crystal. They knew.  From the vantage point of remembrance it may seem as if they were fools.  But only to those who are fools themselves.

She was angry, that day.  She was angry and young and white in America; hardly a rarity, in those days.  Hell, that's hardly a rarity these days.  She certainly had reason enough to be angry; as I said she was young and white (obviously, she was female) and, perhaps most importantly, she was in America.  When he first spotted her, his quarry, his target, his story, when he first saw her, he blanched.  In every possible sense.  She was on the fringes of the demonstration, leaning against an impossibly wide oak and looking as if she didn't quite know what was happening, as if she didn't belong.  Oddly, she was the principal organizer of this and several other planned, publicized, ineffective rallies.  He knew right away that the reason for the incongruous wrath in her eyes did not live in the White House.  He approached just as she was turning away from the action.  It appeared as though she had seen enough.  He paused; she seemed much smaller, much shorter, from behind.  Careful not to touch her, even to get her attention, he wondered what tact would gain him an in.  That's all they care about, those newspapermen; an in.  His best bet was excuse me…the perfect place to start.  Courtliness.  Simplicity.  It was better in all possible ways than hey.

            Excuse me. 

            Yeah?                                  She knew his game.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah.                

                                                        She wasn't playing.  She probably would have gone  

                                                        for at least an Ibegyourpardon if he'd said hey.

            My name is Jonathan, Jonathan King.  I'm sure you've heard of me.

                                                        There.  The egotist.  The boor.  He had her all figured   


            Did you want something?

                                                        Perhaps not. 

            Yes.  I was wondering if you might be willing to grant me an interview.  I'm       writing a piece on today's proceedings for The Voice.  I'd love to have your input.

                                                         She paused.  Clearly she knew how much he needed

                                                         her involvement.  Clearly she knew she had him                                                     


            I bet you would.  The Voice, hmm?  Not exactly our slice of pie, you know.  A bit

            too…well I suspect you know what it is. 

                                                         She glanced back at those demonstrators who were

                                                         still in the throes of political fervor.  Their rhyming

                                                         threats were only efficacious at drawing attention to

                                                         their naïveté.

            Tell me, Jonathan.  Exactly what sort of spin are you supposed to put on


                                                            He let a beat pass.  He wasn't sure of exactly what

                                                            to say; if he missed his cue, or was one word off

                                                            she'd probably brush him off.

            Well, as you said, I know what The Voice is.  And I suspect that you do as well.

                                                            He hit the mark with that one.  She hmm'ed her



            So what do you say?  Care to give aid  and comfort to the enemy?