Chapter Thirty-Six

Birds squawked overhead. Gary stood on the front of the boat like a masthead, breathing in the salty mist and gazing into the pink sunrise. They had searched for Howard all night without success. The congressman crushed dried-up white carnation petals in his hand and then let their remains flutter down into the pink ripples. He turned around and faced the people on the boat.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll introduce your bill.”
There were no cheers. It was impossible to be happy under the circumstances.
Gary hopped off the bow, looked at the dried up flowers on the deck, and sighed.
“First things first,” he said. “I need to get a white carnation.”
“We’ve got a whole truck full,” Natasha said.
Gary shook his head. “No. I’ll get my own. I can’t accept any special favors. It wouldn’t be right.”
David realized that they had the right man. This was the Gary Ackerman they’d come searching for: the fiercely honest man, ready to stand up for what was right, no matter what the consequences.
***
The plan had been to simply roll Howard into the congressional hearing. Even though all of the congressmen had sold themselves to the Antifreeze Lobby, when they saw Howard’s sad state, they would feel so miserable and guilty that they would cast their votes to embitter antifreeze. But now Howard was gone. They considered using another dog in a bubble (one of Earl Sandwich’s hounds perhaps,) but that wouldn’t work—a purebred in a bubble wasn’t adequately pathetic to move hearts and Howard was the only bubble-bound dog without a pedigree.
There was only one thing to do to move those congressional hearts and make them rebel against their corporate masters. David would read a poem about Howard the mutt. His poem would communicate the raw emotion of a dog forced to live the rest of his life in a bubble, without petting, without games of fetch. It would be poetry at its purest.
***
Congressman Ackerman arranged for them to set up their flower show on the lawn of Capitol Hill. He thought more public exposure would help their case. (The Antifreeze Lobby wanted to keep it quiet.) At first they set up on the west lawn, but that was right across the street from the U.S. Botanic Garden. People thought they were just a special exhibit of the botanic garden, and didn’t realize that they were something special: a traveling flower caravan bringing inspiration to all the people. So they moved to the east side of the lawn.
They parked the trucks on the side of the lawn and moved the flowers out into a circle around the gazebo truck.
It was a beautiful day for a flower show. A few puffy white clouds wafted along the bright blue sky, the sun shone down approvingly, and the flowers inspired swarms of tourists from every corner of the globe to realize what was really important in life. The tourists also marveled at the freedom which Americans enjoyed: to be able to set up a flower show on the lawn of their Capitol Building!
David sat in the grass and read his new poem, My Puppy Drank Poison, to the tulips. Elizabeth eagerly explained the various species and types of flowers to her guests. The foreign tourists took photographs of the flowers, but they seemed more interested in taking pictures of Marcy. Apparently only Americans liked skinny women.
Congressman Ackerman was watching all this from a lawn chair. Derrick sat down on the chair next to him.
“Don’t sit so close to me,” the congressman said. “I can’t take special favors. I don’t want you keeping the mosquitoes away from me.”
“But there’s no mosquitoes this morning,” Derrick said. “There’re no bugs at all.”
“Just get away from me.”
Derrick stood and shuffled away.
Someone walked up to David and cast a shadow over his notebook. “Welcome to the capitol,” a familiar voice said.
David looked up and saw two figures in black suits carrying black briefcases. Agents Lugo and Black of the Department of Agriculture.
“Somebody wants to talk with you,” Agent Black said.
“Come with us,” Agent Lugo said.
The two agents turned and started to walk away. David hopped up, pocketed his notebook, and hustled after them.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We told you, someone wants to meet you,” Lugo said.
“Who?”
“Someone important.”
But they were walking away from the Capitol Building, away from the direction of all the important people. They got to the street and started to cross.
“Who wants to talk to me?” David demanded. “Does this person have a name?”
“You’re going to meet the Librarian,” Lugo told him.
“The old lady who returns the books to the shelves?” David asked.
“No,” Lugo said. “The Librarian of Congress.”
He pointed to the impressive Thomas Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress right in front of them.
“What’s he want with me?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
They walked up through the entrance, past the reception desk, and through a large reading room. The middle of the room was filled with large table where researchers delved into dusty, obscure tomes. The bookshelves lining the walls reached up several stories to the glass dome where a chandelier hung.
“Why don’t you tell me what this is all about,” David said.
“Shhh.” Lugo raised an index finger to his lips and whispered, “You’re in a library. People are trying to read.”
“Sorry,” David whispered.
They walked on in silence. David tried to step lightly, so his shoes wouldn’t make noise.
They turned into an office area, where people sat at desks and typed away at computers, but even they seemed to obey the library rules of quiet. They looked up at him and stared silently. David felt important, going to his meeting with the Librarian.
At the end of the hall, a small woman sat typing at her computer. The nametag on her desk said: Secretary to the Librarian. She gave them a small smile of recognition, gestured with her hand, “one moment,” and picked up the phone. “The gentlemen from the Department of Agriculture are here to see you.” She waited for a response, then said, “Yes sir,” and hung up. “Go right in. The Librarian will see you now.”
Lugo opened the heavy wooden door to the office and walked in, followed by David. Agent Black brought up the rear. The office was spacious but had no windows. All of the walls were filled with bookshelves. A straight-backed old man in a blue suit stood to greet them. He had a thick mane of white hair and the pink, pasty skin of a man who had never been in the sunlight—a man who stayed in libraries. He walked around his large oak desk, held out his hand, and smiled without opening his mouth.
“David,” the Librarian said. He spoke through his nose and his voice sounded like a kazoo. “Pleased to meet you.”
They shook hands. The Librarian’s hand was as dry as paper.
“I’m glad I finally got the chance to meet you,” the old man said, motioning for them to sit on the leather chairs. “I’ve heard a lot about you, about your flowers, and about your poetry.”
David, Lugo, and Black sat down. The Librarian leaned back against his desk and folded his arms.
“We’re the largest library in the world,” he said and then proceeded to explain all about the Library of Congress, its history, how the Congress relied upon it for information, how the library was organized, how the Dewey Decimal System worked. David tried to nod in all the right places.
“My job is to administer the Library of Congress,” the Librarian said. “I’m responsible for overseeing over four thousand employees. And I have one other very interesting responsibility. Do you know what that is?
“Appointing the Poet Laureate?” David said.
“That’s right,” the Librarian kazooed. “As the Librarian of Congress, I have sole prerogative in selecting the national Poet Laureate.” He sat down at his desk and crossed his hands. “The Poet Laureate is the most important poet in America. He’s the lightning rod for our national poetic inspiration. We don’t pile a lot of responsibilities on his back. We like to give him the freedom to work on his craft. So we give him a stipend of thirty-five thousand dollars. Some Poet Laureates write poems for major events like inaugurations, but it’s not required. He’s the cattle prod for our nation’s enthusiasm about poetry. It’s his responsibility to get schoolchildren excited about poetry again. And it’s been a long time since schoolchildren were excited about poetry.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Agent Black said.
“You,” the Librarian pointed at David. “You’re quite a poet.”
“Thank you.”
The old man nodded. “Your poetry makes people think. And feel.”
“Thank you.”
“Now I personally haven’t read any of your poems, but Agent Lugo here tells me he was quite impressed.”
Lugo tried to keep a straight face, but his eyes rolled a little.
“And I trust Agent Lugo’s opinion when it comes to poetry,” the Librarian continued.
David remembered Lugo’s reaction when he had read his poem. Agent Lugo had hated the poem. It had made him physically sick.
The Librarian turned to Lugo. “What was that poem?”
“The Fire of Flowers,” Lugo responded.
“Fire of Flowers,” the Librarian repeated, testing the feel of the words on his tongue. “F-f-fire of f-f-flowers. A fine alliteration. Most of these new poets nowadays couldn’t alliterate to save their souls. Some of them don’t even know how to rhyme.”
David nodded politely.
“Ordinarily the job isn’t given to someone so young,” the Librarian said. “It’s awarded to someone more established, with a collection of published works. But in your case…”
“I’ve been published,” David said.
“Really?”
“I have one poem called Help Wanted. It was published.”
“H-h-help w-w-wanted,” the Librarian said, testing for alliteration. He didn’t find any. “Help wanted. We all need a little help sometimes. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to help you, an aspiring young poet. I think you’d make a fine Poet Laureate.”
David wondered if accepting the Poet Laureate would compromise his status as a workingman poet. No. Probably not. And it would certainly impress his father.
“Even I need help,” the Librarian continued. “In fact, there’s something you could do to help me.”
“What’s that?”
The Librarian grinned dryly. He lowered his voice to a whisper even though no one in the room trying to read.
“This antifreeze bill. David, I need your help to make it go away. This is America. We’re supposed to be the freest country in the world. We don’t need the government sticking its big nose in private business. People can’t just blame businesses because they don’t want to be responsible for their own children and pets.”
“I don’t understand,” David said. “What do you want me to do?”
“I know about the poem you’re writing. About your dog in the bubble.”
“You don’t want me to read the poem?”
“I want you to read the poem. I just think you should make a few changes. For example, you could make the dog a Rottweiler. And give him rabies. Make us afraid. Make us glad that he’s in a bubble. The bubble is protecting civilization. Just don’t make us feel bad for the dog.”
David felt dizzy. It was worse than Dr. McGee had thought. The Antifreeze Lobby had gotten to the Library of Congress. Even the Department of Agriculture was in on this. Was there no limit to the radius of the Antifreeze Lobby’s tentacles?
David shook his head. “You asking me to take a fall? To deliberately write a bad poem?”
“Listen to me. I didn’t get to be Librarian of Congress by being a complete idiot. I know a thing or two about poetry. I’ve read quite a bit more than you and I’ve even written some poetry myself. Poetry is a business. The road to becoming a great poet is not always straight. It’s not as simple as doing your best and always writing the best poem you can. You have to play the game. You need a strategy. Sometimes, one bad poem can lead to great things. Just write one poem that falls flat. Something without heart. Something cold. Something that doesn’t make us feel bad about dogs in bubbles. And you can go on to great things. And the position of Poet Laureate isn’t a bad place to start. You can become the greatest poet America has ever produced.”
Maybe the Librarian was right. If David was Poet Laureate, he would have a wide audience. He could do a lot of great things. More than just bittering antifreeze. He could make the workingmen wake up. He could change the world.
No. He couldn’t sell out all those children and puppy dogs. He was ashamed for even considering it. There were so many people counting on him. Not just the children and the dogs. Howard floating around the Atlantic in his bubble was counting on him. Congressman Ackerman who always stood up for what was right, no matter what the consequences, was counting on him. Natasha was counting on him.
“I won’t do it,” David said.
The Librarians lips grew hard and he snarled. The two agents looked away and shook their heads.
David added hopefully, “Can I still be Poet Laureate?”
***
כ''א באדר הראשון
ירושלים
February 27, 2008
Jerusalem