Читать книгу Prison Wars: An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened By Martin Sanger - Martin Sänger - Страница 6

I pretty much stayed up all night watching television. Prison Wars was the top story on every network within an hour. All night long, it dominated the news channel talk shows.

Callers asked all the questions you’d expect. Less than half of those who called in considered it a good idea. Of the supporters, about ninety-nine percent were male. More than half of the anchors editorialized their disapproval and said we ought to do what we could to stop it. A significant number of people, I’m glad to report, expressed alarm.

It was predictable that everyone would want to know more about the man behind the program. Some networks had slapped together bios of Quentin. Many, I’m proud to say, quoted my original profile of Quentin in Fortune magazine. As will happen, his old associates and supposed lovers showed up to spill dirt.

It was now apparent why he was cultivating me as a publicist. Speculation was rampant for the next few days. Who could believe that someone could pull off such a seemingly impossible arrangement? Surely this person was perverse. But just as certainly he must have been both rich and a genius (a combination that provides fascination for both men and women).

In fact, Quentin’s life had been rather unremarkable. He went to the same local high school, Palisades High, that his children were slated to go to. His picture in his senior year yearbook wasn’t distinguishable from all the other blonde, shoulder length, stringy haired boys of his generation and neighborhood.

At UCLA he majored in business and finance and graduated in the middle of his class. He did, he claimed, “Enough to not get kicked out.”

Following Quentin’s undistinguished graduation, he started his own venture capital company. His company did have the strange distinction of mostly funding the development of products for the toy market. His company, ‘Play On,’ developed the “Radio Doll” and the “Kiddie Credit Cards Buying Clubs.” Other than that, his career had been entirely pedestrian.

In response to all of the vitriolic condemnation of him as the incarnation of evil, I had to produce sympathetic humanized depictions of him. This homespun-style spin about him was primarily intended to protect his family from attack. He really did worry about them being vilified.

But more practically, he saw his wholesome image as the best defense he had against his critics. I don’t think he anticipated the strength of the opposition to Prison Wars. He was visibly shaken by the hostile responses at the press conference.

His remarks about the inheritability of evil didn’t play well in the media. His flip remarks about the fate of the prisoners didn’t convince people that he cared much for individual lives. Prison Wars incensed all the human rights groups at once. His rich children not going to jail put the spotlight on the fact that the prisons are mostly filled with people that come from poverty.

The only shining light in his series of responses at the first press conference were those about his family and taking personal responsibility for them. While denouncing the plan, due to the sanctity of life, a few right-leaning commentators agreed that family cohesion should be the basis of our morals. And, even Prison Wars’ critics could see that his love for his family was real.

Creating positive spin about his having a warm and tight knit family wasn’t too hard to do. He had as normal and happy a family life as I had ever witnessed. His wife, Melissa, and he had been married 13 years when I met him. Their older son, Justin was a sixth grade soccer player and Samantha was a normal third grader with a passion for ballet lessons. They were very close to the ideal American family.

Life had always been easy for Quentin. No major setbacks had marred his life. Well fed and cared for his entire life, he never had occasion to even develop a mean streak or an instinct for protection. His was a stress-free existence. And this ease and uncomplicated sense of well-being pervaded the feeling of his family.

Quentin’s laugh lines weren’t there due to smugness and they weren’t fake. People picked up on that. Early on I figured out that one source of his happiness was the extreme joy he took in small things. Quentin was truly happy. I miss and am still uplifted by thinking of how much pleasure he would derive from his habit of picking up little items and looking at them.

But I correct myself – they weren’t little things to him. Quentin liked to breathe, to hear people’s voices, having eyes to see snippets of life. During every conversation his demeanor silently said, “Isn’t it fantastic to be alive.” His presence made you aware of how little you appreciated your own existence. I planted this personal magnetism angle into nearly all articles, press releases, and inquiry responses I wrote on his behalf.

My spin job was also intended to protect Quentin’s mental sanity. As I had already mentioned, his charm came from his relaxed low-key demeanor. Outside of the moments of discomfort he experienced at the press conference, I never saw him worried about anything in the early days. The crevices of his laugh lines were never covered over. He had a permanent smile.

He prized his smile even more that his projects. Quentin wanted both and expected he could have both. Unfortunately, my spin couldn’t keep him from his public image. Herein, lies an interesting dynamic and lesson; don’t believe the hype. It will distort you until you are completely lost. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The morning after the press conference, when I arrived at Quentin’s Malibu home, we all went on a beach excursion. It was a family only, no business allowed, beach trip. But he did have a personal goal that he snuck into the day. As his main publicity agent Quentin felt I had to know him and his family well. This was essential to my being able to paint a picture of him as a family man.

But, Quentin wasn’t simply being scheming or manipulative. He was, as I have indicated, one of the kindest and most spiritually generous people I ever met. I think he could tell that I was lonely. My family had never been tight. I think that he knew that I needed a family and he wanted to help me be happy; to have a sense of belonging in the universe.

It wasn’t just me. Wherever he went he seemed to key into people’s deep need for love and recognition. Knowing him made one realize how lonely Americans are. Our professionalism hid a lot of pain. A large part of his charisma and power over people came from his extraordinary warmth to perfect strangers. A surprising amount of folks are easily manipulated because they are starved for common friendship.

Beyond it just being Quentin’s nature to be loving, he hoped that by making me a part of the family, he would be able to conduct business without having strangers on his property. I was to be that fine line between his personal and professional life. Having no children or close family of my own, I was really happy about this part of my assignment. I felt like an adopted puppy.

The day after the press conference, a limo came to my hotel and dropped me off at Quentin and Melissa’s place. It was fun and unnerving to be in a limousine. I was really conscious that people must be looking at my vehicle and wondering who rode inside. My first inclination was to roll down the window, lean out and proclaim, “It’s me, it’s me! I get to be in a limousine!” But that would be silly. So I kept the windows rolled up and sealed myself off from view.

Being resolved just to take my seat in the limo and quietly reflect on the night before morphed into self-scrutiny. I started asking myself, ‘Why am I in a limousine?’ ‘Am I special?’ ‘Different?’ ‘Aren’t I just that little guy from Nebraska?’

Since I didn’t describe it before, let me describe Malibu now. For those of you who don’t know, Malibu is an idyllic community on the coast of the Pacific Ocean, Northwest of Los Angeles. Though definitely in the mix of Los Angeles, Malibu is cut off from it in many ways.

For one thing, it is a part of Los Angeles where the air is clean. It doesn’t strike one as a place where commerce happens at all. Facing a marvelous quasi-private beach, it feels like a tropical island paradise. Every home in Malibu has the perfection of homes in Better Homes and Gardens or Architectural Digest. Malibu is the sort of place that so lacks a dark side that it almost manifests one by an inconspicuous absence.

And yet Malibu doesn’t give you that foreboding sense other rich suburbs have. That’s because it is permeated with a very homespun, country nuance. Ostentatious homes tend to make us not-so-rich folks to feel like we should know our place. In many rich communities I am ever so slightly, but consciously, aware that if I don’t comport myself well, if I am not on my best behavior, I may be taken for a criminal or member of a lower order and possibly arrested. Malibu doesn’t create the sense of paranoia other suburbs do.

When I arrived Quentin and Melissa were having coffee on the back porch of their home. The white lattice woodwork and well-placed ivy is one of the reasons my description is so apropos. Their having enough money to create as great an approximation of heaven as they wished didn’t result anything but good taste and a nice home. I felt very comfortable.

As I approached, Quentin came up and embraced me! Melissa politely stood up and gave me a not too strong handshake.

Melissa is a beautiful woman. She had a one-piece bathing suit with a plaid shirt tied around her waist. Her beauty is that of the Malibu country-style natural sort. Her auburn hair is full, and it bounced all the way down to her chest. Her eyes are so light brown that her pupils really stand out. And you can tell that she spends a lot of time in the sun. But being slightly wrinkled by the sun only added to her rustic wholesomeness

“So. You are Marty!” She smiled, shook her head, and emphasized several words via pacing, as though I was a really pleasant surprise. “Quent has really taken a shine to you.”

“Looks that way.” My reply was accompanied by a somewhat nervous glance at Quentin. His smile was reassuring and they held hands.

“You must be a pretty great guy then.” She said staring right into my eyes.

“Aww, gee shucks.” My comfort level at receiving love wasn’t all that high and Melissa was really direct about relationship dynamics. That was a direct extension of her country robustness.

It really felt awkward to me. Awkwardly, as if to deflect it, I returned the compliment, “And he being such a good judge of character, I must also then be in the company of a really special lady.”

I realized that she had only been smiling with her eyes as the full compliment of her teeth came out.

“You work for Fortune magazine?”

“Yeah. But Quentin wants me to work for him. And with all this charm and love, I feel somewhat like I’m crawling into a spider web.”

“We don’t bite. We’re cool people. You should think about it.” Melissa offered earnestly.

“I am.”

We all sat down together on their porch and had some coffee while we waited for the children. She asked and I told her about my slow rise to being a junior reporter on the Fortune staff.

“Hard work! Now that’s the way, eh Quent?” She shot out with a gentle mocking and a humorous glance at his eyes with hers.

“Yes dear. Diligence and sweat are the stuff of manliness.” They both laughed: he a short guffaw and she a twinkling snicker.

“I guess you guys think that’s the fool’s way up the ladder.” I queried somewhat hurt.

“I don’t think Quent’s ever worked more than four hours a day. He likes ideas.”

“Other people’s ideas.” Again they both laughed in unison.

“They do the work. He smiles at them.” Their love was really evident. They spoke as one person speaking to himself. They looked at each other with big smiles. The look she normally gave him always intertwined with headshaking appreciation of his greatness. The look he gave her was always intense and somewhat silly.

“That’s the hard work of the venture capitalist.” He said, faking a reluctant admission with total joy and self-satisfaction.

“Speaking of hard work, where are we going today?” I had been saving that question for a time when I was feeling a need for a change in discussion. That is a little reporter trick I’ve developed. Always have an ace question in the hole.

“The beach, Zuma!” Their simultaneous answers were the verbal analogue to the vines interwoven on their lattice.

“But I . . .”

“But you don’t have any shorts. We know, we know.” She was a great motherly type. They smiled at each other and then Quentin continued their thought.

“Then go into the guesthouse, over there, and you’ll find some new shorts on the bed.” I turned and visually followed the path of Quentin’s finger. There I saw a little white guesthouse that had previously escaped my notice.

When I turned around, they were both smiling at me like parents from a portrait. She finished their thought, “And while you’re there, check out the house. That’s where you’d be staying if you accepted our offer of your staying with us and working for Quentin.”

What does one say to such a statement? “Oh, okay. I will. And I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time, families don’t move according to schedule.” I nodded with a crooked suppressed grin in response and headed down the path.

As I walked down to the home my head spun with questions. Were they really serious? Could I just leave my job and responsibilities back in Nebraska? What was my home going to look like? Would I be happy here with the perfect family? Was this really happening to me? I came back to my decision to jump on this opportunity that I had arrived at the night before.

The guest home opened into a nice little living room / dining room combination with an adjacent kitchen. The fixtures, chairs, and rug were nearly all white. The kitchen was separated by a bar counter with bar stools. The front windows opened up to shrubbery that largely obscured the big house. I went to the other room, but there was no exit there. Coming back, towards the entrance I spotted the hall to the bedroom. And there on the bed were red swim trunks with blue trim on a king size bed.

This was true.

When I got back up the hill, feeling somewhat embarrassed to have my white hairy legs exposed, Melissa called the kids. “Kids, come on out, were goooiiiing.”

“So what dya think of the place?” One of the couple asked.

“Great. I could be happy living there.” I smiled broadly. This was not a mannerism that I traditionally had in my repertoire. But I was glad to feel that I was melting into their crowd.

“Fantastic.”

Then the kids came out. Justin was the oldest; He was twelve years old. Samantha was in her terrible sixes when I met her. She was a cute girl. She kept pulling her bathing suit out of her butt the whole day. She must have had a recent growth spurt.

Justin and Samantha stopped flat on their feet to stare at this ungainly looking stranger.

“Kids, this is Uncle Marty.” Melissa smiled at me as she introduced me. She was mischievous. I smiled back. “Uncle Marty, this is Justin.” He held his hand out for shaking. “And this is Samantha.” She held her little hand out too.

“Nice to meet you both.” Not having any of my own, I have always been a little uncomfortable around children. My parents divorced when I was seven and I didn’t have a lot of interaction with families growing up. Family dinners and such rituals are alien to me. I’m never sure what the protocol is. The kids also stared awkwardly.

“Ready for a day of fun at the beach?” I queried with loud spontaneous enthusiasm?

“Yeaaaah.” The kids cheered in response to my lame attempt at connection. They snapped out of their trances and piled into the back of the car. It was so easy! Their enthusiastic acceptance was refreshing. I had found the source of Quentin’s enthusiasm. The kids, like him, made me aware of the energy lying dormant inside of me. I have been so groggy and subtly cynical for so long. Being around kids would be healthy for me.

Quentin drove and Melissa sat in the back. That left the front seat, the seat of honor, open for me.

“I know we’re not supposed to discuss work, but my job so far is just to know you guys. So can I ask you when you two first met?”

“I’ve been in love with Quent since I was six. He took a little longer.”

“I loved you too honey. We grew up together. We got married when I was a junior at UCLA and she was just going off to Indiana University. We wanted to cement our relationship before others intervened.”

“There were others, when he first got to college,” she spilled what must have been an often repeated little chiding between them. “But that drove him to me.”

“That’s right.” Quentin seemed a little perturbed at having this little intimacy displayed so openly. She smiled at the little grimace he shot her via the rear view mirror. “We’ve known each other for maaany years.”

Melissa was thirty-four when I first met her. Quentin had just turned thirty-six. They had been married for twelve years. Justin must have been born right after the wedding.

In the far back seat, Justin attacked Sam and she screamed. “Maaaaaam. Justin’s hitting me!” “I am not.” Melissa’s combining an admonishing, “Juuuuustin” with a stern look that had a heavy element of silliness caused him to fold his arms and turn his attention out the window. My sitting in the front had nothing to do with me as an individual. It was a family arrangement. Later I learned that Sam taunting Justin, his retaliating and her screaming for Mom’s help was a perennial situation. It happened at least ten times a day.

Malibu has a lot of spectacular semi-private beachside coves. Zuma was Quentin’s favorite. As we got ready to go down the path that leads to the beach, Quentin reached into the back of the van and pulled out his saxophone case.

The beach was lovely. We stayed about two hours. The kids made sand castles and swam and ran and walked. Everything they did they did together. All of us swam and played with the kids a bit. I played with them more than Melissa or Quentin. I wanted the kids to get to know me and I thought it would provide a good opportunity for Quentin and Melissa to have a little intimate romantic time.

They only sat together for about ten minutes when Quentin grabbed his saxophone and went around a cliff to where we couldn’t see him. After playing a bit more, I sat down next to Melissa.

“Hey Melissa.”

“Hey Marty! I think the kids like you!”

“They are so wonderful. I’m usually a little awkward around kids. I don’t have a lot of experience with them. But they are very accepting.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely.”

“After playing with them for just a bit I figured out that my insecurities were only in my head. They are just about fun and in the moment. They have no need to judge you. We can learn a lot from children.” I was trying to open up a bit and show that I could be a little sensitive and insightful in a spiritual kind of way. It was a far stretch for this boy from Nebraska.

“Bliss and peace are often accompanied by a strange lack of interest in judging others.” Melissa smiled at me. Wow.

“And that is the reason that I have been trying not to judge Quentin’s trip, no matter how juvenile it seems.”

“Quentin’s charm sort of comes from his boyish nature. There is a lot to appreciate there. He is innocent.” I lamely offered in Quentin’s defense.

“Yes, very much so, But there is a refusal to seem adult too. I guess the best thing to do is to accept and support others and, as you said appreciate them. I am not interested in judging others.” She didn’t look at me when she said this. I sensed a sort of sad distance in her that I hadn’t seen before.

Just then I heard Quentin’s saxophone for the first time. It was a slow, ponderous, and spiritual – full of long notes. Then he quickly broke into odds and ends of half-remembered rock tunes.

Then Melissa offered wistfully, “The profundity of complex mature vision has a beauty that kids are too young to see, even if it is uptight.”

As I stared at the ocean I felt the waves trying to wear down my constant inner-dialogue about saying the right thing. As the waves pulled back after a crash they dragged a lot of pebbles back with them. As I wrestled for a reply, I fancied that they were collectively saying “shhhhhhhh.”

“I know what you mean.” I offered after a bit.

“I believe that you do.” She said with her eyes seemingly focused on the horizon. After a brief pause she turned her eyes to me. “Why do you think that Quent is doing this latest project?”

“I don’t know him well enough to even start to speculate.”

“But as a man - I don’t talk with many men - what is it that makes men so unable to just settle? We have peace and food and all we need here.”

“Melissa,” I said feeling a bit like I was auditioning to be a replacement husband, “It sounds like underneath your not wanting to judge, you’re not in favor of Prison Wars.”

“Well maybe I just don’t understand it. I want him to do what he needs to do. He is happy when he is successful, feeling like big stuff, and driving a new project. I just don’t get it. That’s all.”

I thought out loud, “We all have a need to be appreciated and useful. And many men feel the need to aspire to greatness and be top dog. We don’t rest well at the bottom. I know I’d like to achieve a lot more before I die.”

“Pissing in the ocean.” Melissa said wistfully. “We, mark our spot. The waves have a sadness that we should savor. I love it. It’s a great tool getting centered, for being in the moment. Waves bring us close to the essence of what it is to be alive.”

That was the first time I ever had an inkling of being in love with Melissa. It was the only time that I ever heard Quentin play the sax. He said he did it to get a sense of peace. But it just sounded like random stuff to me. You could almost hear him thinking that he wanted to get his chops back and play in a band again in the melodies.

After a couple more minutes he came walking around the cove, sax in hand, with a big smile on his face. He had had fun. When he got there, Melissa asked him if they could take a walk. He said “Sure”.

Quentin asked me to watch his sax and the kids and they took off. Walking down the beach she kind of went forward and he kept stopping to try skipping stones that he’d found over the waves.

The kids and I played. I was getting to know them.

Melissa had a more concerned mind than Quentin. Still, despite the contrast, she loved him immensely and he her. I could see it; as they walked back they held hands.

Driving back we had an upsetting incident. Someone was waiting with a camera already poised for us as we drove into the driveway.

“That guy was at the press conference! I saw him at the press conference.” I exclaimed as the recognition registered.

“Quent, stop and tell him to buzz off. He shouldn’t be in our space like that.” Melissa demanded.

“No!” He replied curtly. Then he softened, “I think that might just be a part of our life for now.” As we went into the driveway the kid’s heads followed the tall gentleman in tweed as if they were radar locked on a target.

“Its not cool! It’s not cool at all.” She said.

“Lets keep our cool.” Quentin’s reply was almost a whisper to himself. As Melissa pouted a little he continued out loud. “Look honey it has been a perfect day. We’ve had fun, haven’t we kids?”

“Yeeaaaah!” They cheered with the clean enthusiasm that kids in advertisements have.

“So let’s keep it happy and enjoy this perfect day. Don’t let anything out there dictate your happiness or change your breathing.” He stared into her eyes through the rear view mirror.

“That’s just it. I don’t need shit like that in my life. Our life is perfect.” Melissa’s eyes simultaneously communicated love, admiration and pleading. Then as if it were a matter of fact assertion she said “I love you.” With this she grabbed his shoulder.

“I love you too babe.” Quentin replied with a tiny blush.

That was the first night that I ever at spent at their home. We had dinner and watched some television with the kids. It was a lot of fun. I was, of course, self-conscious of the fact that I was a newbie in their family. I had to observe to know who went where when and who did the dishes, decided what to watch, broke the evening up and so forth. But everyone expected this much awkwardness. And there were many moments when I just enjoyed what we were doing in the moment.

As the weeks wore on, I got to add my own suggestions to the routines. Justin and I played cards to decide who got the big chair during our nightly forty-five minutes of reading. It soon became routine for me to make Samantha laugh by saying I didn’t see something she wanted me to pass at the dinner table. In short I really became a member of their family.

When I think back to what has been lost, I always come back to those nights we spent together.

I was able to write in my new place. Quentin and I played tennis nearly every day. We often had a fire in the fireplace. We drank a lot of coffee on the porch. And the kids were a source of endless fascination to me. As I mentioned, my home life growing up wasn’t too great. These early days were the most contented I had ever had.