Double Twist
Chapter 195
“We were nostalgic for a time that wasn’t yet over.”
—Nina LaCour, We Are Okay
16 MAY 2022
It’s hard to imagine a more perfect after-prom than my family had. The event was fun but getting to our suite was perfect. We even had a ritual undressing. Usually, we just fall on each other and get out of our clothes. Saturday night, we undressed one at a time, helping fold clothes and admiring our mate as she (or I) was unveiled. Then we spent time as the subject of the moment stood naked in front of us, telling our lover why each of us loved her and what she meant to us. Yeah. There were tears.
And there was lovemaking.
But we spent most of the night crammed together on one bed, talking about the future and how we were going to deal with what was coming. I’m spending a lot of my weekend time with Emily and Cindy because of our performances. I didn’t want to bother anyone else to come along. But my wives all expressed a desire to join us as they’re able. Rachel says when we start our June tour, she’ll have a bus that can accommodate as many of us as want to tour. Reflections of California, but she was confident the service wouldn’t let us suffer.
Donna said she plans to keep the farm when we move to DC. I’m glad. First, it’s hers. She owned it before our partnership came about, just as Nanette owns the house my mom and dad are still living in. From Donna’s perspective, though, she feels that we need to keep a base in Indiana for the near term because even moving to DC could be a temporary thing and no longer be necessary after our two years of service.
Em and Joan have both agreed to reenlist for two years when the rest of us take our pledge. They both have solid job offers at the OCS and assurance they will be working with Rachel and Beca. Sophie has an offer from the National School to teach dance. Donna has had a few inquiries about teaching in the public school system.
Desi, Brittany, Cindy, and I have all been recruited to join the National School. It was made clear that our education and training would be combined with touring and performing, either on behalf of the school or the service. Dr. D is a little antsy to get us started, I think. That’s why we’re doing an independent tour in June before we join the service. She said we all still need to go through a basic training, but it might be more intense and compact than the usual training so they can get us out in the field before Labor Day. It will be tight.
And today starts the final three weeks of school. I’ll have final exams in physics, Latin, and business math. There’s no final in orchestra. I have major term papers due next week in constitutional government and senior English. And we have five concerts in that time. V1’s mother was fond of saying ‘No rest for the wicked.’ But in her book, everyone was wicked.
“What’s that they say about a prophet being accepted in his own land?” LeBlanc laughed as he held Cindy and me back from lunch on Tuesday.
“A prophet is not without honor except in his hometown and among his own relatives,” I said. “I think it’s from the gospel of Mark. Pastor Bob quoted it to me after we did the GBU video.”
“Right. Well, you haven’t played that well here at Mad Anthony,” LeBlanc continued. “I’ve been checking, and even among the faculty, you have low name recognition.”
“I noticed we weren’t recognized that much,” I said. Cindy just sat silently next to me, waiting to see what the heck he wanted.
“Well, you got some notice at the prom this weekend, but it wasn’t really for your music. So, I took the liberty of talking with Principal Rice and he has agreed to feature you for an hour on senior activities day next week. It won’t make you widely known in the school, except among your graduating class. I’m afraid the best I could do was get you on the program at the end of the day, so you’ll perform at 1:30.”
“You just booked us? Without checking?” I asked.
“Well, if you have something against it, I can cancel. I’m doing this as a favor to you,” he said, a little huffily.
“It’s not that we’re unwilling,” Cindy said softly, squeezing my leg to shut me up. “We’re just supposed to clear all our performances through our National Service contact at the Office of Civilian Service. I’m sure they’ll approve it. We just have to follow protocol.”
“Oh,” LeBlanc said, a little deflated. “I didn’t think of that. To me you are still just two of my students. Is there someone I should call?”
“We’ll take care of it,” Cindy said. “Thank you for thinking of us.”
What’s one more performance? At least we won’t have to travel to it.
Before we got to the Mad Anthony concert, we had to travel to Indy for a senior assembly at Ben Davis High School on Friday and two performances on Saturday at the Christel DeHaan Fine Arts Center. We were told that its recital space was one of the finest in America and seated 500 people. We’d do a Saturday afternoon matinee and a Saturday night performance.
Sophie and Nanette decided to take Friday off work and travel to the high school with us. It was nice to have our lovers with us on the two-and-a-half-hour drive to the west side of Indianapolis. I read the profile on the school as Emily drove and my wives chatted. Our performance was in the afternoon, so we were less rushed getting out the door in the morning.
Ben Davis was about the most balanced integrated school on our tour. It was thirty-three percent black, thirty-seven percent white, and twenty-two percent Hispanic. It was also one of the poorer cross-sections. Two-thirds of the student population was considered ‘free lunch eligible.’ I tried to imagine myself in the audience listening to what I had to say about the National Service. It was hard to do.
Mad Anthony was a little smaller than Ben Davis. Our student population was over eighty percent white. Less than ten percent were considered ‘free lunch eligible.’ We lived in different worlds and I was supposed to relate to them. I wondered if they would even like the kind of music Cindy and I performed.
“I’m a vocal proponent of National Service Reform,” I said to nearly a thousand seniors gathered in the auditorium. They’d been appreciative of our first set and were set to rock into our tangoes. “The process of placing people in service jobs based on aptitude testing might not provide as much opportunity for some as others. One of the things we’ve been focused on is getting the testing balanced to include interest as well as aptitude. Be sure you carry a strong attitude about what you are interested in when you take your placement tests. You and Cindy and I are going to be part of the same class entering service this summer. Let’s try to make it as good an experience as we can by supporting each other and by electing representatives who favor service reform. The only way our voice can be heard is through our ballots.”
We played our tangoes and I put in another plug for pro-reform candidates. Then we headed to south Indianapolis where we had a couple of suites reserved in a LaQuinta Suite Hotel. By the time we were all checked in, Donna, Beca, and Brittany arrived and we went out to dinner.
Our performances Saturday were well-attended. The Ruth Lilly Performance Hall in the Christel DeHaan Fine Arts Center is acoustically perfect. We rehearsed our program in the morning and even on stage, I could hear Donna whisper an “I love you,” to Beca in the back of the hall.
The afternoon crowd was a little less than the 500-seat capacity, but they were enthusiastic. It seemed terms like ‘liberal’ and ‘conservative’ were irrelevant to this audience as well. Everyone was in favor of service reform—some for better interpretation of rules and some for stricter discipline. That was fine with me. As long as they elected people who would get the bill heard on the floor, the details could be hammered out in Congress.
The evening house was packed. I was told just before the show that the Mayor of Indianapolis and the Governor of the state were both in the audience. No one mentioned anything about the representative or senators. They were supposed to be in Washington.
“Congratulations on a fine performance,” Governor Byron said after the show. Our hosts at the University had provided a small reception after the performance. “You have a most effective message. I wish you great success with it.”
“Thank you, Governor. We were driven to discover as much about the National Service as we could due to the experiences of a number of our friends and family. Once we discovered what was going on, there was little choice about speaking up.”
“Do you plan on a career in politics once your service is over?” he asked.
“I plan on a career in music. As long as my partner here will have me by her side, I’ll be playing for her.” Cindy blushed a little and hugged my arm.
“We will see that you are always welcome to return to Indianapolis to perform,” the Governor said before excusing himself. We chatted with some other dignitaries and professors, and finally went back to the suite to cuddle up and sleep.
We drove back to Fort Wayne Sunday morning and spent the day on general maintenance of our lives. We had laundry, cooking, dishes, vacuuming, mowing of the driving range, and some homework. Donna agreed to review my paper for Mr. Richards while I checked literary journals from her class. I found I enjoyed reading the students’ perspective on stories I’d read a couple of years ago and had written of in my own journal.
“Do you have documentation for this, Jacob?” she asked. “The issue of who is making money off the National Service could be explosive. You need to make sure your sources are genuine and accurate.”
“It’s difficult to track down everything without having court-ordered access,” I said. “Mr. Forsythe was kind enough to get me these numbers. They didn’t know about it until January when they took over and started moving housing in for the field workers. It was appalling.”
“It still is, according to this. Why are they still paying all this money?”
“Someone signed a contract and the money is due whether services are provided or not. There’s some creative accounting going on and the service is deducting the actual cost of housing, food, and services they pay for directly from the balance owed to the company. It will literally take an act of Congress to void the contract.”
“Come here, my lover. Reading this fills me with such anger that I need to be held. And knowing you’ve uncovered this fills me with such pride in you that I need you to make love to me.”
I gladly set aside the reading and followed Donna to her bed.
Senior Day was the day when seniors have to complete all the prep for graduation and commencement. There’s a lot of paperwork that needs to be filled out and, apparently, one of the qualifications for graduating is that you be able to sign your name. Over and over and over.
And we had to order our caps and gowns, various cords for honor societies and clubs, and invitations, thank you notes, and keepsakes. After lunch, the assembly began. There were hundreds of awards for everything from athletic letters to perfect attendance. I got a cross country badge for my letter jacket and recognition for having placed second in the State in the half marathon.
Finally, Principal Rice introduced Cindy and me, citing our recent performance at the White House and tour with the National Service. I guess that was enough to keep people interested as we launched into our up-tempo senior assembly performance. I gave my spiel encouraging everyone who was eighteen to vote in the fall elections and to at least make sure they were voting against anyone who opposed National Service reform.
We got a good round of applause that came about two seconds before the final bell of the day, so there was no question and answer period.
When Mr. Richards suggested that I follow the money after I handed in my last term paper, I had no idea where it would lead. His exact words were, ‘Who owns the government?’ What I’ve discovered over the past few weeks is that it’s not clear who really owns it, but it is clear that it isn’t you and me—the people of the United States of America. We have reached a point where our senators, congressmen, president, and justices are bought and paid for and owe their first allegiance, not to the people, but to their sponsors. This has destroyed our classless society and our government is elected to rule rather than represent.
It is less than obvious why the Senate Leader, for example, would want to block all National Service reform bills. Is he not there to protect the rights of the citizens he represents? No. He is there to protect the interests of the businesses who paid to have him elected. Those businesses have made such a lucrative success of the National Service that they do not want anything about it changed. The reluctance to change our agricultural services, for example, can be traced to seven major players in the market who are profiting from the use of service corps personnel in the fields. Three are recognized names in agriculture, providing seed, fertilizer, and chemicals for pest control. Three major buyer/distributors that supply the stores. And one government contractor, added to the mix just over a year ago, to provide housing and catering services for the corps.
When America depended on migrant labor, some of these industries were already active. Food had to get from farm to table. But with the advent of the service, corps members were even pressed into service there. Long before our border problems. My sister, during her term of service, drove trucks laden with produce from the fields to distribution points in the West. While many of her deliveries were made to both military and civilian bases, much went to distribution warehouses for shipment across the country. And the trucks she drove were painted with the logos and branding of those distributors. Before the National Service, those trucks were driven by people employed directly by the distributors. In order to provide full employment for the corps, the distributors hired drivers at a steeply discounted rate from the service. They did not pass their savings on to consumers. They increased their profits.
In the days of migrant labor, the growers were responsible for paying the labor force, providing housing, providing food and medical services. But faced with a national emergency in which food was rotting in the fields instead of making it to the table, National Service personnel were sent in, harvesting, planting, and caring for the crops. Not just essential food crops. Grape harvests for wine were also formerly done by migrants and are now done by corps members who are paid by the federal government. Since these are federal employees, their housing and food are also the responsibility of the corps. Enter a government contractor charged with providing essential housing, food, and medical services.
The costs per corps person were carefully computed in budgeting for four million new employees per year. Corps members are allotted $350 per month for housing, $200 each for food, and are paid half of federal minimum wage because their compensation includes room and board. Yet this government contractor charges $600 per day per corps person and houses them in the same tents migrant workers used with substandard diet and limited emergency medical services. Not only have the growers not passed on the savings brought about by not paying for labor costs, a new business is also profiting from services they failed to provide. It all adds up to increased profits and those businesses oppose service reform that would change their new profit margins.
Not only have food costs skyrocketed across the United States, due to shortages, profit margins have risen for the seven companies involved in the system. Those are the people opposed to reform.
I have no evidence that any elected officials are profiting directly from this system. If those numbers exist, they are so highly guarded that it would take massive court action to uncover them. But we know that the agricultural PAC has tripled its campaign contributions and they do not want reform to take place.
Our government is owned by these companies. And I suspect we would find the same pressure being applied by companies in other industries the National Service has placed workers in as part of the full employment of corps personnel. We can only recapture our government by voting out any political official at any level of government who opposes reform.
My final paper for constitutional government included several more pages of text and references but that was the core of my report.
“Protect yourself as much as possible,” Mr. Richards said to me after I’d made my presentation to the class. “If you go public with this kind of information, you will become a target of both the candidates and the corporations you are accusing. You’ve entered dangerous territory.”
Bits of this information had already found their way into my concerts. I needed to be very careful indeed.
Desi got home Memorial Day weekend to get things ready for commencement. She had all her needed credits to graduate before she left for the National School, so she would graduate with the rest of us. Of course, Cindy and I had performances on Friday, Saturday, and Monday. Being a holiday weekend, and our last series of performances before graduation, several members of the pod joined us on the tour.
We had the last of our finals that week. And Wednesday, June first, Joan came home for good. She’d reup for two years when we all signed our papers in mid-July.
Remas, Livy, and Rachel got in on Saturday. Livy was only on a stopover long enough to see our graduation. She was on her way to a track meet in Oregon Monday morning. Remas just wanted to celebrate with us and would be headed back to DC on Monday. Rachel would be with us for a week as we prepared for our bus tour. The stiffly starched Jo Wilson, our National Service event planner, was scheduled to come out midweek and stay with us during the first week of our ‘Grand Loop’ tour. We’d spend most of June on the road.
“It’s a big time for you, lover,” Rachel whispered as we held each other late Saturday night. I kissed her again thinking wistfully of how much simpler life had been sixty years ago. I’d have taken Rachel as my wife and we’d have spent our lives just loving each other and raising our children. Only I didn’t. V1’s Rachel was just a fantasy. I was much better off the way I was, even if life was more complicated.
“It seems like Cindy and I have been out of high school a year already. She actually asked if the National Service would credit our concerts this spring as time served. Anyway, tomorrow just seems like another hurdle to get over so we can get on with it.”
“Remember, Cindy is still younger and a lot more vulnerable than you are. I know she brought out all the protective old man feelings in you when you first met. As much as she’s grown these two years and as sexy as she is, in many ways she’s still the little girl you need to protect. All of us do.”
“Yeah. I worry that we’re pushing her into service before she’s ready. But at least we’ll be together.”
“You’re going to be rushed,” Rachel said as she reached for my cock. We’d made love slowly and tenderly when we first came to bed but she was telling me she was ready for another round. It took a little coaxing from her talented fingers before I was ready. “They’re going to try to push your basic training in four weeks instead of eight. They’d have you in it Monday if Cindy was seventeen. Jo and Simon want to open with a big splash on Labor Day weekend. They are bending all kinds of training rules in order to have you spread your message before elections in November. At least after the November elections, you should be able to relax and focus on just rehearsing and learning new material for a while.”
I silenced my lover with a kiss and pulled her on top of me. Rachel and I, for all that we were adventurous in other areas, tended to enjoy sex in the good old missionary position. Sometimes, though, I wanted to look up into her green eyes, the slight freckles on her face framed by her mahogany hair. She slid down onto my shaft and I watched her stomach muscles ripple as she accepted me into her body. Rachel had always been the most beautiful girl to me but her physical training in service had toned and shaped an already sexy body. I traced a line from her throat to her patch of red pubic hair with my fingers and she stroked my nipples with her thumbs. We were lost in the moment of our love and National Service seemed like a lifetime away.
“I love you, Rachel Evans. You are my mate. You are who I come home to, no matter where we travel and which of our partners we sleep with. My heart belongs to you,” I whispered as we thrust our bodies together.
“Oh, Jacob. I’m so thankful that whatever we missed in that other life and other world you came from, we’ve found in this life together. I love you.” I felt the clasping of her vagina as she came and I buried myself deep within her to unleash my love.
Whatever the future brings, it brings us together.
And then the day we’d spent twelve years preparing for came. Sunday, Beca, Desi, Brittany, and I marched with our classmates into the Coliseum at 1:30 for rehearsal and then filed through the line for formal staged photos with Principal Rice. He was very kind in his comments to us and thanked us for our representation of the school in our concerts and performances. At 4:00, we repeated the commencement march to Pomp and Circumstance, played by the underclassmen in our orchestra. Cindy was up there somewhere. Sometime amidst the address by the principal, the mayor, the valedictorian, and a television celebrity from the local news station, our names were called and we filed past the table to pick up the dummy diplomas we could hold up to show people. The real ones would be mailed to us in the next week.
We cheered at the end of the ceremony, threw our hats in the air and waved at our families in the stands—not that we could identify any of them from our place among the grads. We caught up with them outside the Coliseum and stood around letting all our parents take pictures of us, get pictures with them, take pictures of our pod, and generally use the equivalent of a digital roll of film recording the momentous occasion.
And then high school was over. We were about to start the next chapter of our lives.
End Part XV
End Book 4: Double Twist
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