Boston, you're my home
| Dirty Water | Dropkick Murphys |
"I gotta run. I've got that dinner thing." I set down my beer and stood, ready to leave the conference room Lori called home while lending a hand down here in D.C. on the antiwar demonstrators appeal.
"Sit, Brad." It was a command. "You're not going anywhere - except to Boston. Tomorrow." She glared, daring me to try skirting the issue one more time
Not letting her win - easily, that is - I deadpanned. "There's nothing wrong with a lecture when it's called for."
"Bite me, Brad. You're one to talk. You talk a good game, tell everyone where they're failing, think it's your God-given calling to fix all the attorney's in the office. But no one can suggest you need to bend. Oh, no. Brad's infallible. Brad's the ethics judge and jury. I'll tell you what you are, Brad - "
"Now, hang on, buddy - "
"You're inflexible, you're stubborn, you're single-minded. And if you can't make everyone line up just the way you want them, you run. What are you doing down in D.C., Brad? I'll tell you what. You're hiding. You met your match with Al - "
"If you're about to go where I think you're going - "
"Every time I tried to bring it up this week, you dodged it with your freakin' bets here and your ad hoc pronouncements on moralistic integrity and what's good and decent in America there."
She took a breath and a long sip from her bottle, then leveled a stare at me. "We need you back in Boston more than in D.C., Brad."
And there we were, full circle, nearly one year later. She was easier on the eyes than Paul. "Seeing as you can't pull rank on me - " I settled back in the couch, contradicting my words " - why should I stay and listen to you?"