Political Science 101

Chapter Two

MITCHELL K. BRADLEY was a man with a mind of brilliance, a body of vices, and a soul of guilt. He was an average-looking man, standing only five-feet, ten-inches tall; average build; average brown hair; average blue eyes; and he walked with a slight limp, not caused by any sort of injury, but rather by 37 years of fighting personal battles within himself — winning some, losing more.

But behind all the battles with his inner demons, Mitch was a very bright and educated man. He held two PhDs, one in Political Science and one in Clinical Psychology. He was currently a Political Science professor and head of the social sciences department at Merriam University, a small private college in the center of the St. Louis Metropolitan area.

A widower, Mitch lived with his daughter in a three-bedroom, two-level town home near the campus where he worked. It was very classic and updated and furnished and was entirely too spacious for their needs. In essence, it fit him well; the outside was very average-looking, nothing extravagant, but the inside was chic and modern and stylish. Mitch did not pretend to overlook the similitude, and grinned whenever the sentiment occurred to him.

He stood silently that night on his enclosed second-floor balcony, having just arrived home from the sports bar — and the victory party he did not attend. As he leaned on the door jamb separating his large enclosed patio from his spaciously designed living room, he held a drink in his left hand — a homemade "Kirk & McCoy" — casually wondering if it was drink number seven or nine or eleven or however many. In his right hand, he tightly grasped a small piece of paper, gazing at its small scrawled message, not taking his eyes off its contents or the dark blue color of the ink or the loopy feminine calligraphy, sporadically sipping several deliberately-casual drinks. Ana: 585-3892, the note read. He kept replaying the scene in his mind as he recollected the happenstance which occurred outside the sports bar only an hour ago.

* * * * * * *

Mitch stood next to his car outside the sports bar, fumbling with his keys and wondering if the one-hundred-dollar bill he'd just shelled-out was enough to cover his tab. But since no bouncers or angry bartenders were charging out the door demanding money, his payment must have amply covered the seven or nine or however many drinks he'd had.

As his thoughts sloppily raced through his mildly-pickled brain, he suddenly became aware of the rhythmic tapping of a woman's stiletto heels behind him, steadily and sexily growing louder as they loomed nearer. He looked up and noticed that he was being approached by a stunning young woman in a skirt that he estimated to be at least two sizes too small, but he wasn't complaining. As his eyes made their way from the shoes — the source of the seductive tapping — up her beautifully-sculpted legs, and round her perfectly shaped hips, finally stopping at her perky and very revealing cleavage, the woman spoke to him.

She did, in fact, speak. She used words. It might have even been a question judging by the upward inflection in her voice as her sentence concluded. But at the moment, captivated by the stunning beauty that stood before him, coupled with his sluggish and mildly-drunken brain function, he found himself temporarily unable to discern or utilize any manner of comprehensible language. He needed to focus; then he realized he was focused, on her breasts.

"I'm sorry—uh—hello," he stammered, finally and hastily making eye contact with the woman. "My mistake," he said apologetically, "did you say something?" As he snapped back to reality, he recognized her, though they'd never officially met. She was a waitress at the sports bar; however, she had only recently been hired.

"Yes," she giggled, "I asked if you had a cell phone I could use." She smiled at him pleasantly.

"Um, sure," Mitchell replied as he handed her his iPhone. She pressed the power button with no response and frowned.