Travis LaFrance
At Home in the Halls of Power

The Princess in the Floating Prison

I stepped out of Blogger Bash for some fresh air, and who did I run into but my old associate Consultant X, who was just hopping into a cab to go to a party for Congressman Y, and insisted that I come. We drove over the bridge with a cabby who spoke no English and could not find the place, and finally we were reduced to uttering simple words like "boat" and "water," which eventually landed us at a harbor slip with a plank leading to a yacht no bigger than a Brooklyn row-house. I slipped off my shoes and almost immediately a brown-eyed maid in a sailor's uniform handed me a bottle of beer. The congressman pumped my hand and went on his way.

Class, Travis. Total Class.

Unlike the bloggers in their slick urban threads, this crowd had the tailored look of old money: navy blazers for the men and cream-colored pantsuits for the ladies. I rehearsed in my mind: port is on the right, starboard on the left—wait no—it's the opposite! Shit, what's a jib? I climbed the spiral stair case above deck and with my mind racing found myself face-to-face the most magnificent doe-eyed creature I'd ever seen. She wore white slacks and a peach-colored blouse revealing a string of pearls around her gorgeous neck, and before I could say a word it was as if someone had activated magnets in our ribs. We drew close. I worried for an instant that my mere presence might dirty her pants, but neither of us was capable of stepping back. I said my name and extended my hand.

"I'm Taylor," she purred. "Feel your calluses!"

I rattled on for a minute about kayaking down the Grand Canyon, and then she rattled on about a Fulbright in France, but neither really listened. Her eyes were blue and her features chiseled. Except for her trip to France, Taylor had never set foot outside of New England. She carried herself erect and spoke with the self-possession of a girl who'd never had a voice raised in her direction. Down below a fellow had stripped to boxers and jumped into the water, and soon he was joined by two fully-clothed and tipsy blondes, and together they swam across the slip to the next ship, glowing there in the radiance of the airport lights across the river. Taylor and I whispered nonsense inaudible to everyone else.

And then he emerged: a lumbering giant with his barrel-chest bursting over his khakis, the junior-partner no doubt in his father's firm. He laid his mitts on my porcelain doll, wrenching her away from me, and her slender hips recoiled visibly. He bent down to say something in her ear and her shoulders turned to gooseflesh.

He was gone, and Taylor turned to me with a look of anguish. "I guess we're going to another party."

"It was good to meet you," was all I could think to say.

Her eyes were suddenly very clear and wet. They pleaded to me: Save me from the country club, Travis. Deliver me from a lifetime of brunches with in-laws at the yacht club in Rhode Island. Take me some place where I can be a woman and not a trophy.

But what could I do? Travis LaFrance is only one man, and Boston has so many thousands of women. I clasped her hand once more and let her fingers slide slowly out of mine.

"Maybe I'll see you again," she said. "I hope so."

Her tormentor reappeared and clenched her wrist, and escorted her down the stairs. I went to the rail and watched him tow her across the dock, and she turned and, taking small steps backward, smiled to me as she was led away.

02:44 PM | July 29, 2004 | Comments (3)