Love from: Joel Brenner

How I Met Lauren; or, Walters in the Twilight Zone

         The occasion of Mr. Walters’ purported 70th birthday gives me the opportunity to shed light on carefully guarded, if not actually classified, information about his – “birth” may not actually be the correct word here; let’s say genesis. The brief story I am about to recount has never been told, and as my chance discovery of it predates his meeting and falling in love with Karen, even she remains utterly, and I could say cheerfully, unaware of it. However, as the truth will reputedly set you free, here goes.

         In early 1976, having been in Washington for only a matter of months, I was invited to a dinner one evening by a law school classmate of mine, Tom Geoghegan. Where are we going? I can’t tell you, Tom said. I think it’s a safe house in Southwest. There’s a guy I want you to meet. A safe house? Yes, he said; the guy is mysterious. He whispered the guy’s name but told me to keep it to myself. So who is he? Hard to say, Tom said. He’s into policy. Policy? So is everybody else in Washington.

This unenlightening exchange was cut short by our arrival at the designated location. We were shown in, and immediately I was affably greeted by a cheerful, bald fellow, perhaps thickening a bit in the middle, who was obviously exactly 42 years old. We shook hands. (This was when people still did that sort of thing.) I then had my first experience of what one could call “the Walters Expression,” which I was to see many times thereafter. It was open, welcoming, and ingenuous. Which left so much to interpretation! While I had not yet been schooled in these matters, I instinctively realized that nothing is what it seems, though strange to say, sometimes it is. Meanwhile Geoghegan said little, but shot me a look that implied, just keep your eyes open. I looked around and at once perceived that the safe house was brilliantly set up for its purpose. Nothing in the décor, furnishings, or objects in the place disclosed the slightest information about what really went on there.

          I have decided to say nothing whatsoever about the meal we consumed that evening, and don’t bother trying to change my mind because Lauren was cooking. As to the conversation, everyone knows that there are a limited number of subjects that are worth talking about. They are: Love in all its forms, religion, money, the arts, and politics in its broadest sense. The rest is shallow drivel. As I spent my days dealing with law (which is one aspect of politics, broadly understood), I naturally attempted to steer the conversation in the direction of other worthwhile topics, starting love in the form of women – to no avail. A sly reference to discovering new possibilities for love, or at least, God help me, fornication? As his friends all know, Walters is devilishly clever, and without my realizing it until it was too late, he pointed out where that could lead a careless couple, and before long – how did this happen? – we were into a discussion of Roe v. Wade. (Geoghegan was no help on this one, if I may say so.)

Next I tried religion: the neglected religion of his ancestors. Ancestors, Vienna, coming to America – in a flash we were discussing immigration policy.

Next on the list: money. I thought that might light him up – his cover at the time was something to do with the Senate Budget Committee; I saw through that one pretty quickly – but nothing doing. Money, he said. Revenue or expenditures? He was launching into tax policy when I got up, dismayed, in search of another beer.

Now at this point, our host tried pulling an ace out of his sleeve. “I’m 25,” he said, apropos of nothing whatsoever. Geoghegan looked at me. I looked at Geoghegan. Utterly incredible but we zipped our lips. Neither of us was buying this one. Everything about the guy screamed 42. By this time, a subtle glance over his glass of beer told me that Geoghegan had by now figured out what was going on. Mentally he consulted the list of worthwhile topics, then played the art gambit. I held my breath. For a flickering fraction of a second, I thought we had Lauren where he couldn’t wriggle out of it. His face went blank, and then I saw the residue of a vision pass before his glazed eyes – a vision of painted rocks. I’m no seer, and little knowing that rock painting would figure in his future, this puzzled me. By the time I exhaled, Lauren was discoursing on the budget of the National Endowment for the Arts. We were tricked again. Years later, having had exposure to the dark side, I could only marvel at the discipline he had learned from his trainers, whoever they were.

         Policy was the gist of every conversation with Lauren. However, I am not so bound. Lauren’s early automotive history merits recounting on this august anniversary (whichever it is) of his coming into this world. His sons should know this. It is not a pretty story.

         I’ll pick you up, Lauren told me one day. So I was waiting for him, I forget why or where, when this beat up, white Chevy Vega squeaks to the curb. For those too young to have experienced this milestone in Detroit’s decline, the Vega was manufactured only from 1971-1977. According to Wikipedia, “Subsequently, the car became widely known for a range of problems related to its engineering, reliability, safety, propensity to rust, and engine durability.” How the word “subsequently” got into this sentence is a puzzle. Anyway, this piece of junk squeaks to a stop, and Lauren toots the horn and cranks down the window – Oh, it’s you, I say -- and he tells me to get in. This was easier said than done because there were two months’ of old New York Timeses and Washington Posts and a badly mauled briefcase on the passenger-side front seat, and a frayed fan belt, an empty oil can, some law books, and one rubber overshoe on the floor, not to mention a rotting half-a-sandwich in a greasy fast food bag. (I refuse to exaggerate: The floor had not yet rusted through, though I think it did so soon enough.) This stuff we pitched into an already overcrowded back seat, which contained months’ of old newspapers and miscellaneous trash. I got in, and after several futile twists of the ignition key, the engine caught and the beast lurched forward. Given the value of this car, I marveled at Lauren’s shrewdness in not wasting money on washing it. (The Vega was the spiritual precursor of the Yugo, the only vehicle in automotive history that doubled in value when you filled up the gas tank.) Another masterpiece of clever cover, I thought, and right away in our circle of acquaintances the car became known with ironic affection as Lauren’s shit-box Vega. Well, actually, there was neither irony nor affection involved. It was just the truth. Not that any of us were driving good cars at the time. I owned a used, dull blue Datsun B-210.

         Lauren was ahead of us in moving up, brand-wise, I’ll give him that. Sometime later he surprised everyone by showing up – and showing us up – not in the old shit-box, but in a big, black Alfa-Romeo sedan. Okay, so it was old. But Alfas, unquestionably, were highly cool especially if they were old. They were also extremely rare here in the States, for which there may have been a good reason. Not to mince words, they were Italian, which was not a synonym for reliability. If we search for the right word that captures both their coolness and their, shall we say Italian character, we could settle on idiosyncratic. Naturally an automobile of this breeding requires maintenance from time to time, and in this case, “time to time” meant week to week. I steered Lauren to an excellent mechanic in northwest Washington who had the added merit of being Italian himself. Ernesto Aleotti knew a shit-box from a racehorse, and a lame racehorse from a healthy one. Ernesto had a heavy Italian accent. Eet a-goze bumpy, he informed Lauren, becauz-eh zee shocks are-a sheet-a.” Lauren was puzzled. He says your shocks are shit, I translated. I replace for you, Ernesto said. You come back tomorrow.

         Tomorrow Lorenzo had bad news. The shocks could not be removed. They were original, had never been changed, could not be extracted. What? Alfa made this car so the shocks could not be changed? Eeeza right, Lorenzo said. Eeeza real stupido, eh? He, Lorenzo, could do it, but he’d have to drill through the rear wheel arches in the trunk to pull out the old shocks and insert new ones through the same holes. Naturally this tale of engineering lunacy was the source of endless laughter in our little circle. By this time, however – late ’seventies – Lauren was living in an apartment at the corner of Massachusetts and Wisconsin Avenues (apartment 410, to be exact). Lots of buses stop at that corner so he saved on gas.

         And the amazing thing was, several years had passed and he was still 42 years old, not a day less or more. Tom and I, and my wife at the time, discussed this Twilight Zone phenomenon repeatedly but could never get to the bottom of it.

         I cross-examined his mother about this astonishing singularity, or tried to, but she was iron-tough and gave away nothing. (She may explain Lauren’s fondness for soft and fuzzy.) What woman is going to admit giving birth to a 42-year old man? She stuck to her story, flimsy though it was, so I struck out. Ordinarily you couldn’t expect a newborn to remember the experience either, but as he was already 42 when he popped out, Lauren should’ve been the exception. So one night in apartment 410 I decided to get him plotzed on his own hooch. He had obtained from one of his relatives back in Austria a few bottles of Walters apricot schnaps. The relatives actually made the stuff, and it was excellent. We put away quite a lot of it that night – oh, how I wish I had a bottle of that stuff now – but even when drunk, Lauren wouldn’t spill. Again, I struck out.

         What conclusions do I draw from this brief history? Well, notwithstanding a favorite counterintelligence precept, sometimes things really are what they seem. In Lauren’s case, ingenuous, friendly, and generous really are ingenuous, friendly, and generous. The guy’s a teddy bear. But as to his turning seventy, I’m still not buying it. Even I can do the arithmetic on this one: 70 + 42 = 112. Lucky guy, to be that old and still always 42.

*Postscript from Karen:

 I must tell you, that Alfa made its way into our marriage and lived unhappily at our home in Concord in 1986. It now required so much work we knew it wasn't worth it.   Lauren sold it to a guy who promptly returned it due to the "lemon law." And there we sat, embarrassed and with no way to get rid of it.  A few weeks later we left on some vacation and I made the comment that I wish something like a tornado would take care of that car while we were gone.

When we returned, there had indeed been a bad rainstorm.  The gigantic limb on the tree beside the Alpha had broken (it was probably 200 pounds) and crushed the entire front of the car!! (there is a God Joel.)  We called the insurance company,( luckily our coverage was reinstated when the car was returned.)  They got back to us and said sadly the damage was too great to fix, so we would be given the blue book price of a car of that vintage in perfect condition.  We made multiples of what we had gotten for the previous sale of that car.  I would say that Alfa had the same nine lives of its owner....born as a racecar, fancy Italian pedigree and mistaken for a common junk heap, only to be resurrected as the magnificent machine it was always meant to be!!