Brian was sitting at his usual table at the Free Trade café, sipping Perrier. He had reason to be pleased: the night before he had consummated his special relationship with George, and he had the paper to prove it.
So, you can imagine Brian’s surprise when George walked into the Free Trade Café with Mexican temptress Carlos on his arm.
George and Carlos leisurely sat at a table opposite Brian, oblivious to the fact that his voluminous jaw had almost dropped to the floor. George ordered a whisky for himself and a Mai Tai for Carlos. When Carlos protested that he didn’t want to drink Mai Tais with George, that, whenever he did, he woke up with a hangover and another 100 factories opened along the border, George quietly reminded him of his International Monetary Fund obligations.
Carlos drank his Mai Tai, almost grateful.
Brian was cool. He walked up to the table where George and Carlos were sitting and calmly threw his glass of Perrier into George’s face.
“Brian, good buddy,” George said, wiping his face with a napkin, “how ya, like, you know, doin’? Come. Join us.”
“I don’t believe this!” Brian shouted. “After all that happened between us last night! Promises were made, George, promises were made – I have it in wri -“
“It’s a different world this morning,” George airily commented. “Everybody in Europe is, you know, sleeping with everybody else.”
“I don’t care about some European perverts!”
“Those European perverts will have one of the largest trading blocks in the world. You don’t have to like them, but you can’t ignore 250 million consumers. Are you sure you don’t want to have a, uhh, like a seat?”
Brian, subdued, sat down. George, bearing no malice, ordered a Perrier for Brian to replace the one he was wearing. Carlos wisely kept his own counsel.
“You know Carlos. Ever been to his place?” George asked.
“Have I?” Brian replied. “It’s a dump! There’s no clean water or working toilets – the cardboard shacks are falling apart, forcing people to live in the streets – not to mention toxic waste bins in the road and, for all we know, in the drinking water!”
“That’s just my winter maquiladora home,” Carlos mildly protested. “I have a much nicer place in Mexico City…”
“Relax, Carlos,” George admonished him. Carlos sheepishly continued sucking on his straw. “As a matter of fact, many of my children love the maquiladoras. General Motors thinks it’s a wonderful place to be, and many of the youngsters interested in high tech…”
“What’s your point, George?”
“Well, as a conscientious parent, don’t you think it’s my duty to look out for the best interests of my children?”
“That’s all fine and well, George, but you know I can offer your children the kind of economic holiday packages that Carlos can. I cannot, in all good conscience, get into bed with Carlos.”
“So, who asked you?”
This stopped Brian short. “But..but…” he sputtered.
“Look,” George soothingly told him, “what we shared last night was, you know, kind of like beautiful. Nobody will ever take that away from you. But, I get restless. You knew that…”
“What do I have to do?” Brian, desperate to recapture the magic, croaked.
George smiled. “Well,” he replied, “we’ll have to discuss those forbidden subjects of yours. You know, the social programme thing, the culture thing, the Auto Pact thing – everything must be on the table.”
“You do it on a table?” Carlos marveled.
“Bastard,” Brian said, but without much conviction.
“Hey,” George affably replied, “when you dance with the, sort of like, you know, devil guy, you have to be prepared to kind of, in a way, sooner or later, pay the piper thing.
“Waiter! Another round for my friends, here.”
Why is it that when politicians get into bed with each other, it’s the people who get screwed?