Tzeporah 3

I return home to find Fred in the lobby holding a clipboard. He's a retired farmer, rendered bankrupt by the depradations of Revenue Canada, that's why he's in a low budget seniors building. He still is president of the local chapter of the National Farmers Union, a position I suspect he keeps simply because no one else wants it.
Now normally Fred and his coterie of bankrupt ex-farmers view me with condescension, as your typical city slicker. So, when he addresses me in friendly tone, I know he wants something, "bad time of the year for all this, I tell you. All the farmers with any money are off playing snowbird in Arizona. We gotta put together a bus load of people for the demonstration at the Canadian Wheat Board office (in a neighboring city). So, Saturday, how bout a free ride and nice picnic lunch?"
"Fred, these are seniors, that bus better have a bathroom."
"It does, so, we leave at 8. Dress warm, never know."
Well here we are. It's cold enough to freeze the you know what off a brass monkey. We're light on the ground. Sixty demonstrators doesn't look all that good when you consider the province has that many thousand farmers.
A CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corp) truck rolls up and out hop a cameraman and reporter. Instantly they head towards me. Logical that they should. I'm a little better dressed than most, definitely look much more fit and trim and have that sort of take charge air.
"Sir, could you grant me a short interview?"
"Actually not, I understand we have an official spokesman for speaking with media."
Fred chimes in, "he couldn't make it, illness. You're on."
The reporter smiles, "sir, how do you see this problem?"
I know little or nothing about it, but all he needs is a short sound bite. So, "for a way too many decades the Canadian Wheat Board has walked all over farmers with a sheer stunning arrogance of which even the Sun King would have approved. Ghengis Khan would be thrilled seeing the ruination and scorched earth left behind by CWB policies."
"Ok sir, what exactly are your demands?"
Of course I haven't the foggiest, so I improv, "that the national president and vice president of the NFU be allowed to meet with the Agriculture Minister and Prime Minister. All are people of common sense and goodwill, and a favorable compromise could be reached."
"That certainly is a reasonable demand, sir, thank you for your time."
As they leave, the guys congratulate me for a good quote and wander back into their small groups. And then it hits, getting my photo on national TV isn't so wonderful. Yeah, I know almost no one watches CBC for anything but sports, but still.
I feel the panic rising, will it away with a few deep breaths.
Calm now, I reflect that to 99.999% of people out in TV Land, I'm just another anonymous farmer trash talking big bureaucracy. But what of the others?
Ok now, wool hat pulled as low as possible, scarf around much of the bottom of my face, the exposed part unnaturally red from all the cold wind. Not too likely I'd be recognized. Don't worry about it.
Monday morning, as I am exiting I see Fred. Huge grin, "guess what, it worked."
"What worked?"
"They agreed to our demands. Meeting will take place after New Years."
We both laugh.
"Headed for the breakfast special?" he asks.
I nod.
"I'll come too, and I'm buying, victory celebration."
It opens at 8, so naturally it doesn't draw too many working people. It's fairly dead at this hour, as we walk through the cafeteria line, make our orders, then pay and find a booth.
Not two minutes after we sit, guess who else walks through the line, orders, then sits with a nonchalant air, in a tone like we've known each other for ages, says to me, "so, introduce me to your friend."
"Tzeporah, this is Fred. Fred, Tzeporah."
Our order numbers are called and we get up to pick them up. As we talk, Tzeporah asks Fred small talk questions about the NFU, but with the obvious tone of get lost quick. Soon as he's done eating, he takes his leave.
She grins, "you looked lousy on CBC, but still recognizable."
I nod.
Sarcastic tone, "imagine that, they've been after that for years. You come along, one quote and hit the target dead center."
I nod.
She asks, "you do recognize me, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Look, I'm not a person who likes pi**ing around and neither do you. So, what exactly should I do about you? I could of course report you to the authorities. That would likely be counter productive, I'd end up in a rubber room, being observed by shrinks."
We both laugh.
"I could of course kill you, and easily too as I happen to have a pistol with silencer. Ah, I see you're completely unworried. You know for a fact that I understand enough to know how drastic the consequences of that would be. So, just guess what I decided to do."
It hits with the force of a freight train, surely not.
"Come on, quit stalling, give your guess."
"You ah well that is decided I am now your boyfriend."
"Very good, you are quite intelligent and rather intuitive. Now, take a moment and guess why."
"I don't know."
"You aren't all that good at seeing things through another's eyes, but just take a few moments to think. Ah I see it's coming."
I blush, "well that is, you need a boyfriend anyhow. You dislike men who are overly curious and overly controlling, which narrows the field."
"Go on, don't stop."
"In fact, the reason you choose me is very simple. I ask you no questions; you ask me none."
"Ok, say once a week, let's go."
Whoa! She is one big trouble maker. Best to seek an excuse. "it was my understanding that flings don't happen in the mathematical sense, there has to be some sort of well energy."
With that she reaches out, takes one of my hands in both of hers as if to read my palm. No question, there is an electric current there and strong too.
With not a word, but a clear facial expression, she conveys, "any more silly questions?"