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by john morse

.'T HE AIR was heavy and warm, and the music swirled around every-
where. Clouds of smoke drifted upwards toward the high ceil-

ing and settled around the soft flourescent light, hanging squarely in

the middle of the room. On the floor, on chairs, and even on the

floor, hectic feet raced madly to the blaring strains of "Moonlight

-Serenade." Glasses clinked sporadically and toast after toast was ren-

,dered-"Jack Stone, our friend and our man for President."

"To Jack Stone, from Midbluffs to Washington."

"Long live Jack Stone; eight years of Jack."

I walked around aimlessly, remembering the time when I had

liked "Little Brown Jug" and sipped lazily at the finest bourdon ever

used to plaster man. Eventually my feet dragged me to the balcony,

where a rush of fresh air flowed over me, ruffled the drapes behind

me, tickled the bronze mustache of Theodore Roosevelt, and spilled

into the expansive room. Like spitting into the ocean, I mused.

The balcony seemed ironically empty, even with me on it, but it
afforded a comprehensive, at most times beautiful, night-time view of
.the New Yorker's neon world-Jack Stone's world, starting tonight.

Across a broad expanse of unpenetrable night, the Times Square
board flashed a gigantic image every three seconds. The broad nose,
high cheekbones, and full, smiling lips went on and off at intervals.
The blond wavy hair seemed to toss in the fluttering light. I swirled
the olive around in the martini and watched it get caught in the center
-of a miniature whirlpool. Round and round it whirled, trapped in
the inner orbit by some mysterious law of nature. No doubt, it was a
handsome, classic face. Jack Stone was fifty, but the image looked
thirty-a strong, mature thirty. That seemed about right.

Off and on blinked the smiling face with a regularity that was
fatiguing. Ah, but then the political game is a weary one, I thought,
as I eyed the pulsating image. Disenchantments are frequent, and a
politician must tread the middle line, without the luxury of anger or
rage, pacifying all those who accost him for favors or bore him with
lies and distortions. Just once I wished that damn sign would blink
a frown on the frozen face, or a sneer-anything but that smile that
hides the man beneath it. A real politician is a glass-caged victim. He
Jbecomes a marionette, whose sensitive strings are manipulated by the

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