Last Tuesday came like any other. I was in Bowling Green, lost in the middle of a week long gauntlet of two-a-days. Between podiums, there seemed to be little room for anything but a four hour power-nap on the bus (the balloon was in the shop) and a thousand anonymous handshakes.

And then there was Tuesday.

The first event had gone well, a brief speech in front of the local chapter of the AAQV. At first I was a bit worried about the almost nonexistent applause, but then Anselmo explained that AAQV stood for the American Association of Quadriplegic Veterans, which made me feel loads better. Then I was back on the bus with plenty of time to spare before another gig across town. Anselmo briefed me, as usual, on who my audience would be and what they wanted to hear. No problem. Pepper arrived with a fresh suit, I drank half a cup of coffee, and was out the door. I put on my game face and strode to the podium, the waning Kentucky sun at my back. Before me stood 250 members of the Warren County PTA. I cleared my throat, but before I could speak, I saw her.

Now, love always seems to come around when we’re not looking for it, doesn’t it? I am happily married, after all. But it was just one of those days, I guess. And yeah, I looked good. My tie was unbelievable, and nothing can mitigate the raw confidence that emanates from a man when he’s wearing an unbelievable tie. My suit looked great, and those bleaching trays are really starting to work, so I guess we can’t totally chalk it up to luck. So there I was, standing on stage with my mouth hanging open, like some moron. I looked back at the crowd and realized that they were waiting for me to say something. I sipped some water to buy time, and then launched into the speech Anselmo had prepared for me. I dared not look at her again lest I lose my cool once more.

Once I got rolling and found my groove, everything really came together. There was some indefinable energy in play, and the crowd was feeling it too. I went mobile, plucking the mic off the stand and prowling back and forth across the stage, pointing and gesticulating to punctuate the awesome truths I was revealing. I even took my coat off and rolled up my sleeves (although I wasn’t trying to pull a Howard Dean or anything.; I kept my awkward shrieks to myself). As I marched back and forth, hurling truth at those people, I stole a glance or two at my girl, but she seemed uninterested. She didn’t even seem to be looking in my direction, rather she looked off emptily in random directions. I have to admit that, though I wrapped up my speech to applause that can only be described as thunderous, my confidence began to wither slightly. I hustled off to Anselmo who gave a quizzical look. He wiped my forehead tenderly with his handkerchief and straightened my tie. I sometimes think he knows me better than I know myself.

As I moved out into the crowd to shake a few hands, usually my favorite part of those gigs, I felt my nerves getting the best of me. I found myself glancing nervously about, both fearing and hoping that I might catch her eye. I steered myself toward where I knew she had been, all the while murmuring thank-yous to my adoring fans. And then I saw her, and she was close. I could feel a lightheadedness rear up within me as I approached, until finally, there was only one hand left to shake.

She was younger than she had looked from afar, and a bit shabbily dressed. A pink sort of one-piece type of thing. Her hair was short, little more than a wispy fluff on top of her head. But still, her small black eyes locked with mine and a queer sensation, much like falling overtook me. I had not noticed before, but she was already playing arm candy to some schmo, a man grinning dully at me with his had stuck out. I grasped it and shook, hating the man attached to it with the recklessness that so often infects the soul of the passionate. He mumbled how wonderful it was to have seen me speak, but I wasn’t listening; I couldn’t take my eyes off of the beautiful creature on his arm. He seemed to notice and said “Maya, say hello to Mr. White.” She just gave me a watery sort of look and then glanced away. Suddenly I realized that the man whose hand I had shaken must have been her father, and my heart soared. “May I?” I said, and he nodded.

I reached out and gently took Maya off of his shoulder and into my arms. Some of the spit-up that was on her bib was transferred to my suit, and I smiled. She smiled back. Maya, sweet Maya. I drew in her scent and our eyes met for what seemed an eternity. I had kissed thousands of babies in thousands of towns, but this was unlike anything I had ever felt before. There was an unmistakable electricity. I knew she wanted it too, so I closed my eyes and moved in, my hungry tongue darting out from between my lips.

Then things got a bit blurry.

There was a lot of sudden pushing, and my beautiful Maya was gone, whisked back into the crowd. The last thing I saw was her figure receding from me, hands outstretched, pain in her eyes, while Anselmo and Wolf began firing negro-grade pepper spray into the surging crowd. Before I knew it we were on the bus and heading out of town. Anselmo stood over me, saying something, but I couldn’t hear him. I waved him out of the room and lay in the dark clutching the crust of spit-up on my lapel.

Yes, folks, passion can be a powerful thing. Now that I’m out of it’s clutches, I’m even more determined to channel that passion into my love for my country, and the opportunity for power that it provides. Don’t worry about me though, I’m ok. I’ve watched Romeo + Juliet (the Claire Danes one) on my VHS three times in as many days, so I’m starting to get my heal on. And there’s really something to that story; sometimes, no matter how much you want something, it just can’t work. I think maybe I knew that from the first moment I saw her.