“I bought them. Just those few, but it’s a start. I used the last of my money.”
“You own them? Oh, my God. What are you gonna do with them?”
“The Netherlands are making real headway with wind energy. It’s a viable substitute for fossil fuels and the dirtier ways we get power.”
“Wow. You own windmills.”
“Wind turbines, Nix.”
“You’re a regular old Don Quixote,” I go on, warming to my analogy. “A knight errant, determined to save the world. Comes fully equipped with windmills.”
“So I’m a joke now, huh?” He reaches for me with a playful growl.
“Ahhhhhh!” I jump on my bike and take off, pedaling furiously, yelling over my shoulder when I see him coming after me, “It’s Doc Quixote!”
We ride and laugh until we reach the tulip fields, rolled out like vibrant carpets displayed in an open-air bazaar. Great swathes of purple, yellow, red and pink.
“Most of these fields are owned by farmers who sell the tulips. Some won’t even let you take photos, much less pick the flowers,” Maxim tells me, bringing his bike to a stop. “Fortunately for you, your guide knows where to pick ‘em.”
We ride a bit farther, alternating between moments of easy silence, conversation passed between us as we ride beside each other, and at one point, a rousing chorus of Billy Joel’s greatest hits. Maxim makes up his own ridiculous lyrics for “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”
“Rabbit ears, Britney Spears, iPhone, Home Alone.”
“I’m pretty sure the iPhone hadn’t been invented when Billy Joel wrote that song.” I laugh after his last chorus, which included such anachronisms as The West Wing and DVRs.
“You have to go ruin it with technicalities,” he says.
“Also known as truth.”
“Truth is relative.”
“If you think that, maybe you should go into politics,” I say. We’ve reached the flower-picking garden, and walk our bikes through wide aisles between the rows of tulips. “Do you have a general disdain for all politicians, or have there been any good ones, in your expert opinion?”
“There’s just always an agenda. Their own glory usually, but a few of them have inspired me.”
“Like who?”
“I liked the Kennedys.”
“Figures,” I say with a snort.
“Excuse me?” He sends me a lifted brow and a half grin.
“Don’t tell me no one’s ever compared you to JFK, Jr.”
“What the hell?” His surprised laughter rings loud in the relative stillness of the field. We’ve come on a weekday at the very beginning of tulip season. There aren’t many tourists today, and we have a private patch of this colorful quilt to ourselves.
“Oh, come on.” I smile and tip my bicycle’s kickstand, leaving it and walking down a row of flowers. “The height, the dark hair, the dreamy smile and bedroom eyes.”
“You think I have bedroom eyes and a dreamy smile?”
“Like I would have given my V-card after a day to some slouch with a non-dreamy smile.”
“Don’t forget my bedroom eyes.” He bats his long eyelashes rapidly and laughs when I flip him off. He settles his bike between two rows of tulips and joins me.
“The Kennedys were far from perfect, you know,” I tell him.
“Well documented, but why do we expect our politicians to be perfect? I’d rather have someone say, ‘Hey. I cheat on my wife, but what does that have to do with me keeping us out of stupid wars? Or raising taxes on the people who can least afford it?’”
He takes my hand and pulls me into his side as we walk farther away from the bikes.
“When you think about it, we had so little time with JFK,” he continues. “But he’s the one everyone talks about. He understood the importance of vision—of inspiring people. He literally said we’re going to the moon. And we did. He told us to ask not what the country could do for us, but dammit, what can we do for this country? Responsibility, balanced with compassion. That’s the problem with most democrats. So much compassion, but they never show me how they’ll pay for it, or who’s going to take responsibility for it, and they need to be ruthless from time to time. Show me some killer instinct. If you care so much about people, fight for them. If your opponent fights grimy, maybe you’ll have to, but get it done for the people you say need it.”
“And what’s the problem with republicans?”
“They have a compassion problem.” He kicks a rock, sending it skipping ahead of us. “They’re medieval in their views on just about everything, including climate change.”
“And you are which?”
“I’m myself. I hate the two-party system. It asks people to set aside their individual principles for a platform. Give me a guy who says, ‘I believe like four of their things and maybe three of theirs, and they both get it wrong on this shit, but don’t worry. I got my own plan for that. Follow me.’”
“Wow. A campaign slogan if I ever heard one.”
“Now you see why I’ll never do politics. It’s all power games and manipulation, not actually giving a shit. If they cut a deal that’s advantageous to them and their constituents happen to benefit, that’s fine, but they are first.”
“So there’s a very short list of politicians you’ve approved of.”
He shrugs. “Some exceptions. I actually liked Bobby even more than President Kennedy. He said, ‘The future is not a gift. It is an achievement.’”
“I love that.”
“I’m gonna do that,” Maxim says. The force of his will and ambition are like a wall. “You don’t have to be a politician to change the world. Matter of fact, I think your chances are better if you’re not one. Power blurs everything and can rob you of perspective.”
It’s a shame he doesn’t want to run because I’m here for everything he just said. And the man is fine, which goes a long way with American voters. They love a pretty POTUS.
“I honestly don’t care about left or right,” I tell him. “I just want things to change, and I don’t care which side does it.”
“Agreed.”
We walk through rows of tulips with color so rich each bulb looks hand-painted. I pick and drop them in my basket along the way, taking a few photos of the flowers, and sneaking a few of Maxim, who looks incongruously big beside the delicate blooms.
“Getting enough?” he asks idly. “Pictures, I mean.”
“I need one of us here together.”
He lifts his head at that, his eyes meeting mine, and a smile fully blooms on his handsome face.
“Miss,” he calls to an older woman a few rows over and down. When she looks back, he turns that dazzling smile on her, and of course in a few seconds she’s headed our way.
“Would you take a picture of me and my . . .” His words falter and he looks as unsure how to fill in that blank as I am. “Would you take a picture of us?”
“Certainly.” She takes his phone and smiles indulgently.
He pulls me in front of him and rests his chin on my head. She snaps the first picture. When I glance up at him, the look in his eyes warms me and melts any reserve I had left. He bends to cup my chin and kisses me tenderly. I hear her snapping the photo, but couldn’t care less. I lean up into that kiss, deepen it, drag it out until she clears her throat.