A Scoop of Scandal

I was grateful after the first bite. Hot and cold blended together. Tart and sweet. Smooth and seedy. Thick and thin. It was the perfect combination.

But I had to abandon the treat as the after-dinner rush poured in the door. Soon I was back to administering justice with chocolate and vanilla. And then I looked up, and there was Robert McFarlane. I recognized him from the hearings. He was with a woman I supposed was his wife, and they looked like a normal Washington couple out on a summer night -- clad in practical khaki and Oxford cloth, with tidy hair and comfortable shoes -- trying to escape the dull, depressing repetition of the evening news. As he scanned the list of flavors high on the wall, his face held the same gentle, upward glance it did when he regarded the congressional inquisitors. He eyed the word "pistachio" with the same melancholy resignation he might Sen. Inouye or Sarbanes, or anyone else on the committee.

I knew one thing. I had to scoop his ice cream. Ivor was working the line with me, and I wanted to ask him if I could wait on McFarlane. But there was no way I could do it discreetly. So I got in sync with Ivor, matched speeds with him, so that we would both be free to take the next customer at the same time. I over-scooped for everyone, and got McFarlane.

I held my scoop in the air, ready to punish this man for, as I saw it, believing he was above the law. I felt gleeful, powerful and star-struck at the same time. I cannot remember what McFarlane ordered. All I can recall is my sensation of surprise that it was not one of the most common flavors. It wasn't obscure, but it wasn't in the top five. It had seen no dramatic daily drops recorded in Ivor's white notebook.

I thrust my arm in the case, my scoop barely scraping the surface of the ice cream. At the same time, Ivor reached forward a few containers down. His shape was so familiar now in my peripheral vision: baggy T-shirt; long, outstretched arm. I felt a rush of affection for him. I wanted to be like him. This feeling was so strong that it overrode my personal sense of prejudice. I gave McFarlane a fair scoop. Then he walked down to the cash register.

I wish I could say that at that moment, I saw the similarity between McFarlane and me. By choosing who got a just serving, and who didn't, I put myself above a sort of law, too. My transgressions were minuscule. But behind them were the same mental gymnastics, the belief that the rules were something to be personally calibrated depending on my view of the situation. And once some people start thinking and behaving like that, it's only a matter of time before a few ounces of butterfat can become a cache of AK-47s.

But I didn't realize that. Not then. Not for years. The closest I got was being drawn to someone who did. I think sometimes that I didn't have a crush on Ivor himself that summer, but on his decency. A week or so later, I worked my last night at Bob's. Ivor walked me to my car, as usual. I wanted him to kiss me. Even if he had, it would not have magically transmitted the things he knew.

Now I understand the connection between Ivor's punk credentials and his concern for doing things by the book. Bob's small business was the kind that employed ragtag people like us -- struggling punk rock musicians; students without internships; girls who thought they were criminals, even if they weren't -- and it was in our best interest to make it profitable. In a band, drummers lay down the law.

They are responsible for making sure everyone stays on track, so that the group doesn't fracture into chaos. It was an ability Washington had lost in its leaders that summer but one that Ivor laid down in the vinyl grooves of records, and one that I gained at least for a moment, when I gave Robert McFarlane what, as a paying customer, he deserved.

Kate Hahn is a freelance writer living in Los Angeles. She can be reached at K.Hahn@gte.net.