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"No fair!" Sarah shrieked in a Klondike moment. "Who's got more hair!--Me or you? I'm all woman, Katie!--And half grizzly bear! And you can take that to the bank! Sarah smiled, her features fixed, like a puppy pressing with a cold nose.
"Are you saying you represent three-halves of a creature?" Katie looked puzzled.
"I meant snow bank!" Sarah rolled her eyes, blew bangs from her face, and snapped a bear trap grin. "Magazines!" she scoffed. "We don't read-em! We burn'em for heat! That's not censorship. That's leadership! The lower fifty-seven are a little thin blooded, if you ask me."
"Are you talking about states?"
"Alaska is bigger than all the states!" Sarah winked.
"You mean all together?" Katie's enamel cutlery curled in a half-grimace.
"Maybe," said Sarah, her eyes gleaming, like dark insects. "If you don't include the Yukon."
"Canada?" Katie's eyes turned fearfully inward, as if some boundary-dissolving demon, was gnawing at a cerebral capillary, intent on causing a stroke, and leaving her paralyzed like the all-seeing CBS eye.
"You betcha!" Sarah winked and leaned forward. "It's not like Africa, or honey badgers, or something. We have snow machines."
"I don't understand," said Katie. "Do you mean snow cones?"
"It's like Todd told me," Sarah's hands careened like clay pigeons on a cheerleader shooting range. "If you want to secede...I mean succeed...first you need helicopters."
"Let's change the subject." Katie tried to make eye contact. It was like trying to connect with Carol Channing singing "Hello Dolly--Before the Parade Passes By".
"How do you feel about Tea Baggers?"
Sarah laughed. "Going to go rogue on ya with that one."
"What? Tea Baggers?"
"That's what they drink in 911."
"Excuse me," said Katie. Her nails cut into her palm.
"New York. England. Those people who maybe go off traveling to foreign countries. And pal around with terrorists."
"No." Katie frowned and began rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm talking about Town Hall Meetings. People who actively support you."
"It really does take villagers," Sarah began rocking, "to raise soccer moms."
Katie's face, began to constrict, as if the glare cut etchings beneath her makeup.
"You wouldn't know," Sarah continued. "You're not a working sock mom."
Katie looked for escape...the window...the elevator...anywhere.
But Sarah pressed forward. "It's not like we rub noses, up here."
Katie leaned back, her face struggling to maintain an anchor's sobriety, but her hands fighting an impulse to pat Palin's head.
Someone screamed. The TV began to fade. Palin's dark eyes, like the dilated pupils of a raptured puppy, coated the screen.
Katie was gone.
