The Man From Afghanistan

Terence Collins served as the US Representative for California’s 45th Congressional District, covering prestigious south-central Orange County in Southern California. Collins had recently flown back to his home in Newport Beach from Washington DC when the summer session of the US Congress had ended. Calling it a house was an understatement; it was more like a mansion sprawled over three acres of premium property sitting on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. Rows of houses owned by millionaires and billionaires dotted the coastline, with no property listed under $3,000,000. The neighborhood was teeming with homes owned by nouveau riche youngsters—having made their millions in startups in their thirties and forties. Rows of million-dollar houses were tightly packed together—along a thin strip of land, sandwiched between the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) and the mighty Pacific Ocean. Orange County was known as a playground for the rich and famous. It was widespread to see the rich boys in their shiny new luxury cars, driving on the PCH, or sailing their expensive yachts in the ocean.

On the other side of the PCH—over six hundred-fifty miles of corniche on the western border of California—were mountains dotted with houses overlooking the great stretches of the PCH on one side and rows of homes, the beach, and the Pacific Ocean with expensive yachts, surfers., et cetera. A few miles north was a breakwater that led into a marina housing hundreds of various sized vessels. PCH was dotted with expensive restaurants and bars owned by renowned gourmet chefs, luxury car dealerships, art galleries, boutiques selling the latest designer clothing, footwear, purses, etc.

Like most of them, Terence was a self-made millionaire who had made his money when a tech giant absorbed his startup. He then had invested his money in the stock market and watched his investment rise rapidly, especially and ironically, during the pandemic. Being a Republican from conservative Orange County, he had made his stance on many issues, such as abortion rights, gun control, immigration, and many more that were near and dear to his constituents, support his view. However, some of the recent developments in his district had attracted a younger demographic that voted more for the Democrats and helped the very conservative Red, Orange County, turn Blue.

Terence was six feet tall, with broad shoulders and an athletic body. He had closely cropped blond hair, blue eyes, a sharp nose, and dimpled cheeks. His entire face lit up when he smiled. He loved water sports and was selected for the water polo team during his university days; however, he had migrated to golf when he realized that most business decisions were made on the golf course. Almost all the businessmen and politicians loved to golf. The lobbyists used it as a conduit, ensuring that they were grouped with the Congressman when they wanted to get a favorable result for their cause.

Terence was a war hawk. He had vehemently opposed the US pulling out of Afghanistan. He was of the firm opinion of keeping some presence in the country. And defense manufacturers and contractors financed his views. But after twenty years of war, public opinion had changed. Some military families wanted their loved ones to come home; some politicians wanted to stop the financial bleeding of never-ending war and divert the money and the resources back home. But Terence and most of his Republican colleagues wanted America to remain in Afghanistan. One of their main excuses to stay was the US troops would act as a deterrent to the Taliban—who were getting stronger. As a last-ditch effort to stop the withdrawal, many Republicans had tried the age-old tactic of spreading fear by warning of a civil war. Unfortunately for them, it had not worked. The US had completed the drawdown of troops from Afghanistan. The President also had issued an Executive Order to migrate the civilians and their families who had worked for the US soldiers in various capacities: interpreters, drivers, cooks, and many more.

However, Terence was still not ready to give up. He was waiting, biding his time for a regime change in his own country when the Republicans would gain control of the White House. They were confident of gaining control of the House and the Senate in the next election cycle. However, he knew the President had to sign any bill to be passed. And currently, a Democrat was sitting in the White House who would veto the Bill. He was very optimistic that this would change in the next election cycle, starting with the Congressional elections. His party was likely to regain control of the House and the Senate.

That evening, he was hosting a fund-raiser at his mansion with a dinner plate costing $1,500—an exorbitant amount for most Americans but chump-change for the invitees. The guest list comprised elite socialites of Orange County, Republican donors, friends—although he just had a few people he could consider as friends. Ever since he had become a politician, he had met many people, but they all wanted something from him. So, he only considered those who knew him before he became a politician as good friends.

Hosting a fund-raiser was the modus operandi of all politicians. It was a tried-and-tested method to quickly raise vast amounts of money without breaking any election laws. In return, they would listen to the business community. For example, a businessman wanted to get a law passed that would be favorable to his business. Spending $1,500 on a plate was akin to a drop in the ocean for him. And in return, the politician would vote in favor of the law. It was a win-win for both parties.

His dinner was the hottest ticket in town. The media was awash with articles about the big evening. The guessing game had already begun. An innocent phone conversation between two socialites would rapidly turn into a speculative and spicy gossip of who was invited—and more importantly, who wasn’t.

The grand preparations were underway, with catering trucks parked haphazardly as they unloaded crates full of food and beverages. In the house, servers in their crisp white shirts and black trousers—covered by dark-green aprons—scurried around, preparing the dinner tables. All of them had temporarily pocketed their red ties for efficiency. They would wear them just before the guests arrived.

In the expansive kitchen, the chefs busily chopped fresh leaves for the salad that would be served as the first dish, along with a pumpkin soup. The main dish was a choice between lamb chops, blackened chicken breast, or smoked salmon. And chocolate souffle with hot coffee was the dessert. Several dozen red and white wine bottles were flown in from a famous winery in Napa Valley. Sun-dried tomato basil roll-ups, avocado-pesto BLT bites, Brie Fig and prosciutto crostini, walnut and blue cheese stuffed mushrooms, artichoke wonton wrappers, roasted parmesan garlic shrimp, bacon-wrapped jalapeno peppers, and antipasto kabobs were to be served as hors d’oeuvres.

“Hurry up,” Terence’s wife, Linda, exclaimed while she clapped her hands. “The guests will be arriving soon.”

She was in her late fifties and a few years younger than Terence, who had recently crossed sixty. She was a tall woman with striking features: full-lipped, an oval-shaped face, and blue eyes. Her smile lit up her entire face. Thanks to a visit to an exclusive spa and nail salon this morning, she had fashionably combed short blond hair with cream-colored nails that matched. She was wearing a black cocktail dress that hugged her well-sculpted figure. Her copper-toned skin shined—boasting of a well-tanned body in the Southern California sun. Her long and shiny legs glistened as she moved. She spent a lot of time on the upkeep of her body, going to the gym five days a week, eating healthy, consuming very little alcohol—a standard mantra of many Southern California women past their thirties who wanted to stay fit and look good.

Linda and Terence had been married for over thirty years. They had a son who was twenty-six and a twenty-four-year-old daughter. Both of them were married and lived outside California now.

Tonight, Linda wore a gold necklace and golden earrings to match. She looked around, searching for her husband, but couldn’t locate him. Annoyed, she walked across the recently polished marble floor, clippety-clopping the stilettos of her golden-buckled black shoes, and stepped out on the large deck.

It was a large wooden deck that overlooked a vast lawn lined with palm trees—running until it ended at the far end, and beyond the boundaries of the mansion was the mighty Pacific. A white gazebo was at its edge on one side—where the lawn stopped. On many clear evenings, Terry would walk over to the gazebo—with a glass of whiskey in his hand, sit on one of the comfortable sofas and watch the sunset. However, such luxuries had become less frequent as he spent more time in DC.

The deck was decorated with elegant patio furniture in thick cushions and a few umbrellas to shade them from the beating sun. A barbecue grill lay in one corner—covered in a thick Rexine. A narrow walkway snaked through the lawn, starting from the deck and ending in the far end that overlooked the Pacific. Tall trees flanked the long lawn, separating the property from its neighbors and affording privacy. The freshly mowed and lush-green lawn smelled of morning dew. Linda had turned on the sprinklers to water them a few hours earlier.

Terence lay in one of the lounge chairs. His eyes were half-closed, and a glass of whiskey lay on the small table next to him. He was squinting, looking at the Pacific.

“Oh, there you are,” Linda exclaimed with hands on her hips. But when her husband didn’t respond, she said in a sterner voice, “Terry?”

“What?” he replied, without looking at her, continuing to stare at something he had spotted.

“Aren’t you getting ready? The guests will be arriving soon.” She tapped at her wristwatch.

“In a minute. Come here first.”

“What?” She was annoyed now.

“Sit. Relax. Enjoy this.” He spread his hands wide.

“What?” She looked confused. The ocean was calm, with clear skies bereft of clouds. Since it had drizzled earlier in the day (a rare Southern California event,) the skies were devoid of the notorious smog that always hovered over the city. The rain had made everything appear more transparent as if someone had adjusted the lens of a camera to bring the blurred scenery into focus. A lone yacht had anchored in the still waters—an unusual occurrence, as most of them returned to the marina in the evening.

“All this.” He waved his hand around.

“Really!” she yelled incredulously. “What’s wrong with you? We have over one hundred guests who will be arriving soon, and you want me to sit here and enjoy this.” She air-quoted. “Go up and get ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted her as he got up.

“But before you go, cover the patio. I want it to be lit during the party.”

“Sure.”

He reached for his mobile, launched the awning app, and slid the toggle from red to green. He looked at the white-colored long strip of a metal beam mounted atop the patio’s sliding doors. A red light on the side of the beam blinked rapidly and turned green as he heard the familiar sound of a motor whirring. A thick acrylic fabric of gray and cream stripes emerged out of the long retractable beam mounted atop the patio’s sliding doors. The whirring stopped when the awning had extended twelve feet and covered the deck.

Satisfied, he heaved himself up from the lounge chair. “Honey,” he shouted as he entered the house.

“Yes?” her voice echoed.

“The awning is down. You need to ask someone to put up the lights.”

“Okay, thanks,” Linda shouted from the kitchen. She scanned the room. It was bustling with activity with clangs and clinks of pots, pans, dishes, and silverware. The servers were busily occupied with their tasks. The chefs were busy in their final preparations—fussing over the meal they had prepared. Her eyes fell on a young server who was unoccupied.

“Hey, you.” He looked like a teenager between seventeen and nineteen. His handsome young face shone from the reflection of the light emanating off his phone—he had held it close to his face while he scrolled. His facial expression had turned into a frown as he hunched over the small screen. He didn’t reply; white earbuds covered his ears. His head swayed rhythmically with the song tune he was listening to.

“Hey,” Linda repeated, raising her voice. He looked up, removed the earbuds, and stood up straight.

“Who, me?” He pointed to himself.

“Yes, you,” she said, “come here.” He walked over to her. “Yes?”

“Do you know how to put up lights?”

“Yes.”

“Do me a favor.” It sounded more like an order than a request.

“What?”

“Go to the garage. There’s a small carton marked ‘lights.’ Open it and bring me the amber lights.”

“Sure.”

“Make sure they are amber and not the red and green Christmas lights.”

“Amber…got it,” he said as he went out of the kitchen. After a few minutes, he reappeared, holding a bunch of tiny bulbs.

“These?” He raised his eyebrows as he showed them to Linda.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Now go to the patio and put them up on the awning.”

“That’s not my job; I’ll be in trouble if my supervisor catches me doing this.”

“Don’t worry about him.”

He smiled. “Her.”

“Sorry—her, don’t worry about her,” she repeated. “If she sees you, ask her to talk to me. I’ll take care of it.”

“O—okay.” He nodded but looked unsure. Looking at the hesitation on his face, she continues, “I’ll pay you $50 for five minutes of work.”

“Sure.” His doubtful expression turned into a smile as he went out to the patio.