Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

As the agents led Cass away, she found herself thinking, So this is what handcuffs feel like . Funny what comes to mind in such moments. Fortunately, there were no clients in the reception area.

Cass’s arrest for “felonious incitement to cause damage to persons and property” had the effect she was counting on: celebrity. But with an agenda. A culture polysaturated with Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, and Lindsay Lohan craves the occasional serving of protein. This Cassandra provided. She was young, she was pretty, she was blond, she had something to say, and it had nothing to do with launching a new fragrance or singing career. By the time Allen Snyder had gotten her out on bail, she was in all the news broadcasts and on the front pages of most of the country’s newspapers. Headlines ranged from the sober:

Blogger Who Called For Social Security

Protest “Actions” Is Arrested by FBI

to the not:

“BOOMSDAY” CHICK TO FEDS: TAX THIS !

Her apartment was staked out by the media, as was, to Terry’s nondelight, the K Street entrance to the offices of Tucker Strategic Communications.

“Well,” he said over the phone in the resigned yet hopeful manner of his breed, the PR operative who knows that not every disaster can be made to seem a misunderstood victory, “maybe they’ll think it’s something to do with the neighbors.” He meant the Society for the Relocation and Assistance of Displaced Muslim Persons one floor down: the CIA unit in charge of “renditions” of suspected Islamic terrorists, whom they grabbed off the streets, tossed into the back of Gulfstream jets, and whisked off to countries where “interrogation” was still an honorable and competitive profession. The society’s actual function had been revealed by The New York Times a month earlier. But, alas, the media were here for Cassandra, not them.

“You might as well hang out at my place until we figure out the next step,” Terry said. “Allen’s kind of confused at this point. He’s generally more used to clients who are trying to stay out of jail.”

“I know,” Cass said. “I’m really sorry. But I can’t urge the people to rise up and then hide behind lawyers.”

“‘The people’? You going Commie on me?”

“ No, Terry.”

“It’s that damn Rand broad. Did you see the Times today? That’s what they called you: ‘Ayn Rand of the Blogosphere.’ Oh, Jesus, there’s another camera truck pulling up. There’s gotta be fifty people out front. Wonderful publicity for the firm. Wonderful.”

“Why don’t you have the mink ranchers send over some minks and unleash them.”

“Not a bad idea. I’ll see you later. Try not to pour any more gasoline on the fire until I get home.…?Cassandra?…Hello? You listening?”

She returned to her battle station at the computer. CASSANDRA’s mainframe server in Columbus, Ohio, was overwhelmed. They’d had to switch over to higher-capacity servers. When CASSANDRA came back online, Cass saw that she had 2.6 million e-mails awaiting her. The thought of reading them made her suddenly feel very tired.

Her cell phone began to chirrup with calls from bookers for the TV shows. Allen had begged her-instructed her, actually-to refrain from public comment. But she found herself saying yes to the network news, yes to The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, yes to Hardball with Chris Matthews. Yes, yes, yes to everyone-a regular Molly Bloom. What’s the point of starting a revolution, she thought, if you’re going to dodge the spotlight?

When Terry arrived home, exhausted and annoyed after having to use the Dumpster exit of his office building, he called out to her.

No answer. He found the note, taped to the refrigerator: “TURN ON TV. LOVE, C. P.S. Sorry (I know I keep saying that).”

Terry poured himself a large snifter of his thirty-year-old Scotch, girded his loins, and turned on the TV. He recited his mantra from Dorothy Parker: “What fresh hell is this?” The world would always provide.

“It is quiet, finally, in Florida tonight, following twenty-four hours of mayhem and protest at several golf communities. The incidents were sparked when this woman, twenty-nine-year-old Cassandra Devine, a Washington-based public relations executive…”

Terry let out a low moan. But at least they hadn’t mentioned the name.

“… urged young people who are angry about the recent Senate vote to raise Social Security payroll taxes to take, quote, actions. The FBI arrested Devine, and we hear tonight that she will be formally charged with incitement to commit violence. I spoke to her earlier today…

“Ms. Devine, did you in fact urge people to commit violence?”

“Not explicitly, but in effect, yes. I won’t hide behind legalistic terms. Sure I was inciting them. And tonight, Brian, I’m urging young people in the United States to protest the hopeless fiscal irresponsibility of the United States government. That Senate vote was an abomination. It was a vote to take food off my generation’s table in order to feather the nests of aging, self-indulgent, pampered Baby Boomers. What I’m saying is we’re not going to sit still while they bankrupt us.”

“But don’t Americans have the opportunity to protest the government at the polls, on election day?”

“Theoretically, yeah. But you don’t get real change until you make a loud noise. Until you sit down in the middle of the street and block traffic. You wouldn’t have had the Civil Rights Act of 1964 without the protest marches. You wouldn’t have had a women’s movement without those protests. We wouldn’t have gotten out of Vietnam without the demonstrations. And we aren’t going to get the Congress to act responsibly, to stop piling up endless debt and entitlements and passing it all on to the next generation, without a little dancin’ in the street.”

“What are you specifically calling for?”

“I’m calling on every member of my generation to take their iPods out of their ears and send the U.S. government a message. Not a text message, either. It’s simple. If the government can withhold our money, then we can withhold our money.”

“By that you mean-”

“A tax revolt, Brian. I’m calling on members of my generation to stop paying taxes.”

Terry reached her on her cell phone as she was shuttling to her next TV appearance, in the back of a town car.

“I know, I know,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Damn fine job, Bob.” It was a line Terry used around the office when particularly displeased by someone’s work. They were the words uttered by the captain of a supertanker after regaining the bridge only to find that his inebriated third mate, a man named Bob, had run it up on a reef, spilling one hundred thousand barrels of crude oil into a fragile ecosystem, resulting in the extinction of several rare species and $10 billion in lawsuits.

“Allen called,” Terry said. “Your lawyer. The one who told you not to talk to the press? He’s looking up the actual statute. Something to do with advocating overthrow of the U.S. government. He said he’ll have it by morning. At your arraignment. Oh, and your mom called. She tried you, but your cell phone was off. I told her you were in a TV studio hammering nails into your coffin. She too is thrilled at the prospect of your spending your adult life in prison. So, what act of self-destruction do you have planned next? It’s only seven. You ought to be able to fit three or four more career-ending moments in time to make the eleven o’clock news.”

“Keep your TV on.…?What’s that?”