Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“You? Never! Thanks for coming by.”

“Did you really just say to me, ‘Thanks for coming by’?” she said.

“Hm? Problem?”

“No problem. Only, it’s just the sort of thing that senators more typically say to, I don’t know, Barnstable County Teacher of the Year or some undersecretary of housing and urban development.”

“Still mad, are we?”

“Why would I be mad? Just because you completely rewrote the Transitioning bill without bothering to tell me?”

“Look, sweetkins, there’s the real world, and then there’s the U.S. Senate. We have a chance to carry this thing into the end zone.”

“Whose end zone, Mr. Flutie?”

Randy gave her an exasperated look, as though only her recalcitrance stood in the way of acknowledging his political genius. “I don’t know how else to put it. We need the Boomers.”

“I thought the whole point was to oppose the Boomers.”

“Same thing. But you want them inside the tent pissing out, not on the outside pissing in.”

Cass stared. “Are we quoting Jefferson or Madison?”

“Do you want this bill to pass or not?”

“At this point, no. You’ve taken my meta-issue and turned it into a Boomer pork sausage. That’s not why I signed up.”

“I’m sorry that the democratic process doesn’t measure up to your high standards. Give my regards to Aristotle and Pericles.”

He had the kinda spooky look.

Cass stood. “Well, good luck.”

“Where are you going?” he said, looking suddenly more human.

“I’m not ‘going.’ I’m fleeing.”

“Oh, sit down, Cass. Come on. We can work this thing out.”

“I’m not a lobby, Randy.”

He smiled. “No. I got that.” He stood and hopped around the desk to her. Cass realized that was why he hadn’t stood. He wasn’t wearing his prosthesis. She began to giggle.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s…just…whatever.”

“Making fun of cripples. And you all full of umbrage.”

He hopped over to the door and locked it.

Sometime later, both of them lying on the big leather couch, she said, “You heard about Gideon Payne’s speech?”

“I did,” Randy said. “I was thinking of going to his office personally and breaking his nose, but my handlers advise against it. There are certain drawbacks to being a senator. Plus there’s the business about his ancestor shooting my ancestor. It would only look like some preposterous blood feud. Not quite the attitude of dignity one strives for if you’re thinking of running for president. I suppose I could hire a sniper. That would even the historical score.”

“Is it something we need to worry about?”

“Shouldn’t think. There isn’t any evidence. We weren’t lap dancing in the minefield.” He smiled. “Hardly had time.”

“He called me Joan of Dark.”

“I saw. Good line, actually.”

“Um-hum.”

“You’ll come up with a good counterpunch, darling,” Randy said.

“I was thinking of ‘fat little fuck.’ What do you think?”

“I like it. It’s witty, but it also has substance. Anyway-change of subject-my man Speck reported in. I’m afraid you’re not going to like what he found out. This has to be absolutely confidential, yes?”

“No. I thought I’d tell The New York Times .”

“He’s former Secret Service, so he has access to all sorts of…No point in going into it, but he’s an absolute pit bull, let me tell you. During the last campaign…well, never mind.”

“You’re babbling.”

“Darling, I’m in a state of postcoital bliss. Drowning in endorphins. Of course I’m babbling. It seems there were a number of phone calls between your father’s very private phone line and the White House.”

Cass froze. “Why wouldn’t there be? He’s a big donor. He’s an Owl.…”

“Yes, but most of these were made in the days just before your dear old pater announced to the press that you were…”

“‘Morally repellent’?”

“?’Fraid so. Sorry.”

Cass thought. “Still doesn’t mean-”

“Cass. Now who’s giving whom the reality check? But let’s look at it analytically.”

“Beats looking at it emotionally.”

“Quite. Let’s assume they asked him to denounce you. Why? Cui bono. Them-has to be. In any White House, it’s always about them.” Randy considered. “Can’t quite parse it, but it must have something to do with sparing the White House some embarrassment. It’s as if they wanted Frank to publicly identify himself as your dad.” He thought. “Of course. That’s it. It’s quite obvious. Want to take it from there?”

“The media hadn’t yet connected the two of us. He’d been lying low. We don’t have the same surnames. He’s a big donor to the White House, and I’m the Molotov cocktail thrower. And the Justice Department lets me go.”

“Clever girl. See what sex does for the brain?”

Cass sighed. “Boy. Regular nest of vipers, isn’t it?”

“It’s Washington, darling. The shining city upon the hill. Beacon of democracy. Last and best hope of mankind. And you wonder why I have to cut a few deals?”

“Whoa. Bait and switch. You’re not off that meat hook yet.”

“We’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, that’s not all my man Speck found out. Does the term ‘RIP-ware’ ring any bells?”

The president’s mood, already foul, was not improved by Bucky Trumble informing him, during the regular seven a.m. political briefing, that Senator Randolph K. Jepperson was now “not ruling out” a presidential bid. This brought the total number of presidential challengers to-five. It is unpleasant to have this many people publicly expressing the desire to have your job.

“For fuck’s sake,” the president exploded, sending a gust of hurricane-force, caffeinated breath across his desk at Bucky. “Is there anyone out there who isn’t planning to run against me? Isn’t it hard enough trying to keep this goddamn fucking country”-Bucky Trumble lived in terror that the president, a salty speaker, would one day publicly refer to the United States as “this goddamn fucking country”-“together without having to run a goddamn primary campaign? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, now you’re telling me I’m going to have to haul my ass back to New Hampshire in the dead of fucking winter so I can defend myself in some goddamn high school auditorium debate against a bunch of shitheads?”

“Uh, well, sir-”

“How in the hell did it come to this? Someone tell me! You tell me!”

Bucky Trumble trembled.

“It’s that fucking Devine woman,” the president continued, sending another shock wave of air across the room. “Should have Transitioned her ass when we had the chance. But someone thought it would be a brilliant idea to let her walk!”

“It hasn’t played out fully yet, sir,” Bucky said. “I’m efforting it very hard. By the way, you saw that Gideon went public with the, ah, ‘evidence’ we, ah, conveyed to him?”

“I saw,” the president grunted. “He goddamn well better not trace it back to us. Evidence. It’s thinner’n piss on slate.”

The “evidence” that the president of the United States and his political counselor had armed Gideon with against his tormentor Cassandra Devine and-by extension-their tormentor Senator Jepperson was in fact thin. One of the crew members of the helicopter that plucked them wounded from the Bosnia minefield had gotten drunk a few months later and told a U.S. embassy staffer in a bar in Turdje that “they were definitely fucking each other’s brains out.”

This bit of bar talk was flatly contradicted by Cass’s frantic radio reports to base that they were under attack and required assistance. But the embassy officer had duly reported in a cable to the State Department what the drunken warrant officer had told her. From there it was duly leaked to the White House by a deputy assistant secretary of state seeking to curry favor and get a promotion.