Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“All right. Now, I may be looking for a new running mate. I haven’t decided yet. But I may.”

“I see.”

“Bucky here thinks you’d be a real asset. I’m inclined to agree with him.”

Randy stared, mute.

“However,” the president continued, “there’s a problem. This Transitioning business.”

Randy stiffened. “I can’t just drop it. Nor will I.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to. Wouldn’t ask you to. Wouldn’t ever ask a man, especially a man who left a leg behind in a war zone, to throw away his principles just for the sake of advancing his career.”

Randy said, “I’m not sure I’m following you, sir.”

The president leaned in closely. “Look here, son. Now, sooner or later, this silly Transitioning business is going to blow up in your face. You’ll look like you just bit down on an exploding cigar.” The president glanced at Randy’s leg. “I mean…Hear me out. You’re not going to get the votes. And then where will you be? You’ll just be the poster boy for suicide. You can call it ‘Transitioning’ or whatever the hell you want. It’s still legalized suicide, never mind all that shineola about how it’s all for the common good. Even if you did get the votes, I’d veto it faster’n you can take a morning crap. I promise you that. Now, I can’t have for a running mate someone whose name is synonymous with ‘lethal injection.’ We’ve got to put some daylight between you and this bill. Like you said, you can’t just walk away from it. You need an exit strategy. Some way where you can walk away from it and still have your integrity. And once that’s done, I believe you would make me a fine running mate. You’re young, good-looking, a regular Pied Piper with the kids. And we’re going to need them. Yes, you remind me a bit of John F. Kennedy. You with me, Randy?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Sure you are.” The president smiled. “Hell, you went to Harvard. Now, the way it would work, I would come out and make a public statement, say, ‘Look here, I don’t like the idea of people jumping off bridges in return for tax breaks. It’s un-American. But I recognize that we live in damn hard times-and we got to do something about it.’”

Bucky Trumble nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’d say, ‘I’m a reasonable man. I’m willing to listen to both sides of the argument. So I am going to’”-the president paused for dramatic effect-“‘appoint a blue-ribbon Presidential Commission on Transitioning. I’m going to call together all the best minds in the country-starting with Senator Randolph K. Jepperson of Massachusetts, who I suppose knows as much about this issue as anyone on the planet.’ Naturally, we’ll have to have other people of diverse views. But you’ll be my first pick. My”-he grinned-“eyes and ears. I’ll say, ‘I am asking these distinguished Americans to deliver me their report. And at that point I will make up my mind as to whether this proposed solution truly represents this country’s best chance at solving this most dire dilemma.’ Still with me, Randy?”

Randy nodded.

“Now, what’ll happen is you’ll be front and center, with daily TV coverage. Only now instead of looking like the poster boy for mass suicide, you’ll be the voice of reason. You’ll get to say in front of cameras-with everyone watching-as you interview witnesses, ‘Well, hm, I don’t know, maybe this isn’t the answer, after all. Maybe there is a better way.’ I see headlines. JEPPERSON EMERGES AS MODERATING VOICE ON TRANSITION COMMISSION. I see another headline. Want to hear it?”

Randy nodded.

“WHITE HOUSE SAID TO BE IMPRESSED BY JEPPERSON PERFORMANCE ON COMMISSION.”

“WHITE HOUSE DAZZLED ,” Bucky corrected.

The president smiled. “You want to hear one more? PEACHAM ASKS JEPPERSON TO BE RUNNING MATE. Do you like that headline, Randy? Do you?”

A little voice inside Randy was shouting, Look out! but what came out of his mouth was, “I believe so. Yes.”

The president leaned back with a contented air. He looked over at Bucky. “What about you, Buck? You like that headline?”

“I like it a lot.”

The president stood, extended his hand, and said, “Okay, then, pardner. See you round the corral.”

It was only later that Randy would note the conjunction of the words okay and corral in the sentence.

Cass was cooking dinner for the two of them-a rare thing in these busy days-in Randy’s Georgetown manse. She had the TV on as she worked. She heard the anchor say, “And the White House today announced that it was appointing a special Presidential Commission on Transitioning…” She looked up from her soft-shell crabs.

The phone rang. It was Terry, saying, “Turn on the TV.”

“It’s on.”

“What do you know about this?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Where’s the junior senator from the great state of Massa-chusetts?”

“He’s on his way. I’m cooking dinner for him.”

“What are you making?”

“Soft-shell crabs.”

“What are you cooking them in?”

“Skillet. Why?”

“Well, when he walks in the door, hit him in the face with it. He’s on the commission. It was just announced.”

“What? Impossible. He’d have said something.”

She heard the door open. “Randy?” she called. “Is that you?”

“Hi, darling. Are you in the kitchen?” His voice had a foreign upbeat quality to it.

Cass said to Terry, “I don’t believe this. Call you back.”

“Kill him,” said Terry.

“Yum! Soft-shells! I love soft-shells. How was your day, sweetie?” He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Fine. How was your day? Darling.”

“Gosh. Busy. Listen-great news.”

Cass sliced tomatoes. It kept her from disemboweling Randy with the knife.

Randy said, “You won’t believe it.”

“I’ve seen a few things in my time. Try me.”

“I got the White House to appoint a commission on Transitioning.”

Cass stared.

He added, “It’s unbelievably good news for our side.”

“A presidential commission,” Cass said somewhat coolly. “Boy. Those don’t come along just every day.”

“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Had to twist quite a few arms. Bucky Trumble is one tough cookie. I had half an hour’s face time in the Oval with the president.”

“Really? Well, you have been a busy boy,” Cass said, clutching her knife, reminding herself that killing a U.S. senator was a federal crime.

“Aren’t you pleased? You don’t sound pleased.”

Cass adopted a pensive attitude. “Didn’t you tell me that presidential commissions were what they appointed when they didn’t want to do anything about something, while giving the illusion that they do?”

“ Moi? Did I? I don’t remember that. No. No, no. Au contraire. Commissions are-my gosh, if you want to shine a light on something, there’s no better way. Darling, you don’t seem to grasp what marvelous news this is: a presidential commission. Blue-ribbon. You might be a little enthusiastic.”

“Let’s review,” Cass said. “You’ve gone from hating the idea, to championing the idea, to giving away the idea, to sitting on a commission to discuss the idea. It’s not quite the ‘take that hill’ brand of leadership, is it?”

Randy said, “I’m going to be more than just a commissioner.” He chuckled. “Don’t you doubt that . The White House is…This is really-really-really between us, okay?…The White House is on our side. ”

“Really?” said Cass. “Funny. You wouldn’t think so, the way they’ve attacked the idea day after day. Not to mention encouraging my father to denounce me.”