Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Darling. They can hardly come right out and say they like it. Presidents can’t just endorse mass suicide. It’s not presidential.”

“Yes, that seems to be the general case in this town. Everyone walking around wishing they could say what they really believe.”

“I’m starved. Let me go wash up.”

“Yes,” Cass said. “You’d better, if you’ve been at the White House.”

He ignored it and gave her a peck kiss on the cheek and toodled off.

Cass called Terry. “Should I use the nine-inch skillet on him or the twelve-inch?”

“The twelve-inch,” Terry said. “They just announced Gideon Payne is on the commission.”

Dinner was not a success, and through no fault of the food. Cass served the crabs, along with dilled new potatoes and fresh tomatoes in balsamic vinegar, onto Randy’s lap. She then stormed out of the mansion, giving the ancient door such a satisfyingly good slam that the stained glass transom rattled. She drove back to her apartment and hunkered down in front of her computer in a Red Bull rage. When the going gets tough, the tough get blogging.

There was a lot to do. She had to respond to Gideon’s charge about the Bosnian “evidence.” Once that was done, she would have to explain to her millions of loyal followers-followers who were depending on her-why their maximum leader, the senator from the great state of Massachusetts, Randolph “Let’s Make a Deal” Jepperson, had apparently sold them all down the river for some unspecified mess of pottage. The proximate cause of her dumping the delicious meal onto his lap was his refusal to tell her exactly what devil’s bargain he had entered into with the White House (in return for selling her out). Then there were thousands of e-mails wanting to know about her father’s denunciation of her. She sighed. She was tired. Should she take a Ritalin? It would be a long night. But it was good to be back in the cockpit. In cyberspace, everyone can hear you scream.

The phone rang and rang. Randy. She answered four times, each with, “Fuck off,” and hung up. The fifth time, she picked up and listened. A strained voice said, “I’m all in favor of screwing, but can we at least do it in bed and not over the phone?”

“I’m glad you called,” she said. “I need your help with the wording of this posting for CASSANDRA. See what you think: ‘Senator Sells Soul to Lowest Bidder…’ Do you like it?”

“Cass-”

“Originally I had ‘Highest Bidder,’ but I changed it to ‘Lowest.’ I’m not sure what it means, but I like it. It says ‘sleazy.’ That’s just the headline. Do you want to hear the whole post?”

Randy said, “Cass, will you please calm down?”

“Too late. I’ve drunk three Red Bulls.”

“Well, take a pill. You’re coming unhinged. You’re completely misinterpreting this. I’m telling you, it’s a coup what I’ve pulled off.”

“What did they promise you?”

Randy had been in Washington long enough to lie smoothly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it to her. Anyway, she wouldn’t believe him. Once you’ve slept with a woman, it’s harder to lie to her, despite the necessity. “That Transitioning would get a good full hearing, with all sides represented, in the plain light of day. You have to understand, Cass, this is the way to go.”

“I can’t even discuss it. And please, spare me a lecture on ‘How Our Democracy Works.’ It’s a good thing it was your ancestor and not you who worked on the Declaration of Independence. You’d have put in a clause reimbursing King George for the tea they dumped in Boston Harbor.”

“What do you want me to do? Get down on my one good knee and beg forgiveness?”

“A new record. Less than a minute into the conversation and you’ve played the amputee card. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s your leg you left over there or two other parts.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Sorry. No, actually I’m not sorry.”

“All right. Start over. I’m sorry I didn’t consult with you first.”

“You should have.”

“I know. You’re right. I’m pathetic.”

“More.”

“How can I ever forgive myself? I should have told the president, ‘I have to check with my girlfriend first.’”

“Girlfriend? You mean the one you got the whole idea from in the first place?”

“Intellectual partner. Soul mate. Anam cara. ”

“What?”

“It’s Celtic. A good thing. Trust me.”

“Trust is the issue here, Randy.”

“I’m sorry. Okay? I am truly, sincerely sorry.”

“Try practicing in front of a mirror. Call me in the morning.”

“I will. But no blogging, okay? Promise?…Cass?… Ca-ass? ”

Cass and Terry were working on a PowerPoint presentation for a client who was looking to get a fat government subsidy for distilling automobile fuel out of used fast-food restaurant fry grease when the senator from the great state of Massachusetts walked in, looking somewhat less great than his state. He was limping, Cass noticed, and for once it had the look of sincerity. He slumped wordlessly into a chair.

“Did you really,” he said to Cass, rubbing his forehead, “have to say that about me on your website?”

Terry looked at Cass.

She explained, “I quoted Groucho Marx: ‘I’ve got principles. And if you don’t like those, I’ve got others.’”

“Sounds about right,” Terry snorted.

“Before you two swoop down and begin feasting on my carcass,” Randy said, “I’ve got something to say.”

“If it’s your Ich bin ein asshole speech,” Terry said, “I’m all ears.”

“Finished?” Randy said. “I called Bucky Trumble this morning, and I gave him what-for.”

Terry said to Cass, “‘What-for’? Is that WASP-talk?”

“I said to him, ‘How could you put Gideon Payne on the commission when just the other day he suggested that Cass and I were… screwing in a minefield?’ He said they had to put him on. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not pleased.”

Cass said, “I bet that had him quaking in his loafers.”

“I’m trying,” Randy said, “to make amends.”

“Why don’t you tell us what deal you struck with them in return for this abortion . ”

Randy glanced at Terry, then at Cass with a look of Not in front of the children .

“Is he suggesting,” Terry said to Cass, “that I leave-my own office?”

Cass said, “Randy. What do I have to do-toss a stick of dynamite down your throat? Just tell us.”

“This stays in this room. They’re thinking of dumping Laney. And when they do, they’ll make me VP.”

Cass and Terry stared.

“They were very impressed with the way I’ve handled the Transitioning bill.”

Still no reaction from Cass and Terry.

“He said I remind him of JFK.”

Cass and Terry reacted. They burst out laughing.

“You, uh,” Cass said, trying to compose herself, “got this in writing?”

“Of course not. It’s a deep, deep secret. Which I’m counting on you two to keep. So don’t, please, blow it for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Well, at least I got it right that you sold out to the lowest bidder.”

“Lowest bidder? They’re offering me the vice presidency! You make it sound like I won ten dollars in some county fair for growing the second biggest cucumber.”

“More like for laying the biggest egg. There wasn’t much point left to Transitioning after your Boomer pork giveaway spree. And now you’ve thrown the rest of it down the drain for a slot on some idiot commission.”

Randy glowered.

“And you can cool it with the ‘kinda spooky’ look. You look like a poodle pretending to be a Rottweiler.”