Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Hm,” Randy said. “Not bad.”

“You can make it the centerpiece of your vice presidential campaign.”

“Where are you going?” Randy said.

“To find a BMW and slash its tires,” Cass said.

The final session of the Presidential Commission on Transitioning and Tax Alleviation was called to order.

Gideon Payne appeared with a large bandage over his head and dark glasses. He looked like the Invisible Man. He was terrified that the Russian hookers to whom (he thought) he had given his precious watch would see him on TV and recognize him. His appearance naturally caused a stir. He explained that he’d had laser surgery for his eyes and while recuperating had fallen down the stairs.

“I assure you,” he told reporters, “that my insides work just fine.” They were licking their chops in anticipation of a final smackdown between him and his adversary, Joan of Dark.

They were disappointed, therefore, when Cass, entering the chamber and seeing her adversary in this condition, went over to him. They couldn’t hear the exchange.

“Reverend,” she said, “what happened? Are you all right?”

Gideon, taken aback by her softness and evident concern, mumbled, “Uh, yes. An accident.”

“I’m sorry. Will you be all right?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Just healing.”

“I haven’t been very nice to you.”

Gideon didn’t know what to say to that. He held his breath. He could smell her perfume.

“But then,” Cass said, “you haven’t been very nice to me, either.”

Gideon cleared his throat. She was so beautiful. He could only croak, “Ah, no, I suppose…not. We got off to a bad start.”

She said, “For what it’s worth, he and I weren’t having sex in that minefield.”

“And I didn’t kill my mother.”

“I believe you.” Cass held out her hand. Photographers snapped away. Gideon hesitated, then reached out and took her hand. It felt soft. He wanted to hold it forever.

“Okay, then.…” She smiled and turned and went to her seat.

“What the fuck was that about?” said the Washington Post reporter to a Times columnist.

Randy looked at Cass as she took her seat next to him. He whispered, “First North Korea, now Gideon Payne?”

“I’m tired of being pissed off at everyone and everything.”

“Are you forgetting that his ancestor shot my ancestor? And that he accused me of screwing you in a minefield?”

“Randy,” she said, “the only time you didn’t screw me was in that minefield.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Randy said. The chair was gaveling the meeting to order.

“Something’s going on,” said the Post reporter, who was watching the exchange between Randy and Cass and wishing he’d brought in a lip-reader.

Two Months Later…

Few commission reports in history-except those dealing with Who Shot the President?-have been anticipated as eagerly as that of the commission on Transitioning.

The chairman of the commission was a former senator, secretary of labor, secretary of energy, and ambassador to an acronymic organization in Brussels whose actual function no one had ever quite ascertained. His very name, Bascombe P. Bledsoe, bespoke pinstripe, wood paneling, and murmured voices. He inspired confidence by virtue of his dullness. The polar ice caps might be melting, an asteroid might be hurtling toward earth, the international banking system might be in ruins, and Latin America might be in chaos; still, Bascombe P. Bledsoe would not raise his voice or break a sweat. If the moment became truly apocalyptic, he might cough softly and say, “The situation would appear not to be significantly ameliorating.” He was Anodyne Man-the perfect person to head a commission convened to decide whether mass voluntary suicide was the answer to Social Security’s intractable insolvency. And this was exactly why the president appointed him to chair the commission.

Having weighed the views of the various commissioners, he summed up the commission’s findings with a clarity and concision all too rare in Washington: “Further study is needed.”

Those hoping for Sturm und Drang were disappointed. The pronouncement contained little Sturm and virtually no Drang. Commissioner Cassandra Devine, on the other hand, had Sturm und Drang to spare.

“This is ridiculous,” she fumed. “‘Further study is needed’! You could say that about anything. You could say that about…paleontology.”

“Darling,” Randy said, “don’t get so worked up about it. We gave it our best shot.”

“We’ve been sandbagged. Don’t you see it?”

“Time to move on,” Randy said.

“What are you talking about?” Cass said.

“There’s a time for fighting and a time for not fighting,” Randy said. “This is one of those times.”

The White House issued a statement thanking Secretary Bledsoe and the commissioners for their “sacrifice, diligence, and hard work.” Asked about the commission’s report at a press conference the next day, the president said he, too, was satisfied that further study was needed and suggested that it was time to “move on.”

“Funny,” Cass said to Randy, “that the White House used the same language you did yesterday. ‘Time to move on.’”

“Hardly unique,” Randy sniffed.

“But ‘moving on’ is how it got to this point in the first place. It isn’t the time to move on. It’s time to fix it.”

“The only way to eat an elephant is one spoonful at a time,” Randy said.

“Is it me,” Cass said, “or do you hear the sound of a pressing issue of vital national importance being swept under a giant carpet?”

Randy put down his newspaper and listened. “Nope. Must be you.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?” she said accusingly. “It feels kind of scripted to me.”

“You saw the report I submitted to Bledsoe. It was teeming with recommendations. Full of piss and vinegar. I was all in favor of Transitioning. Within reason.”

“Oh, please. You recommended Transitioning at age eighty-five! You totally sold out to ABBA and the other Boomer lobbies.”

“Darling, I can’t help it if Bledsoe buried my recommendations. He’s a Prussian when it comes to keeping things in check. Veins like ice water. Hell of a squash player, they say.”

“You seem awfully…laid-back about this,” Cass said. “For someone who was championing the issue.”

“What can I say? I’m a WASP. I try not to let my emotions get the better of me. Inside, I’m churning . ”

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

“Thought I might write an op-ed piece.”

Cass stared.

Randy said, “What?”

“It’s not quite ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’ is it?” Cass said. “‘Thought I might write an op-ed piece. Give them a whacking big piece of my mind. But first I’ll have a spot of tea.’”

“Oh, stop being such a grumpuss. Meta-issue, remember? We got our day in the sun.”

“I can’t even discuss it. Why don’t you go write your stirring ‘J’accuse!’ for the op-ed page?”

“If you really want to know,” Randy said coyly, “I thought I might sashay on down Pennsylvania to the White House and point out that it’s time they lived up to their part of the bargain.”

“Bargain?”

“The vice presidency, darling. You’re not forgetting?”

“So it really was a deal? You’d cave on Transitioning in return for-”

“Not ‘cave.’ Well, all right. Cave. But in return for being tapped to be VP.”

Cass sighed. “I just hadn’t realized your little arrangement was so straightforward.”