Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

Editorials were predictably shocked-shocked: “Gutter Politics,” “The Gloves Come Off,” “Senator Foulmouth,” “Candidate X-Rated,” “No, Senator, You Shut the @#$% Up!”

The blogosphere, however, was delighted, wallowing, humming, aglow, streaming video, happy as a giant cyberclam. To the U30s, Randy had “dropped the f-bomb.” The TV and newspaper punditariat acknowledged that it was a “hinge event” and “for better or worse-almost certainly worse-a paradigm shift.” To reporters mind numbed by prepackaged, sanitized candidate statements, it was a gift from the campaign gods. Meanwhile, the Jepperson campaign was overwhelmed with U30 volunteers wanting to help. Fashion designers were rushing out lines of STFU clothing. Cass was triumphant. Time magazine put her on the cover-her second cover of Time and only thirty years old-with the headline THE UN-SHUTUPABLE CASSANDRA DEVINE.

Ten days later, Senator Randolph K. Jepperson finished second in the Iowa caucuses, behind President Riley Peacham.

Cass knew from the look on Terry’s face that something was wrong. They were in Manchester, New Hampshire, two days before the primary. Randy was within three polling points of Peacham.

“What?” she said.

“I just got a call from The Washington Post . Wanting to know about our North Korean golf tournament.”

Cass sat without taking off her parka. “Aha.”

“Yeah.”

“Trumble.”

“Probably.” Terry snorted. “Though I doubt Peacham-or even your dad-stood in his way.”

Cass considered. “Did the Post have…details?”

“Enough”-Terry sighed-“for a headline on the order of JEPPERSON’S TOP AIDES ASSISTING EVIL, ROTTEN, DESPICABLE NORTH KOREAN DICTATORSHIP WITH IMPROVING IMAGE .”

“Oh dear,” Cass said. “Well, that’s it, then. Did you explain that the North Koreans came to you, not the other way around?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s going to be the lead.”

Cass stood. “He’s speaking to that self-esteem group. I better intercept him before the Post reaches him.”

Randy listened to what Cass and Terry had to say with a mix of facial expressions, most of which included a furrowed brow. When there was no more to say, Cass handed him a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Terry’s and my official resignation from your campaign. Be sure to say that you were appalled to learn about it all. And that you immediately accepted-actually, demanded-our resignations. With any luck, they’ll move on.”

Randy looked at Terry. Terry shrugged. “You’re within spitting distance of Peacham. You don’t want to get bogged down in this.”

Cass said to Terry, “Could I talk to Randy for a minute?”

“I can’t do this without you,” Randy said.

“Sure you can. Just keep telling them to shut the fuck up.”

Randy tore up the piece of paper.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I already posted it on the website.”

“You stood by me. I’ll stand by you. We’ll tough it out.”

“That’s sweet but completely suicidal. If you make it, you might actually be in a position to fix this mess. I wouldn’t draw a whole lot of satisfaction from thinking I stood in the way of that. Hey”-she smiled-“we’re a long way from Turdje.”

Randy was blinking back tears. Cass reached over and stroked his cheek. “You can’t go in front of the Greater Manchester Self-Esteem League looking like that.”

Two days later, Randy finished second in the New Hampshire primary, three points behind Peacham. The big surprise that night was Gideon Payne, who came in third. An impressive showing-and now it was on to South Carolina.

The details of Terry Tucker’s North Korea pro-am golf tournament scheme were avidly gone over in the press. One article, noting that North Korea’s only golf course had been built with slave labor (as had everything else in that unhappy country), was headlined “Field of Screams.” But Cass’s and Terry’s resignations had insulated Randy from significant collateral damage. After the initial huffing and puffing, most accepted it for what it was-another Washington PR scheme to shake a few shekels from one of the world’s nuttier dictators-and moved on.

The White House, on the other hand, did its best to keep the issue alive. En route to Charleston, South Carolina, aboard Air Force One, the president invited the press forward to his cabin. Bucky had suggested a leading question to a reporter friendly to the administration.

“Sir, will your Justice Department be pursuing legal action against Mr. Tucker and Ms. Devine under the trading with the enemy statutes?”

“Difficult question,” said the president, trying to look as if he were weighing a grave constitutional issue. Inwardly, he was feeling much lighter. No one had told him to shut the fuck up since New Hampshire. He had inserted a crowbar between Jepperson and that woman. Frank Cohane was urging him to unleash the attorney general on her. Strange, the relish Cohane had for going after his own daughter. The president didn’t like Cohane. He was always dropping little hints about how he was looking forward to running the Treasury in the second term. Bucky seemed oddly tolerant of this forwardness. But Cohane was an animal when it came to raising money. He was putting a lot of his own dough, too, into various 527s that funneled the money to the party. If Peacham did appoint him to the Treasury, there would be talk of his having bought the job. But there was a campaign to wage in the meantime.

“I haven’t consulted with the attorney general on that,” he told the reporter. “It’s his decision, not mine. Meanwhile, I think Senator Jepperson did the decent thing. For once.” The reporters laughed.

“Do you feel threatened by Reverend Payne, Mr. President? He’s showing strength in the South.”

“I feel threatened by anyone who wants my job.” Laughter. “But I’m going to work my heart out for every vote down there. This isn’t a southern matter or a northern matter. It’s an American matter.”

“Do you still refuse to debate with Senator Jepperson?”

“I will debate only with candidates who comport themselves according to minimal standards of decorum. If I see Senator Jepperson inside that debate hall, I’m going to have the Secret Service wash his mouth out with soap.” Laughter. “The kind with pumice.” More laughter. Bucky Trumble sat in a corner, beaming, listening to his own lines being spoken by the most powerful man on earth.

“Sir, the chairman of the Federal Reserve has indicated that he may raise the prime rate another point, to twenty-two percent, in view of the fact that inflation is now running at thirty-five percent.…”

The media do not abandon their darlings, not when they provide such copy as Cassandra Devine. Within days of her departure from the campaign, USA Today ran a cover story with the headline JEPPERSON AFTER CASS: IF I ONLY HAD A BRAIN.

Randy was not generally amused by the media’s declarations that Cass was his “brain.” On the other hand, he had enough of one himself to know that she was. Since the night in New Hampshire when he accepted her resignation, he had been calling and BlackBerrying her constantly.

“We probably ought to cool it,” Cass finally said. “Who knows who’s listening in and reading these e-mails. I’m not sure the other shoe has dropped yet. Justice may come after us. And if it comes out that we’re still talking, it could hurt you. Meanwhile, there’s this thing I’m going to do, and trust me, you don’t want to be an official part of it.”

Cass’s “thing” was a U30 protest rally in Washington, D.C., on the Mall at the foot of the Capitol building. On her website, Cass instructed everyone to bring their Social Security cards. She had gotten the idea from the Vietnam protests. Odd, she thought, that her inspiration should come from a key moment in the history of the Baby Boomers.