I can’t stop the tears from pouring down my cheeks and falling on to the clothes I haven’t bothered changing out of for the last three days. I spent the weekend on the same worn couch I am curled up on now. With no reason to dress or shower, the West Village apartment I can really no longer afford to call home is beginning to reek of body odor and the unfamiliar stench of failure.
My cell phone rings for what has to be the umpteenth million time since I was fired on Friday. I let the damn thing ring until it gives up getting my attention and forwards the caller to voicemail. Of course, they can’t even leave a message. The mailbox filled up sometime Saturday afternoon.
I know everyone is concerned about me, but I just can’t bring myself to answer their calls. Part of it is shame and another part is humiliation, I guess. Part is … I don’t know. Maybe the feeling I brought this on myself, which, I suppose, I did. But right now, I can’t think straight, let alone talk straight. A hundred thoughts are vying for time in my head, while simultaneously fighting an avalanche of emotion. I’m stuck in the endless cycle of trying to reconcile what happened with what I thought would happen.
There is no point in trying to muffle the sobs in a pillow anymore. I just let it all out. I cry out of frustration with my editor, over being fired, and with the political elite that put me in this position to begin with.
I guess that’s the crux of the issue. After a decade of covering the arrogance and egos in politics, I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. There is too much corruption and cronyism among the people who claim to love America and do everything they can to destroy it. These veteran politicians look at their seats as a birthright and not an honor. Men and women who hold office only to satiate themselves, and their benefactors, at the expense of the citizens who put them there in the futile hope that their own interests will be represented. Liberal or conservative, Republican or Democrat; who holds the reins of power in America doesn’t matter because the paradigm never seems to change.
I tried though. A pair of whistleblowers came to me and implicated several high-profile politicians in Congress in all sorts of under-handed dealings with the private sector and other special interest groups. That was the subject of the last investigative article I will ever work on as an employee of The New York Times. The consequences would’ve been worthwhile if it had gone to print and not fallen under the crushing axe of my jack-booted thug of an editor.
But, like most in the modern media, he has an agenda to push and listening to me constantly decrying the system he holds so dear didn’t advance it. Bastard. In politics, reasonable people should be allowed to disagree. It is the nature of how our republic was set up by the Framers. Hell, they couldn’t agree on much of anything back when they wrote the Constitution. They debated, swayed opinion, and ultimately compromised. And now?
The phone rings again, and the image of my mom flashes on the screen. She’s the last person I need a lecture from. Sure, the conversation would start off with the usual, “Are you okay, Kylie?” and, “I am worried sick about you.” Before long, she would devolve into a monologue about how I threw a promising career away. After all, she had to make sacrifices to be successful in her career as a journalist, so why couldn’t I have just left my idealism behind in college and done the same?
I stop crying. I refuse to shed tears over not having the approval of my mother. She does not deserve that. In my mind, she has compromised every principle she claims to hold dear. Journalistic integrity, the accurate reporting of facts, and speaking truth to power were among the time-honored dogmas sacrificed at the altar of her career ambitions. In essence, she is a part of the very problem I espoused in the article that will never be printed. Worse still, she passed those traits on to my little sister. But I can’t worry about my mother or sister now. I must focus on what I am going to do.
I know I will rebound, because with unpaid bills, rent, and such, there is no other choice. I will have to find work, someway, somehow. That can wait though. After a lifetime of getting up off the mat after a fall, I want to stay down right now. I want to feel sorry for myself after all the times I refused to do so. My world has been shattered, so I will take the time to mourn its loss before picking up the pieces. Hopefully, I will someday get inspired to be as passionate as I was on Friday morning before they fired me.
No stopping the tsunami of emotion welling up inside me this time. The phone rings again, and I ignore it as I go back to crying.
.
-FOUR-
BLAKE
These people need to get the hell out of my way. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.” I hear myself saying the words as I struggle up the escalator at the Capitol South station on the Orange Line of the Washington, D.C. Metro. What I really mean is, “Move your fat asses out of my way.” Under normal circumstances, I would say precisely that. However, being an aide of one of the country’s most prominent politicians, I’m forced to exercise a little prudence. Although in the same situation, no doubt he wouldn’t.
I have one major problem this Monday morning – I’m running way behind schedule. I check my watch more than the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland on the Metro ride into the heart of the city. I am supposed to be sitting at my desk by seven am. The congressman feels it is important to maintain the illusion we are up early working hard for the people of the Connecticut Sixth District. I feel it’s more important to actually be working hard for them instead of worrying about keeping up appearances. Maybe that is what the congressman meant, or at least that’s what I hope he did.
Even though spring has not exactly hit the Beltway yet, I notice the cherry blossoms are out in force. I even feel myself starting to perspire through my suit on this warm morning. These shoes are not made for running, but if there is any chance to make it to the Rayburn House Office Building in time to beat the boss, I have to hustle, sweat and sore feet be damned.
The rush of getting from the Metro to the office proves fruitless, as I end up waiting to be granted access to the building. The threat of terror attacks and rowdy constituents itching to settle a score with their elected leaders makes entry into any area guarded by Capitol Police an exercise in patience. Patience I do not own right now.
Having passed through security, I race up the stairs and down the hall to the office. I know I am screwed upon arrival. At twenty-five years old, I’m the most junior, and by extension, most expendable member of the congressman’s staff. Sporting the laughable title of Staff Assistant, I get paid the least to perform the most work. On paper I am nothing more than a gofer for Roger Bean, the congressman’s chief of staff and top political advisor. So you would think the other thirteen members of the staff wouldn’t see me as much of a threat, but you’d be wrong.
They find me a threat to their own jobs because I’m driven, ambitious, and way smarter than them. Like Alex Trebek on Jeopardy – I know the questions and the answers. With the exception of the chief of staff, there isn’t a job in this organization I couldn’t do – and do a great deal better. I know everything that happens in both our district and D.C. offices. I see things and make the connections to how they can benefit us with far more frequency than the others on staff. Most importantly, my loyalty has garnered favor with Roger. He trusts me implicitly, and that, of course, makes everyone jealous.
So as I stroll into work over two hours late, no shortage of colleagues take notice. Not helping matters is the need to pass everybody to reach my desk, which is tucked in the corner of the congressman’s outer office. Of our fourteen full-time staff members, eight work in the Rayburn Building. Seven of them glare at me as I walk over and scramble to power up my desktop computer.
“You picked a helluva day to be late, Blake.” I look up to see the press secretary standing in front of me, dressed in a stylish jacket and skirt. Her long, teased blonde hair shimmers, even under the harsh fluorescent light of the office. Somehow, she manages to package smarts, confidence and sex appeal in an athletic, 5’7” frame. Of course, I’m still
way smarter, but just being kind since we are seeing each other ‘socially.’
“Not like it was planned,” I respond, suppressing the smile on my lips. “How bad’s the situation?”
Madison hazards a glance over her shoulder before leaning in and whispering, “Deena has been sharpening her talons for an hour now. I hope you have a plan to keep her from sinking them into you.”
“I’m working on one.”
“Work fast. The congressman will be here any minute,” Madison says as she turns to walk away.
“Hey,” I say, slipping around my desk and moving my mouth close to her ear. I feel every pair of eyes in the office on us. “Did Marcus finish his two little projects?”
Madison stares at me, an incredulous look creeping across her beautiful face. “How did you …? You know what, never mind,” she dismisses. “I don’t want to know. But I’m sure you’ll find them in the blue file on Deena’s desk.” Madison winks and strolls back to her desk with the runway walk that throws the best of the D.C. press corps off their game.
I see Deena moving toward the door out of the corner of my eye. At almost the same instant, I hear the booming voice of the venerable Winston Beaumont III, eight-term Democratic member of the United States House of Representatives, coming down the hall. I recognize there is a window of opportunity, albeit a small one. I stride over to Deena’s desk and eye the blue file folder resting on the top of a larger stack of paperwork.
I snatch it and move quickly past Deena who is consumed with straightening her suit jacket and preening herself in anticipation. She reminds me of a Prada-clad velociraptor. No amount of personal grooming could ever help her, but it did help me. I slip past her before she can notice and greet Congressman Beaumont when he enters the office.
“Good morning, congressman,” I say in the best bright, enthusiastic tone I can muster.
“Is it?” he grumbles, posed more like a statement than the rhetorical question it is. “You want something from me, Blake, because I want to at least take my coat off before being accosted by my staff.”
“Of course sir, but I do have something of interest for you - new polling data and news about your opposition in November.” In the center of the room, the blood drains from Deena’s already pasty, pale face as she turns back to her desk. Bewilderment searching for the now absent blue file morphs into rage as she realizes I just stole her thunder. And I did, in more ways than one, since she was the one who told me what Marcus was working on in the first place. Oops. “I was going to wait until Roger got here, but thought you might find this of immediate interest.”
“Okay, let’s get on with it. I have a vote on the floor in a few minutes.” The congressman impatiently gestures me to follow him as he walks past a stunned Deena. She tries to recover.
“Congressman, I need to—”
“Not now, Deena,” Congressman Beaumont snaps as he crosses into his inner office. I follow, only to get snagged by the arm. She has talons after all.
“You think you’re slick, Mister Peoni, but that was a very bad move on your part.”
“Hmm. It looks like checkmate to me. Now if you don’t mind.” I pry her spindly fingers off my arm and hurry to catch the congressman.
Entering the inner office feels a bit like walking into Versailles. It is finely decorated, with antiques and works of art hanging from the walls in ornate frames. The feel of wealth and status is palpable, because Winston Beaumont III has both in spades. The décor is symbolic of invincibility after over a decade in Congress.
Fast becoming an institution in Washington D.C., he harbors no aspirations of early retirement. Even further from his mind is losing his seat. I am about to put to rest any lingering doubts the congressman might harbor concerning the latter while saving my own ass in the process.
“Sir, our latest internal poll has you at a seventy-nine percent approval among registered voters in the district.”
“Down three percent?” The congressman actually made eye contact with me when he responded, forgoing his usual inattentiveness as he peruses The Washington Post. “Did three percent of the people in the district suddenly lose their common sense or something?”
“Could be attributed to the bad press about our little problem with the Lexington Financial Group.”
“I thought we buried that story.”
“We did, sir. The reporter at The New York Times was dismissed before she got the full story. Unfortunately, Fox News still picked up what little there was and ran with it.”
The congressman makes a grunting noise, which is his sign of displeasure, so time to shift gears before it’s too late. “It really isn’t going to matter much come November.”
“I didn’t get elected by taking even a single vote for granted. We fight for every vote when you are a member of this staff. Whatever it takes,” the congressman says to me. I can feel his eyes boring into my soul in an effort to see if I belong here. He wants to know if I can hack it and will do what is necessary when the time comes. Ultimately, can I do ‘whatever it takes’ for him to win.
“Of course, sir. But you should know that the Republicans are running Richard Johnson against you.” Congressman Beaumont puts the paper down on his desk. Yeah, this is how I will move up on this staff.
“The lawyer from Hillsfield?” he asks, using an incredulous tone.
I flash a sinister grin. “Yes, sir. He ran for first selectman there last year and lost in a landslide. Most of the town would have voted for Hitler over him.”
“And that's the best the GOP could put up against me?” A single, hearty laugh tacked on at the end lets me know he is pleased with the news.
“Apparently you are so popular, Winston, that nobody would dare run against you,” exclaims Roger Bean as he strides through the door of the inner office and stops alongside me. “But you need to gloat later, because you have to get to the floor for a vote.”
Roger Bean is Winston Beaumont’s Chief of Staff and most trusted advisor. He is in his early forties, impeccably dressed and well-groomed, and right out of central casting for a political potentate. Many people, unwashed in the daily activities in Washington, easily confuse Roger for a politician himself. Despite his over seventeen-year tenure representing the Connecticut Sixth, some of Congressman Beaumont’s own constituents do too.
Roger was not surprised I relayed the news about the polls or the opposition. Although he may be curious as to why, he recognized my ambition, intelligence, and political savvy when I first started work for Winston Beaumont. It is for that reason he has used me, on occasion, to handle some, well, unsavory assignments. The most recent will keep the congressman out of hot water and myself gainfully employed.
“Refresh my memory Roger, what vote is this again?” Congressman Beaumont asks, still focused on winning reelection in seven months in what is sure to be a monumental landslide. I believe in my heart his goal is for the press to call the race before the polls even close.
Roger checks a calendar on his iPad. “House Resolution One Thirty-three. It’s a bill to approve additional funding for Department of Veterans Affairs to screen and treat PTSD for soldiers who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“That's a no vote.”
I wince. Admittedly, I am caught a little off guard. I normally wouldn’t care, but my father fought in the first Persian Gulf War. In the waning hours of the fighting, his unit was deployed along the route that runs from Kuwait City to Safwan, Iraq. Highway 80 became a turkey shoot for the Air Force as the decimated Iraqi Army fled up the desolate road from American forces that liberated Kuwait.
He never spoke about what happened there. He wouldn’t even tell the doctors much more than where his unit had been posted while they were treating him for the mysterious Gulf War Syndrome. But the road earned the moniker ‘The Highway of Death’ for a reason, and not one that wears well on one’s conscience. As a result, I know what PTSD can do to a person, because I grew up with it.
“May I ask why, sir?” The glare co
ming from the congressman could melt steel, and even my trusted benefactor Roger gives me a warning glance. “I mean, with the percentage of vets in our district—” That would be the last word I get in for this conversation.
“Don’t presume to know my district better than I do Blake!” the congressman says in a voice that’s part 1950s high school principal and part army drill sergeant. “Last I checked, I was the elected representative, so when I want your opinion on anything, I’ll give it to you.”
Congressman Beaumont rises from his chair, folds his paper and moves to walk out of the office before stopping next to me. “The VA is an organization fraught with waste. I campaigned on making government more efficient, so I must keep up that façade. How would it look if I allowed yet another wasteful spending bill to run up our deficit?”
It’s the biggest bunch of malarkey I’ve ever heard, considering Winston Beaumont’s extensive voting record and extracurricular activities. But this is how politics works, and a lesson I need to learn if I want to rise up the ranks at the national level.
“Besides, it's a little payback for the bill's sponsor.” The congressman moves his face close to my own, to the point where I can smell his acrid odor of coffee on his breath. “But you haven’t earned the right to challenge my votes, Blake. Don’t ever question me again.”
He slaps the newspaper against my chest and leaves the room, Roger following after an ‘I told you so’ look. I am left alone in his shrine to himself and can feel the eyes of the rest of his staff boring into me from the outer office. Yeah, he dressed me down, as I am sure they all heard. They will think I have fallen out of favor with him, or that somehow my standing in the internal office pecking order is in peril.
I took something more profound from this conversation. I now know a seat at the table is reserved for me when I earn it. And, trust me when I say, earn it I will because nothing and nobody else in this world matters more to me.
The iCandidate Page 2