Taft 2012

by Jason Heller

  “Pleased to make your formal acquaintance,” said Rob. Taft couldn’t tell if he was mocking him. He picked up the pails and piles of food and headed back to the kitchen to wrap them. “Oh, one more thing. You guys like punk rock, right?”

  FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT (Ind.–OH)

  To-do list—Sat. 31st

  —Disconnect phones on all future holidays.

  —Do not trust people whose last names are “the Electrician.”

  —Decide whether I can afford to let these people co-opt my name without my participation, Wm Howard or not.

  —Speaking of which. Grandpa, for the love of Pete, pick up your phone.

  EIGHTEEN

  Kowalczyk had tried to argue him out of it, of course. But the more of a hoot he raised, the more Taft was convinced it was a perfectly prudent idea to get completely soused in a seedy Chicago bar on New Year’s Eve day. After rising at their hotel late in the morning—and finding a much-needed proper breakfast—they headed to the Whole Hog.

  In the daylight, the block that housed Herbert’s and the Whole Hog was far grimier than Taft remembered. When he told Kowalzcyk as much, the former agent said, “This is the real Chicago. The real America. I thought that’s what you were looking for?”

  “You’re in a lovely mood today.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m getting dragged to some shithole to spend New Year’s wet-nursing a soon-to-be-bawling-in-his-beer ex-president. And this whole little state-of-the-union trip of yours is starting to grind me down.” He kicked at a stack of fast-food trash that lay piled on the vomit-stained sidewalk outside the bar. “The economy’s getting sucked down the plumbing, and people have had their spirit beaten out of them thanks to all these wars and bailouts and terrorist—ugh. I don’t want to sound like a doomsayer or anything, but this nation is on the skids.”

  At that moment, the door to the bar burst open. A detonation of noise and stink flew out—along with a human being.

  It was Rob.

  “See here, are you all right?” Taft and Kowalcyzk picked the young man up by either arm. He was limp and babbling in their grasp.

  In the open doorway stood a woman. She was six feet tall if she was an inch, ample bodied, with tattooed arms and a grubby pink tank top. Her blond hair was in braids fit for a Valkyrie. She appeared to be well into her forties, despite the fact that a picture of a cartoon kitten adorned the front of her shirt. “You know this guy?” she asked coolly.

  “Yes, we do, as a matter of fact,” said Taft.

  “Great. Can you take care of him? Good kid. Name of Rob. Works next door. But he’s been in here since we opened at eight, and he’s already three sheets to the goddamn hurricane. Someone needs to teach the boy a lesson at some point, and my tough love sure as hell doesn’t seem to be helping.”

  Between them, Rob yelled, “Samantha, is that you? ‘Nother round, please. And drinks for my two friends here.”

  Samantha put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Hey, dumbass. We’re not even inside the bar anymore. Why in the hell I enable your behavior, I’ll never know.”

  Rob lifted his chin as best he could and flashed his teeth. “ ’Cause you’re my big sister, that’s why! Plus, my money is good. What kind of a bartender are you, anyway, refusing service on New Year’s?”

  She rolled her eyes. “One who’s too old to put up with bullshit.” Then she exhaled and stepped aside, waving. “All right. Bring him in, guys. I’ll make one try to pour a pot of coffee down his throat. But you have to hold him while I do it. And,” she added, giving Taft a rock-hard look, “he’s your responsibility for the rest of the day. Now, get your asses inside. What are you doing hanging out on the sidewalk, anyway? It’s cold as hell out here.”

  THERE MAY HAVE once been walls inside the Whole Hog, but not anymore. Rather, the bar’s two main rooms were bordered by layers of handbills and posters so thick, the whole place resembled some human-sized wasps’ nest. Not a sliver of sunlight leaked in.

  A bar twenty yards long stretched along one end of the first room; the other was filled with lopsided tables and ill-matched chairs. As Taft walked deeper into the pit of the place, he felt the soles of his shoes sticking to the floor.

  “Lovely establishment you’ve got here, Samantha,” said Kowalczyk.

  “Sam.” She pointed at Rob, who had propped himself up on a barstool—presumably the one he’d just been removed from. “He’s the only one who gets to call me Samantha.” After sliding behind the bar and pouring a mug of coffee thick enough to patch asphalt, she turned to Taft and Kowalczyk. “And since we’re on the subject of names, who the hell are you two?”

  After introducing themselves, Taft and Kowalczyk ordered drinks (“Wait, let me guess, a can of Olde Style for you,” Sam had teased Taft with a good-natured guffaw) and took stools next to Rob at the bar.

  “So, what brings you to Chicago?” Sam set out bowls of peanuts, pretzels, and popcorn, which Taft eyed for an eternal five seconds before digging in.

  “What gave us away?” he said around a mouthful of salt.

  “Please. I’ll give it to you both, though. You’re Midwesterners at least.”

  “We’re just passing through, actually,” said Kowalczyk. Then he nudged Taft with his elbow. “This one here wanted to party a little, so here we are.”

  “Party? You came to the right place, my friends.” Sam stared out at the half-full room of tables. It was populated by men and women dressed in every imaginable permutation of denim, flannel, and leather. Their hairstyles were outrageous or merely unkempt to the point of ill hygiene. Their language—what little Taft could hear of it, anyway—was no less filthy.

  “What is that racket coming from that coin-operated phonograph?” he asked Sam with a swallow of Olde Style and a wince. “Is that what passes for music in here? No offense, but that man singing sounds like he’s being keelhauled through a school of sharks.”

  “It’s the Dead Kennedys,” cut in Kowalczyk.

  “Excuse me?” Even in the brief time Taft had known the name since Susan had taught him of the Kennedy assassinations, it had come to take on a haunted meaning for him. He chugged down the rest of his foul-tasting brew.

  “They’re an old punk band, Bill. I know, I know. A Secret Service agent who likes the Dead Kennedys. Sue me.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Secret Service, huh? Anyone around here need protecting that I ought to know about?”

  Taft interrupted smoothly. “Young Rob here seems to need protection. From himself, if no one else.” While they had been talking, Rob—apparently far more alert than he appeared to be—had reached across the bar and gotten his hands on some bottle of spirits or another, which he was now tipping into his mug of coffee.

  Sam snatched it out of his hands. “Okay, buddy. You’d better sober up. You’ve only got four more hours before you need to start loading in.”

  “Loading in?” asked Taft. “Does Rob work here, too?”

  “Work here? He barely works anywhere.” She tossed the contents of Rob’s mug down the drain and poured him a fresh cup. “No, Rob’s the artistic one in the family. He’s in the band.”

  “And which band would that be?”

  “Let me guess—he didn’t tell you. Typical. It’s the old bait-and-switch. I hate to break it to you, but Rob didn’t ask you over here because he thinks you’re cool dudes. He was just hoping you’d get drunk enough to stick around for the show. See, he gets paid a percentage of the bar tonight. He’s the lead singer of the band that’s playing this evening. A special New Year’s Eve set from Chicago’s own Lousy Kissers.” She slammed down two fresh beers in front of Taft and Kowalczyk. They made an ominous thunk. “You are sticking around, though, right?”

  Fox News Poll, New Year’s Eve

  Who would you name as the 2011 newsmaker of the year?

  William Howard Taft: 53 percent

  Casey Anthony: 23 percent

  Donald Trump: 19 percent

  Other: 5 perce
nt

  NINETEEN

  William Howard Taft had been many things: Yalie, Bonesman, federal judge, solicitor general, secretary of war, governor of the Philippines, president of the United States of America. Through it all, his highest aspiration in life, to become chief justice of the Supreme Court, had eluded him. Another thing he’d never been—not that he’d ever truly wanted to—was a teetotaler.

  That being said, he mused as he exerted every effort, both mental and physical, to avoid slipping off his barstool, I don’t think I’ve ever been drunker than I am right at this moment.

  “Hey, watch it,” said Kowalczyk, elbowing Taft in the ribs—or, rather, at the padding surrounding them. He was completely turned around on his stool, engrossed in Rob’s band as they set up their instruments on the tiny stage at the back of the bar. While guitars were unpacked and a drum kit assembled, Rob, still sloshed but sobered up enough to remain upright, walked to the center of the stage. It sagged visibly under the skinny man’s weight.

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw a punk show,” Kowalczyk said, swaying a bit in his seat. “I guess if you’re gonna ring in the New Year, you might as well do it loud.” He pivoted around and yelled at Sam, “Hey, is your brother’s band any damn good?”

  From behind the bar, Sam snorted. “No. They’re terrible.” She plucked a mug from a bin of dirty water and began drying it with an equally dirty rag. “That’s the whole point.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Taft said, assembling the sentence using the full focus of his concentration.

  “It’s hard to explain,” said Kowalczyk. “Let’s just say that punk rock isn’t trying to be pretty. It’s … it’s kind of like protest music.”

  “Protesting what?” spit Taft.

  “Intelligence, mostly,” cut in Sam. “At least in the Lousy Kissers’ case. Don’t get me wrong. I’m more of a classic-rock girl myself, but I’ve got nothing against punk. Honestly, though, Rob’s band makes GG Allin look like Beethoven.”

  To punctuate her point, the haggard guitarist of the Lousy Kissers let loose an exploratory stab of feedback from his amplifier. Taft picked up two napkins and used them to cover his ears. “Isn’t it a little early for them to be starting?” he yelled over the din. “I thought this was meant to be the evening’s entertainment. For lack of a better word.”

  “Uh, Bill,” said Sam, slipping two more shots of bourbon across the bar to Taft and Kowalczyk as if performing a magic trick, “it is evening. It’s nine-thirty.”

  “Nine-thirty?” He rooted around his body for a pocket watch, then remembered he no longer carried one. No one did. He sighed, took out his phone, and hastily thumbed past a few missed calls from Susan and Rachel to check the time. “Thunderation.” She was right. The last few hours had slipped by in a watery, whiskey-drenched haze.

  Sam laughed and threw out her arms. “Welcome to my time machine.”

  Taft stared hard at her. “Oh, don’t even get me started about time machines, young lady.”

  Kowalczyk jabbed him in the ribs again. Rather than looking suspicious, though, Sam flashed Taft a dazzling smile. “Young lady! It’s been a long time since someone called me that. Let alone a distinguished gentleman like yourself.”

  It may have been the booze, but Taft could have sworn he heard a note of something other than teasing in Sam’s tone. It had been a long time—longer than he cared to remember, seeing as how a chill had crept into the conjugal bed soon after he and Nellie had married—since a woman had spoken to him in that way. Taft grabbed the shot of bourbon before him and downed it like a giant draining a thimble. “This is really doing wonders for me.”

  But neither Sam nor Kowalczyk heard him. Or anything else. At that moment, the Lousy Kissers started playing.

  At first it was a dull roar. Then a sharp one. Then it sounded like a locomotive—no, a dozen locomotives, all crashing into one another. As if a switch had been thrown, the slouching, indolent-looking young men in the Lousy Kissers jumped to life. At the front was Rob, his body jerking in all directions like a puppet.

  Puppets, however, didn’t usually sound like they were dying.

  “Good God. Is that boy in pain?” Taft yelled.

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Only the existential kind.”

  The band played on. Taft couldn’t tell one song from the next, but after a few minutes, his ears adjusted to the onslaught. He was able to discern a steady beat, a hint of a structure, and even the barest modicum of melody. What he couldn’t decipher, though, was a single word Rob was screaming.

  He turned to ask Kowalczyk for a translation, but the stool was empty. He looked up; Taft could see Kowalczyk’s bald head among the crowd, bobbing in unison with a few other similarly shaved patrons.

  “Forgive him,” Taft said to Sam. “He’s not acting his age. He’s had a long few months.”

  “Oh, really? What did he do?”

  “Well, he shot me, for one.”

  “And yet, here he his, drinking with you on New Year’s Eve. That’s quite a friend.”

  “He is, isn’t he?”

  “How about a lady friend? You got one of those?”

  Taft thanked the heavens for the anesthetic effects of alcohol; for the first time since he’d awakened in this new century, the thought of Nellie didn’t send a pang of agony through his soul. “No. None of those.”

  She laid a hand on his. Across her knuckles were tattooed the letters f-u-c-k. “You know something?” Her eyes bored into his as the Lousy Kissers reached a crescendo of cacophony. “You’d be damned handsome with some facial hair. You ever thought about growing a mustache?”

  TAFT WOKE UP the next morning, the first day of the year 2012, with a magnificent headache, no memory of the previous few hours, and a snoring, nude woman on top of him.

  Upon waking a moment later, Sam seemed as startled as he was. Then she kissed him and laid her head back down his chest. “Happy new year, Bill. Way to ring it in, huh?”

  Half an hour later, both of them panting and tangled in sheets, she finally relinquished her perch and rolled over on the bed next to him.

  “Sam, I don’t know what to—”

  “Nothing. That’s exactly what you should say. Just shut up and bask. I know that you know how good that was.”

  “Are all women of the twenty-first century as … robust as you?”

  She laughed. “Twenty-first century? You really weren’t kidding about that time-machine business last night, were you?”

  Taft lifted his head. A wave of nausea washed over him. “Where’s Kowalczyk?” he asked, as concerned about his friend as he was anxious to change the subject.

  “Don’t worry. He’s on the couch. It’s funny, no matter how drunk he got last night, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. When he insisted on coming back here with us, I was afraid he was talking about a threesome.” She grinned mischievously. “Well, not afraid, exactly. But he passed out in the living room as soon as we got here.”

  She reached over and ran a finger across his cheek. “It’s funny. He acts less like your buddy and more like your bodyguard. I wonder why that is?”

  “He is, ah, very loyal.”

  Sam got on her knees in the bed and drew herself up, shoulders back. Scars and a hint of wrinkles were mixed in with the faded tattoos. This was a woman who had clearly seen more than her fair share of hard times. Yet, he had to admit, there was a wild, raw beauty to her. Not to mention an uneven smile that seemed suddenly slightly deranged.

  “Oh, come on, Bill. I know who you are. Known all along. You don’t live through all the things I have without being a suspicious bitch. You’re Taft.” With that, she moved over to straddle his legs, effectively pinning him to the mattress. With panic twining around the uneasiness in his gut, he glanced out the slightly ajar door to see Kowalczyk’s stockinged feet sticking up over the arm of a sofa.

  “Me? Taft? Nonsense. I mean, who’s Taft?”

  Sam licked her lips. “You know, I’v
e never slept with a president before. Fuck, I’ve never even voted.” She threw her head back and started cackling madly. Then, as abruptly as she started, she leaned forward and held down his arms. Her dirty blond hair tickled his face; her breath was sweetly, sourly enticing.

  “Are you ready for round two, Mr. President?” Her tongue darted out and ran across the place where his mustache used to be. “This one’s going to be even better. My husband should be home in about twenty minutes. How about you and I take a quick dip in the shower, then surprise him with a three-way?”

  Within the span of ten seconds, Sam was on the floor, an ear-piercing alarm was shrieking like a banshee, Taft had yanked the befuddled Kowalczyk up from the couch, and the two were running out the door of Sam’s house toward their rental car.

  CLASSIFIED

  Secret Service Incidence Report

  BBR20120101.01

  Agent Ira Kowalczyk

  Please disregard use of the panic button. Big Boy activated the alert accidentally. There is no security emergency. Will review panic button procedures.

  TWENTY

  Within a quarter of an hour, Kowalczyk had threaded their way out of Sam’s rundown suburb and onto the highway. They both exhaled in relief as the odometer launched up to sixty. Other than that, they didn’t make a sound.

  After a Herculean struggle to dress his voluminous frame while sitting, Taft leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and let his thoughts drift. What had he been thinking? Granted, New Year’s Eve was the most appropriate time to act inappropriately. But last night’s behavior wasn’t in his character. Or perhaps it was; as flabbergasted and deeply mortified at his own reckless actions as he was, he felt an odd glow of—dare he think it—pride. He’d spent so much of his life trying to appease others. Appearing sober, genial, and respectable at all times was the first step at accomplishing that. And yet, as he’d learned so many times during his first life, trying to make everyone happy inevitably made them all howl for your blood. Yes, he’d been selfish last night—selfish, impulsive, and utterly oblivious to what others thought of him. But damned if it hadn’t felt good.