Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  Do not laugh, she told herself. This man ruined your life.

  “Cass?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sending a plane. Tomorrow. Will you come?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a little agoraphobic right now.”

  “I’ll share my Percocets with you. Fifty-fifty.”

  “Fine.”

  Chapter 7

  Congressman Randolph K. Jepperson’s office overlooked a not very impressive slice of Capitol Hill vista. There were the usual unimportant but large trophies, flags, maps, and awards from organizations no one had heard of and the obligatory photographs of him taken during reception line photo opportunities: the standard Washington wallpaper of self-importance. Cass looked for a photo of him with the troops of Camp November. Sure enough, there it was, front and center, signed, “Get well soon.” There was also a photo of him with the Central American ex-wife of the rock star, taken on a beach. He was smiling; she looked upset. Perhaps room service that morning hadn’t been quick enough. Looming behind Randy’s desk chair was a large oil portrait by Rembrandt Peale of the ancestor who’d signed “the Dec.”

  He greeted her warmly. She sat. He slid a piece of paper across the desk toward her. A check, made out to “Yale University” in the amount of a year’s full tuition ($33,000). He said that he’d write a new one every fall. “But I want good report cards,” he said, smiling widely.

  There it was, in her lap, a rectangle of light blue, her ticket to a bright future.

  “Well?” he said. “No oohs or ahs?”

  “I’m all out of those. Look, I can’t accept this,” Cass said.

  “Why on earth not? It’s not going to bankrupt me, I assure you.”

  “To be honest, it feels kinda like a bribe.”

  Randy looked at her. “Why would I be bribing you? What secret am I trying to protect?”

  She put the check on the desk. “I haven’t talked to the media. And I’m not going to talk to the media. So,” she said, nudging the check toward him, “you don’t need to do this.”

  “What do you take me for, Cass? Aside from an upper-class imbecile?” He looked hurt.

  “Someone who wants to be president?” she said.

  Randy smiled. “Well, you have me there. Uch . . .” He rolled up his pant leg, pulled off his plastic limb, and scratched. “Itches. Itches like sin.”

  “Try not to scratch.”

  “Thank you, Nurse Ratched. The pills only make it worse when they wear off.”

  He’d lost weight. The doctors had him drinking eight-hundred-calorie chocolate milkshakes four times a day. His face was still red in places from bits of Humvee shrapnel. He looked like—someone who’d been blown up.

  “I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t take your money,” Cass said. “But I will take a job.”

  He looked up from his scratching. “Don’t you want to go to college? Rub it in Dad’s face?”

  “I don’t care about him.”

  “Wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  She glanced around the wood-paneled office, at the bookshelves. “This looks enough like college. Pay me thirty-three thousand in salary.”

  “You’ll have to work your way up, you know. . ..?What’s so damn funny?” he said, scratching furiously.

  “You telling me I’ll have to work my way up. Excuse me, but it’s just totally hilarious.”

  “Yes,” Congressman Randy said, scratching, “I suppose it is.”

  So several weeks later, Cass arrived in Washington, D.C., to start a new life with a new name: Cassandra Devine. When she went before the judge in Connecticut, she told him about her parents’ divorce and about the episode in Bosnia and said that she just needed to “reboot my hard drive.” He was sympathetic and granted the name change.

  Once installed on Capitol Hill, she began where many a brilliant Washington career has been launched—answering constituent mail: “My Social Security check didn’t come . . .We need a stoplight . . .The highway people say they can put the new interstate ramp through my pig farm. Raising pigs is hard enough without the federal government sticking its nose in. . ..?I be writting with regards to my cusin who been in prison for allejedelly runing over the game wardin in his pickup. . ..?Don’t you see the Jews are taking over the country, and you’re just going to let that happen? . . .I am asking your support for a projected 500 megavolt wind farm in the Connecitcut River Valley. . ..?I read where they are thinking of closing the submarine base in Groton. Why can’t we put it here? The water is plenty deep enough. . ..” The warp and woof of American representative democracy. About twenty-five pounds of it, every day, in sacks, dumped on Cass’s desk.

  Cass’s supervisor was a fifty-something woman named Lillian with lips that never unpursed. Her response to any levity was, “I don’t see what’s funny about that,” which had earned her the office nickname “Giggles.” She required that every letter from a constituent, no matter how unhinged or idiotic, be answered within three days, ensuring that Cass’s workday never ended until after eight o’clock. When Randy formally announced his Senate campaign, the volume of mail increased by two sacks, to fifty pounds per day. Cass now rarely got home until ten-thirty. At least it solved the problem of what to do about a social life. She had just enough energy left to microwave a Lean Cuisine bean burrito and read three pages of Ayn Rand before falling asleep.

  One day, Cass had to take some papers over to the Senate campaign office, situated in the worst part of town, not so much to save money as to enhance Randy’s image as Champion of the Downtrodden.

  She saw Randy and another man in the glassed-in corner conference office. She was putting the delivery package on the desk when Randy saw her and waved her in.

  “Meet Terry Tucker,” he said. “Our communications evil genius. Highly overpaid evil genius.”

  “Hello,” Cass said. Of course, she knew all about Terry Tucker. His title was communications director, but everyone seemed to take orders from him, including the chief of staff.

  Terry smiled. “Ms. Cohane.”

  “Devine,” Cass corrected him.

  “In every way.”

  “You must be in PR.”

  “In every way.” Terry smiled. “Pleasure. I’ve heard all about you. We owe you.”

  “What for?” Cass said.

  “Our war hero here. You were present at the big bang that expanded our universe.”

  “You oughtn’t to be quite so cynical,” Randy said. “She’s new in town, and young. She might actually have a few ideals left.”

  Terry said to Cass, “We were just talking about the video I’m assembling for the ‘Salute to American Heroes’ dinner. The congressman is being honored for his heroism.” He turned to Randy. “Sorry, what was that you were saying about cynicism?”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” Randy said.

  “No, it was mine. That’s why you overpay me.”

  “Good to meet you, sir,” Cass said.

  Five minutes later, she was waiting for the elevator when she found Terry Tucker standing beside her.

  “Got lunch plans?” he said.

  “I have to get back to the office.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “There’s this dragon lady I report to.”

  “Giggles? Come on.” He smiled. “You look underpaid, underfed, and overworked. I can fix the middle part.”

  It occurred to her, riding down in the elevator, that the last time a man had insisted that she share a meal, she’d ended up in a minefield.

  Terry Tucker was in his late forties, more than twice her age. He was lean with dark hair and suspicious but not unfriendly eyes. He looked like someone who would tell you without hesitation something you didn’t want to hear but couldn’t disagree with. Cass had the radar of a pretty woman and could tell if someone was making a pass at her. He seemed oblivious to this aspect of her. His manner was that of an impatient older brother. Come on. She went.

  He took her to a place on Pennsylvania Avenue
named Carnivore, owned by a lawyer who had made $15 million from a class-action suit against the Salvation Army for dispensing sugar doughnuts to half a dozen diabetic disaster victims. It’s a great country.

  “Have the four-pound lobster,” Terry said from behind a menu thick as Sheetrock and the size of an open newspaper. “It’s scary.”

  “Four pounds? That’s not a lobster, it’s an ecosystem.”

  “The People for the Ethical Treatment of Crustaceans used to demonstrate outside the restaurant. I know the owner. He hired me to deal with it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Buttered them up. Literally. Announced we were feeding the leftovers to the homeless. You get a lot of leftovers from a four-pound lobster. The Post did a story on it. Headline was HOMELESS BUT STUFFED. With a photo. We set up a table and everything outside in the back.” Terry smiled. “The lobster huggers didn’t know what hit ’em. Fucking idiots.”

  “That’s awful,” Cass said.

  “Who gets up in the morning thinking, What can I do to help the lobsters? Get a life.” Terry shrugged. “You do what you have to. This town is an asshole-rich environment. The crab cakes are good if you don’t want the lobster.”

  Cass ordered a salad. Terry tucked into a sirloin with zest befitting the restaurant’s name.

  “So here’s the deal with me,” he said without any prompting, and launched into an admirably condensed story of his life. When he finished, he said, “So what’s your deal? Hero Boy told me your dad bailed on the Yale tuition. What a prick.”

  Cass put down her fork. “Excuse me. But what right do you have to call my father a prick?”

  “You’re right. I apologize. Let me rephrase it. What a truly wonderful human being your father is for taking your college money—and the mortgage on the family house—and putting it into his failing business. Give that man a Father of the Year award.”

  Cass shrugged. “I suppose he is a prick.”

  “Does he still have the Cessna?”

  “I see Randy told you everything. I don’t know. He’s in California becoming someone else.”

  “He’ll fit right in. You can be anyone you want to there, as long as you don’t mind being stuck in traffic. Listen, when this campaign gets going—once it really starts, if he gets the party nomination—you know the media’s going to come after you.”

  “For what?”

  “You got into Yale. Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

  “This is totally unfair.”

  “I’m not saying it was your fault. He told me what happened. He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a complete asshole. He said it was all his fault. He said, ‘I feel guilty.’ I said, ‘You should. You totally fucked up this poor kid’s life.’”

  “I’m not a ‘poor kid,’” Cass said.

  “All right. He fucked up a wonderful young woman’s life. I told him, ‘Way to go. We certainly need more people like you in the Senate. People with judgment.’ What is it with Massachusetts politicians, anyway? They don’t do so good with women in cars.”

  “Do you talk to all your clients like that?”

  Terry smiled. “Not the corporate ones. Only the personally rich ones. They can handle it. They’re so used to having their asses kissed, it’s almost refreshing when someone tells them the truth. But enough about me. You look like a nice kid. Woman. Whatever. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Is the point of this expensive lunch to get rid of me?” Cass asked.

  “No,” Terry said. “This was my idea. He didn’t put me up to anything.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to come work for me.”

  “In PR?”

  “Public relations is beneath you?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Yeah, you did. For starters, we don’t call it PR here. ‘Strategic communications.’ But before you tell me to go fuck off, let me tell you how it’s going to play out. The moment our hero nails the nomination and becomes a serious player—and I think he will—some media dickhead is going to do a story about how you’re on his payroll. Never mind that nothing happened over there between you two—other than you both got blown up. He’s got a rep as a skirt chaser, and you’re a looker. I can even tell you what the line will be: ‘Chappaquiddick Two—this time on dry land, and the chick lived to go on the payroll.’”

  “That’s ridiculous! And it’s not true!”

  “It’s a ridiculous town.” Terry shrugged. “How long do you really think you’d last once you become the story? Maybe he’s basically a nice guy now. Think he’d risk his entire campaign on you? He doesn’t feel that guilty. No politician does. They’re born with Original Spin. And then what? You’re on your butt on the street. You think everyone in town is going to be lining up to hire you?”

  Cass stared glumly at her food.

  “How was the salad?”

  “Not very good, actually.”

  Terry smiled. “Told you to order the lobster. Think of the homeless we could have fed. Consider my offer. I’ve got a feeling about you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you’re smart, young, and angry. Give me smart, young, and angry and I’ll move the world. I was all that, too, but I’ll save that story for another time. You should be angry. You’ve been fucked over pretty good for someone who’s still a kid.”

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  “Good. I’m not offering pity. You think I’m doing this because I’m a nice guy? That’s a laugh. Nah. I sense you’ve got talent. And I’m smart about that. I can spot a protégée a mile off. I’m into the molding thing. Résumés like yours don’t come along every week.” He added, “And I don’t hit on the help, so don’t worry on that score.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Cass said, her mind reeling.

  Terry drove off in his Mercedes to his world of spin. Cass caught a taxi back to Capitol Hill. On the ride up, she looked at Terry’s business card. She reflected that it was the third ticket of admission she’d received in two years: the letter from Yale, the check from Randy, and now this. It was the smallest of the three, in more ways than one. From the ivory tower to Hill rat to PR chick. There was a death spiral for you. But then she got back to a sit-down lecture from Lillian over being late. As Lillian went on, and on, about Cass’s irresponsibility, Cass found herself daydreaming about the scenario Terry had limned for her and thought that the nightmare would, in all likelihood, begin with a call from Lillian to the media dickhead: You didn’t get this from me, but she’s on the payroll. So after Lillian was finished, Cass went back to her desk, where instead of answering a letter she wrote one, to Randy, thanking him for everything and resigning. She started at Tucker Strategic Communications the next day.

  Terry had been right. She had talent. Less than ten years later, she was a partner in TSC. She had a nice apartment, a German-made car in the garage, and a beach condo in Rehobeth that she never used. Terry had been right, too, about her motivation, and now she had the means to pursue her real passion: instilling in members of her generation outrage against the members of the previous one and toward a government that still, in the language of her generation, didn’t “get it.”

  Chapter 8

  Cass sat at the long polished bird’s-eye maple conference table in the conference room of Tucker Strategic Communications, trying to stay awake, a fact not lost on her boss. The third time she dozed off, she almost slumped face first into her grande latte, risking third-degree burns.

  “Cass,” Terry said, “why don’t you bring us all up to speed on the mink ranchers?”

  “Um? Hm?”

  “The mink ranchers? Our new client?”

  “Oh. They’re . . .it’s going . . .aces.”

  The Canadian Mink Ranchers Association had hired TSC after an antifur group smuggled a live mink into the private office bathroom of the editor of Glam magazine in New York. They did it over a weekend. By Monday morning, the mink was very
hungry and very angry. After sinking its fangs into the editor, it went on a sanguinary rampage through the offices of Glam, causing an episode that still makes fashionistas shudder and twitch at the memory. The editor had to undergo a series of painful rabies shots—some mischievously suggested that it was the mink that should have been given the shots—causing her to miss Fashion Week, a disruption the effects of which were still being felt on Seventh Avenue and the world beyond months later. The first thing Terry did was to have the ranchers rename themselves the Royal Canadian Association for Humane Mink Cultivation and Conservation.

  It was Cass’s account. And things were, yes, more or less “on track.” Normally, she’d have been up to speed, but because of yesterday’s Senate vote on raising the Social Security payroll tax, she’d been up until dawn, blogging away on CASSANDRA.

  “When do we hear back from the Pleasure World people?” Terry said. Cass shot him a look that said, You know that I have absolutely no idea, so why are you asking me in front of the entire staff?

  Pleasure World was the country’s largest chain of adult (which is to say sex) accessories outlets and thus the single largest purchaser of mink used not for coats, hats, or wraps. Terry’s notion was to get Pleasure World to join in a common-cause, pro-mink public service announcement.

  Cass improvised. “They’re kind of busy right now getting ready for their annual trade show. It’s called ‘Expo-sure 2011.’ In Las Vegas, where else. Don’t worry. I’m efforting it.”

  “Keep up the good efforting,” Terry said.

  Several of the younger male staffers unselfishly volunteered to attend Expo-sure 2011.

  The meeting broke up. After the others had left, Terry said, “You were certainly at the top of your game this morning. Next time we’ll videoconference you in from your bed.”

  Cass sighed. “I’m on the minks, okay?”