Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  Among others, Randy had pledged his support for the cosmetic surgery benefit ABBA had been lobbying for, along with a Segway “cost defrayal” so that creaky-kneed (or just plain lazy) Boomers could deduct the full cost of these devices that were now ferrying so many of them around the nation’s sidewalks and malls. He’d also agreed to support other ABBA legislative goals: a federal acid reflux initiative; a grandchild day care initiative; visa requirement waivers for elder care; and a sure-to-be-controversial subsidy for giant flat-screen plasma TVs (for Boomers with deteriorating eyesight).

  Randy had been busy. What he had not done was inform Cass of the full extent of his private deal making. She, destroyer of golf courses and assailer of gated communities, disturber of the Boomer peace, may have been “behind enemy lines” tonight, but Randy was among new friends.

  Mitch Glint, ABBA’s executive director, stopped by to pay his respects. He extended a somewhat cool handshake to Cass, but a hearty one to Randy. They talked for a few minutes. As he left, he said, “We’ll talk more about those other things.”

  “What ‘other things’?” Cass said when they were alone.

  “Oh, nothing. Just been keeping the lines of communication open.”

  “I thought I was your communications person.”

  “And so you are, so you are. Fill you in later. Need to focus on my speech. Got to be on my toes now, or this crowd’ll have my guts for garters.”

  She watched from backstage, through a partition in the curtains. Normally, Randy hardly limped at all. But when he was walking out onto a stage, he could make himself look like someone dragging out of the surf onto the beach after having his leg gnawed off by a shark.

  That’s my boy, Cass thought.

  Randy began, “When I was lying in the hospital bed after the explosion . . .”

  She’d heard that before, many times.

  “. . . thinking about the far greater sacrifices made by other Americans . . .”

  Her mind wandered. She felt, sitting there in the shadows, like a political wife listening to the same speech for the four hundredth time. At least she wasn’t out there onstage where you had to force a smile. They must get the zygomaticus muscle equivalent of carpal tunnel syndrome, the wives.

  “. . . no time for partisanship . . .”

  She thought of Terry.

  “. . . not a Republican issue or a Democratic issue . . .”

  Cass’s lips moved silently: . . .but an American issue. . . .

  “. . . but an American issue. . ..”

  She was texting on the BlackBerry when she became vaguely aware, as if some bat had suddenly appeared and was flitting about in the backstage darkness, that Randy was uttering words she did not at all remember reading in the text she had written for him.

  “For our agenda is very much your agenda.”

  What?

  “Indeed, there are more things that join us than separate us.”

  What was he talking about? ABBA was the principal lobby for the enemy, the most self-indulgent, self-centered population cohort in human history, with the possible exception of the twelve Caesars.

  She looked up from her BlackBerry and stared at the spotlit figure onstage. His right arm was raised in a pantomime of a Greek statue, index finger pointed upward as if to imply some spiritual connectedness with, or sponsorship of, the heavens, or perhaps some passing American eagle, or, failing that, the auditorium roof.

  “Ronald Reagan used to say that the nine scariest words in the English language were ‘I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.’”

  An amused murmur rippled through the audience.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen . . .”

  Where is this going? Cass thought, curiosity turning urgent. She was on her feet now, subconsciously looking about for a long hook.

  “. . . I am from the government. Run—while you have the chance!”

  The audience laughed. Cass relaxed slightly. Speechwriters are fundamentally Calvinist: They become nervous if their principals exhibit free will and depart from the prepared text.

  “Whatever you thought of his politics, Ronald Reagan was a great man. A courageous man. He took an assassin’s bullet and joked to the doctors as they desperately worked to save his life. He survived and saw through his presidency. He outlived many of his adversaries and contemporaries. Survived—but for what? Only to come down with Alzheimer’s disease. To die a long, lingering, and inglorious death. Was this any way to go? I think the answer must be—no. No way. No way. At all.”

  Cass snuck to the edge of the curtain to peer out at the audience. They were stone silent, eyes fixed on Randy. She couldn’t tell what they were collectively thinking, but they weren’t coughing or fidgeting or furtively BlackBerrying.

  “My fellow Americans, we are all of us going to make the Great Transition. We can inject ourselves full of drugs, have doctors replace our organs, change our blood, become bionic Frankensteins. But we were born with expiration dates stamped on our DNA. We can fool some of the diseases some of the time, but we can’t fool all of them all of the time. We are all of us sooner or later going to cross the river and rest in the shade on the other side. And just as this generation has always contrived to get the very best from life, so too can it aspire to wring the best from death. My fellow Americans, as Country Joe and the Fish, balladeers of our youth, put it so memorably, albeit in a slightly different context, ‘Whoopee! We’re all gonna die!’ Indeed. So I put it to you: Why not do it the way we’ve lived our lives—on our terms? Why—I put it to you—not do it on our timetable? And finally, I put it to you, my fellow Americans—indeed, my fellow Boomers—if we are going to make the ultimate sacrifice, isn’t the least our government can do for us is show a little gratitude?”

  The audience applauded warmly when he finished. A few even stood. Mike Glint came out onstage to thank him and to tell the crowd that he had demonstrated that he was “someone we can work with.”

  “Well?” Randy said when the two of them were in the car. Cass had been somewhat quiet. He had the exhausted but exhilarated air of a politician who has just heard the sound of a thousand hands clapping. “Was it good for you, too?”

  “Yeah,” Cass said coolly. “I had multiple orgasms.”

  “Well, what on earth is eating you? In case you didn’t notice, I just killed.”

  “You’ve been doing deals.”

  “Just a little back-channel dialoguing.”

  “I knew you’d do it.”

  “Don’t be a downer, darling. Come on—they ate it up. Veni, vidi, vici. Let’s go roast an ox, drink the best wine in Gaul.”

  “Which of our fundamental principles did you trade away first? No, don’t tell me. Let me read about it in The Washington Post.”

  “Cassandra. We have to do business with these folks.”

  “No, we don’t. God—you’re such a . . .”

  “What?”

  “Senator.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Randy said archly, “that it was a term of opprobrium.”

  Chapter 20

  Cass didn’t have to wait long. Three days later, ABBA announced that it would support Senator Jepperson’s Voluntary Transitioning proposal, and co-sponsor Senator Fundermunk of Oregon had disappeared into a northwest mist. “With the proviso,” as Mitch Glint said at his press conference, “that the final legislation reflects ABBA’s input.”

  In Washington, “input” means “demands.” ABBA’s input consisted of several truckloads of Boomer pork. Cass read down the list with mounting despair: a Botox subsidy? Tax deductions for—Segways? Grandchild day care allowance? The blood throbbed in her temples. Then she came to the real eyebrow raiser: “Mr. Glint further said that Senator Jepperson had ‘indicated a willingness to raise the threshold age of Transitioning from 70 to 75.’”

  He gave it all away, she thought. He gave away the entire store.

  She angrily punched the speed-dial button on her cell phone. His emergency cell number,
to be used only in the event of a nuclear strike or his receiving the Nobel Peace Prize. Randy answered in a whisper, indicating that he was on the Senate floor. The Senate, bowing to OmniTel, the powerful cell phone and PDA lobby, had relaxed the rules so that senators and congressmen were now permitted to use phones on the floor, even during speeches. They were still banned during the joint session for the president’s State of the Union address, but OmniTel’s lobbyists were working on it.

  “Before you go getting varicose veins,” Randy said, “would you like to hear the good news?”

  “There is no good news,” Cass said. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done? You’ve made Transitioning completely pointless, even as a meta-issue. Under the Jepperson plan, it will now cost the Treasury.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “No. Not nearly.”

  “Would you please lower your voice? They can hear you clear across the aisle. Hush. As of this morning, and as a direct result of my willingness to meet them halfway—”

  “Halfway? Halfway? Are you kidding? You met them in your own end zone!”

  “May I continue? We now have thirty-five votes for Transitioning. Barzine and Wanamaker just came aboard. And Quimby says he’ll vote for it. The older senators have been taking in so much in campaign contributions from ABBA, they now have no choice but to come aboard. Isn’t that marvelous? Of course, with Quimby you never know how he’s going to actually vote. Silly old ass. . ..”

  “Randy,” Cass pleaded in a calmer tone of voice, “these concessions . . .if you raise the age to seventy-five—don’t you see, it’s meaningless? There won’t be any savings. There’s no point—”

  “Darling. Darling. It’s a meta-issue.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “We’ll fine-tune it. Don’t worry. I’ve got to go. Call me later. I’ve got some interesting news for you.”

  “I don’t want any more news from you.”

  “My man Speck checked in. I think you’ll want to hear it.”

  Cass pressed “End.” “End” was the new hang-up.

  She wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him on the floor of the U.S. Senate. She was so mad, she didn’t care what his myrmidon Speck had to report.

  ABBA’s endorsement of Transitioning made the front page. Randy’s proposal that Americans kill themselves in return for tax breaks, a bill that had begun as a turd in the Capitol Hill punch bowl, had now attracted the support of one-third of the U.S. Senate. And this made Randy front-page news.

  JEPPERSON EMERGES AS SURPRISING FORCE

  IN DEBATE OVER “VOLUNTARY TRANSITIONING”

  Within several days, there were more headlines:

  WHITE HOUSE SAID TO VIEW JEPPERSON

  AS SPOILER IN COMING CAMPAIGN

  JEPPERSON DOES NOT RULE OUT

  POSSIBLE PRESIDENTIAL RUN

  “Was this ABBA deal your idea?” Terry said, standing in the doorway of Cass’s office, holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  “No,” Cass snapped.

  “Just asking. Have we not had our morning Prozac?”

  “He totally sandbagged me.”

  “Surprise. Did you see the story about how he’s thinking of running for—”

  “Yes.”

  Terry closed the door and sat in front of Cass’s desk. “Are you pissed off specifically at me, or just with the human race in general?”

  “I’m mad at myself.”

  “For putting your trust in a politician? Or for—”

  “Go ahead,” she groaned. “For sleeping with him? It just happened. It does happen, you know. You’re on the road and—”

  “The road,” Terry said. “That’s good. The road did it.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Well, look at it this way. You fucked him before he fucked you. Does that help?”

  “Thanks,” Cass said. “I feel so much better.”

  “Do you want me to hire you a grief counselor? Do you know what those people make? Weird niche, when you think about it. What do they do, come to work every morning hoping there’s been a plane crash?” Terry said hesitantly, “You, uh, saw about Gideon Payne?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. He . . .What a fat little dick.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “He gave a speech last night in West Virginia. Wheeling. Traditional venue for dramatic speeches. Your name came up.”

  “Terry, you’re burying the lead.”

  “Oh, he said he had some evidence that you and Randy were, uh, doing some pretty hot and heavy fact-finding in the minefield. Also, he called you ‘Joan of Dark.’”

  “Hm,” Cass said, “not a bad line.”

  “I’m sure someone thought it up for him.”

  “Yes,” Cass said. “Someone clever. What evidence?”

  “Ignore it. He’s just trying to get back at you for calling him a mother killer.”

  “Don’t be avuncular,” Cass said, “or I’ll cry.”

  “Change of subject. So. Our boy wants to be president. Did he mention this while you two were playing hide the salami?”

  “That’s completely heinous.”

  “Give these guys one good headline and suddenly they’re hearing a chorus of voices. A call he cannot—must not—ignore. The will of the people.”

  “I don’t see it, personally. And I’m not being disloyal saying that.”

  Terry snorted. “No. But I wouldn’t exclude it. It’s America. Land of the free, home of the strange. In 1991—you were in diapers—the president of the United States had an approval rating of ninety percent. He’d just won a spectacular war in the Persian Gulf. Eighteen months later, he lost reelection to a horny governor from Arkansas.”

  “Thank you. I heard something about it. Your point being?”

  “American history is one accident after another. But with the right management . . .the right handling . . .”

  “Terry—the man just sold me down the Mississippi River. Why would I want to help him become president?”

  “So he’s an opportunist. How does that differentiate him from ninety-five percent of people who run for president?”

  “I thought my generation was supposed to be the cynical one.”

  Terry said, “I’ve spent my entire professional life making chicken shit into chicken salad. I’m almost fifty. I hear the flip-flop feet of the Grim Reaper approaching. It’s time. I want to work with—turkey shit.”

  “There’s a life goal for you.”

  Terry shrugged. “Cass, I’m a PR man. This could be my shot.”

  “Can’t you find someone, I don’t know, worthy?”

  “I bet I hate him every bit as much as you do. More.”

  “This is your justification for wanting to help elect him president of the United States?”

  “Didn’t you ever want to do something major in your life?”

  “I can’t believe you just asked me that. I was on the cover of Time magazine. Voice of her generation? Hello? Remember?”

  “I misspoke. I retract. My prior statement is inoperative. I apologize. Come on. I always wanted to do this. You know, put someone over the top. Play in the big leagues. So. Here’s my chance.”

  “Be my guest. I’d sooner eat caterpillars off a hot sidewalk.”

  “Where did you pick that up?”

  Cass shrugged. “Randy.”

  “So he fiddled a bit with Transitioning. But look, he got thirty-five senators.”

  “Stop spinning me. Friends don’t spin friends.”

  Terry leaned across her desk. “So he cut a few deals. Did you skip Civics 101? They all do that. So we say to him, ‘Look, asshole, we got you this far. We’ll get you all the way. Meanwhile, here’s what we want in return.’”

  “What do we want?” Cass said.

  “I don’t know,” Terry said. “We’ll think of something.”

  “Cass! Come in, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about you.”

  Randy’s Senate office, li
ke most, was spacious, and it took some time to cross from the threshold to his desk, which normally gave the senator time to rise to his feet and greet his visitor. But Randy did not rise to greet Cass. Some . . .protocol shift had taken place since her last visit here, the day of the fateful ABBA speech. Not only did he not rise to greet her, but he went back to his paperwork.

  “Sit, sit,” he said, still not looking up.

  “Am I . . .interrupting?” she said a bit coolly.

  “You? Never! Thanks for coming by.”

  “Did you really just say to me, ‘Thanks for coming by’?” she said.

  “Hm? Problem?”

  “No problem. Only, it’s just the sort of thing that senators more typically say to, I don’t know, Barnstable County Teacher of the Year or some undersecretary of housing and urban development.”

  “Still mad, are we?”

  “Why would I be mad? Just because you completely rewrote the Transitioning bill without bothering to tell me?”

  “Look, sweetkins, there’s the real world, and then there’s the U.S. Senate. We have a chance to carry this thing into the end zone.”

  “Whose end zone, Mr. Flutie?”

  Randy gave her an exasperated look, as though only her recalcitrance stood in the way of acknowledging his political genius. “I don’t know how else to put it. We need the Boomers.”

  “I thought the whole point was to oppose the Boomers.”

  “Same thing. But you want them inside the tent pissing out, not on the outside pissing in.”

  Cass stared. “Are we quoting Jefferson or Madison?”

  “Do you want this bill to pass or not?”

  “At this point, no. You’ve taken my meta-issue and turned it into a Boomer pork sausage. That’s not why I signed up.”

  “I’m sorry that the democratic process doesn’t measure up to your high standards. Give my regards to Aristotle and Pericles.”