Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  “Cass, Cass—was that your idea?”

  “Does this signal a new aggressiveness on the part of the Jepperson campaign?” (Du-uh.)

  “Aren’t you concerned that the Federal Election Commission will fine him?”

  She let them gabble on at her for a few minutes before even trying to answer. Finally, in order to obtain an audible sound bite from her, the beast quieted.

  “I think Senator Jepperson succinctly said tonight what many Americans, especially younger ones, think when they hear the president of the United States tell them that the economy is in sound shape. It’s not, and perhaps it’s time for some plain talk.”

  “But he told the president of the United States to—to shut the—to . . .” The reporter couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “I heard what he said. It’s an expression favored by young Americans to signify ‘Really?’ or ‘Gosh, that’s wonderful.’ The senator was, I believe, using it ironically. For his generation, it has a more, shall we say, literal meaning.”

  “But you can’t talk to a president that way. It’s not—presidential.”

  “Is it presidential to deceive the nation over and over? Senator Jepperson feels that the young people in this country are being robbed of their future by politicians who can’t see past the next election. Why should they be accorded respect? Respect is something you earn. Senator Jepperson respects the office of the presidency. And he will treat it with respect when he becomes president. Meanwhile, my guess is Americans tonight are saying, ‘Give him hell, Randy.’”

  Not quite. In fact, large numbers of Americans were phoning in death threats to Jepperson campaign headquarters and calling their congressmen and senators and demanding that they denounce him; others were calling the White House to say that they were appalled and writing scorching letters to the editor. But this barrage was coming from older voters. The younger ones, Cass’s U30s, generation whatever—they, too, were communicating as fast as they could, texting and blogging. And they liked—quite liked—what they had seen that night.

  “Senator, many, including a number of your own colleagues in the Senate, have called on you to apologize to President Peacham. There’s even some movement to censure or even to impeach you. Will you apologize to the president?”

  Randy was on Greet the Press.

  “No, Glen. I have no plans to do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t regret what I said. In fact, I’d say it again. In fact—”

  “Please,” Glen Waddowes said with a look of panic on his face, “this is a family show.”

  Randy smiled. “I wouldn’t want to upset the sensibilities of any of your viewers, Glen. Sure it’s tough talk. But these are tough times. And when a president of the United States stands at a podium and tells outright lies as the nation comes down around him in ruins, maybe it’s time someone grabbed him by the lapels and said, ‘Enough!’”

  “Speaking of lapels, that button on yours . . .is that . . .?”

  “It says STFU, Glen.”

  “I won’t ask you to explain what that stands for.”

  “I understand”—Randy smiled—“but if I may, let me explain what I stand for. . ..”

  The buttons were Cass’s idea. She had had tens of thousands of them ready to distribute the morning after the debate. It had all been hush-hush. She’d even had the campaign’s lawyer make the button manufacturers sign enforceable confidentiality statements. She didn’t want it to get out that the Jepperson campaign had prepared them in advance of the debate. No sense in ruining the illusion of spontaneity.

  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.

  Chapter 37

  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.

  It was necessary to apply for permits from the National Park Service and fourteen other agencies and departments that ruled over democratic gatherings on the nation’s front lawn. Word of this made its way on up to the White House.

  “Goddamnit,” said the president, “what do I have to do—drive a stake through this woman’s heart?” He said this in the presence of Frank Cohane and was immediately embarrassed.

  Frank, however, seemed unperturbed. He said, “Sir, I’m afraid she’s out to make a fool of all of us.”

  “Deny her the permits,” the president said to Bucky.

  “Tricky,” Bucky said. “The media are in love with her. If we get in the way of the permit process, it’s bound to leak, and it’ll look like we’re afraid of her. I’d let it proceed. See what”—he shot the president a sly glance—“develops.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You get a hundred thousand or so kids together,” Bucky said, “who knows what kind of hell’s likely to break loose. Right?”

  The president smiled. “You’re a cocksucker, Trumble.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Bucky smiled.

  The Protest Against Social Security, or PASS, was held on the Mall on the Saturday before the South Carolina primary. Getting U30s to attend a political rally was like herding cats. They coalesced more readily for concerts than for political demonstrations. Still, they came, and in respectable numbers. The Park Service estimated the crowd at seventy-five thousand, a good showing. Vendors did a brisk business in tuna wraps and vitamin water. Many protesters carried STFU! signs. Emergency medical crews stood ready to treat anyone stricken with self-esteem deficit. Curious Boomers who looked on from the sidelines remarked that it was just like the Vietnam protests, only completely different. “In those days,” said one old-timer riding by on a Segway, “we didn’t have nearly the variety of bottled waters you have today. Man, those were crazy times.”

  As soon as it grew dark, Cass took to the microphone and instructed the crowd to take out their Social Security cards. Seventy-five thousand people under thirty held them in the air, lighters at the ready. Suddenly the stage was swarmed with police wearing a dozen different uniforms.

  “Problem?” Cass said to the most official-looking one.

  “Are you Cassandra Devine?” he said.

  Cass moved closer to the microphone so that the conversation could be heard by seventy-five thousand people.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “You’re going to arrest me?” she said, the words echoing out onto the Mall, stirring a rumble in the crowd. “What for?”

  “Incitement to destroy government property, 18 USC 1361.”

  A rumble went through the crowd.

  Cass said into the microphone, “And are you going to arrest all of them?”

  “Anyone who destroys government property will be arrested.”

  Cass turned to the crowd. “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes!”

  “And what do you say to that?”

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

  “All right, that’s it,” the top cop said to his undercops. “Arrest her!”

  At the sight of the police closing in on their leader, seventy-five thousand members of generation whatever surged toward the stage in what the Post called a “Banana Republic tsunami.” The police had not anticipated quite this degree of solidarity and were simply overwhelmed by the critical mass. The stage, which began to sway under the weight, became a large rugby scrum. Cass wrestled free of the arms of the law and burrowed toward the rear of the stage. At one point, she stepped on something soft that moved and heard a loud groan of complaint that on closer inspection turned out to be Terry.

  “Come on,” she said, grabbing him by the arm. They managed in the confusion to get off the stage and ran in the darkness toward the Robert Taft Carillon and, beyond that, Union Station.

  “Did they get her?” the president asked Bucky. Bucky looked harried. They were in the presidential suite of a hotel in Charleston, South Carolina, late for a live televised debate that no one would be watching, given what was going on in Washington. The TV screen showed a helicopter’s-eye view of what television anchors generally call “the unfolding drama.”

  “Not yet. But don’t worry, chief, they’ll get her,” Bucky said.

  The president shook his head. “It’s a damn nightmare freak show. Just what we need, a goddamn thirty-year-old blond fugitive. Why the fuck did I let you and Cohane talk me into this?”

  “Sir, she’s not going to get
away. There are ten thousand police and federal agents searching for her.”

  The president was back to watching the screen. The scroll at the bottom read, THOUSANDS OF ARRESTS IN “BOOMSDAY” MELEE ON MALL. . .

  Cass and Terry made it to Union Station, where they caught the Red Line metro all the way to the end of the line, a place aptly, Cass thought, called Shady Grove.

  They found a bar not far from the metro stop that had a TV.

  “Well,” Terry said, “this’ll do wonders for business. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Tucker is not in today. He is a fugitive from justice. May I take a message and give it to him in the event he is apprehended?’”

  “Don’t worry,” Cass said. “We can always go to North Korea. I’m sure they’ll take us in.”

  They sat in the corner, an eye on the TV.

  Cass said, “This would be the moment when our faces pop up on the screen and the bartender reaches for the phone.”

  “We should call Allen.”

  “Good idea.” Cass took out her cell phone.

  Terry said, “Bad idea.”

  “Do you remember how to use a pay phone?”

  “I think you put coins in it.”

  After several attempts, they reached Allen Snyder, Esquire. He told them that the FBI did not normally tap the phones of lawyers. He said he’d find out what he could and call them back on the pay phone. He called back an hour later and said that there was a warrant out for Cass’s arrest but not for Terry’s. “You can come in from the cold,” he said, adding, “Do I even need to point out that if you assist Cass, you’re aiding a fugitive?”

  Cass and Terry made their arrangements. Terry headed back to the Shady Grove metro stop.

  They said good-bye in the shadows by the parking lot.

  “It’s going to be cold tonight,” Terry said. “And you’d better not try checking into a hotel.”

  “I was in the army, remember?” Cass smiled.

  “Okay,” he said, “but avoid minefields.”

  Randy had been barred by the Federal Election Commission from participating in the debates. But he had managed to turn this to his advantage by conducting shadow debates on the Internet, acting as if he were there onstage with the other candidates. The media were only too happy to include him. Just as the debate was getting started, he went online and denounced the president—this time avoiding four-letter words—for “criminalizing a peaceful demonstration” and demanded that he lift the fugitive warrant on Cass. Just for good measure, he called on him to resign.