Boomsday

by Christopher Taylor Buckley

  “Where are you going?” Randy said.

  “To find a BMW and slash its tires,” Cass said.

  The final session of the Presidential Commission on Transitioning and Tax Alleviation was called to order.

  Gideon Payne appeared with a large bandage over his head and dark glasses. He looked like the Invisible Man. He was terrified that the Russian hookers to whom (he thought) he had given his precious watch would see him on TV and recognize him. His appearance naturally caused a stir. He explained that he’d had laser surgery for his eyes and while recuperating had fallen down the stairs.

  “I assure you,” he told reporters, “that my insides work just fine.” They were licking their chops in anticipation of a final smackdown between him and his adversary, Joan of Dark.

  They were disappointed, therefore, when Cass, entering the chamber and seeing her adversary in this condition, went over to him. They couldn’t hear the exchange.

  “Reverend,” she said, “what happened? Are you all right?”

  Gideon, taken aback by her softness and evident concern, mumbled, “Uh, yes. An accident.”

  “I’m sorry. Will you be all right?”

  “Oh yes. Yes. Just healing.”

  “I haven’t been very nice to you.”

  Gideon didn’t know what to say to that. He held his breath. He could smell her perfume.

  “But then,” Cass said, “you haven’t been very nice to me, either.”

  Gideon cleared his throat. She was so beautiful. He could only croak, “Ah, no, I suppose…not. We got off to a bad start.”

  She said, “For what it’s worth, he and I weren’t having sex in that minefield.”

  “And I didn’t kill my mother.”

  “I believe you.” Cass held out her hand. Photographers snapped away. Gideon hesitated, then reached out and took her hand. It felt soft. He wanted to hold it forever.

  “Okay, then.…” She smiled and turned and went to her seat.

  “What the fuck was that about?” said the Washington Post reporter to a Times columnist.

  Randy looked at Cass as she took her seat next to him. He whispered, “First North Korea, now Gideon Payne?”

  “I’m tired of being pissed off at everyone and everything.”

  “Are you forgetting that his ancestor shot my ancestor? And that he accused me of screwing you in a minefield?”

  “Randy,” she said, “the only time you didn’t screw me was in that minefield.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Randy said. The chair was gaveling the meeting to order.

  “Something’s going on,” said the Post reporter, who was watching the exchange between Randy and Cass and wishing he’d brought in a lip-reader.

  Chapter 31

  Two Months Later…

  Few commission reports in history-except those dealing with Who Shot the President?-have been anticipated as eagerly as that of the commission on Transitioning.

  The chairman of the commission was a former senator, secretary of labor, secretary of energy, and ambassador to an acronymic organization in Brussels whose actual function no one had ever quite ascertained. His very name, Bascombe P. Bledsoe, bespoke pinstripe, wood paneling, and murmured voices. He inspired confidence by virtue of his dullness. The polar ice caps might be melting, an asteroid might be hurtling toward earth, the international banking system might be in ruins, and Latin America might be in chaos; still, Bascombe P. Bledsoe would not raise his voice or break a sweat. If the moment became truly apocalyptic, he might cough softly and say, “The situation would appear not to be significantly ameliorating.” He was Anodyne Man-the perfect person to head a commission convened to decide whether mass voluntary suicide was the answer to Social Security’s intractable insolvency. And this was exactly why the president appointed him to chair the commission.

  Having weighed the views of the various commissioners, he summed up the commission’s findings with a clarity and concision all too rare in Washington: “Further study is needed.”

  Those hoping for Sturm und Drang were disappointed. The pronouncement contained little Sturm and virtually no Drang. Commissioner Cassandra Devine, on the other hand, had Sturm und Drang to spare.

  “This is ridiculous,” she fumed. “‘Further study is needed’! You could say that about anything. You could say that about…paleontology.”

  “Darling,” Randy said, “don’t get so worked up about it. We gave it our best shot.”

  “We’ve been sandbagged. Don’t you see it?”

  “Time to move on,” Randy said.

  “What are you talking about?” Cass said.

  “There’s a time for fighting and a time for not fighting,” Randy said. “This is one of those times.”

  The White House issued a statement thanking Secretary Bledsoe and the commissioners for their “sacrifice, diligence, and hard work.” Asked about the commission’s report at a press conference the next day, the president said he, too, was satisfied that further study was needed and suggested that it was time to “move on.”

  “Funny,” Cass said to Randy, “that the White House used the same language you did yesterday. ‘Time to move on.’”

  “Hardly unique,” Randy sniffed.

  “But ‘moving on’ is how it got to this point in the first place. It isn’t the time to move on. It’s time to fix it.”

  “The only way to eat an elephant is one spoonful at a time,” Randy said.

  “Is it me,” Cass said, “or do you hear the sound of a pressing issue of vital national importance being swept under a giant carpet?”

  Randy put down his newspaper and listened. “Nope. Must be you.”

  “Did you know this was going to happen?” she said accusingly. “It feels kind of scripted to me.”

  “You saw the report I submitted to Bledsoe. It was teeming with recommendations. Full of piss and vinegar. I was all in favor of Transitioning. Within reason.”

  “Oh, please. You recommended Transitioning at age eighty-five! You totally sold out to ABBA and the other Boomer lobbies.”

  “Darling, I can’t help it if Bledsoe buried my recommendations. He’s a Prussian when it comes to keeping things in check. Veins like ice water. Hell of a squash player, they say.”

  “You seem awfully…laid-back about this,” Cass said. “For someone who was championing the issue.”

  “What can I say? I’m a WASP. I try not to let my emotions get the better of me. Inside, I’m churning.”

  “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  “Thought I might write an op-ed piece.”

  Cass stared.

  Randy said, “What?”

  “It’s not quite ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’ is it?” Cass said. “‘Thought I might write an op-ed piece. Give them a whacking big piece of my mind. But first I’ll have a spot of tea.’”

  “Oh, stop being such a grumpuss. Meta-issue, remember? We got our day in the sun.”

  “I can’t even discuss it. Why don’t you go write your stirring ‘J’accuse!’ for the op-ed page?”

  “If you really want to know,” Randy said coyly, “I thought I might sashay on down Pennsylvania to the White House and point out that it’s time they lived up to their part of the bargain.”

  “Bargain?”

  “The vice presidency, darling. You’re not forgetting?”

  “So it really was a deal? You’d cave on Transitioning in return for-”

  “Not ‘cave.’ Well, all right. Cave. But in return for being tapped to be VP.”

  Cass sighed. “I just hadn’t realized your little arrangement was so straightforward.”

  “Straightforwardish,” Randy said. “They couldn’t exactly issue a press release about it.” He gave her a peck on the forehead. “Cheer up. You’re going to be First Lady of the United States someday. And then”-he grinned-“you can have your own Transition commission. We’ll even make Transitioning mandatory-at age fifty. How would that be?”

  “
Thank you. That was truly patronizing.”

  “Darling, I can do a lot more for your debt-ridden generation from inside the White House.”

  “Yeah, well, send me a postcard when you get there,” Cass said, her heels making a clickety-click on the polished wooden floor of the Georgetown mansion as she headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Randy called after her.

  “To overthrow the government.”

  “Cassandra.”

  She’d kept a relatively low profile blogwise during her stint as a commissioner. Now, sitting in front of the glowing screen, she felt like a fighter pilot strapping herself into the cockpit, firing up the engines, and doing a weapons systems check.

  She posted: “Further Study Needed-into Transition Commission Whitewash…” and happily, busily blogged until dawn.

  Randy’s first inkling that all was not well came when he called Bucky Trumble-only to have a difficult time getting through to him.

  “Can I tell him what it’s about?” Bucky’s assistant said.

  “It’s Senator Jepperson,” Randy repeated. “Senator Randolph Jepperson.” He wondered if he should add, “Of Massachusetts?”

  The assistant said she would “pass along the message.” Randy hung up and stared at the phone. After ten minutes, he began to think that there might be a more therapeutic use of his time than trying to will an inanimate object to ring and busied himself with inserting an earmark into a highway bill. Bucky called him back five and a half hours later.

  “Sorry,” Bucky said. “Busy day. The Middle East just blew up.”

  “How unusual,” Randy said stiffly. “It’s normally so placid.”

  “So what’s up? Hey, listen, what’s with your girlfriend?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s going after us on that blog of hers. Saying the commission was fixed.”

  “Well?” Randy said. “Wasn’t it? That was the whole point.”

  “Tell her to lighten up. She called the president ‘a manipulative scumbag.’ That’s not the sort of language a presidential commissioner ought to be using.”

  “I didn’t know. She doesn’t clear her stuff with me. And I’ve got better things to do than keep up with blogs.”

  “Maybe you ought to start. She called you a wimp.”

  “What?”

  “She said you were part of the quote-unquote whitewash.”

  “I…” Randy made an exasperated sound. “I’ll give her a good spanking. Look, meanwhile, I need to see the president.”

  “Okay,” Bucky said, sounding unenthusiastic. “Anything special you’d like to discuss?”

  Anything special? “Well, yes. In fact.”

  “Like?”

  “Excuse me, do I have the wrong number? Is this the White House? Washington, D.C.?”

  “Yes,” Bucky said, sounding as though he might be doing a crossword puzzle or sketching out ideas for a State of the Union speech.

  “Is this call coming as something of a mystery to you?”

  “No. No, no. Just swamped, is all. Let me take a look at his calendar.” Bucky made a clicking sound with his tongue. “It’s pretty chuggy-jam this week. And the next. Is it something you want to just run by me first over the phone so I can give him the gist?”

  “Not especially, frankly.”

  “Then we’re probably…looking at next month.…”

  “Next month? Look here-”

  “Unless you want to fly with him on Air Force One next week.”

  “Oh. Well, sure.” That’s more like it.

  “He’s doing a flyover of the drought-stricken states. The vice president’s coming along. Please don’t mention that to anyone, for security reasons. Normally, they don’t fly together. But since the vice president is from Oklahoma…Ought to be a really interesting trip. The top experts on drought and irrigation will be aboard.”

  “Sounds riveting. You say the vice president is going to be there?”

  “Yeah. Is that some kind of problem?”

  “Well, Bucky,” Randy said, “that’s rather what I was hoping to discuss with the president.”

  There was silence over the line. “Oh,” Bucky said, “I…see. I see. Yes. Yes. Well, Randy, gosh, kind of awkward. But let me give it to you straight up. There’ve been developments on that front. The vice president indicated to the president that he wants to stay. He got a clean report from the prostate docs at Bethesda Naval. So he’s still on the team. As you know, the president is nothing if not loyal. It would have been great to have you on the team, but as it is, the slot’s filled. I realize this must be a disappointment to you. You did a hell of a job with the commission. We’d love to use you as a surrogate during the campaign. I shouldn’t be saying this, but there are going to be some cabinet openings coming available after next November. But we’re going to have to work our tails off. It’s going to be one tough election.…?Randy?…Hello?”

  Terry and Cass were going over a presentation for a client who owned a nationwide string of 550 pet stores. He wanted the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to relax its ban on importing a species of Amazonian salamander called a motato that absorbs moonlight and glows in the dark. He foresaw a huge demand for glow-in-the-dark salamanders and, on top of the normal fees, was offering Terry a $5 million bonus if it went through.

  The problem was twofold. The head of the imported salamanders division within Fish and Wildlife had to be persuaded that the motato was not, strictly speaking, endangered. The other problem was that the salamander was considered holy by a tribe of indigenous Indians, which meant that various environmental deputies in the Brazilian government would have to be persuaded, which is to say bribed-or, in the parlance of K Street, “accommodated.” Terry and Cass were analyzing this particular aspect when the door burst open and in limped the senator from the great state of Massachusetts.

  “I’ve been calling you for two days,” he said grumpily to Cass. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  “I’ve been dealing,” Cass said airily, “with salamanders.”

  Terry said to Randy, “Don’t ask.”

  Cass said, “Less slimy than certain human beings.”

  “If you two want to slug it out, I could leave,” Terry said.

  Randy threw himself into a leather chair. “It wasn’t very nice of you to call me a ‘wimp’ on your blog.”

  “Actually I toned it down. Originally I had called you a backstabbing sellout.”

  “Thank you,” Randy said. “I’m touched. You didn’t help me much with the president. I was given the impression that he doesn’t like being called a ‘manipulative scumbag.’ Really, Cass.”

  He described his phone call with Bucky Trumble. “So, it would appear that we’ve been had.”

  “No, darling,” Cass said, “you’ve been had.”

  “Whatever,” Randy said. The kinda spooky look came over him. “But let me assure you-they will rue the day that they tangled with Randolph K. Jepperson.”

  “Rue?” said Terry.

  Cass said, “It’s WASP for ‘pluck out their eyes.’ So, Senator? What’s the plan now? Gearing up to write an earthshaking op-ed piece?”

  “Screw that. We’re running.”

  Cass and Terry stared.

  “For president,” he added.

  “Darling,” Cass said, not unkindly, “what on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, typically when someone runs for president, they have some, you know, reason. Other than, say, hating the current president. They’re called ‘issues.’”

  “I have a platform.”

  “I must have missed that press release. And what does it consist of? If you say Transitioning, I’m going to stab you in the heart with this pen.”

  “As a matter of fact, Transitioning is indeed part of my platform. Fiscal responsibility. Not handing on debt to the next generation. Accountability. Leadership-”

  “Don’t forget global warming. Where do you stand o
n violent crime?”

  “I’m against it,” Randy said, rising out of his chair. “Look, I could use you.”

  “You already did.”

  “I know you’re sore. I don’t blame you. I was an ass. And maybe it sounds grandiose to say, ‘I’m going to run for president.’ But ever since that day I walked into the JFK Library-”

  “Tripping your brains out on LSD. That’ll make for a stirring announcement speech.”

  “All right, we’ll leave out that part of it. Point is, I feel that this is what my life is directed toward. Fate put us together in that minefield in Bosnia.”

  “You wanting a gourmet meal put us in that minefield.”

  “I’m trying to explain why I’m running for president.”

  “Randy, I’m not interested. I don’t care. Want to give a speech? Go do it on C-SPAN.”

  Randy stood up. He looked at Terry. Terry shrugged. Randy walked to the door. He said, “Your generation is being bankrupted by my generation. I want to do something about it. There’s a presidential election coming up, and I’m going to be in it. I could use you-I mean, I need you. But okay. Good luck with your salamanders.”

  He left.

  Terry said to Cass, “Say what you will, the man knows how to make an exit.”

  Cass hardly slept that night, and not because she was wired on Red Bull or blogging. The next morning, as she blearily read the computer screen to find out what the rest of the world had done, she saw the bulletin from the White House announcing that Franklin Cohane, the billionaire California software entrepreneur, had been appointed finance chairman of the Committee to Reelect President Peacham.

  She called Randy on his cell phone. “Okay,” she said. “I’m in.”

  “Oh, darling,” Randy said, “that’s wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.”

  “Whatever,” she said, and hung up.

  Chapter 32

  Gideon Payne, too, had been having a hard time getting through to the president, and this chafed. He was even having a hard time getting through to Bucky Trumble. Just who did Mr. Buckminster Trumble think he was? The White House might be busy, but Gideon was not used to having hours go by before his phone calls were returned. The cheek of these people.