CODES: J/D, General, Josh POV
RATING: PG-13 (innuendo; language)
SPOILERS for general season two through "Two Cathedrals";
extrapolation about potential season three
DISCLAIMERS: Everything herein either belongs to or has been inspired
by the master wordsmith Aaron Sorkin and his partners in crime. I'm
just a poor writer playing in their sandbox. A few supporting cast
members have been invented to tell this story. All the hoary,
predictable clichés belong to me. I own them and am proud of my
ability to employ them.
DEDICATION: This is for Kirsten who gets what happens when you have
to wait, and wait and wait in a hellish world of holding places. And,
in spite of knowing this about me, still tolerates my own unique
brand of insanity. Happy Birthday, Scarlett!
THANKS…to Sara for enabling my Josh thing and being my compadre in
arms no matter what; to Lesley for bringing the beta; to Pix for saying "send them
my response"
ARCHIVE: Yep. But ask me first. I'm still editing and fixing
mistakes… and I have an HTML version available
FEEDBACK: Thoughts, comments, insights, corrections—you bet. Send
them to hcj@reviewboy.com
SUMMARY: A sneak attack in the Senate, a man-hungry socialite, a
broken air conditioner, a strand of heirloom pearls, a Cuban émigré
with an attitude, boys being boys and Josh, in charge, deep in denial
and more romantically-challenged than normal, make for an overheated
week in the West Wing.
NOTE: This story takes place over a week. Consequently, the narrative
is divided up into days.
********************************************************
FUSION: A fusion reaction occurs when two light nuclei (ions)
approach each other so closely that their Coulomb (charge) repulsion
is overcome, allowing the nuclei to fuse.
********************************************************
Saturday, August 4; 12:15 AM
Donna refuses to speak to me.
That she, whose loquacious observations provide a primary theme in
the soundtrack of my life, will not so much as grunt in
acknowledgement of my pleas and provocations is a matter of some
concern. Yeah, yeah--it's not as if she's never given me the silent
treatment before. On the contrary: I've said and done enough dumb-
assed things in our years together that its surprising she doesn't do
this more often.
What troubles me about this particular round of "Ignore Joshua Lyman"
is that it might not be a game. Game, by its definition, connotes
rule-bound competition for amusement and/or as an exhibition of
skill, strategy or endurance. "If You Don't Gratify Him/Her With a
Response He'll/She'll Go Away" is played by one party staging a
carefully calculated, persistent verbal siege while the other party
ignores the first party. Whoever caves first, wins. We resort to this
game when one--or both—of us reaches peak frustration; launching into
word jabs and parries provides an outlet for our overheated
emotions. After the balm of witty banter soothes the stings, we call
a truce. An articulate offering from a man with a 760 verbal SAT can
be quite satisfactory, particularly if uttered while holding a
bouquet of salmon-pink roses (such was my gift after what I now refer
to as the Red Dress Incident).
For the time being, my tried and true approach appears to be failing
me. I mean, I've said at least a dozen things in the past ten minutes
that normally would have elicited at the very least a smirk
acknowledging my self-deprecating charm. Instead, Donna remains as
taciturn as she was upon leaving the Senate, a solemnity that
continued while traversing the tunnel to the Russell Office Building
and walking to the car. Her stonewalling tactics ratchet up my stress
level. Flailing like the human equivalent of a fully pressurized
garden hose, I impugn her to relent.
Silence eloquently articulates Donna's position.
I think I'm in trouble.
A mere glance of her soulful eyes, letting me know that this too can
be mended, would shut me up. So what if it isn't tonight or
tomorrow. I deserve to suffer—I'll gladly do my penance in exchange
for forgiveness. Just as long as I know that eventually she'll start
tormenting me with her dissertations on useless factoids, I'll take
her for chocolate gelato and we'll be friends again.
Maybe that's it. Maybe what happened tonight messes up the friend
thing.
I can't even go there.
And then there is that other thing. The thing I don't want to think
about that's been lurking in the wings, waiting for the President and
Leo's return to go on. I think I need to talk to Stanley about this.
He'd probably tell me this whole week has been about self-sabotage
and that on some subconscious level, even tonight's events reflect
fears I can't even put words to.
Meanwhile, without Stanley's voice of sanity, I'm trying too hard—I
know I'm trying too hard. But that's what I do. I fight until I fall
down and then, bloodied and bruised, I get up and start fighting
again.
My extended one-sided conversation has the potential to earn me a
weekend pass to the psych ward. Or the drunk tank if Donna wants to
turn me in as a stalker. Because Donna is sitting in the car beside
me, I'm certain the former isn't a real threat. Anyone watching us
would assume she's being subjugated to a boorish date. Nothing
illegal or mentally questionable about that. She may, however, roll
the window down at the next stoplight and inform that nice looking
policeman parked next to the Department of Labor that she's been
carjacked.
In a pre-emptive move, I wave to the nice policeman. He gives us a
strange look, but waves back. It occurs to me that if he notices the
EOB/WH parking sticker on the back, he might just mention it to one
of his buddies over coffee and donuts. He'll say something to the
sergeant in charge and so on until someone on the press beat asks
about what the Deputy White House Chief of Staff was doing waving to
a cop at 1AM. CJ would sadly inform them of Josh Lyman's tragic
descent into mental illness and then she'd personally fold the
hospital corners on my bed sheets, lock the padded cell door and
throw away the key.
No matter how I look at it, this is going to end badly. Should my
paranoia escalate further, I may check myself in and save CJ the
trouble.
Calm down. I need to calm down and think this through. Not
overthink, but think rationally, methodically... I am certain that
anything I say can and should be held against me in the court of
Donna's opinions.
Unfortunately, nothing works in my favor: the oppressive August
humidity, the mind-scrambling euphoria over nuking the majority
leader's version of the Excellence in Education act, and the very
confusing combination of arousal and repulsion that comprised my now
erstwhile, earlier-evening date.
And then there was that little incident in the Minority Leader's
conference room…
In spite of doing my damnedest not to think about it, I find that
unless I fill in every blank in my brain, it's all I'm thinking about
and within milliseconds a tantalizing kind of craziness dares me to
act on impulses that frankly scare the hell out of me. I'm thinking
that finding the nearest drive-through fast food joint might be my
saving grace; a large Coke, minus the Coke, extra ice, dumped over my
head might provide enough shock to assure that I don't crash into any
light poles or parked cars on the way home.
How did I get into this mess in the first place?
Must have been the swatches.
********************************************************
Friday July 27th; Afternoon
"Here," Donna said, dropping a four inch high stack of fabric on my
desk. "These are your swatches."
I looked up from reading the EPA's briefing on the status of the
Colorado River Snail Darter. This fish had no meaning to me except as
it related to the River Recovery Act that was now wending its way
through Congress. Fish would be Leo's present province since he was
fly-fishing somewhere in Oregon. Fish might be within President
Bartlet's purview during his annual summer retreat to New England--
all that "River Runs Through It" metaphysical nature hooey. Any fish
I might care about would be battered, deep-fried and served with two
well-chilled beers during my viewing of a Mets-Braves game showing on
ESPN in my favorite air-conditioned Georgetown pub. Note the
modifier "air conditioned." The East Wing remained air-conditioned.
The central public rooms were air-conditioned. The West Wing, the
Mess and the Old Executive Office Building had lost air-
conditioning. Sans appropriate cooling, the word `heat sick' took on
new meaning for all of us. I swiped at the sweat dripping off my
face. "I was expecting swatches?"
"To recover the chairs."
"We can't locate the parts for the air conditioner so we're
recovering the chairs. That's governmental logic for you."
`The parts are in Buffalo."
"We need a road trip, Donnatella Moss. How `bout Buffalo?"
She flipped through the fabric samples and pulled out a richly hued
emerald matte with satin pinstripes. "This one warms my alabaster
skin tones."
"It's upholstery, not haute couture."
"For when I sit in the chair, Josh."
"Road trip, Donna."
"Jill Montoya feels we lack aesthetic congruity."
Jill Montoya, the liaison between the First Lady's staff and the
White House Preservation Society, believes the failure of the Mid
East peace process can be attributed to poorly selected hostess
gifts. "Aesthetic congruity's some preppy permutation of Feng Shui?
Achieve inner peace through matching furniture."
"Research supports the assertion that harmonious physical
surroundings—"
"I think Rome fell because it was just too damn hot in the summer to
solve governmental problems rationally. Whether the togas matched the
statuary was irrelevant."
"Think subtext."
"Iced tea for inner peace, Donna."
"The repair people blew a circuit breaker. The refrigerator and ice
machine defrosted, flooding the Mess. They've got warm yogurt. Want
one?"
"Liquid sustenance. Cold liquid sustenance. I am a man in search of
an oasis."
"Senator McKay's office called, the decorator's scheduled in an hour,
Russert's people called--"
"For this weekend? I must have been a real bastard in another
lifetime to deserve—aw hell. What's on the menu for Meet the Press?"
"The River thing."
"With whom?"
She braced herself. "Adam Sarton."
"Sarton "let's go back to living in caves" Congressman Sarton? One of
People Magazine's Fifty Most Beautiful People, Sarton? He's one of
our guys!"
"You're still jealous."
"How seriously does anyone take a congressional pin-up boy, Donna?
Please. Besides, with the widower thing, he's got the sympathy angle
cornered. What's his deal?"
"From today's Post," her eyes dropped to an index card on her stack
of papers, "`The Bartlet Administration refuses to lead out on water
safety issues, choosing instead to stand behind the much more
moderate, yet ineffective, standards proposed by the EPA. Their
timidity forces me to take an aggressive stance in the hopes that
public awareness will pressure President Bartlet to take this threat
more seriously.'"
"Sam will take it. He's Greenpeace guy."
"Leo told Russert you'd take it."
I buried my head on my desk. "I'll need bullet points."
"Yup. I'll get right on it."
"Wait, Donna." I pleaded. "An oasis. Or IV fluids. You choose."
She looked me over. I imagined she saw a sweat-drenched face, heat-
crazed eyes, flushed skin, piles of useless reports with no end in
sight, and at least a dozen phone messages taped to my desk. Pursing
her lips thoughtfully, she said, "I could use a smoothie. I'll ask
Cathy and Margaret if they want something."
Christobal Arguello, Cuban émigré and loyal Republican, runs a little
shop a couple of blocks from the White House over toward the Capitol
Hilton and the Post offices. I can't fairly call it a coffee shop
because he recently threw in a contingent of blenders and started
serving fruit smoothies. The décor is a pastiche of 4th of July
cutouts, campaign memorabilia, and autographed photos of the
political and media types who turn to Christobal when the line at
Starbucks proves to be endless. His outpost features one Internet
ready computer (at $5 per hour), the Times (New York and London),
entertainment magazines, phone cards, cigarettes and cigars—the kind
that customs agents impound and bribe weak-willed Congress people
with.
Since Toby discovered Christobal's extracurricular Caribbean
commerce, he and Christobal have become best pals. When I made the
mistake of commenting on some smarmy self-righteous Republican
propagandist crap Christobal had been spouting—crap that might have
come straight out of Ann Stark's mouth—Toby actually defended the
guy. "The man survived four decades under a repressive totalitarian
dictatorship and floated to Miami on a raft lashed together with
rags," Toby snapped, "He's earned the right to cast his vote for the
Easter Bunny for president if he damn well wants to." Amazing how
quickly idealism fades when one's favorite vices are involved.
Maybe if I joined the brotherhood of illegal cigar connoisseurs,
Christobal would hate me less. Donna thinks I'm being overly
sensitive. What does she know? He calls her "a tropical flower of
exquisite beauty." He calls me "Señor Ly-man," emphasis on the "ly"
part and I don't think that focus on that particular syllable is
accidental.
We had only cracked the door, setting off the sensor that
plays "Stars and Stripes Forever" to announce customers, when
Christobal, wearing his "Member, Vast Right Wing Conspiracy" t-shirt
called out "Hey Señor Ly-man. Donna." He said this in his usual Samba-
like cadence. "Still no air conditioning? I tell you, I have a
cousin in Reston who could have fixed this last week."
"Regulations. Contracts. Union stuff. Can't do it," I said, examining
the menu.
"Unions?" Christobal tsked and shook his head.
"Don't get me started," I warned him.
"So many good choices, today, Christobal. Too tempting," Donna said
as she leaned against the glass ice cream case, rosy cheeked and
glowing in her soft, sleeveless raspberry sherbet colored dress. She
looked like she should be poolside in Bermuda in these very strappy
sandals that wrapped around her ankles and tied someplace on her
shins. Donna has nice shins. In fact, Donna has nicely contoured
calves. There are women who have bowling pin legs but Donna's are
firm, sleekly sculpted—
"Señor Ly-man. You ready to order?"
Startled, I lifted my gaze, hoping it hadn't been obvious where my
eyes had been focused. "Oh yeah. I'll have a—hey—wait. You raised
your prices. Yesterday I paid three fifty for a smoothie. Today it's
four bucks--"
"How's your grandson? He make it through the teething okay?" Donna
interrupted.
"Happy and healthy," he said and crossed himself. "Thank the blessed
Virgin. You are kind to ask, Donnatella. Such a pretty name, `Don-na-
tel-la.' For you today, I have fresh peaches, strawberries—maybe you
want a caramel malt with pralines? You are like a jungle orchid
today, Donnatella. I throw in your wheat grass for free."
"Four bucks ought to get her the ginseng, the B6 and the Echinacea
too. What gives?"
He shrugged. "I have expenses. My supplier gets blueberries from
Vermont. Other blueberries are moldy. You want moldy blueberries?"
"It's called price gouging, Christobal."
"Free market economy, Señor Ly-man."
"Profiting from a desperate man's pain?"
"The American way, amigo."
"Lacking in poetry, but accurate. And why I'm a Democrat."
"I'll take the Orchard Sunrise," Donna began in another attempt to
break-up the wrangling between Christobal and me. "And whip up a Key
West Cooler and a Berry Patch Delight. All to go."
"Thirsty?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Cathy and Margaret. Oh—do you have the new `In Style'?"
Christobal smiled his approval. "Excellent choices, Donnatella—all
very fresh. And free wheat grass."
I turned to Donna. "That smoothie of yours is almost five bucks with
tax. He throws in a nickel's worth of wheat grass and you're all over
him like he's just handed you a winning Powerball ticket. You ought
to order the five cents worth of Diet Coke that he charges a buck-
fifty for in protest of this capitalistic exploitation."
"Take your protest and blend it, Josh," she sniffed. "IV fluids are
still an option."
"Fine. Follow the crowd. Be a slave to the sheep-dom that is mindless
consumerism. Principles are fine until they interfere with self-
gratification." I waved to catch Christobal's attention. "I'll take
one of those blueberry things. And if there's one spec of mold in it—"
"I give you your money back," he completed for me. "Naturally."
Walking back to the White House, I realized Donna appeared remarkably
composed in this muggy hell we call midsummer in the D.C. swamp.
While wrapping my tie around my head to dam the sweat erupting,
geyser-like, on my forehead, seemed a legitimate tactic, she radiated
the healthy nonchalance of a Vogue photo shoot.
She noticed my scrutiny. "What? Do I have a bug in my teeth?"
"You don't sweat, do you?"
"The word is perspire and the answer is of course I do, but unlike
you, I have small pores."
"Small pores?"
"Can I have a taste?"
"You'll get lipstick on my straw. Are small pores a genetic endowment
or is it part of some arcane female beauty secret?"
"It's a sip, Josh, not a blood donation."
"I hate lipstick on the straw. "Off the lip of the cup."
"Lipstick on the lip is fine?"
"Lipstick on the lip is fine if I can have a taste of yours."
"Cup lip."
"Of course."
We swapped smoothies and continued strolling in silence.
In ten days, Congress would recess, vacation schedule, round one,
first string, would end (POTUS, Leo, Toby, CJ, Charlie, Ginger) and
vacation schedule, round two, deputy string, (me, Donna, Sam,
Ainsley, Cathy) would begin. I should've been concerned about not
having any plans, but in three years I haven't taken a full week
off. I anticipated that this vacation would be no different. Donna
believes my inability to take time off is evidence of being attention
span challenged. I think of it more like my vigorous mental abilities
require constant stimulation.
If we've ever had an excuse to skip vacation, this would be the year.
With the special prosecutor and President Bartlet's efforts to take
his case for reelection to the American people, Toby and CJ have been
spending a lot of time on the road with the President, running his
town meetings, managing the press coverage, and creating the
message. Toby feels our best odds for success lie in convincing the
people see that indeed, the President is well and that he's not only
capable of serving out his term, but deserving of another one.
Unfortunately, the business of keeping the federal government working
refuses to wait out the news cycle. I've found myself longing for the
Pony Express days when Idaho would find out about a pending bill
after it was too late for them to do anything about it—let alone
care. My office has had more than its fair share of responsibilities
coordinating the mobile White House with the one on 1600 Pennsylvania
meaning Donna has had her share of responsibilities coordinating me.
I knew things had hit a new low when I arrived at the
ancillary `Sagittarius' room at midnight on a Saturday and found
Donna and Sam sorting through the tangle that was collectively mine,
Sam's and Donna's laundry. In fact, I was likely wearing Sam's socks
the day Donna and I talked vacations.
Everything considered I was curious as to whether Donna had bothered
to make plans to leave DC. I mean, in the past, when I came back
early, I dragged her back with me. In one really desperate moment, I
flew to Wisconsin, marched into a family reunion and saved her from
having to sit through her Uncle Verlan's two-hour clogging recital.
Grandma Moss has yet to forgive me for that one.
In years past, I typically have some inkling about what Donna's plans
are before the July 4th recess. She does a big skit about the newest
addition to her swimsuit collection or what aloe-peach pit-rainforest
frappe skin product she's taking along. No Nordstrom catalogues or
spa vacation brochures had appeared on her desk (or mine) anytime in
the last four weeks. Odd. I asked her about this.
She hemmed and hawed for a moment, but finally confessed that she is
without a plan.
Some might see synchronicity to both of us being plan-less. Like this
is a sign or something. I think of it more pragmatically: considering
that I've more or less ruined her vacations for three summers, she's
realized that planning is pointless as long as I'm her boss. Okay--I
did feel a flash of contrition that I've conditioned my assistant to
believe vacations are at best futile, but in the same flash, I'm
grateful she's accepted the inevitability of the inevitable.
Flexibility is paramount when you have an attention span challenged
boss. Or rather, flexibility is paramount when you have a task
oriented and industrious boss. Whatever the worldview, I'm still in
charge.
I wondered if I should tell her about Ainsley's offer.
With Oliver Babish managing the special prosecutor's requests,
Ainsley had been assigned full-time to working the legal angles of
the White House's legislative agenda. Two weeks ago, she interrupted
our analysis of a particularly hairy section of an education bill by
confessing her ardent desire for a vacation. In lieu of taking her
week at the family's oceanfront cottage, the recent birth of her
sister's fourth child necessitated her assuming childcare duties.
It occurred to me that the Republican condemnation of family planning
efforts might have as much to do with assuring population dominance
in the Electoral College as some twisted desire to take all the fun
out of sex. After all, while socially responsible liberals
everywhere are reproducing in a controlled, deliberate fashion,
Republicans are birthing like bunnies. I said this to Ainsley who
grinned wickedly and said, "Damn straight, Lyman." I could actually
see why Sam finds this woman alluring—alluring like Scylla and
Charybdes.
But this pony-tailed Scylla offered me the use of the Nags Head
house, an offer I wondered if I should share with Donna. I mean
obviously we couldn't vacation together. Obviously. Not that I had
any personal objections to spending my vacation time with her. It
might be sensible to vacation together. We could get a lot of work
done in spite of Donna's slavish devotion to Peak Tanning Hours.
Hell, we could work while Donna sunbathed. I could help her apply
suntan oil on all those hard to reach spots and then—
I paused and shook my head. What kind of heat-induced delirium
prompted that thought?
CJ would render me a prize eunuch if the `National Enquirer' garbage
divers so much as found a receipt hinting of impropriety.
Boss/assistant vacations fall into the category of questionable
judgment. I am nothing if not Deputy Decorum.
So maybe I let Donna take Ainsley's beach house. It still would save
me because I'd know where she was and how to reach her so I can say,
interrupt her vacation by Wednesday instead of having to waste a full
day voice-mail bombing her cell phone and enlisting the local FBI
office in locating a missing person.
"Do you have a plan?"
Her inquiry startled me back to my present geography, far from the
warm white sands of the South. We'd reached Lafayette Park (where
even the usual protesters had given up due to the risk of heatstroke)
and were about to cross Pennsylvania when I decided to take a seat on
a shaded park bench. "I gotta few things to do."
"Like the few things that took fifteen minutes last year?"
I shrug sheepishly. "I am not a man of leisure like those
professional lazy-asses in those Jane Austen movies you like so much."
"They're gentlemen, Josh. Like Lord John Marbury."
"Thank you for making my point for me."
"Lord John Marbury is imminently civilized. And he probably has a
plan."
"Being civilized requires a plan?"
"Being civilized requires sustained attention and therefore a plan."
"And I suppose you have a plan for the thing on Friday night?" Where
that came from, I had no clue. Particularly since the way that I said
it sounded suspiciously like I was asking her out. The thing in
question is the First Lady and the Bartlett daughters' invitation-
only performance by jazz pianist-vocalist Diana Krall. Kind of a
while POTUS is away, FLOTUS plays thing. I also heard rumors that
this had something to do with teaching Annie that N'SYNC can't be
classified as real music (such was Margaret's take on the thing.)
"Have I ever been allowed to have a plan for a Friday night?"
"Don't play passive-aggressive with me, Donnatella Moss. Your
inability to tame one of the local ape-boys—"
"I haven't made plans for the thing because I have this feeling—"
"Would your feelings have the same prognosticating accuracy as your
vibes?"
"You do the paint-by-numbers. Leo and the President are out of town,
Congress will be in the last four days of a relatively calm bi-
partisan session—unprecedented in the level of cooperation—and all
that's pending is a seemingly bulletproof education bill. Considering
the level of calm, I figure a major detonation will occur sometime
around 7PM Friday night."
She's right, but I'll be damned if I agree with her. "I think you're
avoiding the thing because you're threatened."
"Threatened?"
"Jazz appreciation requires a certain degree of sophistication,
something not fostered out in cheese country. You danced to what—the
Dairy Maid Polka—at your prom?"
"For a man whose quasi-pimp prom persona—"
"Quasi-pimp?"
"I have pictures, Josh. White polyester pants, chunky gold chains,
brown-geometric prints and wide-collared shirts. Quasi-pimp. Disco
Inferno lives on in you."
"Where did you—how did you—were you nosing around in my stuff?"
"Your mother showed me. We bonded, your mother and me."
"You're fired."
"Your braces were cute too."
"Double fired."
"The "Youth of Joshua Lyman" spread in `Washingtonian' magazine will
be a hit. Caption one: Josh at his bar mitzvah. Witness his earliest
battle with acne, but already president of the chess club and captain
of the Math Olympiad--"
"Donna!" I zigged--
--she zagged and dashed across the street to the West Gate, leaving
the smoothies behind for me to carry. Bag in hand, I chased after
her, following the trail of her laughter.
We carried on like this all the way into the office.
"I have keys, Josh. I have keys to your apartment, your car and your
gym locker. You can run, but you can't hide. Not even your gym socks
are safe because I have keys."
"So I change the locks. Where do you keep the Yellow Pages? I need a
locksmith. Cathy! I need a locksmith!"
"Your threats are worth bobkes."
"There should be a rule about shiksa girls and Yiddish—like watching
Woody Allen movies should be illegal until you swear you won't use
the vocabulary. Or maybe my mother's sponsoring you for the local
Hadassah chapter?"
"She likes me. We have bonded."
"Can I have that?" Sam stole Cathy's smoothie from the drink holder.
"It's Cathy's," Donna replied.
"She takes my donuts. Consider this compensatory damages."
"Five bucks, Sam," I answered, remembering vividly my lesson in Cuban
economics. He doesn't have the decency to sip from the lip. The cad.
"Didn't she already pay you?" He took a long slurp. "This has melted.
You want five bucks for a melted smoothie? It's not a smoothie
anymore if it's melted. It's a runny."
"I want five bucks for delivery, Sam, pay up," I waved my open palm
under his nose.
"You must be Josh Lyman," an unknown voice interrupted.
Our heads swiveled in unison. Sam's eyes widened—almost bulged when
he saw the voice's owner. "Now that's a cold glass of water," he
muttered under his breath.
An apt description. Clad in a lavender macramé-ish sweater and
pewter gray slacks, our immaculately coiffed black-haired guest
rested her hand with its French manicured nails on her cheek, and
contemplated us with eyes glistening like faceted gemstones. She was
tan—not leathery, fake-and-bake tan. Maybe recently back from St.
Barts tan or twice a week tennis tan. And I was somewhat surprised
her earlobes weren't dragging from the multi-karat diamond studs she
was sporting.
"Who's asking?" I enjoy a glass of water as much as the next thirsty
guy, but I also know enough to avoid speaking without knowing whom
I'm speaking to.
"Jordan Custis Meade," she said, extending her silken-cool hand,
first to me, then to Sam and finally to Donna. We must have all
looked puzzled because her next words were "The decorator. Sent from
Jill Montoya's office."
"Custis?" Sam's glasses dropped a notch on his nose. "That wouldn't
be—"
"Martha Custis Washington, Custis? Yes. By way of the Lees." Her
voice was husky—Lauren Bacall asking Humphrey Bogart to put his lips
together and blow kind of husky. I loosened my tie.
" As in—" Like a mosquito to a bug zapper, Sam drew closer to Jordan.
"Robert E., yes. We're Virginia Democrats back to Jefferson," she
answered, shifting her gaze between Donna and me. If she didn't have
a career in politics, she should consider one: after years of
learning lobbyist-isms and Republican double-speak, I've mastered the
art of reading the gesture—even the slickest operatives struggle to
suppress body language. Hers was almost non-existent. No nervous
twitches, no mouth quirks, no expression in the eyes. Remarkable.
Wholly remarkable.
Even so, her words exhibited more than a little self-confidence. I've
met more than my share of so-called American royalty (goes with
political territory) and it takes more than a Southern belle with a
thoroughbred family tree to impress this Yankee. "Party's changed a
lot since Jefferson."
"Pedigree and party loyalty go together, Mr. Lyman." Her eyes
flickered coolly over Donna. "You must be Donnatella Moss."
"Yes," Donna answered cautiously. She's learned her reticent approach
from me. "I'm Josh's—"
"Assistant. I know. Karen Cahill mentioned you."
Donna blushed deeply.
I might have imagined it, but I thought I saw a calculatedly feline
expression of satisfaction pass across Jordan's face.
"I believe Jill's office sent you some swatches?"
"Yes, but I haven't had a chance to select anything."
Sam piped up, "I've looked mine over and I quite liked the navy blue
and olive paisley."
"A nice print," Jordan said politely, "But my instructions were to
start with the Deputy Chief of Staff—since Leo's out of town."
"Oh," Sam said, deflated. He slinked off to his office.
I entered my office with Jordan following close behind. She took a
seat, delicately crossed one leg over her knee and watched while I
located the swatches. Tossing them onto my desk, I sat down in my
chair. "I'd offer you something to drink, but the Mess is out of
commission. As is the air conditioning."
"I heard, "she said dryly, fanning herself with an accordion folded
page of paint samples. "Jill had a few ideas—"
"Tell you what, Ms. Mead, whatever Jill wants as long as this place
doesn't end up looking like Caesar's Palace, is fine with me."
"I realize, Mr. Lyman—"
"Call me Josh. And let's make one thing clear. I've got a country to
run. The President is out of town, as is Leo McGarry and
redecorating, regardless of its psychological benefits means less to
me than--"
"I realize that such trivialities as chair upholstery and interior
design mean little to you, but the supplies and services for this
project are being donated to the White House Historical Association
and I'm doing this as a favor for Jill, so if you can save your
attitude for someone who might actually be impressed by it, I'd
appreciate it."
"Fair enough. You're a friend of Jill's."
"We went to school together."
I wracked my brain to see if where Jill Montoya went to school was
stored somewhere in my gray matter. "Sarah Lawrence?"
"Brown for my undergrad, the Sorbonne for graduate work. I went to
Foxcroft prep with Jill."
Foxcroft. Visions of polo shirts, riding breeches and monogrammed
Fair Isle sweaters danced through my head.
She clicked open a briefcase and sorted through several file folders.
When she apparently didn't find what she wanted, she began examining
the contents of her Kate Spade purse. I knew it was a Kate Spade bag
because Donna had illustrated her "All I Want for Christmas List"
this year and the bag Jordan was carrying matched the magazine cutout
pasted next to "purse" on Donna's list.
Donna popped her head in. "Senator McKay on line two."
"Do what you need to—measure, drape, match," I said to Jordan. "I'll
take it at your desk, Donna."
"Thanks." Jordan stood up and bent over slightly, and retrieved her
swatches from where they sat in front of me. Her loose V-neck sweater
allowed for a relatively unobstructed view that I couldn't miss but
didn't dwell on. Yeah, I'm a guy: I'll look. But I'm not the sort
that goes for the easy peep. Part of the thrill is managing a look at
something you aren't supposed to be looking at, or imagining what it
is you aren't supposed to be looking at it. And from what I've seen
of Jordan Meade, she's too calculating to be bending without assuming
I'm looking.
Granted, I'm not above the occasional frat boy antics. And I have a
healthy appreciation for the `Sports Illustrated' swimsuit issue—
after all those girls are practically athletes. But I'm not logging
on to naughty.vixens.oftheivyleague.com in my off hours; it feels
like cheating. I enjoy the chase: to hunt and be hunted, therein
lies excitement.
So I rose from my chair with Jordan Meade's generous endowment
staring me in the face and found it effortless to remain nonplussed.
It dawned on me, however, that it has been a long time—a very long
time—since I've had any kind of purely social interaction with a
woman. Like pre-shooting, long time. Between recovery, that whole
holiday meltdown, stress and work, there hasn't been time for
anything more than the occasional meeting for drinks or a quick lunch
between appointments. Strangely, I haven't missed dating and all its
permutations.
Annoyed, Donna sighed. "Josh. Senator McKay."
"Excuse me." I followed Donna out to her desk.
"You're on hold. She had an aide she needed to talk to."
I shrugged.
"Foxtrot's a school, huh? Some kind of advanced Arthur Murray thing."
"Foxcroft. Prepster heaven. Mostly old Virginia money. You were
listening?—Senator. Josh Lyman."
Senator Cassandra McKay (R-Maine) co-sponsored the Excellence in
Education Act with Senator Walt Kale (D-California) with the full
support of the Bartlet Administration. Not only does President
Bartlet like Cassie McKay, he considers her a trusted friend; by
proxy, she is also the friend of everyone who works in the West Wing.
Cassie had a few final additions she wanted to review with me before
she began the press leaks, so we set up an appointment for the
following day. I hung up the phone.
"Saturday, 10AM. You need more than an hour?" she asked.
"It's freakish how you do that. You only hear my side of the
conversation and yet you know what I'm going to ask you before I ask."
"And I didn't even go to Foxtrot."
"Foxcroft."
"10AM?"
"10AM's fine. You didn't have plans?"
She gave me the `What, do you think I'm stupid look?' and said, "My
plan is to keep you civilized by making sure you are well-planned.
Besides, Saturday is shorts day. I look very good in shorts."
"Shorts are nice," I agreed
Sam appeared at Donna's elbow. "I'm going to ask her for coffee."
"Donna? She doesn't do coffee. "
"No. I'm asking Jordan out for coffee. Have you ever read her pieces
in `Architectural Review' about incorporating the Frank Lloyd Wright
ethos into furniture design? Stimulating."
"Must have missed that one," I said, tossing my notes from my Senator
McKay conversation to Donna to type up and add to the file. "Donna,
can you call Clark Swensen and see if he can do a conference call
around 7 tonight. I'd like to have a position paper on the River
Recovery stuff ready for Leo's review"
She nodded and began flipping through her Rolodex.
"So what do you think," Sam persisted.
"About?"
"Jordan."
"She fills out her sweaters nicely."
"That's it?"
"She wears expensive shoes."
"I'm asking her out for coffee."
I slapped Sam on the back. "Break a leg."
He strolled into my office--rather swaggered-- into my office.
After that back slap, a seed of an idea began to swell. Sam must be
seeing something that I wasn't. Jordan Custis Meade had plenty to
recommend her: social standing, money, a well-tanned, finely toned
physique, a good mind, and she filled out her sweater nicely. Maybe
being benched too long had allowed my skills to deteriorate. I mean,
here was this beautiful, single, well-connected, intelligent woman
and I had zippo reaction to her. Nada. Bobkes. Nothing.
What was wrong with me to be so blasé about a woman who practically
invited me to partake? And when something is wrong, I fix it. I'm a
regular handyman kind of guy. I, Joshua Lyman, resolved at that
moment to do whatever it took to once again lead the pack. I am an
alpha male among alpha males. I would reclaim my superiority or die
trying. Period. Just who did Sam Seaborn think he was anyway?
What I didn't consider was whether my sudden interest in Jordan Meade
was about competition with Sam or whether I really believed Jordan
Meade to be a legitimate contender in the potential girlfriend or
social companion department. Both of those factors were irrelevant
for I was a veritable hound dog on a blood trail, a toreador with a
red cape, a--
Sam shuffled out of my office a moment later, looking dejected. "She
has plans," he muttered.
"Better luck next time slugger," I quipped and walked back into my
office, prepared to hit the ball out of the park.
Jordan wound up for the pitch before I could plot strategy. "Josh?"
"Yeah?"
"We started off on poor footing and it occurs to me that it shouldn't
be that way. I've a tee time on Sunday afternoon and I was wondering
…"
I smirked. Maybe not a home run, but definitely a solid triple. Poor
Sam.
With white boards out, maps tacked over every open space and Donna's
fingers flying over the computer keys as she pulled any environmental
impact study available on the Internet, we teleconferenced with Under-
Secretary Clark Swensen. Packaged, the bone-dry conversation might
serve as a potent antidote for insomnia, but we endured Swensen's
diatribes on sewage overflows and watershed botany with a minimum of
yawns.
Mostly, the teleconference served to stockpile munitions against
anything Congressman Sarton might ambush me with. I'm not above
wielding verbal violence to secure the political advantage for my
President. In this case, I'm hoping Sarton's ultra-pacifist; give-
peace-a-chance hippy feelgood persona kicks in. While he's busy
sharing his feelings, I'll K.O. him before the first commercial
break. It'll show him to take sides against the leader of his party.
Both Donna and I sighed, fatigued, when we were finally able to click
off the speakerphone. The oppressive heat remained our constant
companion. She had long ago stripped off her shoes and pulled her
hair up in one of those claw clips.
"We do agree in principle with Sarton, don't we?" she said,
punctuating her question with a yawn.
"Sarton's principles mean unemployment to the 200,000 plus Americans
whose jobs will move to Jakarta if business is required to implement
the standards Sarton's demanding. In theory, yes we agree.
Practically, we're five years out from having the technology that
makes Sarton's principles affordable."
"I love it when you talk technical, Josh." Impudently, she threw her
bare feet up on my lap.
"And I'm supposed to do what with these?" I noted her toenails were
painted a muted pink.
"A civilized man would have an ottoman because he would know my feet
are always killing me by 8:30 and he would have planned to have an
ottoman waiting for me. You do not plan so you can be my ottoman."
"You're punishing me for that comment I made about lazy-assed Jane
Austen men, aren't you?"
"Never mock Mr. Darcy, Josh. He is a man with a plan."
"And did you do the civilized thing and plan for dinner?"
"The guard called a few minutes ago. It's waiting at the gate.
Ainsley went to pick it up for us. When she heard Wong's Gong had
Fresca, she offered to treat."
"So the secret is finding every restaurant within ten blocks that
delivers and serves Fresca."
"That's what I was thinking. I'd probably save $50 a month in take-
out."
On cue, the diminutive blonde appeared in the doorway. "Who had the
Moo Goo Gai Pan and the Broccoli Beef?"
I raised my hand.
"Which means you have the Mu Shu Chicken and the Sweet and Sour
shrimp?"
"Guilty as charged," Donna acknowledged. "And there should be some
fried rice in there too."
Ainsley excused herself from eating with us claiming that she had
three more briefings to complete before tomorrow. Personally, even
knowing her voracious appetite, there is no physical way she could've
eaten all that food without help. Maybe she'd planned to lift the
spirits of the still moony-eyed Sam.
Donna and I dove in with gusto. Or rather Donna dove in with gusto
using the only fork the restaurant sent over and I attempted to dive
in as well as I could with chopsticks. A small sampling of Chinese
vegetables and meats were accumulating on the floor around my chair.
When I dripped soy sauce on Donna's ankle, she drew the line.
"Watching you eat is excruciating," she said, dropping her feet to
the floor and scooting her chair closer to mine. She plunged her fork
into my Broccoli Beef, speared a piece of meat and pushed it toward
my lips. "Eat this, Mr. Anorexia."
"Donna, I do an adequate job with chopsticks. I am multi-cultural. I
have well-developed fine-motor coordination."
"You're making work for the custodians. Eat." She pushed the morsel
against my lips.
I rolled my eyes, but obediently opened up. Immediately, she forked
another one and repeated the procedure. I felt ridiculous, but
elected not to argue with her. The third time, however, I grabbed her
forearm and halted her. "I've used a fork since I was two, mom."
We both paused for a moment, my hand on her arm, her fork frozen in
mid air. There was nothing maternal, or condescending in her warm,
expressive eyes. I wondered what she saw in mine.
"Why don't you take my fork, then. I'm full and I'll take my
leftovers home with me," she whispered, still not breaking eye
contact.
"You've got some schmutz on your cheek." Without looking away, I
reached over and took a napkin out of the bag. Leaning close her, I
dabbed at the offending spot with the napkin hand and held her chin
in my other.
The feel of women's skin amazes me. Like somehow Estee Lauder or
Bobbi Brown or whoever those loveliness gurus are have figured out
how to transfer the texture of satin to the curve of a chin. "The
Post will say I run an uncivilized office if you're caught with
schmutz on your face…" She smiled slightly and I couldn't help
reciprocating. Reluctantly, I dropped my hands to my lap. "You are
officially schumtz-less."
She checked her watch. "I've got to catch the Metro, Josh. My
mechanic is running some diagnostics that might take a few days."
"Let me take you home. Public transportation can be dangerous late at
night."
"Aside from hell-raising GW med students, Farragut West to Kings
Street is generally pretty safe. My place is only a few blocks past
that."
"Still…." I retrieved my car keys from my desk drawer. "We could rent
a movie if you're not too tired. I mean it's too damn hot to sleep,
even with air conditioning."
"All right," she said. "As long as it isn't "Lawrence of Arabia."
"Or the A&E Pride and Prejudice. That thing is seven hours long."
"I thought you said it was too damn hot to sleep."
And so it continued, out to the parking lot, into the video store and
back to my place where we finally decided to go after Donna laid
the `you-don't-pay-me-enough-to-buy-a-DVD-player' guilt trip on me.
At least I sprung for popcorn.