“Excuse me,” Cass said. “Are we finished consoling me and now on to Senator Jepperson’s thoughts of the day?”
“I was just musing,” Randy said. “I agree with you. He’s a complete penis-head, your father. It’s a wonder you don’t have an eating disorder. How are we coming on the Wrinklies campaign?”
Cass sighed. “Can we talk about my prick father for just two more minutes? Then I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life on you. I’ll never mention myself again.”
“All right, on that condition.”
“You know, I can never tell if you’re being serious,” Cass said.
“Neither can I,” Randy said.
“Look at it,” Cass said. “There’s something weird about the timing. Why attack me publicly now? It’s almost as if it’s orchestrated. But who would orchestrate it?” She considered. “The White House?”
“Darling, don’t get me wrong, but the White House might have other things on their mind.”
“Like Massachusetts senators?”
“Well…”
“As a matter of fact, you may have a point. The White House has staked out an anti-Transitioning position. So, darling”-Cass grinned theatrically at Randy-“it might be about you after all. Happy now?”
A look of quiet alarm came over Randy’s face. “Go on.”
“Frank’s a big Owl, big fund-raiser for the party. Probably wants to be an ambassador or something in the second term. At least, his wife probably wants it. He comes out swinging against me. I’m-sorry to dwell on me for a moment-somewhat identified as the person who came up with your big idea. So the White House tells him, Go after her. That’ll hurt Jepperson. It’s plausible. It’s one explanation. Unless Daddy Dearest just woke up one morning, drank his fresh-squeezed orange juice, and said, ‘I think I’ll call my daughter morally repellent today.’ I wonder…”
“What?” Randy said, now all attention and fearful that he was going to find himself within the blast radius of the Cohane family saga. No one wants to be collateral damage in someone else’s personal tragedy, especially if you’re running for president.
“…what else they’re planning,” Cass said.
Randy picked up the phone and said, “Send Mike Speck in, would you?”
A few minutes later, Mike Speck entered. Speck was a former Secret Service agent who handled what Randy called his “special legislative assignments.” Randy had brought him aboard his Death Star staff at the beginning of his second, scorched-earth Senate campaign. As Randy described what he called “the problem” to the stony-faced, laconic Speck, Cass almost felt a twinge of concern for her father, knowing that this scary-looking man was headed his way. This was surely the senatorial equivalent of sending Luca Brasi to make someone an offer they couldn’t refuse.
After Speck left, not having uttered more than three words, Cass said, “He’s not going to break my father’s legs or anything, is he?”
“Maybe a pinky or two.” Randy had already moved on to the next thing. Cass found him very focused these days. “Okay. Now-how’s the Wrinklies campaign coming?”
“Terry wasn’t hot for it. He hated it, actually.”
Randy rolled his eyes. “Well, Terry isn’t paying for it, is he? How soon can you get it up and running? We got momentum going here, kiddo. Have you seen the latest numbers? Who was it said it’s the customary fate of new truths to begin as heresies and end as superstitions?”
“Huxley. Thomas, not the one who wrote Brave New World.”
She had seen the numbers, and they were trending-“creeping” might be the better term-their way.
There had been more violence. The latest incidents had been triggered when the Florida State Legislature passed a law exempting mausoleums from state sales tax. As Boomers faced the inevitability of death, despite their healthy diets and exercise and yoga and not smoking and drinking pomegranate juice every morning, they had started to build themselves mausoleums. As with the mansions they had erected in life, so in death they planned to-sprawl.
American passions have a certain viral quality. Competitiveness had entered in. Vast mausoleums were going up all over the state, with features that not even old King Mausolus could have envisioned: “grieving rooms” for the visiting relatives, with music playing twenty-four hours a day (in the event the bereaved felt like stopping by at three a.m. for a quiet sob after hitting the International House of Pancakes); theaters with padded seats where the bereaved could watch home movies of the dearly departed. An entire new industry had sprung up around just that: companies that made epic documentaries about you, complete with interviews, testimonials, animations, sound tracks. One aging Boomer-owner of a string of foreign car dealerships-had commissioned an IMAX film of his (not all that interesting) life, to be shown in perpetuity on the walls of his 360-degree mausoleum. Other Boomers were channeling their intimations of mortality into art: commissioning paintings that celebrated their lives, to hang for all eternity in climate-controlled air beside their remains. Carl Hiaasen of the Miami Herald expressed the opinion that it might just be simpler to wall them up in their mansions, “preferably alive.” Vast sums of money were being spent on this literal decadence. In due course, the Florida Mortuary Builders Association petitioned the legislature for “special variance”-in other words, tax exemption. The measure passed in midnight session, when no one was looking.
To offset the revenue loss, lawmakers quietly voted during the same session to increase the sales tax on soda, beer, skateboards, video games, and the hypercaffeinated beverages so favored by the youth of the Gator State. (The legislature was banking that they were too brain-dead to notice that their taxes were being raised.) When this news was revealed in the harsh light of day-and the Florida sun can be pretty harsh-it was not greeted with enthusiasm by younger Floridians, who vented their rage by assaulting and defacing the more extravagant mausoleums. Governor George P. Bush once again had to call out the National Guard. The pictures on television of bayonet-wielding soldiers guarding enormous Boomer tombs at the public expense made Transitioning an increasingly attractive proposition. So, yes, Cass had seen the numbers, and Randy was right: There was momentum out there.
“Randy,” she said.
“Um?” He was scribbling notes for his speech that night to ABBA-the Association of Baby Boomer Advocates.
“We’re not actually expecting Transitioning to…”
“Hmm…”
“Pass?”
Randy took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If you’d asked me that a month ago, I’d have said it was likelier that icicles would form in hell. But you know, we’re getting more and more votes. Just as long as we keep giving away the store, mind you.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “But at the end of the day?” He sniffed philosophically. “Nah. Not a chance. On the other hand, this is America. Our national motto ought to be: ‘Since 1620, anything possible, indeed likely.’” He began to hum the words to the Billie Holiday song: “The difficult we’ll do right now, the impossible will take a little whi-ile…” He said, “That was the Seabees motto in World War Two. Well, point is, we’re making a fine nuisance of ourselves. A very fine nuisance,” he murmured, looking over his text. “I’m told the White House is passing peach pits over this. They’re going to have to deal with Randolph K. Jepperson sooner or later.” He handed her the legal pad. “Want to run this through your washer-dryer? It’s my speech to ABBA. ABBA. Can you imagine naming yourself that? Mamma mia.”