He was about to summon the staff and tell them about the call, but then, fearful that they might leak it and blow it for him, he decided to keep it to himself for now. He yearned to tell Cass but worried that she’d tell Terry, and he didn’t trust Terry not to blab it all over town. Those PR types were always trying to impress.
He scarcely slept a wink that night.
And so the next day, he found himself walking across the threshold of the Oval Office, omphalos of history, anvil of ambition, and, unbeknownst to him, a large, irregularly shaped trapdoor.
The president gave him his thousand-watt smile and rushed to intercept him as he walked in. Randy’s limp became exaggerated as he walked to greet the commander in chief.
How kind of Randy to come on such short notice. Long been an admirer. Hell of a thing he’d done back there in Bosnia. Amazing the way he’d focused the national attention on Social Security reform. Coffee? Will you sit for a moment? Wish we’d done this sooner. Bucky, why’d you take so damn long to invite Randy down here? You falling asleep on the job? Bucky smiled. All my fault, boss. All my fault.
“May I call you Randy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Randy, I’ve got a job for you.”
Randy thought, That was fast.
“This Transitioning thing.”
“Oh? Yes?” Randy said cautiously.
“You know-and I know-and everyone knows, it isn’t going to fly.”
“Well”-Randy smiled-“I wouldn’t be too absolutely certain of that, Mr. President. We’re getting more votes every-”
“I would.” The president had a strong physical presence. His staff called it “the death stare.” It was an accurate name.
“Thirty-five senators have-”
“Doesn’t mean shit. They’re supporting because they know it’ll never pass. Even if it did, you’ve already gutted it of any positive fiscal impact by handing out all that Boomer pork.” He chuckled. “Subsidies for Segways? That’s some major oinking.”
Randy shifted in his chair and was about to assert himself when the president put a hand on his shoulder and said, “But I will tell you-I like your style. I’ve been in this business a long time. There’s amateurs, there’s pros, and then there’s thoroughbreds. The ones born to run. That’s you. You were put on this green earth to be a politician.” The president leaned back as if weary from having unburdened himself of such a momentous observation. He looked over at Bucky in a gruff, almost accusatory way and demanded, “Did you tell Randy what I had in mind?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Bucky. I can always tell.”
“I didn’t, sir.”
The president looked back at Randy, who at this point was a thoroughly confused thoroughbred. A growly smile spread across the president’s face. He said, “I bet he’s lying to me. He always does. But it doesn’t matter. What does matter is you’ve got to keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself and only yourself. That includes pillow talk.” The president extended his hand. “Can I count on you?” Randy shook his hand and nodded wordlessly.
“All right. Now, I may be looking for a new running mate. I haven’t decided yet. But I may.”
“I see.”
“Bucky here thinks you’d be a real asset. I’m inclined to agree with him.”
Randy stared, mute.
“However,” the president continued, “there’s a problem. This Transitioning business.”
Randy stiffened. “I can’t just drop it. Nor will I.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to. Wouldn’t ask you to. Wouldn’t ever ask a man, especially a man who left a leg behind in a war zone, to throw away his principles just for the sake of advancing his career.”
Randy said, “I’m not sure I’m following you, sir.”
The president leaned in closely. “Look here, son. Now, sooner or later, this silly Transitioning business is going to blow up in your face. You’ll look like you just bit down on an exploding cigar.” The president glanced at Randy’s leg. “I mean…Hear me out. You’re not going to get the votes. And then where will you be? You’ll just be the poster boy for suicide. You can call it ‘Transitioning’ or whatever the hell you want. It’s still legalized suicide, never mind all that shineola about how it’s all for the common good. Even if you did get the votes, I’d veto it faster’n you can take a morning crap. I promise you that. Now, I can’t have for a running mate someone whose name is synonymous with ‘lethal injection.’ We’ve got to put some daylight between you and this bill. Like you said, you can’t just walk away from it. You need an exit strategy. Some way where you can walk away from it and still have your integrity. And once that’s done, I believe you would make me a fine running mate. You’re young, good-looking, a regular Pied Piper with the kids. And we’re going to need them. Yes, you remind me a bit of John F. Kennedy. You with me, Randy?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Sure you are.” The president smiled. “Hell, you went to Harvard. Now, the way it would work, I would come out and make a public statement, say, ‘Look here, I don’t like the idea of people jumping off bridges in return for tax breaks. It’s un-American. But I recognize that we live in damn hard times-and we got to do something about it.’”
Bucky Trumble nodded. “That’s right.”
“I’d say, ‘I’m a reasonable man. I’m willing to listen to both sides of the argument. So I am going to’”-the president paused for dramatic effect-“‘appoint a blue-ribbon Presidential Commission on Transitioning. I’m going to call together all the best minds in the country-starting with Senator Randolph K. Jepperson of Massachusetts, who I suppose knows as much about this issue as anyone on the planet.’ Naturally, we’ll have to have other people of diverse views. But you’ll be my first pick. My”-he grinned-“eyes and ears. I’ll say, ‘I am asking these distinguished Americans to deliver me their report. And at that point I will make up my mind as to whether this proposed solution truly represents this country’s best chance at solving this most dire dilemma.’ Still with me, Randy?”
Randy nodded.
“Now, what’ll happen is you’ll be front and center, with daily TV coverage. Only now instead of looking like the poster boy for mass suicide, you’ll be the voice of reason. You’ll get to say in front of cameras-with everyone watching-as you interview witnesses, ‘Well, hm, I don’t know, maybe this isn’t the answer, after all. Maybe there is a better way.’ I see headlines. JEPPERSON EMERGES AS MODERATING VOICE ON TRANSITION COMMISSION. I see another headline. Want to hear it?”
Randy nodded.
“WHITE HOUSE SAID TO BE IMPRESSED BY JEPPERSON PERFORMANCE ON COMMISSION.”
“WHITE HOUSE DAZZLED,” Bucky corrected.
The president smiled. “You want to hear one more? PEACHAM ASKS JEPPERSON TO BE RUNNING MATE. Do you like that headline, Randy? Do you?”
A little voice inside Randy was shouting, Look out! but what came out of his mouth was, “I believe so. Yes.”
The president leaned back with a contented air. He looked over at Bucky. “What about you, Buck? You like that headline?”
“I like it a lot.”
The president stood, extended his hand, and said, “Okay, then, pardner. See you round the corral.”
It was only later that Randy would note the conjunction of the words okay and corral in the sentence.
Cass was cooking dinner for the two of them-a rare thing in these busy days-in Randy’s Georgetown manse. She had the TV on as she worked. She heard the anchor say, “And the White House today announced that it was appointing a special Presidential Commission on Transitioning…” She looked up from her soft-shell crabs.
The phone rang. It was Terry, saying, “Turn on the TV.”
“It’s on.”