David Addington was in the bar off the main lobby of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, DC. He was sneaking a shot of Pinch Whiskey. As the thick dark golden liquid hit his stomach, the warmth made Addington relax. Ever since Dick appointed him the Chief of Staff, the mood around the Vice President�s office was downbeat, to say the least. There was little talk of worldly missions and grand plans. There was, instead, a bunker mentality eating away at the spirit. And so that was Addington�s first task, to raise the spirits and do something rather than close the hatches.
Addington heard a loud thunder clap of hands peppered with cheers. He glanced at his watch Sure enough, the Vice President�s speech ended on schedule, to the minute. It appears the speech Addington wrote for his boss received a good reception.
�Another,� Addinton addressed the bartender. The bartender poured from the unique round Pinch Whiskey bottle that was �pinched� in its center.
�A double, please.�
�Flying or drowning?� asked the bartender.
�Why? What? Do I look like I�m drowning?� asked Addington.
�From where I work, it�s hard to tell whether someone is about to take off or put a bullet in his head.� The bartender was not joking.
�You know it�s possible to be drowning one day, and then suddenly an eagle comes down and swoops you into the sky. You know that�s possible, right?� Addington said.
�That�s what whiskey does. It swoops you up and then drops you like dead meat.� The bartender placed the bottle of Pinch whiskey on the glass shelf that was lit with a green light and backed by a mirror. Addington could see himself in the mirror, and was now hyper-aware that he was feeling a bit too chatty with the bartender. He tossed two twenties on the bartop.
�Thanks,� said the bartender.
Addington walked outside. A female Secret Service officer opened the back door of a black Chevy Suburban. Addington was surprised to see the Vice President already seated. The door closed. The car took off.
�This morning I felt like shit. But you were right. One good speech, a standing ovation, and I am now feeling back to normal.� The Vice President was beaming.
�They gave you a standing ovation?�
�They didn�t actually stand. You�ve been drinking?�
�Me. No. Well, yes, I stopped in the bar.� Addington admitted the slip.
�I�m not sure I want to go home right now. Lynne brings me back to earth, and I am finding that depressing. Driver, take us to 17th and Pennsylvania. The Executive Office Building, front entrance.�
�More work to do?� asks Addington.
�I have a stash in the credenza. I need a lift.�
Addington had already had too much to drink. So this was the last thing he wanted.
�Same here,� said Addington as it the first drops of rain started to hit the tinted glass of the Chevy�s door window.
Dick sat on a large upholstered chair wearing pajamas and a white t-shirt. He was leaning over, his forehead held by both hands. Lynne was watching him. She noticed that the time was nearly 9:00 AM, much too late for Dick to still be in the house. She also noticed something else. Dick was gaining weight and he looked very pale, but with pink blotches here and there on his white arms and his puffy cheeks. Dick usually held up well under pressure, but this time things were different. This time, there was a strange confluence of loud noise everywhere, and yet no one was talking to Dick. No one except Lynne, that is.
�You OK?�
�Yeah,� mumbled Dick, his forehead remaining in his hands, his back hunched over.
�Three more years, Dick. We can make it, can�t we?� Lynne asked, and it was not a rhetorical question. Dick raised his head and stared out in front of him, staring at nothing in particular, but to Lynne it appeared Dick was looking down a long road.
�Yes. Of course. Just a bad spot right now.� Said without any apparent emotion.
�Maybe you should see Dr. Malakoff.�
�Malakoff can�t do anything for me right now. It�s not a health thing.�
�Richard, you might be thinking this is some larger issue, but it is impacting on your health. It is not worth it.�
�It is not worth it? It is not worth it?� Dick was now looking directly at his wife. �The wheels are coming off. We miscalculated. And now I can�t stop it. There is nothing I can do.�
Lynne walks up to Dick and places her hand on his back. �Things will work out, Dick.�
�You know your history. Things do not always work out.�
Lynne kneels down and hugs her husband.
�You should get dressed. It is not good to stay in the house. Go out and start the day.�
Dick rises and stretches his back.
�Yeah. Go out and start the day. Yeah. That�s what I will do.� Dick walks into the bathroom, leaving Lynne kneeling by the upholstered chair.
The small antique Seth Thomas clock read 6:02. It looked quaint next to the sheen of the fifteen-inch Mac Powerbook laptop that sat in front of Laura Bush. Laura was checking her email. George was doing a single Windsor knot with his red and black striped tie. George finished his early morning bike ride a tad late, but he was not about to rush. He had been rushing from appearance to appearance in a whirlwind the last few days, and he was going to take this moment to slow down. So he stood at the gold-leaf oval mirror in the White House bedroom they had claimed as their own.
George never felt at home in this bedroom. It always felt like he was in a hotel, with room service. He couldn�t go down to the kitchen in his underwear and make scrambled eggs and toast. He had to dress to leave his bedroom, and there were always people in the house, strangers, government employees and civil servants.
�George, when was the last time you said you were sorry to me?� asked Laura as she was pecking the keyboard.
�I don�t know sweets. Yeah, wait, I know. Last week when I used the �f� word. I said I was sorry. Remember?� George finished his Windsor knot and turned to look at Laura.
�Yes. I remember. Can you think of another time?�
George located his blue blazer and lifted it off the back of an upholstered chair.
�Laura, you must be thinking of something in particular. What is it sweets?� said George as he put his arms in the blazer.
�This morning. You awoke late, and your first words to me were �I�m sorry��and you hopped out of bed and went for your bike ride. You apologized to me for waking up late.�
�Did I? Well, I guess I did. Sorry about that?� said George.
�See, there you go again. Are you apologizing for saying your sorry, or are you apologizing again for waking up late?� Laura was now looking at George over the top of her half-eye reading glasses.
�Geee, I guess I�m apologizing again for waking up late. I hardly think I would apologize for saying I was sorry. That would be dumb.� George was smiling at his wife, who he believed was the wisest person in his life, a power she rarely abused.
�You know, when you say you�re sorry, I hear �I love you,�� said Laura.
George walked up to her and kissed her on the lips. A long one.
�I do love you.�
George then walked to the bedroom door and left, closing it from behind. Laura went back to her Mac Powerbook and surfed to Google. She typed in another �f� word: �failure.� She then clicked �I�m Feeling Lucky,� the link that directs the Google user to just one page. Google sent Laura to her husband�s biography on the official White House website. She stared at the screen for a moment, and then leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, thinking of her father-in-law, who had called her yesterday with this internet tip.
The President sat opposite his Vice President in the West Wing dining room. A young man in white pants and a white shirt placed a plate of freedom fries and a veggie burger in a whole wheat bun in front of the President, and a bowl of yoghurt and granola in front of the Vice President.
�Thank you�Bill,� says the President, as he reads the young man�s name off a brass name plate pinned to his white shirt.
�You�re welcome, Mr. President.� The young man backs up and stands near a side table waiting for any further requests.
Cheney reaches across the table and picks up three fries with his pudgy white thumb, index finger and middle finger. He slaps them all down on his tongue and draws them in, chewing with nervous pleasure.
With a mouthful, Cheney says �I knew it would work.�
Bush takes a sip from a straw of Sierra Mist on the rocks from a clear crystal tumbler emblazoned on the side in white with the Seal of the President. Bush nods.
�But we still have to get out before the end of 2007,� says Cheney.
�We�re going to lose Congress in 2006, Dick.�
�Stay on the offensive. Keep talking the talk. Beat them over the heads. The Democrats always find a way to lose.� Cheney reaches across again for more fries, but this time he hauls five into his mouth.
�Lieberman came out for us the other day.� The President has not touched his food.
�Lieberman is irrelevant. Politically, that is. It�s McCain that worries me. He�s fucking with us.�
�Stop, Dick. McCain is a good man. A hero. Hey Bill, can I have more of this?� The President holds up his empty tumbler, shaking it to indicate what he was referring to.
�Certainly, Mr. President.� Bill departs.
�The Iraqis gave us a gift. They are asking us to leave on a schedule. Let�s take it,� Cheney says.
�And if the whole place falls apart because they are too stupid to know what�s good for them, then what do I tell the fathers and mothers of the young men and women who died in Iraq?� The President�s attention is diverted to the arrival of Bill with a tumbler filled with Sierra Mist on the rocks.
�Jeez, Bill, thanks.�
�You�re welcome, Mr. President.� Bill returns to his spot near the side table.
�You tell them that America did all it can do, and that what we did was the right thing. We handed the Iraqis an opportunity for freedom, but if they fail to take advantage of it, it does not diminish America�s good works. That�s what you tell them.�
�America�s good works. I like the way that sounds.�
�Fuck how it sounds.� Cheney polishes off the last of Bush�s fries, without touching his yogurt and granola. Bush sips to a gurgle his Sierra Mist.
Karl Rove sat at the smaller-than-you-would-think oak desk in his office at the White House. Opposite him was Susan Ralston, his aide. Rove had the telephone receiver at his ear, but he was on hold, giving him a rare free moment to be with Susan without having to speak with her or do business.
Susan Ralston sat on a large-armed leather chair nursing a jumbo skim-milk cappuccino from Starbucks. Susan was wearing black slacks, white blouse and a grey blazer. Her legs were crossed, her foot tapping a black high heel. Susan�s hair was stick straight to her shoulders and jet black, which accentuated the big gold hoop earrings. A garnet �flower� broach was pinned to her left lapel.
Rove was thinking this: Susan became Rove�s aide after she jumped ship from Jack Abramoff�s office. Jack was going down, then she jumped �up� to Rove�s office. Then Rove almost sank in the Libby mess, and may still yet. But Susan was safe for now. But he had noticed something the other day when the two of them were with the President. Susan and the President spoke with each other. Not because Susan broke into the conversation, but because the President addressed her. Indeed, every male in a room is drawn to address Susan. She is not only smart, but has that behind the eyes sexuality that she keeps in reserve, like hidden bait. Never flirtatious, but men seem to fall into the aura of Ralston, as did the President the other day.
Karl was getting aggravated with waiting on the phone, so he slammed the receiver in its cradle.
�He is down the hall. You want me to go see what�s up?� asked Susan as she took a slurp from her jumbo Starbucks cup.
�You can�t just go down the hall, Susan. Now that you are in the White House, you have to realize that you can�t just roam around like a cat.� Karl regretted instantly the use of the word �cat.� But Susan smiled.
�You mean now that you are sort of like on probation,� Susan asked.
�I am not on probation,� Karl said. �And by the way, I saw from your call records that you were speaking with Condi the other day. For what purpose was that phone conversation?�
�You peruse my call records?�
�Of course,� said Rove with false bravado as if this is standard operating procedure at the White House.
�No. No. I�m flattered,� said Susan. �Ms. Rice called me. I returned her call. She is interested in filling a position in her office.�
�What position?� Karl was genuinely surprised.
�She said she needed an aide.�
�You are in the White House, Susan. Moving to State would be a step down.�
�I hardly think so,� said Susan.
Karl noticed that when Susan said �hardly� it was loaded with sex. For him it was, at least. He was projecting, he thought. But it still knocked him off his train of thought. Susan stood.
�I am out of coffee. I�ll make certain that you keep that appointment in the Oval Office by lunch,� Susan said as she opened the door and departed, leaving Karl with the distinct impression that Susan Ralston was going to be in Washington for a very long time.
Rove had every intention to keep the Oval Office appointment. But Ralston made it sound like without her, the President would not see him. Damn, Rove thought, he was getting paranoid. Second term blues.
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