Faster on My Own: Chapter 21
< Previous Chapter | First Chapter | Next Chapter >
Almost two years later, Steven sat behind a desk that extended in every beautiful, dark brown, shining direction. Except backward. Or too much to the sides, or more than three feet forward. At the end of its finite, but still quite long, expanse, sat Chester McDermott. Ten minute earlier, when he swaggered into Steven’s office, he probably thought he was going to be able to promise a small donation and be on his way. Steven’s first term hadn’t been a star-making turn, as he was trapped out of the committees where he could wield real power and get any sort of play on the major news channels. So, if he couldn’t get the public buzzing about him, he’d have to make sure the money men knew who he was. But so far, McDermott had avoided discussing anything but basketball.
“... and I prefer the college game, of course. The professionals, great players all of them, no way around it, are too focused on their own individual stats. It’s that fantasy basketball. Not that the college players don’t sometimes get it into their heads that they’re God’s gift to basketball. But the coaches can put a lid on it. Do you remember the 2006 NCAA tournament?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Steven twirled a pen between his fingers as McDermott detailed a past player’s sins. Convinced that this was some sort of power move, maybe a head game, perhaps a litmus test, Steven maintained an interested face as words bounced off of him without a speck of residue. Only when McDermott leaned forward and placed his elbows on Steven’s desk did he think the oil man was building to some kind of point.
“Now, I want you and me to be like Coach Krzyzewski and Tyler Hansborough. There’s a lot I can show you if you’re ready to be a part of a winning team. And who knows, you might be a star in the system. Do you understand?”
“I think I do. You want me to do what you say and achieve your goal, then fade into obscurity after four years. Is that it?”
“Don’t stretch the metaphor too far, son. With any luck, our arrangement could keep going for years and years.” He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, much too comfortable for Steven’s taste.
“You’re not being honest with me. If I sign on with you and shill for oil, I’m running a substantial risk.”
“How so?”
“When climate change hits, if I’m still around in 20 years, I and everyone else who takes this cash will be in the crosshairs.”
McDermott scoffed. “You don’t believe that mess, do you? It’s not real. It’s some kind of economic terrorism, or propaganda from those ‘clean’ energy companies.”
Men like Chester McDermott were difficult to deal with. At any given point in a conversation Steven had to try to untangle the threads of what they believed was true and what they were willing to say for the sake of the industry they represented. In time, some weak-willed lobbyists became mannequins whose beliefs were what was best for the industry–by luck everything that is true in the world is to the benefit of natural gas drilling. Or tobacco, or lumber, or anything else. McDermott didn’t strike him as a hollowed-out puppet, so he presented a puzzle to Steven, who decided it was best to toss it to the ground and see how the pieces scattered.
“Don’t try that shit with me.” Steven said. “Your companies know it’s happening. What, Exxon has the science on it going back to the 70s? Next time you come in here trying to sell me on a relationship, don’t treat me like an idiot.”
“Well, hold on now. I think you’re being a little rash.” As McDermott stammered and shifted in his seat, Steven got up and closed the blinds to the windows. He had no reason to do so, but knew McDermott might respond to an increasingly dramatic moment.
“Maybe. But I don’t take these things lightly. As for your offer. I’ll take five hundred thousand, and I’ll be good to you. So you can walk out of here without a care in the world.”
“Five hundred thousand? Listen, you’re a damn rookie, I might as well give you a dollar for all the good you can do me now.” “Now, maybe not. What that money gets you isn’t anything I do here. We both know I’m just trying to make sure none of my votes come back to bite me in the ass.” Steven sat on the edge of his desk. “And I’m gonna need my ass. Your support now gets you an opportunity.”
“And what exactly is that? Because it looks to me like I’m throwing money at a cocky child, who’ll get run out of Congress without having done a damn thing.”
McDermott was flustered enough to constantly adjust his clothing and fiddle with his shirt buttons. Good. Steven said, “No, it gets you a chance to be among the first to donate to my presidential campaign. That’s a great position to be in. I’d owe you a lot of consideration once I reached office.”
“Son, I’ve met a lot of young Congressmen in my day. All of them thought they were about to ride to the top of the mountain on the back of some smooth-talking and a little bit of policy. None of them ever did. You won’t. I’m done here.” McDermott retrieved his cowboy hat from the coat rack and headed to the door.
Steven could have let him leave, his reputation safe from rumors that he rolled over and showed his belly to the lobbyist. But McDermott was wrong. Steven wasn’t like the rest of them. They had a few ideas about how they could achieve more power, maybe an intention here and there. They envisioned themselves at the top of a perfect machine, imprinting its power on the rest of the world. But Steven knew the truth. It was crumbling, the joints creaked and rusted and it might topple over when pushed. The people, deep in their hearts, knew the truth too. Not consciously, but they weren’t voting for responsible stewards of the system anymore. They wanted destruction. Steven, more than anyone else, could give it to them. And he needed McDermott to know it.
“Hold on. I think once you hear how I’m going to get national attention, you’ll like what I’m going to do with it.” He turned around, and that spark of interest was all Steven needed.
As soon as he revealed his intentions to McDermott, Steven heard a ticking clock in the back of his head. He column’t trust McDermott to keep quiet, but with any luck, everyone who heard it would lack vision and think he was stupid. And since that had been everyone’s reaction to him thus far, he felt good about his odds.
He approached the gaggle of microphones in front of him. Calling a press conference with no declared subject brought in more reporters than anything short of confessing murder. Steven smiled and looked over the crowd. Half expectant, half bored. Many of them were certainly convinced that Steven was not going to say anything of note, that this was a vanity press conference that they had to attend on the off chance he actually was announcing something, or if he killed himself on the air. Those of them would be disappointed, though in a sense he didn’t intend to say anything useful. Instead, he would offer an enormous cloud of gas and hope for a spark.
“Hello. I’m sure many of you are wondering why I’ve called this press conference. It is because the president has warped the purpose of this government, and my party has done too little to stop it. I know it’s bad politics to speak out against your own party. You better believe I’m going to hear about this. But they refuse to listen to the truth. The president is eating children. And adults, he’s eating both. But he didn’t stop at adults and he’s eating children. Right in the oval office, slow-cooking them so the meat comes fresh off the bone. All those Facebook groups about it that you dismissed? They were right on the money.”
The reporters all murmured, discussing amongst themselves if they heard correctly, if Steven was serious, if they were being pranked. One reporter stood. “Do you have any evidence to back up these claims?”
Steven scrutinized the journalist. Goatee where the bottom and the top don’t connect. Brown blazer. Adversarial stance, leaning forward with the head jutted out. MSNBC. Possibly carrying water for the administration, but Steven couldn’t dodge the question no matter who it came from. “No, I cannot provide any of the evidence for any of this.” The whispering among the newspaper monkeys told Steven that his wording was correct.
“So, you’re suggesting that the evidence exists, but is classified?” A little on the nose. Steven had wanted to stoke widespread speculation without bearing the burden of responsibility. But it was a possibility he accounted for. Best-case scenarios rarely occur, even when you’re dealing with a class of people who only exist to trick Americans into believing they’re smart.
“I’m suggesting that this is happening, and I am unable to present the evidence to you. I’m gambling pretty hard telling you this much. They’ve killed for less.” The goateed reporter sat down and a woman stood. Black top, pencil skirt, long brown hair and a facial expression that was less suggestive of a question and more of giving an order to have Steven killed. Whoever she was, she might have missed an opportunity in a more cuthroat industry. Steven wondered if he should tell her that. He knew it was inappropriate, but it might be something his conservative character would do. But the moment passed and Steven merged fully with his character again as the woman asked, “Aren’t you just making a wild accusation to attack the president?”
“Good question.” The schism emerged again. “Sweetie,” Steven said. Even after all this time he felt like slime was dripping off of him. “I can see how it would look that way. But I don’t have anything to gain from this, do I? Without evidence, half of you in this room are going to call me a right-wing crackpot, right? I see the headlines coming together behind your eyes right now. But I needed to share what I know, to protect the American people, and I couldn’t wait. If that makes me a crank, it is what it is. I just hope someone has the stones to ask the president exactly what’s going on. Then we can start working on the truth. No further questions, thank you.”
He left the room. Despite the temptation to hang back and hear the clamor of panicked journalists trying to figure out what to make of his press conference, he couldn’t afford to be caught skulking around. Not after dropping that bombshell. He had to appear to rush off, and so he did.
Later, he paced around his office while he had two staffers combing social media and one watching the news for reactions. A few trickled in calling him a conspiracy theorist. That had always been a risk, but if all that resulted from his press conference was a loss of credibility, it would be a failure.. He would have to settle down, work his way onto a better committee somehow, and build up a reputation. In ten or so years, he’d be president. Unless he wasn’t. Or lost his seat in Congress before then and didn’t even get a chance. He chewed at his right thumbnail as his staffers reported no new reactions. Not even a blip. Steven went to sleep that night believing himself set back as far as he could be. Not even a figure of ridicule, he was irrelevance itself. Nothing short of self-immolation in the shadow of the Capitol Building could draw the media’s attention.
After a night of sleep so fitful he awoke to find his sheets tied in a knot, he splashed water over his face as he said to himself, “Day one, new plan. If I deny climate change hard enough they’ll have to put me on a science committee.” After drying himself off, he checked his phone. Ten messages from his staff.
Before he could check the texts, his phone buzzed again.
“Stevie, you’re not going to believe this.” It was Rick. He’d started to use the diminutive “Stevie,” a year into Steven’s term. “You hit the big time.”
“What? The New York Times profiled me and called me a madman? I’m not so sure that’s useful anymore. I think I need to regroup, lay low for a bit.” He brushed a hand through his hair. A couple brown strands rode down on his hand, abandoning his head.
“No, no, you’re not hearing me. The president told you to fuck off.”
“What do you mean?”
“He called you nuts and said you were making it up. So that’s not warm and fuzzy. But he responded to you. Check a damn news site.” Steven would have to do something about that. Rick. He was taking advantage of Steven’s weakened position. But for now, Steven pulled up the Washington Post website and found the article.
President Reynolds: Williams is ‘reckless, endangering the security and integrity of our nation by levelling false accusations and speculation.’ Then the subheading. Suggests Williams will have to answer for his afternoon tirade. “Holy shit. Holy shit.”
“I told you, didn’t I?”
“It worked. I’m in dialogue with the president. That’s big, right?”. A great pedestal had appeared beneath him, shooting up into the heavens and above the clamor of his colleagues, all grubbing for attention just like him. Now, among the clouds, he and the president were on a level, in conversation. While the president would certainly try to smack him down immediately, it was still prominence connived from nothing. Maintaining his position now became the primary concern. On the back of an envelope, he wrote a list of other issues to needle the president on. If he timed it right, he could stretch this moment as chief antagonist out for another year. Maybe two. That would be enough to enter the Republican primary with some momentum.
Rick’s voice sounded in his ear. “Fuck me. Stevie, check the news again. Big. Bigger than that.”
Incredulous, Steven did so. Crushing all other headlines under its weight was “LEAKED: Photograph shows missing child through White House window.”
“Woah.”
“You’re goddamn right, ‘woah.’”