Disclaimer: 'The West Wing' and all related materials are the sole property
of Aaron Sorkin, NBC, and various other capitalist strongholds. Fight the
power, but if you want to pay for this, pay them, you fool.
Author's Note: Despite the above disclaimer, I take sole responsibility for Annie C. Wright. Cuz it just isn't nice to blame others for our problems.
Yesterday Was Like Cake
By BJ Garrett
As I walk into the Roosevelt Room, I am very aware of the fact that everyone else is already there. I'm not late though. I'm three minutes early, thank you very much.
"Good morning, Annie," Bill from Internal Communications says with a friendly smile.
I smile back, meeting his warm brown eyes as I walk around to the head of the conference table. "Good morning, Bill." Setting my notes on the table, I add, "Good morning, everybody."
"Good morning, Annie," everybody says. There are seven other people here. Bill and Gordon from Internal Communications, Tom from Press, and Colleen, Sara, Sharon, and Dwight from External Communications.
My team. The gala team. Annie's gala team. They don't look very enthusiastic about this. That could be a problem.
I opt to stand rather than sit, because that way I'm taller than they are, and Sam always stands when he's in a team meeting. I pick up the first page of my notes. "Well, NAJA is the national professional association for activist journalism. Leo has been asked to speak at their annual gala at the Georgetown. I have three possible focus-points for the address...."
*
We've been working on duo drafts for about an hour when Gordon puts his pen down and leans back in his seat. Colleen looks up and nods when their eyes meet. Sara elbows her and gestures at the notes they're sharing between their laptops. Frowning, Bill raises his eyebrows at me as I put down my own papers.
"What's up?" I ask the table.
Gordon clears his throat. "What's the point in doing this at all?" he asks, patting his paper.
Oh, no, guys, don't do this.
Deliberately misintertpreting him, I laugh. "I don't know, Gord. Maybe you should join the twenty-first century and get a laptop."
Bill cracks a wry smile.
Gordon shakes his head, a frustrated expression on his face. "Why are we bothering trying to make this administration when...." He trails off.
"When our polling numbers are in the crapper?" Dwight supplies.
Colleen, Sharon, and Tom nod, looking at me seriously.
"It's not like...it's not like there's anything else to do," I begin haltingly. I don't want them to do this. Not to me, at least.
"Oh, really?" Sharon asks. "I came here from a PR consultancy in Manhattan and I can go back like that--" Snapped fingers.
"My sister wants me to come do the weather for the local news," Tom admits quietly.
Dwight blinks behind his thick glasses as I turn my accusing gaze on him. "My dad says there's an opening at his firm. Farm insurance."
Colleen tosses her long blond hair behind her shoulder. "I'm a criminal defense lawyer at the Maryland bar and hey, crime is on the rise in Baltimore."
Gordon adds, "My frat brother knows a guy in LA who's looking for staff screen--"
I cut them off with a gesture, eyes closed and burning. They've been doing that a lot lately. I'm probably crying too much for my contact solution or something. "You guys, I know you're feeling like we're on a sinking ship, and you're right. But hey, we're here, we're good, and we're the rats who're going to stick around and patch the hole while the crew bails water. Yesterday, remember, yesterday was hard, right?"
I look around the table, meet their eyes, they nod, mostly. Some look away. Bill tries to smile encouragingly. We all remember the press outside the parking lot, rioting at the senior staff's houses--as if they were home--we all remember the sour faces on the news and the dire predictions and wholesale condemnations. We all remember how tired he looked on the news this morning.
"Yesterday was like cake. It will never get easier than it was yesterday. It will only get harder, because we'll always be the staff of the President who had MS. But somebody's got to be here, and when the ship rights itself and we start sailing for the golden horizon again, the rats who stuck around are going to feel pretty good about themselves."
Tom from Press raises his hand and speaks. "But the horizon is traditionally the edge of the world, Annie. Maybe that's not such a good analogy."
With a heavy sigh, I rub the bridge of my nose. "But where can you go from the edge of the world? The final frontier, my friends. It's all uphill from here." That's probably the stupidest thing I've ever said. The general look of disbelief from my team echoes my thought.
"Okay, forget I said that. Tom is right. It's not a good analogy. There is no good analogy for this situation. So. Take five and after that, I only want those of you willing to try to patch it up to come back. The rest of you can clean out your desks and phone your sisters or your frat brothers or your daddies. Go."
Slowly, they get up and leave. The dissenters head for the mess, while Sara and Bill go towards the kitchenette.
I've done something very stupid. I am perfectly aware of that. So when I flee through the subdued hallways to my office and lean against the desk, the last number I want to see on my call display is the Manchester residence.
But I pick up the phone and dial it anyway.
On the second ring, "Manchester residence, Donna speaking."
"Hi, Donna, it's Annie."
"Oh, hi! Do you want to talk to Sam?"
No, because I just told the gala team to quit. "Yes, actually. I think he called. Is he busy?"
"Probably. They just got out of a meeting. I'll get him." There is a rustling sound, and then I hear her shout, "Sam!" A voice calls back to her. "It's Annie!" Rustling again. "He's on his way."
"Great, thanks. They're doing RU-486 on Monday, hey?"
"Yeah--we're going ahead, I think. That's what the meeting was about. So, how are you--" Somebody yells her name. She sighs. "Josh wants me. Talk to you later, Annie."
"Bye, Donna." A click as she puts the phone down. Frantically, I worry at my thumb nail, trying to think of a way to make this sound good.
"Annie?"
It's impossible to make this sound good. It couldn't sound worse. "Hi. You called?"
"Yes--has NAJA phoned and cancelled Leo yet?"
I'm writing a speech for the guy, and he's getting cancelled? "No...are they supposed to?"
A pause. "Hopefully not. Have they phoned and asked if he still wants to do it, under the present circumstances?"
"No."
"Yes!" he exclaims. "Okay, that means they're good with it. Great. This is great. Thank you, Annie."
Yeah. Sure. "You're welcome, I guess." Not that I have anything to do with it. "Have you been expecting them to call?"
"Yes. This is just great news. How's the team?"
"I was afraid you'd ask that..." I begin, then stop, not sure how to articulate a situation as bad as the one I've created.
He sighs heavily. "Are they having a problem with me not being there? It's not like they've never written without me before."
"Actually, they haven't."
"Yeah. You're right. Is that it?"
I'd like to say yes, I'd like to let him think it's his fault--no I wouldn't. Damn loyalty. "No, Sam. I, well, I tried to give them a bit of a pep talk--"
"Good idea."
"Sure.yeah. Well, anyway, it didn't go so well, and I told them they should just quit," I finish quickly, wincing in anticipation of an eruption of anger.
A long silence. Very long. Oh, dear.
He says quietly, "You told them to quit?"
Defensively, I qualify, "If they didn't want to work at saving the administration, yes."
"And did they quit?"
"I gave them a break to make up their minds."
"And did they quit?"
"It's the break right now, Sam. How was your flight?"
"You told a team of the best writers in the White House to quit."
"I told them that if they didn't believe in the administration, they should go. They've had offers, Sam. Some of them don't want to be here when the sky falls. I gave them an out, I guess." Hey, there's rationalisation for ya.
"Don't try to rationalise it. You are doing them no favours by admitting things are bad."
"You would have."
Another long silence, broken by a sigh and a chuckle. "That's absolutely true. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I probably shouldn't have told them they could quit. Hopefully they'll listen as well as you do. How was the flight?"
"Short."
After a moment I realise he's not going to go into more detail, so I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Good. Is that all?"
"I guess so."
"Okay. Well, I'll talk to you later."
"Unless you've dissolved Congress while you're at it? Or fired the Joint Chiefs?"
"Are you being sarcastic?" If he's not, I'll get on a plane myself and fly up there and beat him senseless, the insensitive--
"Not that it wouldn't be a good idea to dissolve Congress at this point. Of course I'm being sarcastic."
"How's Doug? And *Con*nie?" I ask cheekily.
He mutters something unintelligible. "Go back to work."
"Ditto."
He doesn't hang up. "Well, I'll call you tonight, make sure you're not writing this yourself...." I can hear his mile-wide smile.
"If it's after eight when you've got the time, call me at home."
"Okay. Why?"
"Well, if there's no one around to impress, I'm not going to hang about until ten o'clock."
"Annie, you don't have to impress--"
Ha ha. "Go back to work, Sam."
"Yeah. Bye."
"Bye."
I hang up with a goofy grin and slam the door as I leave my office. It's satisfying to slam a door, even when there's no one on the other side to appreciate the symbolism of a door slamming in their face. This time, the symbolism is for me. I've slammed the door on the gala team. They can stay or go, it doesn't matter to me.
I don't have to impress him.
Sara and Bill look up as I enter the Roosevelt Room. I turn my grin on them and their expressions change from anxiety to confusion. I sit in the captain's chair at the head of the table and fold my hands across my stomach, waiting.
Bill cracks his knuckles. "They'll be back," he assures me with a cocky grin. A very...cocky...grin.
Nonchalant, I shrug and check my watch. "They've got forty seconds. Whatever."
So we sit around the table, Bill watching me, Sara fiddling with her pen and taking bird-like sips of water, and me acting abruptly stoned.
Forty seconds later the south-east door opens and our heads snap around to look. Dwight comes in with a sheepish expression on his round face. "We kind of lost track of time--there was a report about the thing on the set in the mess. Sorry."
Waving their lateness, and their rebellion, away, I stand. "That's okay, guys. Take your seats, and we'll keep going. Let's start with a sensational opening line--"
"Always a good spot," Bill interjects suavely.
Everybody laughs companionably. Sam would frown and ask everyone to focus if he were here.
"Definitely," I agree, and I can feel the signals zinging from Bill over to me. And.heck, why not? And back. "How about a funny one? Dwight and Colleen, what have you got?"
*
"Annie, it's your birthday in three weeks," Patrice says suggestively, leaning on my open door.
Without looking up from the four drafts I'm trying to mutilate into one, I reply, "Your point being?"
Groaning, she bangs her head against the door. "Let's go out."
"Out where?" Bill really can bring the funny, I notice, smiling a little over a line about tear gas and PETA protesters.
"I don't know. Dinner, a club maybe. We could just hang out, like we used to...."
...Before I got an office. Oh, Patrice. I look up, smiling appreciatively. "Yes. Definitely. I would love that."
She grins, cocking her head, blonde braid slipping over her shoulder. "Great."
"Why don't you make the arrangements, cuz--"
"I'll just make the arrangements, because--"
Laughing, we shake our heads at each other. "You know what I'm saying," I assure her.
Patrice nods wisely. "It's five to eight, Annie, you should split while nobody's watching," she says, gesturing toward the wall my office shares with Sam's.
"He never is," I reply blithely, shuffling the drafts into a folder.
*
The door's a little hard to close tonight. Probably the humidity's warping it or something. Walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water, I hit the blinking button on my answering machine.
"Hi, Annie, it's your travel-weary mother, I was wondering if you're going to be around on Monday--I'm coming back from Istanbul through Dulles and I thought we could do lunch at the Dupont. Just a thought, honey. I know you've been working horribly hard lately. You need to relax. Let me take you out for lunch. I'll try you at the office in the morning. G'night, sweetie."
Oh, I love you, Mom.
"Hi, Annie. It's Sam. It's after eight, but you're not home. Just calling to see how the meeting went, and if I'm short seven writers--Toby will kill you, you know, if we are--and if you were mugged or murdered on the way home. Or both. I hope not. Anyway, I'm at the residence...probably will be until we leave to come back. Oh, and did Greg call yet? Yeah...well, call me when you get in. Wait--the President's not worried about Marles. It's Sam, call me, I'm at the residence. Bye."
It's eight-thirty-seven. He obviously didn't factor in travel time. I don't want to call him back. I want to drink my glass of water and watch Larry King and go to bed--
Oh, damn. I didn't even think of Toby.
Probably a good thing at this point.
"Who's Greg?"
End.
Author's Note: Despite the above disclaimer, I take sole responsibility for Annie C. Wright. Cuz it just isn't nice to blame others for our problems.
Yesterday Was Like Cake
By BJ Garrett
As I walk into the Roosevelt Room, I am very aware of the fact that everyone else is already there. I'm not late though. I'm three minutes early, thank you very much.
"Good morning, Annie," Bill from Internal Communications says with a friendly smile.
I smile back, meeting his warm brown eyes as I walk around to the head of the conference table. "Good morning, Bill." Setting my notes on the table, I add, "Good morning, everybody."
"Good morning, Annie," everybody says. There are seven other people here. Bill and Gordon from Internal Communications, Tom from Press, and Colleen, Sara, Sharon, and Dwight from External Communications.
My team. The gala team. Annie's gala team. They don't look very enthusiastic about this. That could be a problem.
I opt to stand rather than sit, because that way I'm taller than they are, and Sam always stands when he's in a team meeting. I pick up the first page of my notes. "Well, NAJA is the national professional association for activist journalism. Leo has been asked to speak at their annual gala at the Georgetown. I have three possible focus-points for the address...."
*
We've been working on duo drafts for about an hour when Gordon puts his pen down and leans back in his seat. Colleen looks up and nods when their eyes meet. Sara elbows her and gestures at the notes they're sharing between their laptops. Frowning, Bill raises his eyebrows at me as I put down my own papers.
"What's up?" I ask the table.
Gordon clears his throat. "What's the point in doing this at all?" he asks, patting his paper.
Oh, no, guys, don't do this.
Deliberately misintertpreting him, I laugh. "I don't know, Gord. Maybe you should join the twenty-first century and get a laptop."
Bill cracks a wry smile.
Gordon shakes his head, a frustrated expression on his face. "Why are we bothering trying to make this administration when...." He trails off.
"When our polling numbers are in the crapper?" Dwight supplies.
Colleen, Sharon, and Tom nod, looking at me seriously.
"It's not like...it's not like there's anything else to do," I begin haltingly. I don't want them to do this. Not to me, at least.
"Oh, really?" Sharon asks. "I came here from a PR consultancy in Manhattan and I can go back like that--" Snapped fingers.
"My sister wants me to come do the weather for the local news," Tom admits quietly.
Dwight blinks behind his thick glasses as I turn my accusing gaze on him. "My dad says there's an opening at his firm. Farm insurance."
Colleen tosses her long blond hair behind her shoulder. "I'm a criminal defense lawyer at the Maryland bar and hey, crime is on the rise in Baltimore."
Gordon adds, "My frat brother knows a guy in LA who's looking for staff screen--"
I cut them off with a gesture, eyes closed and burning. They've been doing that a lot lately. I'm probably crying too much for my contact solution or something. "You guys, I know you're feeling like we're on a sinking ship, and you're right. But hey, we're here, we're good, and we're the rats who're going to stick around and patch the hole while the crew bails water. Yesterday, remember, yesterday was hard, right?"
I look around the table, meet their eyes, they nod, mostly. Some look away. Bill tries to smile encouragingly. We all remember the press outside the parking lot, rioting at the senior staff's houses--as if they were home--we all remember the sour faces on the news and the dire predictions and wholesale condemnations. We all remember how tired he looked on the news this morning.
"Yesterday was like cake. It will never get easier than it was yesterday. It will only get harder, because we'll always be the staff of the President who had MS. But somebody's got to be here, and when the ship rights itself and we start sailing for the golden horizon again, the rats who stuck around are going to feel pretty good about themselves."
Tom from Press raises his hand and speaks. "But the horizon is traditionally the edge of the world, Annie. Maybe that's not such a good analogy."
With a heavy sigh, I rub the bridge of my nose. "But where can you go from the edge of the world? The final frontier, my friends. It's all uphill from here." That's probably the stupidest thing I've ever said. The general look of disbelief from my team echoes my thought.
"Okay, forget I said that. Tom is right. It's not a good analogy. There is no good analogy for this situation. So. Take five and after that, I only want those of you willing to try to patch it up to come back. The rest of you can clean out your desks and phone your sisters or your frat brothers or your daddies. Go."
Slowly, they get up and leave. The dissenters head for the mess, while Sara and Bill go towards the kitchenette.
I've done something very stupid. I am perfectly aware of that. So when I flee through the subdued hallways to my office and lean against the desk, the last number I want to see on my call display is the Manchester residence.
But I pick up the phone and dial it anyway.
On the second ring, "Manchester residence, Donna speaking."
"Hi, Donna, it's Annie."
"Oh, hi! Do you want to talk to Sam?"
No, because I just told the gala team to quit. "Yes, actually. I think he called. Is he busy?"
"Probably. They just got out of a meeting. I'll get him." There is a rustling sound, and then I hear her shout, "Sam!" A voice calls back to her. "It's Annie!" Rustling again. "He's on his way."
"Great, thanks. They're doing RU-486 on Monday, hey?"
"Yeah--we're going ahead, I think. That's what the meeting was about. So, how are you--" Somebody yells her name. She sighs. "Josh wants me. Talk to you later, Annie."
"Bye, Donna." A click as she puts the phone down. Frantically, I worry at my thumb nail, trying to think of a way to make this sound good.
"Annie?"
It's impossible to make this sound good. It couldn't sound worse. "Hi. You called?"
"Yes--has NAJA phoned and cancelled Leo yet?"
I'm writing a speech for the guy, and he's getting cancelled? "No...are they supposed to?"
A pause. "Hopefully not. Have they phoned and asked if he still wants to do it, under the present circumstances?"
"No."
"Yes!" he exclaims. "Okay, that means they're good with it. Great. This is great. Thank you, Annie."
Yeah. Sure. "You're welcome, I guess." Not that I have anything to do with it. "Have you been expecting them to call?"
"Yes. This is just great news. How's the team?"
"I was afraid you'd ask that..." I begin, then stop, not sure how to articulate a situation as bad as the one I've created.
He sighs heavily. "Are they having a problem with me not being there? It's not like they've never written without me before."
"Actually, they haven't."
"Yeah. You're right. Is that it?"
I'd like to say yes, I'd like to let him think it's his fault--no I wouldn't. Damn loyalty. "No, Sam. I, well, I tried to give them a bit of a pep talk--"
"Good idea."
"Sure.yeah. Well, anyway, it didn't go so well, and I told them they should just quit," I finish quickly, wincing in anticipation of an eruption of anger.
A long silence. Very long. Oh, dear.
He says quietly, "You told them to quit?"
Defensively, I qualify, "If they didn't want to work at saving the administration, yes."
"And did they quit?"
"I gave them a break to make up their minds."
"And did they quit?"
"It's the break right now, Sam. How was your flight?"
"You told a team of the best writers in the White House to quit."
"I told them that if they didn't believe in the administration, they should go. They've had offers, Sam. Some of them don't want to be here when the sky falls. I gave them an out, I guess." Hey, there's rationalisation for ya.
"Don't try to rationalise it. You are doing them no favours by admitting things are bad."
"You would have."
Another long silence, broken by a sigh and a chuckle. "That's absolutely true. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I probably shouldn't have told them they could quit. Hopefully they'll listen as well as you do. How was the flight?"
"Short."
After a moment I realise he's not going to go into more detail, so I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Good. Is that all?"
"I guess so."
"Okay. Well, I'll talk to you later."
"Unless you've dissolved Congress while you're at it? Or fired the Joint Chiefs?"
"Are you being sarcastic?" If he's not, I'll get on a plane myself and fly up there and beat him senseless, the insensitive--
"Not that it wouldn't be a good idea to dissolve Congress at this point. Of course I'm being sarcastic."
"How's Doug? And *Con*nie?" I ask cheekily.
He mutters something unintelligible. "Go back to work."
"Ditto."
He doesn't hang up. "Well, I'll call you tonight, make sure you're not writing this yourself...." I can hear his mile-wide smile.
"If it's after eight when you've got the time, call me at home."
"Okay. Why?"
"Well, if there's no one around to impress, I'm not going to hang about until ten o'clock."
"Annie, you don't have to impress--"
Ha ha. "Go back to work, Sam."
"Yeah. Bye."
"Bye."
I hang up with a goofy grin and slam the door as I leave my office. It's satisfying to slam a door, even when there's no one on the other side to appreciate the symbolism of a door slamming in their face. This time, the symbolism is for me. I've slammed the door on the gala team. They can stay or go, it doesn't matter to me.
I don't have to impress him.
Sara and Bill look up as I enter the Roosevelt Room. I turn my grin on them and their expressions change from anxiety to confusion. I sit in the captain's chair at the head of the table and fold my hands across my stomach, waiting.
Bill cracks his knuckles. "They'll be back," he assures me with a cocky grin. A very...cocky...grin.
Nonchalant, I shrug and check my watch. "They've got forty seconds. Whatever."
So we sit around the table, Bill watching me, Sara fiddling with her pen and taking bird-like sips of water, and me acting abruptly stoned.
Forty seconds later the south-east door opens and our heads snap around to look. Dwight comes in with a sheepish expression on his round face. "We kind of lost track of time--there was a report about the thing on the set in the mess. Sorry."
Waving their lateness, and their rebellion, away, I stand. "That's okay, guys. Take your seats, and we'll keep going. Let's start with a sensational opening line--"
"Always a good spot," Bill interjects suavely.
Everybody laughs companionably. Sam would frown and ask everyone to focus if he were here.
"Definitely," I agree, and I can feel the signals zinging from Bill over to me. And.heck, why not? And back. "How about a funny one? Dwight and Colleen, what have you got?"
*
"Annie, it's your birthday in three weeks," Patrice says suggestively, leaning on my open door.
Without looking up from the four drafts I'm trying to mutilate into one, I reply, "Your point being?"
Groaning, she bangs her head against the door. "Let's go out."
"Out where?" Bill really can bring the funny, I notice, smiling a little over a line about tear gas and PETA protesters.
"I don't know. Dinner, a club maybe. We could just hang out, like we used to...."
...Before I got an office. Oh, Patrice. I look up, smiling appreciatively. "Yes. Definitely. I would love that."
She grins, cocking her head, blonde braid slipping over her shoulder. "Great."
"Why don't you make the arrangements, cuz--"
"I'll just make the arrangements, because--"
Laughing, we shake our heads at each other. "You know what I'm saying," I assure her.
Patrice nods wisely. "It's five to eight, Annie, you should split while nobody's watching," she says, gesturing toward the wall my office shares with Sam's.
"He never is," I reply blithely, shuffling the drafts into a folder.
*
The door's a little hard to close tonight. Probably the humidity's warping it or something. Walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water, I hit the blinking button on my answering machine.
"Hi, Annie, it's your travel-weary mother, I was wondering if you're going to be around on Monday--I'm coming back from Istanbul through Dulles and I thought we could do lunch at the Dupont. Just a thought, honey. I know you've been working horribly hard lately. You need to relax. Let me take you out for lunch. I'll try you at the office in the morning. G'night, sweetie."
Oh, I love you, Mom.
"Hi, Annie. It's Sam. It's after eight, but you're not home. Just calling to see how the meeting went, and if I'm short seven writers--Toby will kill you, you know, if we are--and if you were mugged or murdered on the way home. Or both. I hope not. Anyway, I'm at the residence...probably will be until we leave to come back. Oh, and did Greg call yet? Yeah...well, call me when you get in. Wait--the President's not worried about Marles. It's Sam, call me, I'm at the residence. Bye."
It's eight-thirty-seven. He obviously didn't factor in travel time. I don't want to call him back. I want to drink my glass of water and watch Larry King and go to bed--
Oh, damn. I didn't even think of Toby.
Probably a good thing at this point.
"Who's Greg?"
End.