Disclaimer: Once more, Annie is mine, but all the others are not. Please don't sue me.
Author's Note: Second attempt at a long-term original character. Gonna start small this time:)
Meet the Toby
By BJ Garrett
I'm a little nervous. Well, lots nervous. Okay, I'm a jittering, jabbering, jumping something. I'm really not looking forward to this. Today, today I get to meet Mr. Ziegler. Or, as some of the office staff refer to him with nearly primitive fear, the Toby. Yay, I get to meet the Toby. Just what every girl dreams of.
See, I should have quit. Really, I should have. I mean, being a junior speechwriter has been fun so far. I've proofread three speeches and corrected Mr. Seaborn's--wait, I mean Sam's--tenses twice. In the same speech, I might add. This is certainly a less physically straining job than being Hey You the office girl. No twenty-pound recycling bins to empty every Friday. You would not believe the amount of paper these people throw out. If they weren't recycling it, it would be disgusting.
But I digress. I should have not made a joke last Friday. I should not have got Mr. Sssss--am, Sam to laugh at my joke. If I hadn't been facing the pleasure of making someone laugh I wouldn't have to meet Mr. Ziegler. No, I'd be perusing the help wanteds and eating no-name ice cream three meals a day. Much more relaxed, much less nerve-wracking.
Mr. Sam--I'm just going to call him Mr. Sam--says I have nothing whatsoever to worry about. After all, the man is just his boss, by proxy my boss, and can only get us both fired. Quitting, I figure, is much less humiliating than getting fired. That's why people always lie and say they quit rather than admitting they were fired.
I'm procrastinating. Okay, Mr. Sam is standing in the entrance of my cubicle--yes, still office-less, but it's only been five days, and at least I have my own cubicle in the communications bullpen, right across from Mr. Sam's office. He gives me a thumbs up whenever I look over there. It's vaguely disturbing. He's way too into this promotion thing.
Alright. Now he's in the cubicle. My cubicle. The lone cubicle girl. I kind of miss Patrice.
"Why are you staring at me?" he asks, putting his hands in his pockets.
I clear my throat. "I'm not. I'm staring through you, trying to come up with a reason why I shouldn't meet Mr. Ziegler."
"Toby."
"He won't like me. He'll think you're crazy for giving me a promotion." I'm just digging myself deeper. Mr. Sam is going to think I'm crazy. Okay, then maybe I can get a Section 8 out of here and not meet Mr. Ziegler.
He sighs and leans against one of the cubicle dividers. Cathy walks past and gives me a thumbs up. She hangs around with Mr. Sam too much. "His name is Toby and he'll like you just fine. Let's go."
I can feel myself start to panic. Okay, kid, I say to myself, where's your grand confidence? I thought you were smart enough to speak intelligently to the President, but you can't even face meeting your boss's boss?
Wow. Mr. Ziegler has a lot of power. I wonder if he knows this.
"Annie." Mr. Sam is giving me a look. I haven't quite figured out what that particular look means yet, but it's only Tuesday. One week since the last time I saw Mr. Ziegler. Wait, no, six days twenty hours. I tripped at two, and it's only ten.
"Annie!"
Patrice is hanging over the divider Mr. Sam is leaning on. Her braided blonde hair flops over her shoulder as she grins at me. "This guy is in your doorway, so I'm coming over the side. Can I borrow some paper?"
Thankful for the distraction, I grab a dozen sheets of unlined paper and pass them to her. "I'm filling out this folder for Mr. Lyman. Apparently I have to type some gobbledygook on the top half of each sheet and put them at the back of the folder," she says, counting the pieces. "The Chosen Ones are getting more insane every day."
I smile at her. "Get off Joanne's desk, and yes, they are."
"Is that who this cubicle belongs to?" she asks, retreating. "See you for lunch, junior speechwriter!"
She's gone, and I have to deal with Mr. Sam again. "Sorry about that." I grab a coffee cup. I'm not going in there unarmed. Perhaps I should also take something to shield myself from red rubber balls which might be thrown in my general direction.
"Who's she?" he asks. He's probably ticked I didn't introduce him. It wouldn't have done any good. Patrice is in love with her cats. And she's not the most mentally stable person in the world. Maybe I'll introduce her to Mr. Lyman.
Ouch. That was mean. I haven't even met the guy since I've got my new job. Everyone deserves a second chance. But why should I bother? If he treats me any better, it'll only be because Mr. Sam respects me now. It's rather screwed, now that I think about it. I'm getting upset again. I'm not going to get upset.
"My old cubicle-mate, Patrice. She works down in the staff offices."
He hmms and looks down the hall where she disappeared. "What does she do?"
"What I used to do."
"Oh."
"But she won't flip out like I did. She doesn't have quite as big an ego as I do." See, that's why I got so angry. I think way too highly of myself. If I were humble, and meek--
And I'm making myself sick. Okay, let's go.
"Let's go, sir."
"Sam."
I step past him and walk the five feet to Mr. Ziegler's office door. "Knock," I tell him.
"You knock. It's your meeting." He is amused by my nervousness. This bothers me, but I will not show it. I knock three times.
A basso rumble is heard, something akin to the growl of a hung over bear. Or Satan. Mr. Sam opens the door and waves me in. I enter, holding my (empty) coffee cup at my side and a clipboard in front of my chest. I am aware that I look frightened and naïve. Hopefully that will score me some mercy.
Mr. Ziegler looks up from whatever he was doing. Probably checking some of the President's figures. I've noticed he's not terribly accurate with those, though Mr. Sam seems to trust his quotes.
"Good morning, Toby," Mr. Sam says amiably, gesturing for me to sit. Mr. Ziegler shakes his head as I move around to do so. I retreat. Mr. Sam waves at the chair again. Mr. Ziegler growls again. I stay where I am.
"What do you want?" Mr. Ziegler mutters, going back to his paperwork.
Mr. Sam is silent for a moment, and I look to him for direction. It's only kosher if he introduces me. I'm not supposed to talk yet. I won't talk until he does. He's not talking. He's not--
"Toby, this is Annie Wright." Okay, he's talking. That second just seemed like forever is all.
"Giving her a tour? She's new?" Mr. Ziegler asks.
Okay. That's it. I'm really quitting this time. The guy watches me wipe out face-first with an NSC file and he doesn't even remember me. Of course, he was deep in a conversation with Mr. Lyman. Taste the sarcasm.
Mr. Sam looks at me. I have a feeling he's been looking at me since Mr. Ziegler opened his mouth. I've been staring at Mr. Ziegler, not believing he couldn't recognise me. I didn't even get my hair cut on the weekend. Finally, Mr. Sam says, "No, she's not. She just got promoted."
We have his attention now. "Promoted? From what to what?"
I'm shocked. Mr. Sam didn't tell him why we were coming into his office? Why he had an unscheduled meeting scheduled?
"From office staff to junior speechwriter." I flinch. I'm ready for the rubber ball, and I'm willing to use Mr. Sam as a human shield. Forget the clipboard.
Mr. Ziegler looks unfazed. But you can never really tell what kind of mood he's in just by his face. He always looks miserable. "I wasn't aware we had those."
Had what? Office staff? How does he think his coffee cup gets clean and replaced on his desk every day? The President's personal attention? An act of God?
"Junior speechwriters, that is," he qualifies after eyeing me. I must have had a look. I guess I'm easy to read.
Mr. Sam is also easy to read. He's uncomfortable and in fear of his life. Perhaps we should have come in after lunch. "We didn't, until Friday," he replies.
"And why are you here?" He asks like Mr. Sam should be in some terrible place instead. As if there is a more terrible place than Mr. Ziegler's office right now.
"I wanted to get your okay about promoting her," Mr. Sam says. I want to slap my forehead. No, wait. I want to slap his forehead.
"And yet you didn't."
"I am right now."
"It doesn't count."
This is obviously familiar verbal territory for them both. Mr. Ziegler is still checking whatever papers he has against a giant computer printout. Definitely the President's figures. Mr. Sam is just standing there, hands in his pockets, sure he'll prove his point.
"It was a spur of the moment thing."
"She's worked here three days, and you couldn't find time to mention the fact that you invented a position in my department?"
"Five, actually." I bite my tongue as I finish the sentence. I spoke in the middle of a spar. Oh, God, I'm dead. I should have quit, I should have quit, I should have--
"What?" Mr. Sam and Mr. Ziegler look at me, one quizzically, the other with an almost insane disinterest.
My teeth slowly come away from my tongue. This is the most awful moment of my life. Even worse than when I realised how insignificant I was. Hard to believe that was only a week ago. Six days, twenty hours and...forty-six minutes, actually. "I was here over the weekend," I say.
I am being intelligent. Good for me.
"And what did you do?" Mr. Ziegler asks me, slowly, as if I were a child. My joy of intelligence fades rapidly.
"I proofread." My ego withers. Perhaps this is how office staff are made. They get paraded before Mr. Ziegler and are quickly eroded down to minuscule stubs of self happy for any treatment they receive, mis or otherwise.
"You proofread? What did you proofread?"
I swallow. I can remember what I did all weekend. Three thirty-page speeches, for heaven's sake. "A speech on the development of CARE, one on education, and one on the proposed tax credit for shelters."
"And what did you find?" He's really looking at me, with something approaching, well, not exactly respect, but certainly acknowledgment of my right to exist.
"That Mr. Seaborn--"
"Sam."
I perse my lips and continue, maintaining eye contact with Mr. Ziegler. Mr. Sam is no longer present in this conversation. I'm talking to my new boss. "That Mr. Seaborn used the wrong tense twice. In one speech."
"Which one?"
"CARE. He used past for future on the second page, second paragraph, and present for past in the next paragraph." Mr. Sam is not enjoying me telling Mr. Ziegler this. He is easy to read. He's probably also wishing he'd just given the speeches to Cathy.
However much Mr. Sam is not enjoying this, Mr. Ziegler is. "And did you correct his tenses?" he asks, sitting back with a smirk on his face. At least, I think it's a smirk. It might be a snarl.
"Yes, sir," I reply, involuntarily ready to run to my desk and grab the speeches to show him the red pencil marks I made.
He nods. And keeps nodding. Why is he nodding so much? Why is he nodding at all?
"Why is Cathy suddenly not qualified to proofread?" Mr. Ziegler asks, moving his gaze with razor-sharp precision from me to Mr. Sam. He turned on me. I will never trust again. "And don't speechwriters, however junior, write?"
Mr. Sam swallows two or three times. "Well, she is, but we have been very busy, and there hasn't really been anything--"
Mr. Ziegler stops him with a hand held palm-out. "You're telling me you've never seen her writing?"
"Like I said, it was a spur of the moment thing, and--"
He shakes his head and drops his hand. I can feel my face falling, I can hear the coffee cups calling. The printer cartridges empty, Donna needs me to re-install Simply. Recycling bins over-flow, there are shredder piles to mow. Hey, I'm a poet and I didn't know it. Even though that last one is a stretch. And what does a Chosen One's assistant need an accounting program for, anyway?
Mr. Sam is cowed. Oh my goodness. What am I going to do? It's not back to the shared cubicle-ness of the staff offices, it's to my apartment, ice cream awaiting....
"Why did you promote her?" Mr. Ziegler asks suddenly. Mr. Sam perks up. My spirit sinks another twenty feet. I imagine it hovering beneath Ms. Hayes' desk, her stiletto-heeled foot coming down on it repeatedly--
"Well, she came to me and told me she wanted to quit. I convinced her not to and told her she was my new junior speechwriter."
This is, in fact, a gross understatement of the events of last Friday, but I'll let him get away with that one. Mr. Ziegler looks at me for confirmation and I concede with a slight nod.
"She was very eloquent," Mr. Sam continues, encouraged by my nod. "And articulate."
"She eloquently articulated that she was quitting?" Mr. Ziegler intones.
Frustrated now, Mr. Sam nods his head. "Yes, she did." He turns to me and makes some vague gesture. "Tell him what you said."
My respiratory system is sawdust. Wait, on second check, it's no longer there. I'm not breathing. One can't speak without air, right? There you go, I don't have to tell Mr. Ziegler what I said. I shouldn't have made that joke. I'm going to die of asphyxiation right here, on the floor. They'll walk right over me and I'll turn to compost. Mr. Ziegler can plant a garden. Okay, that's just the lack of oxygen talking there. Too much Pink Floyd while studying for Philosophy exams.
I take a deep, deep breath and exhale it a little noisily. Mr. Sam is probably glad he only wants me to write speeches, not present them.
"I, well, I said that I was dissatisfied with my position as office staff, that I had imagined that one working in President Bartlet's White House would not only feel more useful, but be more useful than I was. While, however, I do see and understand the need for people to wash coffee cups and replace printer cartridges, I don't want to be one. I want to use my brain for something other than counting how much paper to put in the photocopier. I want to feel like I make a difference by coming to work in the morning..." I run out of things to say.
Well, not really, but I've said enough already.
Mr. Ziegler nods and crosses his arms. He closes his eyes for a second, and then looks at me intently. "Write me five pages on why you deserve a bigger part of Bartlet's White House."
"Five pages?" That's like thirteen hundred words. I haven't written that much in two years. Total.
"Five pages. Try to remember what you said to Sam." He spreads his arms. "I'm a decent guy. I'll give you the chance. But no raise until I like what you've written."
This seems very inefficient to me. I'm an Economics major, after all. Why can't I give him a spreadsheet?
But we don't mention things like inefficiency to the Toby. It makes him surly, apparently. That's what Patrice told me.
Mr. Sam prods me with a glance to accept this generous offer. I'm tempted not to. But again, I'm caught in a second of history, and I can't remember how to say no and get the hell out of there. My coffee cup hangs heavily at my side, and my fingers are numb around the edge of the clipboard. "Okay."
And there is no more tension. Mr. Sam smiles. Mr. Ziegler puts his arms down, looking considerably less like an owl, and picks up his papers again. I think we're dismissed, but there's one thing.
"When do you want that?"
"Tomorrow," he replies without looking up.
Sam pulls me out of the office as my coffee cup comes up to shoulder height.
The door closes behind us and Sam deftly catches my mug in mid-air. "Wouldn't have been pretty," he says.
As he shepherds me back to my cubicle, Cathy passing us with another thumbs up, he adds, "Well, that wasn't so bad."
No kidding.
THE END
Author's Note: Second attempt at a long-term original character. Gonna start small this time:)
Meet the Toby
By BJ Garrett
I'm a little nervous. Well, lots nervous. Okay, I'm a jittering, jabbering, jumping something. I'm really not looking forward to this. Today, today I get to meet Mr. Ziegler. Or, as some of the office staff refer to him with nearly primitive fear, the Toby. Yay, I get to meet the Toby. Just what every girl dreams of.
See, I should have quit. Really, I should have. I mean, being a junior speechwriter has been fun so far. I've proofread three speeches and corrected Mr. Seaborn's--wait, I mean Sam's--tenses twice. In the same speech, I might add. This is certainly a less physically straining job than being Hey You the office girl. No twenty-pound recycling bins to empty every Friday. You would not believe the amount of paper these people throw out. If they weren't recycling it, it would be disgusting.
But I digress. I should have not made a joke last Friday. I should not have got Mr. Sssss--am, Sam to laugh at my joke. If I hadn't been facing the pleasure of making someone laugh I wouldn't have to meet Mr. Ziegler. No, I'd be perusing the help wanteds and eating no-name ice cream three meals a day. Much more relaxed, much less nerve-wracking.
Mr. Sam--I'm just going to call him Mr. Sam--says I have nothing whatsoever to worry about. After all, the man is just his boss, by proxy my boss, and can only get us both fired. Quitting, I figure, is much less humiliating than getting fired. That's why people always lie and say they quit rather than admitting they were fired.
I'm procrastinating. Okay, Mr. Sam is standing in the entrance of my cubicle--yes, still office-less, but it's only been five days, and at least I have my own cubicle in the communications bullpen, right across from Mr. Sam's office. He gives me a thumbs up whenever I look over there. It's vaguely disturbing. He's way too into this promotion thing.
Alright. Now he's in the cubicle. My cubicle. The lone cubicle girl. I kind of miss Patrice.
"Why are you staring at me?" he asks, putting his hands in his pockets.
I clear my throat. "I'm not. I'm staring through you, trying to come up with a reason why I shouldn't meet Mr. Ziegler."
"Toby."
"He won't like me. He'll think you're crazy for giving me a promotion." I'm just digging myself deeper. Mr. Sam is going to think I'm crazy. Okay, then maybe I can get a Section 8 out of here and not meet Mr. Ziegler.
He sighs and leans against one of the cubicle dividers. Cathy walks past and gives me a thumbs up. She hangs around with Mr. Sam too much. "His name is Toby and he'll like you just fine. Let's go."
I can feel myself start to panic. Okay, kid, I say to myself, where's your grand confidence? I thought you were smart enough to speak intelligently to the President, but you can't even face meeting your boss's boss?
Wow. Mr. Ziegler has a lot of power. I wonder if he knows this.
"Annie." Mr. Sam is giving me a look. I haven't quite figured out what that particular look means yet, but it's only Tuesday. One week since the last time I saw Mr. Ziegler. Wait, no, six days twenty hours. I tripped at two, and it's only ten.
"Annie!"
Patrice is hanging over the divider Mr. Sam is leaning on. Her braided blonde hair flops over her shoulder as she grins at me. "This guy is in your doorway, so I'm coming over the side. Can I borrow some paper?"
Thankful for the distraction, I grab a dozen sheets of unlined paper and pass them to her. "I'm filling out this folder for Mr. Lyman. Apparently I have to type some gobbledygook on the top half of each sheet and put them at the back of the folder," she says, counting the pieces. "The Chosen Ones are getting more insane every day."
I smile at her. "Get off Joanne's desk, and yes, they are."
"Is that who this cubicle belongs to?" she asks, retreating. "See you for lunch, junior speechwriter!"
She's gone, and I have to deal with Mr. Sam again. "Sorry about that." I grab a coffee cup. I'm not going in there unarmed. Perhaps I should also take something to shield myself from red rubber balls which might be thrown in my general direction.
"Who's she?" he asks. He's probably ticked I didn't introduce him. It wouldn't have done any good. Patrice is in love with her cats. And she's not the most mentally stable person in the world. Maybe I'll introduce her to Mr. Lyman.
Ouch. That was mean. I haven't even met the guy since I've got my new job. Everyone deserves a second chance. But why should I bother? If he treats me any better, it'll only be because Mr. Sam respects me now. It's rather screwed, now that I think about it. I'm getting upset again. I'm not going to get upset.
"My old cubicle-mate, Patrice. She works down in the staff offices."
He hmms and looks down the hall where she disappeared. "What does she do?"
"What I used to do."
"Oh."
"But she won't flip out like I did. She doesn't have quite as big an ego as I do." See, that's why I got so angry. I think way too highly of myself. If I were humble, and meek--
And I'm making myself sick. Okay, let's go.
"Let's go, sir."
"Sam."
I step past him and walk the five feet to Mr. Ziegler's office door. "Knock," I tell him.
"You knock. It's your meeting." He is amused by my nervousness. This bothers me, but I will not show it. I knock three times.
A basso rumble is heard, something akin to the growl of a hung over bear. Or Satan. Mr. Sam opens the door and waves me in. I enter, holding my (empty) coffee cup at my side and a clipboard in front of my chest. I am aware that I look frightened and naïve. Hopefully that will score me some mercy.
Mr. Ziegler looks up from whatever he was doing. Probably checking some of the President's figures. I've noticed he's not terribly accurate with those, though Mr. Sam seems to trust his quotes.
"Good morning, Toby," Mr. Sam says amiably, gesturing for me to sit. Mr. Ziegler shakes his head as I move around to do so. I retreat. Mr. Sam waves at the chair again. Mr. Ziegler growls again. I stay where I am.
"What do you want?" Mr. Ziegler mutters, going back to his paperwork.
Mr. Sam is silent for a moment, and I look to him for direction. It's only kosher if he introduces me. I'm not supposed to talk yet. I won't talk until he does. He's not talking. He's not--
"Toby, this is Annie Wright." Okay, he's talking. That second just seemed like forever is all.
"Giving her a tour? She's new?" Mr. Ziegler asks.
Okay. That's it. I'm really quitting this time. The guy watches me wipe out face-first with an NSC file and he doesn't even remember me. Of course, he was deep in a conversation with Mr. Lyman. Taste the sarcasm.
Mr. Sam looks at me. I have a feeling he's been looking at me since Mr. Ziegler opened his mouth. I've been staring at Mr. Ziegler, not believing he couldn't recognise me. I didn't even get my hair cut on the weekend. Finally, Mr. Sam says, "No, she's not. She just got promoted."
We have his attention now. "Promoted? From what to what?"
I'm shocked. Mr. Sam didn't tell him why we were coming into his office? Why he had an unscheduled meeting scheduled?
"From office staff to junior speechwriter." I flinch. I'm ready for the rubber ball, and I'm willing to use Mr. Sam as a human shield. Forget the clipboard.
Mr. Ziegler looks unfazed. But you can never really tell what kind of mood he's in just by his face. He always looks miserable. "I wasn't aware we had those."
Had what? Office staff? How does he think his coffee cup gets clean and replaced on his desk every day? The President's personal attention? An act of God?
"Junior speechwriters, that is," he qualifies after eyeing me. I must have had a look. I guess I'm easy to read.
Mr. Sam is also easy to read. He's uncomfortable and in fear of his life. Perhaps we should have come in after lunch. "We didn't, until Friday," he replies.
"And why are you here?" He asks like Mr. Sam should be in some terrible place instead. As if there is a more terrible place than Mr. Ziegler's office right now.
"I wanted to get your okay about promoting her," Mr. Sam says. I want to slap my forehead. No, wait. I want to slap his forehead.
"And yet you didn't."
"I am right now."
"It doesn't count."
This is obviously familiar verbal territory for them both. Mr. Ziegler is still checking whatever papers he has against a giant computer printout. Definitely the President's figures. Mr. Sam is just standing there, hands in his pockets, sure he'll prove his point.
"It was a spur of the moment thing."
"She's worked here three days, and you couldn't find time to mention the fact that you invented a position in my department?"
"Five, actually." I bite my tongue as I finish the sentence. I spoke in the middle of a spar. Oh, God, I'm dead. I should have quit, I should have quit, I should have--
"What?" Mr. Sam and Mr. Ziegler look at me, one quizzically, the other with an almost insane disinterest.
My teeth slowly come away from my tongue. This is the most awful moment of my life. Even worse than when I realised how insignificant I was. Hard to believe that was only a week ago. Six days, twenty hours and...forty-six minutes, actually. "I was here over the weekend," I say.
I am being intelligent. Good for me.
"And what did you do?" Mr. Ziegler asks me, slowly, as if I were a child. My joy of intelligence fades rapidly.
"I proofread." My ego withers. Perhaps this is how office staff are made. They get paraded before Mr. Ziegler and are quickly eroded down to minuscule stubs of self happy for any treatment they receive, mis or otherwise.
"You proofread? What did you proofread?"
I swallow. I can remember what I did all weekend. Three thirty-page speeches, for heaven's sake. "A speech on the development of CARE, one on education, and one on the proposed tax credit for shelters."
"And what did you find?" He's really looking at me, with something approaching, well, not exactly respect, but certainly acknowledgment of my right to exist.
"That Mr. Seaborn--"
"Sam."
I perse my lips and continue, maintaining eye contact with Mr. Ziegler. Mr. Sam is no longer present in this conversation. I'm talking to my new boss. "That Mr. Seaborn used the wrong tense twice. In one speech."
"Which one?"
"CARE. He used past for future on the second page, second paragraph, and present for past in the next paragraph." Mr. Sam is not enjoying me telling Mr. Ziegler this. He is easy to read. He's probably also wishing he'd just given the speeches to Cathy.
However much Mr. Sam is not enjoying this, Mr. Ziegler is. "And did you correct his tenses?" he asks, sitting back with a smirk on his face. At least, I think it's a smirk. It might be a snarl.
"Yes, sir," I reply, involuntarily ready to run to my desk and grab the speeches to show him the red pencil marks I made.
He nods. And keeps nodding. Why is he nodding so much? Why is he nodding at all?
"Why is Cathy suddenly not qualified to proofread?" Mr. Ziegler asks, moving his gaze with razor-sharp precision from me to Mr. Sam. He turned on me. I will never trust again. "And don't speechwriters, however junior, write?"
Mr. Sam swallows two or three times. "Well, she is, but we have been very busy, and there hasn't really been anything--"
Mr. Ziegler stops him with a hand held palm-out. "You're telling me you've never seen her writing?"
"Like I said, it was a spur of the moment thing, and--"
He shakes his head and drops his hand. I can feel my face falling, I can hear the coffee cups calling. The printer cartridges empty, Donna needs me to re-install Simply. Recycling bins over-flow, there are shredder piles to mow. Hey, I'm a poet and I didn't know it. Even though that last one is a stretch. And what does a Chosen One's assistant need an accounting program for, anyway?
Mr. Sam is cowed. Oh my goodness. What am I going to do? It's not back to the shared cubicle-ness of the staff offices, it's to my apartment, ice cream awaiting....
"Why did you promote her?" Mr. Ziegler asks suddenly. Mr. Sam perks up. My spirit sinks another twenty feet. I imagine it hovering beneath Ms. Hayes' desk, her stiletto-heeled foot coming down on it repeatedly--
"Well, she came to me and told me she wanted to quit. I convinced her not to and told her she was my new junior speechwriter."
This is, in fact, a gross understatement of the events of last Friday, but I'll let him get away with that one. Mr. Ziegler looks at me for confirmation and I concede with a slight nod.
"She was very eloquent," Mr. Sam continues, encouraged by my nod. "And articulate."
"She eloquently articulated that she was quitting?" Mr. Ziegler intones.
Frustrated now, Mr. Sam nods his head. "Yes, she did." He turns to me and makes some vague gesture. "Tell him what you said."
My respiratory system is sawdust. Wait, on second check, it's no longer there. I'm not breathing. One can't speak without air, right? There you go, I don't have to tell Mr. Ziegler what I said. I shouldn't have made that joke. I'm going to die of asphyxiation right here, on the floor. They'll walk right over me and I'll turn to compost. Mr. Ziegler can plant a garden. Okay, that's just the lack of oxygen talking there. Too much Pink Floyd while studying for Philosophy exams.
I take a deep, deep breath and exhale it a little noisily. Mr. Sam is probably glad he only wants me to write speeches, not present them.
"I, well, I said that I was dissatisfied with my position as office staff, that I had imagined that one working in President Bartlet's White House would not only feel more useful, but be more useful than I was. While, however, I do see and understand the need for people to wash coffee cups and replace printer cartridges, I don't want to be one. I want to use my brain for something other than counting how much paper to put in the photocopier. I want to feel like I make a difference by coming to work in the morning..." I run out of things to say.
Well, not really, but I've said enough already.
Mr. Ziegler nods and crosses his arms. He closes his eyes for a second, and then looks at me intently. "Write me five pages on why you deserve a bigger part of Bartlet's White House."
"Five pages?" That's like thirteen hundred words. I haven't written that much in two years. Total.
"Five pages. Try to remember what you said to Sam." He spreads his arms. "I'm a decent guy. I'll give you the chance. But no raise until I like what you've written."
This seems very inefficient to me. I'm an Economics major, after all. Why can't I give him a spreadsheet?
But we don't mention things like inefficiency to the Toby. It makes him surly, apparently. That's what Patrice told me.
Mr. Sam prods me with a glance to accept this generous offer. I'm tempted not to. But again, I'm caught in a second of history, and I can't remember how to say no and get the hell out of there. My coffee cup hangs heavily at my side, and my fingers are numb around the edge of the clipboard. "Okay."
And there is no more tension. Mr. Sam smiles. Mr. Ziegler puts his arms down, looking considerably less like an owl, and picks up his papers again. I think we're dismissed, but there's one thing.
"When do you want that?"
"Tomorrow," he replies without looking up.
Sam pulls me out of the office as my coffee cup comes up to shoulder height.
The door closes behind us and Sam deftly catches my mug in mid-air. "Wouldn't have been pretty," he says.
As he shepherds me back to my cubicle, Cathy passing us with another thumbs up, he adds, "Well, that wasn't so bad."
No kidding.
THE END