I tiptoe up the street. Tourists, with cameras loosely draped around
their necks, pass in large groups. The night's air is quickly being
swallowed by the swarm of sight-seekers, eager to view Washington decked
out in her evening lights. I shove my hands deeper in my pockets and keep
walking. I have a special appreciation for this city. That's a lot, I
think, coming from a politician. Washington sees the worst, always the
worst, and still comes out on top.
"Excuse me." I do not watch my footsteps, and I bump into a woman.
She continues walking, following her group as they edge down the street. I stop.
I made a promise once, to a girlfriend after she discovered my intended major. Never comprise your ideals. I've since had many a great laugh over that one. Washington is all about comprised ideals. About wounded egos, determined souls, and dangerous minds. I know I fit perfectly in this flawed world.
I step onto the sidewalk at an angle, hoping to dodge the mass I see looming in the distance. A child runs past me, leaping onto the stubby concrete pillars that line the road. Night offers little peace in Washington. Life continues without any respect for the proper sleep cycle. Washington is beautiful at night; the tourists know that.
"Good Evening, Mr. Lyman." He holds the gate open as he sees me approach.
"Evening, Steve. Been quite?"
"The night's been a peaceful as a lamb, Mr. Lyman."
I throw the watchman a smile, and continue up the driveway. As I glance to my right I can see the abandoned umbrellas, chairs, and mats that cover the East lawn. The Press abandoned them long ago.
"Good Evening, Mr. Lyman." I look up. It's a new voice.
"Ah, good evening."
"Louis," he reminds me. The old doorman breaks into a grin upon seeing my utterly confused face. I don't like new people, but unfortunately for me (and probably them) I meet nearly ten a day.
"Then: Good Evening, Louis."
The West Wing is dimly lit, in deference, I believe, to the rest of this sleepy country. I pass through the lobby and Craig sitting alert at his post. I smile thinking of all the security guards around the world asleep at their posts, and here Craig sits, awake. The secret service presence drops as the evening wears on. Most agents follow the President up stairs to the residence, while some lucky ones stumble home to their beds. I'm unlucky.
"Hey." I lean on the doorframe, looking into his office. It is neat. As always.
"Hey!" He has the puppy-dog excited look on his face.
"You have that puppy-dog excited look on your face again, Sam."
His grin only widens. Sam is the kid supergenius of the West Wing. He knows that. He loves that.
"You just come in?"
I nod and slowly slide into a chair in front of his desk. "I walked."
"From National?" he asks incredulously.
I grunt. "No, from Union Station. There's a lot of night activity."
"The tourists or the crooks?"
I shrug. Sam has a way of hitting the nail on the head without realizing it. "Both, I guess."
Then there's silence. A comfortable silence that Sam and I have become accustomed to over the years. "Who's here?" I ask. I know the answer.
"Toby's down in the mess. CJ's gone. Leo's upstairs."
Another silence. Sam stares at me, the puppy-dog look gone from his face.
"You look like shit, Josh."
I snort. "I've been on a plane for the last three hours."
"Yeah, but you still look like shit."
Another silence. If he expects an answer, he will not be getting one.
"Wanna tell me what's up?" Sam finally lets out.
I stand up, ready to leave. This conversation just took a turn down the path Robert Frost choose not to take. I did not want to take it either.
"I better go check my messages and stuff. You have work to do."
"Josh." His tone is stern and serious. He means business. I can't help but laugh at the thought of Sam meaning business. But he stands too, stretches, and shuts the screen to his laptop. "Come on, let's walk."
"People are worried."
I feign surprise. I know people are worried. They have been for quite some time now. Sam knows I know.
"People worry." I retort, cursing myself for not thinking of something better. Anything that would have thrown Sam off the scent.
"Yeah."
We walk in silence. Out through the lobby, past Craig, and down into the depths of the West Wing. "I'm worried," he continues finally.
"I know," I whisper. But I feel the need to lighten the mood, so I throw out the obvious, "But you always worry."
He chuckles, but again become serious. "Josh, I'm also scared."
This time I'm really surprised. What could he possibly be scared of? Then it hits me. Sam's a child. Everything must be put into a child's perspective.
"Sam—" I begin, but stop. I choose my word carefully. "Why?"
"Because I know you are worried too."
I love the abstract, but I hate the concrete. This is why I became a lawyer, but never practiced. This is why I learned, but failed my classes. This is why I'm here, but not really. "Is it affecting my work?" I ask.
"You should ask Leo."
"But I'm asking you, Sam."
We stop walking. Sam leans against a table and rubs his forehead. I sigh.
"We fight a new fight each and every day. You used to crave them, live off them. Now you… you care, but it its as if you've given up." He pauses and looks me straight in the eye. "Have you given up, Josh?"
"No." I softly reply. "But its become harder to keep the promise."
"Excuse me." I do not watch my footsteps, and I bump into a woman.
She continues walking, following her group as they edge down the street. I stop.
I made a promise once, to a girlfriend after she discovered my intended major. Never comprise your ideals. I've since had many a great laugh over that one. Washington is all about comprised ideals. About wounded egos, determined souls, and dangerous minds. I know I fit perfectly in this flawed world.
I step onto the sidewalk at an angle, hoping to dodge the mass I see looming in the distance. A child runs past me, leaping onto the stubby concrete pillars that line the road. Night offers little peace in Washington. Life continues without any respect for the proper sleep cycle. Washington is beautiful at night; the tourists know that.
"Good Evening, Mr. Lyman." He holds the gate open as he sees me approach.
"Evening, Steve. Been quite?"
"The night's been a peaceful as a lamb, Mr. Lyman."
I throw the watchman a smile, and continue up the driveway. As I glance to my right I can see the abandoned umbrellas, chairs, and mats that cover the East lawn. The Press abandoned them long ago.
"Good Evening, Mr. Lyman." I look up. It's a new voice.
"Ah, good evening."
"Louis," he reminds me. The old doorman breaks into a grin upon seeing my utterly confused face. I don't like new people, but unfortunately for me (and probably them) I meet nearly ten a day.
"Then: Good Evening, Louis."
The West Wing is dimly lit, in deference, I believe, to the rest of this sleepy country. I pass through the lobby and Craig sitting alert at his post. I smile thinking of all the security guards around the world asleep at their posts, and here Craig sits, awake. The secret service presence drops as the evening wears on. Most agents follow the President up stairs to the residence, while some lucky ones stumble home to their beds. I'm unlucky.
"Hey." I lean on the doorframe, looking into his office. It is neat. As always.
"Hey!" He has the puppy-dog excited look on his face.
"You have that puppy-dog excited look on your face again, Sam."
His grin only widens. Sam is the kid supergenius of the West Wing. He knows that. He loves that.
"You just come in?"
I nod and slowly slide into a chair in front of his desk. "I walked."
"From National?" he asks incredulously.
I grunt. "No, from Union Station. There's a lot of night activity."
"The tourists or the crooks?"
I shrug. Sam has a way of hitting the nail on the head without realizing it. "Both, I guess."
Then there's silence. A comfortable silence that Sam and I have become accustomed to over the years. "Who's here?" I ask. I know the answer.
"Toby's down in the mess. CJ's gone. Leo's upstairs."
Another silence. Sam stares at me, the puppy-dog look gone from his face.
"You look like shit, Josh."
I snort. "I've been on a plane for the last three hours."
"Yeah, but you still look like shit."
Another silence. If he expects an answer, he will not be getting one.
"Wanna tell me what's up?" Sam finally lets out.
I stand up, ready to leave. This conversation just took a turn down the path Robert Frost choose not to take. I did not want to take it either.
"I better go check my messages and stuff. You have work to do."
"Josh." His tone is stern and serious. He means business. I can't help but laugh at the thought of Sam meaning business. But he stands too, stretches, and shuts the screen to his laptop. "Come on, let's walk."
"People are worried."
I feign surprise. I know people are worried. They have been for quite some time now. Sam knows I know.
"People worry." I retort, cursing myself for not thinking of something better. Anything that would have thrown Sam off the scent.
"Yeah."
We walk in silence. Out through the lobby, past Craig, and down into the depths of the West Wing. "I'm worried," he continues finally.
"I know," I whisper. But I feel the need to lighten the mood, so I throw out the obvious, "But you always worry."
He chuckles, but again become serious. "Josh, I'm also scared."
This time I'm really surprised. What could he possibly be scared of? Then it hits me. Sam's a child. Everything must be put into a child's perspective.
"Sam—" I begin, but stop. I choose my word carefully. "Why?"
"Because I know you are worried too."
I love the abstract, but I hate the concrete. This is why I became a lawyer, but never practiced. This is why I learned, but failed my classes. This is why I'm here, but not really. "Is it affecting my work?" I ask.
"You should ask Leo."
"But I'm asking you, Sam."
We stop walking. Sam leans against a table and rubs his forehead. I sigh.
"We fight a new fight each and every day. You used to crave them, live off them. Now you… you care, but it its as if you've given up." He pauses and looks me straight in the eye. "Have you given up, Josh?"
"No." I softly reply. "But its become harder to keep the promise."