Passage
By Joanna
*Summary: "That's quite a lot of underwear you have there, my friend."
*Disclaimers: They're not mine. Except in my head. And I think we can
all agree that not much that is in my head counts for much. The title
of the story and the chapters are all pieces of lyrics from "Hotel
California" by the Eagles…and eventually the reason why will become
apparent…maybe.
*Spoilers: Anything through the end of The Women of Qumar.
*Category: I think this one could stand alone…well okay, so it leans
against The Women of Qumar and Manchester a little. CJ POV, with
Toby, Josh, and Sam right there with her. In the same car, even.
*Rating: PG-13. There's some pretty serious violence in the last chapters, although you'd never guess it from the first few. Some questionable language here and there too perhaps.
*Special thanks always to Lisa R—this time particularly for helping
me keep the stabbings to a minimum. And to Liz, who it turns out,
*is* a beta reading goddess after all and for Sam's gambling habits.
*Author's note: This one started out to be a light-hearted story, but the angst seemed to return of its own accord. In a major way. Some Graphic Violence. Beware.
Chapter One: Back To That Place I Was Before
"He's sick."
"What do you mean, `he's sick?'"
"That," Toby mutters darkly as he stops in my doorway and watches me
carefully roll my clothes and place them just so in my suitcase. He's
been packed for three hours, as far as I know, but also, as far as I
know everything in his suitcase has been wadded into a ball. I have
something against ironing. I suck at it, first and foremost.
Therefore, I'm a careful packer. He can live with it. Or not.
Strange thing about Toby. The man, physically speaking, isn't a
threatening figure. Or rather, he shouldn't be. But there's some sort
of a shadow all around him. Now, for instance, he seems to completely
fill…and well, *darken* my doorway, though there's a good two feet of
light from the hall shining in over his bald head. He's swelling with
irritation now, so that that space seems to close.
"CJ…you've had forty-five minutes to pack. I don't understand…this…"
he breaks off, searching for words to describe the remaining half of
my clothes still lying neatly on their hangers across my also-neatly
made-up hotel room bedspread, grouped in outfits for the remaining
days of our four day run on the Pacific Coast. When words for my
insanity fail him, he settles for waving his hands around. "It's
packing, it's a suitcase. The clothes go in. You zip it up. We leave
here on *time*."
"Well, that's just crazy talk, Tobus. And the sooner you learn that
I'm worth waiting for, the better your life will be." I try to say
the words brightly, but the sound just comes out flat.
Like I'm pissed. Which I suppose I am. Still.
He tilts his head to the side for a moment, and looks relieved when
Josh's voice drifts in from down the hall. His face soon follows,
appearing over Toby's shoulder. "I got us a 5:30 p.m. flight to
foggy San Francisco. Home of the Golden Gate Bridge and The Giants.
Also Rice-a-Roni."
"What do you mean you got us a flight? I was under the impression we
didn't have to go through a travel agent to book our seats on Air
Force One." My tone is noticeably lighter with Joshua. I say
noticeably because I feel Toby's gaze on me and know he noticed it.
"That's funny, CJ. No really. You're clever. Clever girl. That's
quite a lot of underwear you have there, my friend."
I look down to the pile of panties and bras (also neatly rolled—it
saves space, I swear it), and am mildly surprised to discover I'm not
really embarrassed in the least to have Toby and Josh standing there
staring at them. I spend way too much time with these guys, I decide
then and there.
"How many days are we gonna be away, Toby?" Josh asks, wandering
closer to the bed to get a better look. He reaches a hand down as if
to touch one of the silkier looking garments, catches my eye, and
rightfully fearful of losing a hand, steps back.
A sigh of the long-suffering. Then Toby says, "four."
"And how many pair of panties do you suppose is right there?"
"I don't--I'd really rather not know," Toby says, impatience
lingering in every word. He clearly isn't in the mood.
Undaunted, Josh continues to watch the small heap of lingerie with
fascination. "I'm no mathematician, but I'm gonna guess at least
fifteen full sets. Can you please explain to me why a four day trip
requires fifteen pairs of underwear? I have trouble understanding why
a four day trip requires four pairs."
I feel it then. The blood creeping up my neck and into two bright
spots on each cheek. The heat seems to pulse off of me, crawling
straight to the roots of my hair. So, I have a fear of running out of
underwear. Perfectly normal. I don't care what they will say. Plenty,
I imagine.
"I don't believe it. You're blushing." Josh says with a smirk that
makes me want to roll *him* up and stuff him into a suitcase. Or body
bag. I'm not picky, you understand.
"I'm not blushing," I rather obviously lie. "And would you please
explain to me what's going on? The President is sick? We've booked a
flight on Air Force One? What?"
"Not Air Force One. Delta. The President isn't going tonight. We'll
fly on ahead and get things set up for the fund raiser," Josh
supplies, and I'm a little surprised at how easily he's sidetracked.
I make a mental note. *Ask Josh a question that makes him feel like
he knows more than you and he's yours for the steering*…oh wait, I've
known that for years.
"The President is sick? Is it the…" I break off, because I see Toby
and Josh's eyes widen, and my own heart beats a little faster too,
like I came very close to saying something I shouldn't. The MS is
quite in the open, but for some reason, we all still feel it's taboo,
a secret. The secret that could still bring us down, and the world
knows why.
"It's an inner ear thing. He can't fly with it." Toby supplies
quickly.
"Are we sure that's what it is?" I ask with just a bit of cynicism.
I was okay lying about the President's health before I realized I was
part of a conspiracy. Before I needed a lawyer. Before I knew that I
was being lied to. I'm still hurting from it. Maybe reeling too. It
doesn't come so easily to lie about anything now.
"CJ, don't." Toby's voice carries a note of warning.
"I'm just…" I pause when the timber of his words echoes in my head
and glare at him and then snap, "Toby--what the hell is your problem
exactly?"
"Yes, thank you for your concern, he'll be fine. They don't expect
any complications."
I refuse to be abashed by this. Word of Toby's initial reaction to
finding out about the President's condition has gotten around by now.
His primary concern wasn't how Jed Bartlet was feeling either. We
glower for a moment. Sometimes I come close to hating him when he
looks down…or up, I amend with sort of vicious satisfaction…his nose
at me with those eyes.
"The press is going to ask questions."
"He had a meeting tonight and decided to wait until tomorrow to fly.
Happy?"
"Yes. Because lying to the press about his health hasn't ever gotten
us into trouble in the past."
"CJ," the warning tone is identical to the one I just advised him not
to take.
"Never mind, Toby," I say and turn away from him altogether.
"Can we just clarify once and for all, that *I* didn't sell the god
damned guns to Qumar?"
He points this out to my shoulder blades, which I instantly draw up
into a defensive line. Beside me, Josh stiffens and looks back toward
the doorway in surprise. Toby doesn't even raise his voice but he
knows how to use words so that the statement has the exact effect he
knew it would. My throat gets too tight for more words and sudden
tears…tears of fury, mind you, nothing more…threaten my eyes. He's
going for the low blow here.
And he wins because I don't trust myself to say anything further to
him right now. Not with Josh in the room. Not with these ridiculous
tears in my eyes. It's too sore a place right now, I tell myself.
Soon, though, there will be a reckoning. I will kick his ass.
Josh looks from one of us to the other, and back to the bed. Finally,
his curiosity gets the better of him, and while he thinks I'm
distracted by my stand off with Toby, he reaches down to pick up one
of my sexiest, if I do say so myself, pairs of royal blue bikini-cut
panties.
"My, my, Claudia Jean. Lace?" he murmurs with a smile in the corner
of his mouth, seconds before I slap his hand, rather hard because I'm
furious with Toby, and he yelps and drops them. I pick them up and
begin the process of rolling them again.
Josh is still fascinated. "Seriously, fifteen pair?"
Toby sighs heavily. It's his martyr sigh, and I know it. He ignores
Josh, and now his words are what he imagines as conciliatory. Which
to me, in my present mood, translates right into condescending. "The
President is on antibiotics for the ear thing. We're hoping tomorrow
morning he'll be okay to fly. We'll go on in tonight and start
getting things ready for him. Plan B is that he'll come tomorrow
afternoon and arrive in time for the fundraiser. Worst case scenario,
he gets worse and misses the fundraiser. By the way, we have
scheduled a meeting for him tonight, so you aren't lying. If the
press asks directly about his health, you'll tell them."
"If he can't come tomorrow, there won't be any need to tell the press
anything. They'll run all over it."
Toby's lips press tightly against whatever he was going to say.
Instead he mutters, "then hope he can come tomorrow."
"And I don't need to stay with the press?" I ask. Not that I want to
stay with the press by any means, but because I'm afraid one of them
will suggest it before I do and then I'll feel resentful and hurt
about being left out.
And I'm not unjustified here. They've shut me out before. Recently.
After I screwed up Haiti in a moment when I couldn't afford to be
anything less than completely cautious. Things have been a bit shaky
for as long as I can remember, but more so after that day. They ran
from me like the wildfire of destruction I was to the administration
in that moment. I'm still a little pissed about that too.
Admittedly we feel better after the President's apology in
Manchester, but things for us are different now. And not one of us
knows how to go back to the way it was. We tried it for awhile. With
some success. And then Toby had me announce that we were selling guns
to Qumar. And later called Nancy in to try to smooth my feathers…at
least that was the phrase I heard Josh use for it later, when I
wasn't supposed to be walking by the bullpen at the moment he was
telling Sam about it.
Smoothing my feathers? I still can hear still the words and they
still sound like shattering glass to me. Because I can also still
remember that when I saw Nancy standing in my office, I thought I was
being benched again. Just like Haiti. Which put me instantly on the
defensive.
And when Nancy tried to explain to me why selling guns to these…I
won't call them men because I can't…these *things* who violate the
simplest human rights of their women, of their mothers and wives and
sisters…was necessary, well I may have stepped over any number of
lines. But pardon me for thinking it was a little more serious a
matter than my feathers being ruffled.
But I went into the press room and I bit my tongue and I did my job,
because I was afraid, with good reason, that I wouldn't have it any
longer if I did say what was on my mind.
At the very least, I knew I'd be benched again. And if that happened,
my credibility, would come down around me all over again. Funny thing
about losing your credibility. It isn't something that comes down
hard or fast. Rather it just slips off and falls gently away, like a
silk wrapper pushed from your shoulders. I'd felt it happen before,
any number of times. But never so much as in the silence that had
been so deafening moments after Nancy stood up at my podium to take
questions about Haiti.
My cheeks are growing warmer from the remembered embarrassment.
So I'd done Qumar. And I'd taken a pass. Toby had come to that
briefing. He'd stood at the back of the room and looked as close to
frightened as Toby Ziegler ever had looked, I supposed. And I'd
choked on my nonchalance over the announcement, and Toby had placed
his hands over his heart and given me a gentle look, and I think he
maybe knew what it had cost me just then, but I still couldn't fully
forgive him. Or our administration. Mostly, I couldn't forgive
myself. I was just taking it out on everyone, including myself, but
mostly Toby.
Before, we were changing the world. Now it feels like we're just
another thing that is wrong with it.
"We need you there," Josh says almost gently, and I'm pretty sure he
knows where my mind has gone. "Somebody else will brief the press
tomorrow morning, and you'll take it back when they get to San
Francisco. You're more valuable to us tonight."
Exactly what I needed right then. A little more patronization. "Yeah,
okay," I say and turn back to my suitcase.
"You put together a hell of a press event, CJ. We need you with us,"
Toby says to my turned back and I choose to take it for the rare
accolade and apology I think he means it to be.
"Let me just finish packing."
Toby huffs. Josh grins. And things feel a little better.
"Hey, ready?" Sam calls from the other side of the hallway as he
emerges from his room, his garment bag slung over his shoulder. "We
need to be at the airport at least two hours before the flight, you
know. I called, and they said it should take us about twenty minutes
to get there from here. We'll have cabs downstairs in five minutes.
The airline was a little worried about a storm off the coast that
looks like it's turning for land."
"It's really amazing you didn't get beat up more in school." Josh
shakes his head and murmurs after we stand in bewildered silence for
a minute, watching Sam. "Or now."
Sam looks worried. "CJ, you aren't packed yet?"
"I don't recall asking any of you here," I say fixing a witchy look
on Sam, who grins past my shoulder to where Josh is standing behind
me, holding up my underwear again and saying, "you've got to come see
this. It's a freakish travel underwear collection."
"Travel underwear? You mean like tiny-sized underwear? Because I can
get behind that!" Thus invited, Sam steps further into the room and
stops on my other side. He and Josh continue to admire my collection
while I work on rolling and laying the rest of my suits side by side
across the suitcase, over the layer of jeans and sweaters that go on
the bottom.
"I'm very much into the red ones," Sam confesses to Josh, as if I'm
not there at all. Since I'm basically ignoring them, I suppose it's
just as well.
"Too flashy. Black for me any day," Josh responds and points, but is
careful not to touch, the pair of his choosing. My fingerprints,
which would have been better placed across Toby's face, still redden
the back of the hand he is gesturing with.
"Toby, what's your pick?"
"None at all," Toby says with a quiver of laughter, and I look at
him, surprised. The man has the strangest ability to catch me off
guard. His lips are closed against a wicked grin as he looks back at
me, dark eyes unfathomable except for a spark of mischief.
"Excellent choice!" Sam agrees and Josh nods.
"Are the marvelous three coming tonight?" I ask Toby over my
shoulder, because it's clear Sam and Josh aren't interested in
talking shop. They are crowding me a little now as I try to go back
to rolling and placing clothes in an orderly fashion.
He winces at my choice of words but doesn't comment. "Bruno's staying
here. Doug and Connie aren't. We're meeting them at the airport."
"Goodie." I say. With a sizable measure of sarcasm, and I'm showing
restraint. When I turn back around, Josh is holding one of my bras to
his chest. "Oh my God! You win!" I explode and then snatch the bra
from him and stuff it in the suitcase, along with the rest of my
belongings. It causes me pain to do this. It's complete chaos. Friday
and Sunday's outfits right next to each other, and Saturday's a
little too close to my casual clothes layer for comfort. "Okay?
You're ironing my clothes. Josh. Sam."
"So there's a possibility that we're going to leave Portland after
all?" Toby says, finally straightening from his slump against the
door frame, an expression of hope lighting up his scowl.
"I'm ready, damn it. Let's go. We need to be there two hours ahead of
time and there's apparently a storm blowing off the coast that
Delta's worried about. Which means our flight is going to be
cancelled anyway, but God knows I'd rather sit at the airport than
right here in a comfortable suite with a bed and bathroom that the
scourge of the earth hasn't used."
"You're a little bit of a snob, CJ," Sam observes after they watch me
wrestle my suitcase closed and drag it off the bed. It hits the floor
with what sounds like the intention to fall the twelve floors to the
lobby below.
They stand and watch me. Looking amused. And smug.
"No, really, no, I've got it," I say and pulling out the handle to
roll the suitcase with, I sweep out of my door in a grand fashion,
and just manage not to fall on my face when the wheels catch the
threshold.
*
So, admittedly, I'm a little bit of a snob. After riding in Air
Force One, after going when the President says go, after no trains,
no baggage claim, no gate agents, and no gates for that matter, the
Portland airport is just a little bit of a trial for me. And even
before my first ride on Air Force One, I'd long since developed a
deep rooted mistrust of the airlines' ability to get my bag within
three state lines of the one I was supposed to end up in. After
several experiences with delays and bad weather, I'm not even fully
confident of ending up in the same state I'm supposed to be
travelling to.
It isn't an unfounded fear. Honest to God, my clothes once went to
Paris while I went to West Virginia. Talk about the raw end of that
deal.
I've been called a "clothes horse" by my reporters before. I reacted
strongly. But the truth is, I do love good clothes. That's the only
kind I own. And the $500 they offer you if they lose your suitcase,
well, that isn't going to cover it.
So this is why, when I haul my bag onto the little platform beside
the ticket agent (without the help of any of my three male
companions, the pansies. What do I expect? Josh wouldn't even be
carrying his own bag if Donna were here) my hand stays closed tight
around the strap, even as the cheerful girl slaps the stickers on it
and tries to pull it onto the conveyer that will take it…possibly
forever…out of my sight.
"CJ, it's time to let go," Sam says soothingly and pries my fingers
from my suitcase. I stand sort of forlornly and watch it disappear
through the gray flaps that lead into whatever mysterious place it is
that my luggage will probably go to die.
"Get help," Toby mutters at me as he tosses his own small bag up. If
I could cast a curse on baggage (which apparently I can, but I'm
speaking of other people's bags now) I would see to it that he got
his back full of pineapples and coconut shell bras. I heard of
someone that happened to once. Or maybe it was a nightmare. I don't
really remember.
When we're all checked in, and Josh has given the ticket agent a
small dose of hell over the permissible size of carry-on bags (he
abides the regulations faithfully, but why the hell aren't the people
who don't not dealt with to the fullest extent of the law?) and has
promised to call the FAA on the matter, we take our regulation carry
on bags (although admittedly, mine could be on the outside of
regulation) and start through the airport.
I'm surprised by the little thrill that runs through me as I walk
shoulder to shoulder with Sam Seaborn, following close behind the
purposeful footsteps of Toby Ziegler and Josh Lyman. People turn to
look at us. In some cases they are trying to recall where they've
seen us before, thrown off by our casual attire. Others know who we
are and excitedly turn to their companions, or complete strangers,
and start whispering. I feel a little bit like a celebrity.
I'm proud for a moment. It's something I haven't felt for a long
time, but at first, during the campaign and during our first years,
I'd feel it all the time. A privileged sort of elation to belong in
this boy's club. To be accepted here. To be appreciated by these fine…
finest… minds for my contributions.
I'm a full-grown, extremely confident, extremely intelligent woman.
But the part of me that lived long ago in a too-tall, too-skinny
frame with braces and glasses and never turned any boy's head unless
it was to invite painful teasing, feels this is still some sort of
apology from above. I am walking and laughing with Sam Seaborn, with
his complete attention focused on me, which most women and quite a
few men understandably resent me for.
And it isn't just the fact that they are all such extraordinary men.
It's that they are extraordinary and that they think I am
extraordinary too. I've lost sight of that feeling because I've been
wallowing in my own bitter, self-mocking agony over Haiti for too
long. Maybe I'm finally going to be able to shake it. I just need a
few good days, I plead silently, to get my game back.
I feel it now as Josh grins over his shoulder as we pass Starbucks,
knowing that I'll be giving it a longing stare, which I am, but Sam's
on a schedule and coffee isn't on the itinerary.
I feel it as Sam puts his hand on the small of my back to let me onto
the escalator first, then steps close behind me, his arms braced on
either side of me.
I feel it as Toby drops back to ask me what I think of having the
President enter through the crowd tomorrow evening instead of at
stage left, and agrees with my point that we don't want to offend
anyone that President doesn't stop and talk to.
But then, we arrive at our gate, and Doug and Connie are already
there, lounging across three chairs each with notes spread in every
direction, and the bottom drops out of my new found sense of worth.
These are the people Leo brought in to do the job he didn't have
faith in our ability to do.
I notice it in Sam and Josh and Toby too. The deflation. We hate
these people. We cannot work with them because we don't want to. We
resent them down to the last drop of blood in our veins. They are
ruining everything. They are ruining us.
There is instantly space between us all that wasn't there before. The
space is exactly equal to that of two people we are afraid can do our
jobs better than we can.
To say it's awkward as we take places in the row facing Doug and
Connie and start to pull out our own notes, looking like the kids who
are always late for class and thus always annoying the good students,
is like saying a root canal tickles a little. There is silence, even
as people move all around us. Going places, going home, oblivious to
the war being waged across the plastic seat backs of gate B-6.
We are all studiously watching the pages we hold in our hands, which
might as well be blank, because we aren't reading. Not any of us. Not
Doug and Connie. It's too tense for concentration. Toby looks up from
the speech and watches CNN on the television suspended from the
ceiling, but his heart isn't in it. I see his eyes roam around,
looking for a clock. Seeing that we have nearly an hour before
boarding, his eyes instead shift to the large window where our plane
is sitting patiently. I imagine that if he had it, and if the
security guards wouldn't arrest him immediately, he'd be bouncing his
little pink ball off the glass by now with more zeal than usual.
"This was the earliest flight we could get on?" Toby finally growls,
looking to Doug as if it's his fault.
Doug stares back for a moment, and I can honestly understand the
man's thinning patience. Mind you, I don't care, but I do understand
it. Toby is riding him hard. Maybe it's a stretch to blame flight
scheduling on him.
Doug's been pushed past a line. "Did I hear that correctly? Did Toby
Ziegler, master of grammar and all that is holy, just end a sentence
with a preposition?"
Josh, Sam, and Connie's heads snap back to watch the exchange with a
mixture of awe for what Doug has just said and trepidation for what
Toby might say next. When Toby chuckles, a sound that is completely,
and I mean completely, devoid of humor, my stomach turns over
unexpectedly. I meet Sam's knowing gaze. We've both been on the
receiving end of that particular sound before.
Toby doesn't notice any of this though. He just watches Doug, his
cheek dipping in and out as he grinds his teeth together. Finally, he
smiles, again, without any hint of friendliness moving into his eyes.
And he tries again.
"This was the earliest flight we could get on, asshole?'"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Doug smiles pleasantly, "But seeing as
you could barely get here in time for this one, that's probably just
as well."
And now I want to hurl myself across the carpet between us and wrap
my fingers around Doug's throat, and squeeze until he can't breathe
any more. Sam, either knowing the look of death from me well, or
feeling much the same thing, touches my shoulder with the arm he's
rested across my seat back. Down girl. I can hear him thinking it.
Too many witnesses.
I catch Connie's eye and see her annoyance and imagine she feels the
same way about Toby. Again, the caring by me, not so much.
"Oh, thank God," Sam says on a release of air when Josh's phone
rings.
"Josh Lyman," he begins and then adds, "Hey Leo," with a poignant
look divided between Toby and Doug that suggests that he doesn't want
to have to explain to Leo why there's the sound of fists on flesh in
the background. With another look at them both, in which there is an
absolute lack of confidence, Josh gets up and walks away from us all.
And we revert back to silence strained through our tightly closed
teeth and throw our gazes back to the papers clutched in white-
knuckled grasps.
Josh returns, looking around himself carefully, as if he expects he's
being followed by the mob. He sits down at the edge of his seat and
leans forward, whispering to us. "I have some inside information."
We all look at him expectantly. He savors the moment, the moment
where he knows more than we do.
"Josh—" Toby's ability to make the sound of each of our names into an
explicit threat is really a gift, I think. I have a mental picture of
him standing in front of a mirror and practicing it for hours on end.
Josh takes a deep breath and looks defiant, then catches Toby's
expression and says in a rush, "In fifteen minutes, the FAA will
announce that it is grounding all flights on the North Pacific Coast.
Our flight is cancelled. The storm is already creating trouble South
of here."
"I told you so," I say petulantly. I think, honest to God, my lower
lip pokes out a bit. "Now, we're going to be stuck here for the rest
of our lives."
"We can go back to the hotel, can't we?" Connie suggests.
"Yes, we can," Josh smiles, or smirks, and I'm instantly on guard.
Josh is smirking like he knows something we don't know still. And I
think about asking him to confess, but his gaze slides into mine and
there's a barely perceptible wink and I bite my lip and stand up.
"Well, this has been fun," Sam says by way of parting when Toby, Josh
and I start to wordlessly walk away from Doug and Connie.
Doug and Connie ignore him, and for a minute, I think that we are all
five-year-olds. Oh wait, it might have sounded as if I cared there.
Fighting a last minute urge to turn around and stick my tongue out at
them both, I catch up to Josh and fall in, nearly getting myself run
over by one of those little airport vehicles shuttling old people to
their gates. I give myself a moment to ponder the thought of me in
one of those around the West Wing, flattening reporters. And
staffers. I smile and laugh to myself. Josh looks at me worriedly.
"All right, skippy. Spill it." I say.
"Leo wants us back at the hotel," Josh says as Toby and Sam appear at
our elbows. "That's why he gave us the heads up before the FAA
announced. Wanted to be sure we could get a cab out of here."
"This is hardly cloak and dagger, Joshua," I say and Toby cringes,
because Toby is a hater of all things cliché. Which is why I'm not,
basically.
"Well, I'm thinking that we have time to get down to the car rental
places. Why couldn't we drive to San Francisco?"
"You mean why not, in addition to the fairly perilous wind and ice
storm bearing down on us?" Sam wonders.
"Yeah, in addition to that." Josh says, clapping his hands, urging us
to focus. I'm urged right into annoyance.
"Well, there's the fact that our luggage won't be unloaded for hours.
And you're going to have to drag me kicking and screaming without my
suitcase, I'll tell you right now."
"CJ, seriously. A twelve-step," Josh suggests, and plunges
forward. "We'll claim the bags tomorrow by phone or something. Look,
it's a couple of hours of driving. We'll take turns. If it gets too
rough, we'll find somewhere to stop, but we'll be that much closer
tomorrow."
"It's an eight hour drive," Sam corrects then ponders for a
moment. "Probably more like ten."
Toby adds, "and the President is still going to beat us there. If we
have to stop, Doug and Connie will too."
"No they won't! This storm will blow over in a couple of hours. The
airports could be screwed up for days. They'll have to wait on the
President. And we'll get down there ahead of Doug and Connie and
we'll have time to do it our way. I've got a feeling. We'll be there
by the morning. This storm isn't as bad as they're saying."
"Thank you Flip Spiceland," Sam murmurs, sees our confused looks and
then explains, "he's a weatherman from Atlanta." We continue to
stare. "I really don't know why I know that." He falls quiet again,
and I imagine he's trying to recall exactly why he does know the name
of a weatherman in Atlanta.
Josh's point about beating Doug and Connie appeals to us all, even
though his plan is about two steps inferior to anything Wyle E.
Coyote ever concocted. We're going to race Doug and Connie to San
Francisco. This can only end badly, I know. We'll never catch the
roadrunner. And because our motives are so impure, we're absolutely
destined to fall off a cliff.
"I need to call Leo. So, are you guys…and girl," Josh adds sweetly
because he's sucking up, "game?"
Toby is tired enough of waiting around that he nods, and so does Sam.
Josh looks to me.
"Meep-meep." I say, and they look at me in such similar fashions that
I can only smile in response and know that it will never, ever work.
*******