II
"Josh."
Josh looked up as his assistant appeared in the doorway. "Donna. We've got a nosecount?"
Donna pulled a face. "We're eleven votes down."
Josh ran a hand through his messy hair, but nodded slowly. "Eleven. Okay. I can get eleven."
Donna looked sceptical. "Leo says it's a write-off."
"We need this victory, Donna," Josh said seriously.
"I'm not saying you don't, I'm saying you can't get it."
"I can get it."
"Josh-"
"I can get it!"
Donna gave him a small, quizzical smile. "Really?"
"Yeah!" His fierce affirmation did more to make her nervous than reassure her. It meant he was psyching himself up for a course of action he wasn't totally sure would work. After a moment, he sighed, and said more quietly "We really need this, Donna."
"Yeah."
He smiled briefly, then straightened up. "I need you to get on the phone and take the temperature of about two hundred Congressmen."
She gave him a look. "Did I mention it's coming up to my birthday?"
"It's next Friday," Josh pointed out.
"Yeah, and by the sound of it I'm gonna be on the phone 'til way past then."
"Well no, 'cuz the vote's in four days, so-"
"You really think you can rescue this, Josh?" she asked softly.
"Of course!" he insisted. "For I am Joshua Lyman, master tactician."
She smirked. "Nice modesty there, Joshua." But it was true; this kind of close-to-the-wire battle was what Josh did best. If this bill could be rescued, he was the man to do it.
"Get on that phone, woman!" he ordered, pointing.
"Would you like a list of acceptable birthday gifts?" she offered brightly.
"We're out of the skiing season," he pointed out.
"But a tropical holiday is redeemable all the year round."
"See how you manage to ask me for a lavish gift and time off, all in one expensive package?"
"I'm economical like that," Donna nodded. "Or you could get me a new car. Fun and practical."
"Card, Donna," Josh corrected. "It's traditional to give your assistant a birthday card."
"You don't get to be a master tactician by following the ignorant masses, Joshua."
"I can't afford to buy you a car, Donna," he objected. "I can't even afford to buy me a car."
"I'm open to a variety of electrical goods," she offered. "Many of them available for under a thousand dollars."
"Get out."
"And you'd be surprised at the prices many state-of-the-art sound systems are going for these days-"
"Out."
She went to make the calls. And a list of possible birthday gifts.
Sam buried his face in the crook of his arm and wondered if he could get away with going to sleep. It was late, and it hardly seemed to matter if he was working or not - since everything he wrote, Toby immediately tore apart.
It was getting to the point where he couldn't be sure if it was him or Toby anymore. Was his boss hacking apart perfectly good drafts for no reason, or was he churning out complete and utter crap every time? He'd lost all ability to judge his own work.
He found it difficult to look at anything objectively, lately. It all seemed to blend together into one great big, sucking black hole of despair. Nothing ever went right, nothing they did served any purpose, and nothing ever changed. He was beginning to wonder why he bothered turning up to work at all.
To be ritually abused, apparently. Toby burst out of his office, eyes flashing as he brandished the latest draft on Thursday's after-dinner speech.
"What is it this time?" he groaned into the cloth of his shirt.
"Sam, this is not a speech!" Toby growled. "This is a collection of meaningless words jammed together."
"It's bad?" Sam surmised. He should probably care about that, shouldn't he? He was finding it surprisingly hard to.
"It's bad, Sam!" Toby agreed thunderously. "It's not even just bad - parts of it don't even make sense. There are actual parts of this speech which do not make sense! You are disregarding not just the rules of good writing, but the rules of grammar and sentence construction!"
"So I'm guessing it's a no on this draft, then?" Sam said sharply.
"Sam, what were you thinking when you wrote this? Were you thinking anything at all? Is your brain still connected to your writing hand?"
"Well, I don't know, Toby! Maybe I was thinking this is the fifth time this week you've made me rewrite a stupid after-dinner speech, and it's not even Tuesday!"
Toby blinked at this uncharacteristic aggression from his deputy, but it wasn't in his nature to take someone else's shouting without giving it right back. "Obviously, if I keep making you rewrite the speech, then there's something wrong with the ones you've written!"
"Fine!" Sam threw his hands up. "Clearly, you should be the one writing this speech, since it's obviously beyond my capabilities. Seeing as it's, you know, an after-dinner speech, and God knows those are the pinnacle of the speech-writing art."
Sam fell silent for a long moment, and then rubbed his suddenly tired eyes. "I'm going home," he said, shaking his head. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and stomped out.
CJ or Josh might have stormed right after him, harangued him until they got some kind of response, but Toby just stared after him for a moment, then went back into his office.
"Gimme another beer."
Home, as it turned out, was a countertop in a dim but mercifully quiet bar. He was experimenting with the theory that getting drunk might make him feel better. So far, it wasn't working. Maybe something a little heavier than beer would turn the trick...
Somebody dropped onto the stool beside him. "Hey, can I get one of those too? Thanks."
He looked up to see a young blond man in a brown leather jacket smiling brightly at him. "Hey. You look like you need a friend."
Sam snorted into his beer. "Huh. Pity my friends can't see that."
"Oh boy." His new companion pulled a face. "I was thinking of buying you a drink, but it sounds like your problem might be out of my price range."
Sam smiled wryly and took a sip of his drink. "Unfortunately, I think it's out of mine as well."
"Got terminal cancer?"
"No."
"Going to jail?"
"Not so far as I know."
"Catch your other half in bed with multiple members of the New York Yankees baseball team?"
Sam couldn't help a small smile. "No."
"Then what's your problem, stranger?" asked the man beside him.
He shrugged. "Oh, you know. Generally contributing to the downfall of society and the destruction of a once great nation."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Wow. That's quite an achievement."
"Well, you know. I'm a politician," he explained. "And before that, I was a lawyer."
The other man reared back in his seat and made a quick warding gesture. "My God! You don't look like the root of all evil."
"Looks can be deceptive."
"Mostly, you look like you're planning to get hammered."
"Well, okay, they're not always deceptive." Sam looked hopefully up at the bartender. "'Nother beer?"
"One here as well?" asked his companion. He looked sideways at Sam. "Mind if I keep you company while you're drowning your sorrows?"
Sam shrugged. "Well, hey, if you're into recreational depression. Sam Seaborn."
"Steven Radcliffe," offered the other guy, with a smile.