"I swear to God, if I have to eat one more slab of baked, broiled or grilled chicken this weekend"
Charlie and I are wandering the bowels of the Staples Center drinking Coronas I liberated from the media's booze supply. We're hiding, well not so much hiding as we are plotting a way to kidnap our girlfriends and find some red meat.
It's a quest.
Charlie takes a drink and then points his bottle in my direction. "I hear you. Since when is potato salad green?"
I shrug. Charlie, at least, has been out and about. The President had a thing at a local Baptist church. Charlie got to go, so did Sam, Toby, CJ, Carol, Donna and Bruno's staff. Me? I was stuck in the hotel trying to placate pissed off donors, half of whom were hitting on me, by ironing out the final details for a huge post-nomination blow-out in Hollywood. They did not teach party planning at Harvard or Yale. Then there's my luck with planning. Yeah, this should about be a disaster.
Although if Matt Skinner ever needs a date, I have phone numbers for him.
"So, can you swing us a car?" I ask.
"Gina says she has to come with us, but we can have a Suburban."
"I want a convertible, Charlie. I want to drive halfway to San Francisco with the wind in our hair."
We're looking for the Lakers' locker room but he stops checking doors and stares at me in disbelief. "Josh, do you even want Zoey and I on this outing? Or do you just want to get laid? Josh and Donna's Excellent Adventure?"
"Bingo!" I call, hitting pay dirt when I open an unmarked door. "I can't get laid. I'm not allowed to be alone with Donna on the campaign trail."
"Wow. This place is huge!" Charlie's laughing at me and turning a circle in the middle of the room. "You need Zoey and I to chaperone?"
"God, this is humiliating." I'm forty years old and I have to be chaperoned by the President's twenty-one year-old daughter and her boyfriend.
***
It takes me less than an hour to arrange for a '65 Mustang convertible from a local Democratic bigwig. I have to invoke God, the President and the IRS, but I swing it. Gina agrees on the condition that she gets to bring a trail car.
Now it's just convincing Leo to let us have the rest of the day off.
"You want to do what?" Leo looks up from the latest polling data on California. I saw it earlier. We're so far ahead and if we don't spend another dollar here we'll still win by fifteen points.
"I want to take Donna up the coast to watch the sunset," I repeat.
"Alone?"
"No. Charlie and Zoey are coming with us."
"Does the President know about it?" When I don't meet his gaze, Leo glares at me. "Josh, what kind of hare-brained scheme is this?"
"One to get actual food for dinner," I admit, still staring at my shoes.
"So the White House Deputy Chief of Staff and the Personal Aide to the President have a plan to slip away with their girlfriends, during the Democratic National Convention, to eat red meat for a meal?"
I'm not sure if he's amused or pissed.
"Come on, Leo. We haven't eaten anything but chicken and the odd piece of patty-shaped vegetarian tofu crap since that day in Iowa almost three weeks ago. Nobody is going to miss us tonight. Tonight is about Hoynes' speech. The media types are looking for his staffers." I'm whining, I'll freely tell you that. I want a cheeseburger. At this point, I will kill for a cheeseburger. Hell, I'll give up sex for a month for a cheeseburger.
Oh wait, I haven't had sex in almost a month, anyway.
"Do the women know about this plan?"
"Gina's in on it."
"You're kidnapping your girlfriends to go on a quest for beef?"
Inspiration strikes. "I'll bring you one back."
"No lettuce, no tomatoes, no ketchup," he orders. "Get out of here."
"Thanks, Leo!"
I take off running down the hall, like a ten-year-old, to the suite I'm sharing with Sam. I've got fifteen minutes to change and meet the guy with the car downstairs. Charlie is corralling the women at the Staples Center; Gina is raiding their rooms for more comfortable clothing. We're rendezvousing at the corner of Figueroa and 12th in twenty minutes. I'm not sure where we are going after that, but I'm sure we'll figure something out. Charlie has a map.
The car is perfect: A 1965 Ford Mustang convertible, black with white leather interior. The guy's got the top down for me already. After convincing him that I am capable of driving a stick, I give him a hundred bucks and tell him he can pick up tomorrow morning.
***
Charlie is up to something. Five minutes ago, he pulled us out of the media suite where Zoey was finishing up an interview with MTV. He handed us a bag with instructions to change clothes and meet him back there as fast as we can.
"What do you think is going on?" Zoey asks, emerging from a stall wearing shorts, sandals and a cute halter-top.
I'm in the process of putting my hair up. "I have no idea, but I'm sure this somehow involves my idiot fiancé." I'm not sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.
The First Daughter touches up her lipstick. "We're wearing decent clothes, so I'm sure Gina was involved," she comments. "It can't be that bad. Come on, Donna, lighten up!"
Zoey is right, I'm just going to go with the flow here. "I don't care what it is, if it means I don't have to eat chicken for dinner tonight."
One last look in the mirror and we head out the door. Charlie leads us outside to a corner near the Staples Center. We're only there for a moment before a shiny, black convertible pulls to a stop next to us.
"Your chariot awaits, ladies," Josh calls.
Charlie shakes his head, "In other words, hurry up before the light changes."
We pile in like a pack of teenagers going cruising on a Friday night.
"So, Brother Joshua," Zoey asks. "Where are we going?"
Josh flashes me a dimpled grin before answering her. "On a quest for the perfect cheeseburger."
"Please tell me you have a map?" I question. Josh's plans tend to be not well thought out.
"Charles, my friend? Prove to the lovely Donnatella that we are not completely inept."
The young man leans forward and hands me a map with the route highlighted in green. "Rumor has it there are places along this highway that have no names, just excellent red meat."
"No chicken?" Zoey and I both ask in unison.
"No chicken, tonight, ladies," Josh announces, pulling onto the freeway. "Tonight is for beef and beer."
***
In a minor miracle, I manage to find the Pacific Coast Highway without getting lost and without losing our trail car. Charlie and Zoey are snuggled into the backseat, oblivious to everything but each other. I've got one arm around Donna, the other on the steering wheel; her head resting on my shoulder.
"You're good," she tells me as we cruise through Santa Monica and Malibu, gawking at the beachside homes to the left and the ones clinging to the cliffs on our right. "If it were dark, I'd prove how good."
Did she just offer what I think she offered?
Three hours of driving lands us in the tiny, seaside town of Gaviota at about 5:30. A little investigation takes us to a hole-in-the-wall local bar. The guy at the gas station said it has the best, greasiest burgers in town. He looked like an expert. Clint and Gina say they'll run through the Wendy's and then wait outside for us.
Evidently, they never get tourists. Everybody stops and stares until the bartender tells us a grab an open table, Georgia will be right there.
Georgia is your stereotypical, small-town waitress. Middle-aged, a little overweight, a little gray, a lot of attitude and that piece of gum. She reminds me of what the hell was that character's name on Alice? No, not Alice, the tall one with the gum and the kiss my grits' line. Her.
Anyway, Georgia is chewing her gum and looking at me. "A pitcher of Bud, one of Bud Light and four glasses," I start.
"I need to see some IDs," she interrupts, looking at everyone but me.
Zoey, Donna and Charlie hand over their potpourri of identification. Satisfied, she turns her attention back to me. "Okay, a pitcher of Bud, a pitcher of Bud Light. You want onion rings or something?"
"Onion rings would be good," we all nod in agreement.
Over beer, onion rings and grease burgers, the four of us discuss everything but the campaign. Donna has already asked Zoey to be a bridesmaid, so they're discussing dresses.
***
We start talking wedding and the boys' eyes glaze over before they wander off. I'm trying to decide what colors to go with for a March ceremony. I think I can get away with something darker because of the season, but I'm not sure. Zoey keeps suggesting silver and hunter green.
Hunter green for the dresses would be okay; it wouldn't clash with anyone's hair or skin tone. I picked out a style for them already at a bridal shop in D.C., where I found the perfect dress.
"You know, four years ago, I never would have pictured Josh this mellow." Zoey's reached the stage of drunk where she becomes deeply profound. "I mean, Mandy drove him insane. She like, abused him or something."
I have already reached the next stage of intoxication. The one in which I think I can explain the mystery of Josh Lyman's sensitive side. "He's got this almost little boy side to him that he won't let out. Like if he does, somebody will come along and beat him up for it. He's gotten burned more than a few times by being nice."
***
Charlie and I feed quarters into the jukebox while the women talk about the wedding. I think I punched in every Jimmy Buffett song they have, everything from Cheeseburger in Paradise to Son of a Son of a Sailor.
I am a closet Parrothead.
We're on our fourth round of beer, Donna has moved from her chair to my lap and my favorite song comes on. Apparently, other people like this song too. Most of the bar decides to sing along.
Of all the things I have seen during political campaigns, henceforth, the funniest one will be the Zoey Bartlet and Donnatella Moss rendition of the Jimmy Buffett classic "Why Don't We Get Drunk."
*
"I really do appreciate the fact you're sittin' here
Your voice sounds so wonderful
But your face don't look too clear
So, Barmaid, bring a pitcher, another round of brew
Honey, why don't we get drunk and screw."
*
Charlie and I are almost falling out of our chairs laughing at the two of them howling along to the words. Zoey is standing on a chair singing into her beer glass. Donna is still sitting on my lap. The impromptu lap dance I'm getting is incredibly arousing.
*
"Why don't we get drunk and screw
I just bought a waterbed filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen, Honey, I don't think that's true
So, why don't we get drunk and screw."
*
"Hey, Josh?" Donna whispers in my ear, taking note of my erection. "Let's get drunk and screw."
"Donna, you're already drunk," I point out. I am, unfortunately, sober. I stopped after the first one, figuring I'd have to drive back to Los Angeles.
She pouts for a second. "Let's just get to the screwing part then," she decides, not at all quietly.
Georgia, of course, picks that moment to deliver the burger I ordered to take back to Leo. "If you all want to see the sunset, you better get headed that way."
I leave enough cash on the table to cover the bill and a healthy tip before gathering the drunkards and heading for the car, carrying a strategically placed cheeseburger.
***
This no sex on the campaign trail is frustrating the hell out of me. It's been almost three weeks. I've tried every form of seduction I know to break through Josh's resolve to keep his promise to Leo.
Thus the lap dance earlier.
We're perched on a pile of rocks on a beach watching the sun sink below the Pacific. I'm sitting between Josh's legs, leaning back against him. His chin is resting on my shoulder and his arms are wrapped around me.
This is paradise.
"I want to do this forever," I sigh.
The sun finally drops out of sight. "I love you," Josh whispers before standing up.
"We could sneak over there," I point towards a deserted stretch of beach.
Josh's response is to laugh and not take any notice of my pouting, while dragging me back to the car
***
Donna is drunk, so I'm ignoring the fake pout. This is an interesting switch. Usually I'm the one getting drunk, so I easily recognize the touchy-feely drunk stage that's causing me to practically carry her back to the car. Charlie and Zoey are passed out in the Suburban; Gina gives me a wave as they take off.
Thus leaving me with a drunk, giggling and horny Donnatella Moss.
"What's so funny?" I ask, pulling the Mustang onto U.S. Highway 1 South.
"You," she says, running her hand up the inside of my thigh. "You drove us three hours for a cheeseburger and a sunset. Who are you and what have you done with Joshua Lyman, Presidential attack dog?"
She punctuates the words attack dog' by squeezing poor Gary and Patrick.
I swallow a groan. "What's the matter with Josh Lyman, sensitive new age guy?"
Donna is undoing my shorts now. "See, that Josh would argue that what I am about to do would constitute breaking his promise to Leo."
***
"Donna, I'm trying to drive," Josh protests weakly but adjusting his hips nonetheless.
"You better not have an accident then," I tell him.
***
"Oh, God."
***
I wonder how long it will take him to beg. I'm trying to wear down his resistance in the hope there will be reciprocity tonight.
"Donna?" His voice is very strained.
Here it comes, I am da woman.
***
"Either do it, and when we get back to D.C. I'll make it worth your wait, or stop."
I am capable of compromise.
***
He's offering me a compromise?
I can work with this. "It will involve strawberries, whipped cream and champagne?"
Josh nods.
I bend back over his crotch.
***
I pull over at the next gas station so she can get a soda and I can zip my pants back up.
***
It's just after midnight when we swing by Leo's suite together so Josh can drop off the bribe.
"The drive okay?" Leo asks with a smirk, taking the greasy bag.
Josh shrugs a little. "Yeah. Why?"
"Because your boxers are caught in your zipper."