The World: According to Rachael (10 page)

“So,” I reply as I begin unwrapping the tape from my fingers, “exactly a year from tomorrow, I’m out of a job.”

You know how they say that if you speak your fears out loud that you’ll feel better? Well, that’s just not the case. Panic, that evil little bugger, twists my stomach into something resembling a balloon animal at a child’s birthday party.

His jump-rope stops, hitting the ground with a dull thud. “That happens in January, when the new president is sworn in.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I reply as I stand up and begin packing my boxing gear in my black gym bag. “That’s when I officially lose my paycheck, but a year from tomorrow is when I go from running the White House to transitioning my job duties to the next White House Chief of Staff.”

Malik, being the angel that he is, doesn’t try to minimize the anxiety that is clearly radiating off of me like I’m Chernobyl. Instead, he walks over and punches me lightly on the bicep. “You know, kid, I think you’ve got a future in boxing.”

A genuine smile spreads across my face. “You’re absolutely right.” I touch my temple as if I have a bright idea. “I’ll be a forty-year-old female boxer. My name? Raaaachael “A Day Late” Earrrrrly. I’ll make millions,” I state sarcastically.

I grab my bag and head to the waiting car after I bid Malik goodbye. My Secret Service detail has been instructed to stay and guard the entrance. My Monday, Wednesday, and Friday sessions with Malik are a habit. The Secret Service gets antsy when their detail has a pattern.

“Bye Rach,” Malik calls as I push open the glass doors. “Keep my suggestion in mind,” He chuckles.

I give him a wave over my shoulder and let the glass door slam behind me. As I stroll to the waiting car, I realize that yesterday, when I was with Graham, I only briefly thought about my looming deadline instead of obsessing over it.

“Maggie,” I say as my way of greeting the woman who I couldn’t function without. She’s at her desk, computer turned on, and typing. The coffee pot is percolating in the corner and filling the office with smells of its rich goodness. I normally beat her to the office. This is unusual.

I check my watch as I pause at my office doors. Yes. It’s seven o’clock, just as I’d thought. “Why did you get here so early? Have a nice weekend?”

Without moving her eyes from the computer screen, she says, “I needed to finish up a few things that I thought were done on Friday, but then over the weekend I realized that they weren’t really finished up yet, so I came in early to get them done so I could start my day with all the new things that I need to do.”

“You must be able to hold your breath for, like, two minutes.” I drop my hand from my office doorknob and turn to look at my assistant.

“Sorry. You know my family says that I was born without the ability to pause or add a period to my speech,” she replies, continuing to type away.

Finally, she turns to look at me and pauses the flurry of activity on her keyboard. “At about two a.m. I sat up straight in bed and said, ‘I’m going in early today to get my work finished.”’

I smile adoringly at Maggie. She’s in her mid-forties, never been married, and keeps pictures of her cats on her desk. Her hair could use an updated cut, and her makeup is dated, but she still has a great shape that she maintains by eating a meticulous diet. One night when she’d drunk a little too much for her—so probably two beers—she admitted that she’d been in love once. His name was Derek, and she’d adored him. Turned out that he’d cheated on her with her best friend. She had decided to throw herself into her work, because as Maggie put it, “Work is the best lover one can have. You try hard at it, and it rewards you with a paycheck and praise. Not like a relationship, where you give it your all, and it turns around and buries its head in Molly McCall’s panties.”

I’ve thought about the conversation a lot over the years, and I’ve come to agree with Maggie. Your career never cheats on you, or tries to force you into marriage and two kids.

“When you get to a stopping point, come in my office and let’s talk about my agenda today for the staff meeting. Also, I need for you to pull the Secret Service report on Graham Jackson. He’s Drake’s lacrosse coach and teacher. I’m sure he was properly vetted before Drake joined the team.”

“Will do,” Maggie says as she turns back to her computer.

I hang my jacket and purse on the coat rack in the corner of my office. Next, I carry my tote filled with weekend reading to my desk, and begin to unpack while my computer boots up. Just as I’m logging into the White House network, Maggie enters my office without knocking. We have a code. If I don’t have any visitors she moves freely between our offices. However, if I’m in with someone, she uses the proper protocol.

“Here’s what I found on Graham Jackson,” she says handing me a file folder instead of a binder. “Not much.”

I take it from her and place it on top of my weekend reading. “Not much is better than nothing.”

She turns and exits.

I eagerly grab the folder and open it up. Time to find out what the government knows about Coach Jackson. “Let’s see …”

I skim over the quick facts. His birthday is actually on Independence Day—July 4. Hmm … that’s interesting. Nothing else stands out, except he’s seven years younger than I am. It’s not an issue for me, and I’m assuming that it’s not a problem for him after the little joke he cracked yesterday.

As if he can read my mind, my phone dings. I grab it, and see that he has sent me a text. I open it and smile when I read the first couple of lines.

Graham:
Reason #5 that MMA is better than boxing: You have to become a master of many different fighting styles instead of just one. Good morning. I hope you slept well.

I reply.

Me:
Reason #9 that boxing is better than MMA: Ever heard of jack of all trades, but a master of none? I can sleep when I’m dead. Have a great day enriching the minds of American youth.

After hitting
send
, I close the file and put it in the stack of folders on my desk that need to be re-filed. Boring is good. I like that there isn’t much on Graham.

He doesn’t reply, and I lose myself in my emails. Maggie enters my office at eight a.m., and we work on the agenda for the staff meeting.

Promptly at nine o’clock, my office fills with either the head of every department in the White House or a representative. They carry their cups of coffee and take their seats around my conference table. It’s the Vice-President’s offices turn to bring the donuts. Everyone swarms the pastries, reminding me of ants at a picnic.

When I join them at the head of the table, Maggie to my right, they quiet down and look at me expectantly.

“Good morning everyone. I hope you all had a great weekend, didn’t do anything that will wind up on TMZ, and got some rest, because this week officially begins the last year that we have jobs. This year will define how history will remember President Jones’ administration. Let me make sure that my message is loud and clear—for seven years, we’ve worked very hard to ensure that this White House is not caught with its pants down. We’ve kept leaks to a minimum, not embarrassed the President, and lobbied congress hard for the issues that have been the platform of this administration. This year, we step it up a notch. Remember, when the new president is elected, we will all be without jobs. This is the year that defines the rest of your career. Let’s all think of this as a launching pad to future successes, and not the highlight of our resumes.”

I pause and take a sip of my coffee.
God, I wish that I believed the last part of my motivational speech.
“Okay, our first order of business is the press. Evan, I caught a radio show this morning that was a bit discombobulating. It’s three guys that call themselves the Sons of Liberty. They’re on some Sirius Radio Station …”

Evan raises his hand, stopping me. “They’ve been on our radar screen for a while now. I’m familiar with them.”

“This morning, they indicated that they had a source inside the White House, and even dropped some intel on a conversation that was held in the President’s private office with me and six other men. I want to know who the source is.”

“Interested in bringing NSA into this?” he asks as he spins the pen in his hand.

I roll my eyes and take another sip of coffee. “These guys are small potatoes. Let’s start with Google.”

“I don’t think that’s enough, Rachael,” Evan says clicking his pen. “We’ve been keeping tabs on them for about six months. These guys are ghosts. Their salary is wire transferred to an offshore account. They record out of a secret location. Sirius doesn’t know their identities.”

Michael Fitzpatrick, my deputy White House Chief of Staff, speaks up, “They’re pretty friendly toward President Jones.” A huge grin breaks out across his face, as if he has something epic to tell me. “They’ve come up with cartoon characters for some of us. Know which one you are?”

My face turns to stone. “Enlighten me, please.”

As if it’s even possible, his smile grows larger. “You’re Tinker Bell.”

Every head in the room whips in my direction, waiting to see what my reaction is going to be. The comparison makes me boiling angry, but I’ve learned in this world that you never let anyone know that you’re bothered. “Blonde, fair, petite, I can see the resemblance. Dare I ask which cartoon character the President is?”

Michael and Evan snicker, which further adds to my annoyance. “President Jones is Hank Hill from
King of the Hill.
”

I deadpan, “Any other characters that are noteworthy?”

“They call the First Lady Jessica Rabbit and Drake Bart Simpson,” Evan adds.

“Okay. Let’s stay on top of the Sons of Liberty. Let’s lean on Sirius and see if we can determine the hosts’ identities. Evan, have someone in your department listen to all of the episodes and summarize them for us. I have a gut feeling that these guys are going to be a thorn in our side this last year.”

“Will do,” Evan reassures me as he quickly makes notes in his tablet.

“Just a second, Rachael,” Michael stops me from moving on. “Do you know who the Sons of Liberty are?”

“Historically, or referring to the guys on the radio?”

“Historically.”

“Absolutely,” I say addressing the whole table. “The Sons of Liberty were a secret society that formed before the American Revolution that were concerned about the colonist rights, and looked for abuses of power by the British. The founding members are some of the most influential men in the Americans’ fight for independence from the British, and the building of our nation’s government.” I’m so happy that after I read Graham’s file and before I started on my email, I Googled the Sons of Liberty.

Michael adds, “The name has also been used throughout history by groups wanting change in our government.”

“What’s your point, Michael?” I ask, while I check my watch. I don’t want to spend the entire meeting focused on a radio program.

“My point is that there’s a reason that these guys have chosen the name Sons of Liberty. I think we should take them a little more seriously.”

I can’t stop myself. “Noted. But today is the first time that I’ve heard of them. If you think they’re such an issue, why haven’t you brought it to my attention? That is your job, if I’m not mistaken.”

Michael Fitzpatrick is as useless as Roan Perez.

Michael looks mad enough to hit me. His response is to turn to Evan and throw him under the bus. “That’s the White House Press Office’s job.”

I decide to change the subject and quickly, before Evan and Michael take this outside, old western style.

The rest of the meeting drags on for another hour. It’s a necessary evil of my job, but I find myself thinking about how nice it will be when I no longer have from nine till eleven blocked off on my calendar every day. I vow that my first full day back in civilian life, I’m going to get my haircut and a pedicure during those times.

As everyone meanders out of my office, my receptionist, Joanne, slides in the door. She walks over to me and whispers, “You have a delivery.”

“That’s fine. Bring it in.” I sound as perplexed as I feel.

I begin checking email when something red, white, and blue enters my peripheral vision. I pick my head up and stare as my mouth gapes open. “What in the hell is that?” I ask.

Joanne is hidden behind a red vase filled with a spray of red carnations, white roses, and blue hyacinth flowers. There are even tiny American flags sticking out of it.

She sets it on the edge of my desk and hurriedly retreats to Maggie’s side, who has joined this sideshow. I stand up and walk around my desk and extract the card.

Rachael, you don’t seem like a flowers kind of girl, but I think we share a similar sense of humor. I hope you find these flowers as awful as I do. I had a great time yesterday and look forward to sharing more lazy Sundays with you. Graham.

I burst into laughter. I hate cut flowers. When someone gives cut flowers, what they’re essentially saying is, “Here’s something that will make you sneeze, drop pollen and petals all over your desk, and in seven days they’ll stink so badly that you’ll have to air out the room. Oh! And now you must decide what to do with the atrocious, cheap vase that they came in.”

I hate flowers.

But I love these.

Quickly, I grab my phone and snap a picture. I text it to my best friend in Texas with the words,
Best first-date flowers … Ever!

Instantly, I received a response from Caroline.
Whoever he is, marry him
.

I’m smiling at my phone and finally look up at the two ladies who are wondering what in the world is going on. Realizing that I owe them an explanation, I say, “They’re an inside joke.”

Joanne asks if she should move them to our reception area.

Feeling very proprietary of my patriotic flowers, I tell her no. When my office is empty, I carry the vase to a table by a window that looks out onto the manicured White House lawn. I grab my phone and pull up the picture of the flowers that I sent to Caroline. I compose a thank you text to Graham.

Me:
They’re grotesque in a great way. You made my morning. Thank you.