The First Counsel

* * *

My alarm screams through the bedroom at five-forty-five the following morning. In college, I used to hit my snooze bar at least six times before I got out of bed. In law school, that number shrank by half. Throughout my first few years of government work, I was still able to cling to a single nine-minute pause, but when I reached the White House, I lost that too. Now, I'm up at the first buzzer and staggering to the shower. I didn't get home until almost one-thirty, and the way my head's throbbing, the four hours of sleep obviously weren't enough to make me forget about Simon.

It doesn't take long for me to complete my shower/shave/hair and toothbrush rituals, and I'm proud to say it's been twenty-seven days without hair gel. That's not true, I realize, still blinking myself awake. I used some last night before going out with Nora. Damn. Here we go: hair gel boycott--day one.

I open the door to my apartment and find four newspapers waiting for me: the Washington Post, Washington Herald, New York Times, and Wall Street Journal. With an anxious spot check, I make sure none of them have front-page stories on White House lawyers and newfound cash. So far, so good. Bringing them inside, I scan more headlines and dial Trey's work number.

In ninety minutes, the President's Senior Staff will have their daily seven-thirty meeting in the Roosevelt Room of the White House. There, the Chief of Staff and the President's closest advisors will discuss a variety of issues that will inevitably become the hot topics of the day--and key issues for the reelection. School uniforms, gun control, whatever's the issue of the moment and whatever's going to bring in votes. In my two years in the Counsel's Office, I've never once been invited to the early Senior Staff meeting. But that doesn't mean I won't know what they're talking about.

"Who needs lovin'?" Trey says, answering the phone.

"Hit me with it," I reply, staring down at the front page of the Washington Post.

He doesn't waste any time. "A1, the China story. A2, Chicago welfare. A2, Dem race in Tennessee. A4, Hartson versus Bartlett. A5, Hartson-Bartlett. A6, Hartson-Bartlett. A15, World in Brief: Belfast, Tel Aviv, and Seoul. A17, Federal Page. Editorials--look at Watkins and Lisa Brooks. The Brooks editorial on the census is the one to watch. Wesley's already called her on it."

Wesley Dodds is the President's Chief of Staff. By her, Trey means the First Lady. Susan Hartson. Trey's boss. And one of Wesley's closest confidants. If the two of them are already talking about it, it's on today's agenda and on tonight's news.

"What about numbers?" I ask.

"Same as yesterday. Hartson's up by a dozen points, but it's not a solid dozen. I'm telling you, Michael, I can feel it slipping."

"I don't understand--how can we possibly be--"

"Check out the front page of the Times."

I flip through the pile and pull it out. There, in full color, is a picture of E. Thomas Bartlett--the opposing side's candidate for President of the United States--sitting in the middle of a semicircle while addressing an enraptured group of senior citizens. They look so happy, you'd think he was FDR himself.

"You gotta be kidding me," I moan.

"Believe me, I've already heard it." In a world where, every day, the number of people who actually read their newspaper is shrinking, the front photo is the Cliffs Notes to the news. You get that and the day's yours. "And y'know what the worst part is?" Trey asks. "He hates old people. I heard him say so. I, Tom Bartlett, hate old people. Just like that. He said it." Trey pauses. "I think he hates babies too. Innocent babies."

Trey spends the next five minutes selecting the rest of my morning reading. As he tells me each page, I flip to it and draw a big red star next to the headline. In almost every story, I look for some tie to Simon. It never comes--but when we're done, four full newspapers are ready for reading. It's our daily ritual and was inspired by a former senior staffer who used to have his assistant read the hot articles to him via cell phone while he drove to work. I don't have an assistant. And I don't need a cell phone. All I need is one good friend in the right place.

"So how'd your date go last night?" Trey asks.

"What makes you think I had a date?" I bluff.

"Who do you think you're dealing with here? I see, I hear, I talk, I move, I shake, I--"

"Pester, gossip, and eavesdrop. I know your tricks."

"Tricks?" he laughs. "If you prick us, do we not bleed?"

"Don't cry to me, Argentina. Do you promise to keep it to yourself?"

"For you? What do you think? The only reason I know about it in the first place is because Nora came in here to make sure it was okay."

"And what'd the First Lady say?"

"Don't know. That's when they closed the door. Son of a bitch is thick too. I had my ear against it the entire time. Nothing but mumbling."

"Did anyone else hear?" I ask nervously as I rip a corner off the edge of the newspaper.

"No, it was late and she was using the conference room, so I was the only one here. Now how'd it go?"

"It was fine . . . it was great. She's really great."

Trey pauses. "What're you not telling me?"

The man is good. Too good.

"Let me guess," he adds. "Early in the night, she peacocked around acting like a bad-ass, and you, like the rest of America--including me--found yourself slightly turned on by the thrill of First Family sexual domination. So there you are . . . she's huffing and puffing, and you're hoping she'll blow your house down--but just as you hit the magical moment, just as you're about to sign on the skimpily dotted line, you get a whiff of the innocent girl inside--and right there, you back off, determined to save her from her own wild ways."

I pause a second too long. "I don't know what you're--"

"That's it!" Trey cries. "Always raring to play protector. It's the same thing with that old pro bono client you had during the campaign--the more he lied to you and led you along, the more you were determined he needed your help. You do it every time you get the bird-with-a-broken-wing face. Forever ready to save the world . . . except with Nora, swinging to the rescue makes you feel like a rock star . . ."

"Who says I want to be a rock star?"

"You work in the White House, Michael--everyone wants to be a rock star. It's the only reason we take the low pay and the abusive hours . . ."

"Oh, so now you're going to tell me you'd do this job for just anyone? That Hartson and the issues are all bullshit? That all we're here for are the bragging rights?"

Trey takes a long, silent moment to answer. Idealism dies hard--especially when the President's involved. As it is, we spend every day changing lives. Sometimes we get a chance to make them better. Corny as it sounds, both of us know it's a dream job. Eventually, Trey adds, "All I'm saying is, even if you liked her, you wouldn't have asked her out if it didn't give you some sort of inside track to Daddy."

"You really think I'm that conniving?"

"You really think I'm that naive? She's the honcho's kid. One leads right to the other. Whatever you told yourself, the political lizard in you can't ignore it. But take it from me--just because you're dating the President's daughter, doesn't mean you're the First Counsel."

I don't like the way he says that, but I can't help thinking about why Nora and I went out in the first place. She's beautiful and thrillingly wild. It wasn't just about a career move. At least, I pray I'm better than that.

"So are you gonna tell me what happ--"

"Can we please talk about it later?" I interrupt, hoping it'll go away. "Now you got any other predictions for the morning?"

"Take my word on the census. It's gonna be big. Bigger than Sir Elton at Wembley, at the Garden, even live in Australia."

I roll my eyes at the only black person in existence who's obsessed with Elton John. "Anything else, Levon?"

"Census. That's all it's going to be today. Learn how to spell it. Cen-sus."

I hang up the phone and read the census story first. When it comes to the politics of politics, Trey's never wrong. Even among political animals--including myself--there's no one better. For four years, even before I saved his ass on the campaign, he's been the First Lady's favorite; so even though he's only a Deputy Press Secretary in title, it doesn't go into her office without first going through his fingers. And believe me, they're great fingers to know.

I blow through the Post while shoveling my way through a quick bowl of Lucky Charms. After last night, I could use them. When the cereal's gone, I go through the Times and the Journal, then I'm ready to go. With the last paper under my arm, I leave my one-bedroom apartment without making my bed. With the loss of my snooze bar and hair gel, I'm slowly acknowledging that, at twenty-nine years old, adulthood is upon me. The messy bed is simply a final act of denial. And one I won't be giving up soon.

It takes me three stops on the Metro to get from Cleveland Park to Farragut North, the closest station to the White House. On the ride, I knock off half of the Herald. I can usually get through all of it, but Simon's escapades make for an easy distraction. If he saw us, it's over. I'll be buried by lunch. Looking down, I see an inky handprint where my fingers grasp the paper.

The train pulls in and it's almost eight o'clock. When I'm done climbing the escalator with the rest of the city's suit-and-tie crowd, I'm hit in the face with a wave of D.C. heat. The remnant summer air is like licking grease, and the intensity of the bright sun is disorienting. But it's not enough to make me forget where I work.