Boomsday

Chapter 32

Gideon Payne, too, had been having a hard time getting through to the president, and this chafed. He was even having a hard time getting through to Bucky Trumble. Just who did Mr. Buckminster Trumble think he was? The White House might be busy, but Gideon was not used to having hours go by before his phone calls were returned. The cheek of these people.

It had been a tumultuous couple of months. First the deplorable episode at Monsignor Montefeltro’s involving the Russian jezebels. His watch-gone. Probably hocked by the strumpets for drug money. He still unconsciously patted his vest pockets for it. He’d hired a private investigator to scour the capital’s pawnshops and antique jewelry stores, looking for it.

Then there was the commission and Cassandra Devine’s surprise gesture of reconciliation. What had prompted that? Was it really just the sight of his bandaged head? Or had some deeper, inner decency prompted it? He yearned for another touch of her hand but knew-knew in his heart of hearts-that there would not be another. She and Jepperson, that ass Yankee opportunist, were going to marry, so the rumor was.

As for the work of the commission itself, Gideon had made his feelings plain to Chairman Bascombe P. Bledsoe. Bledsoe seemed determined to put an end to the wretched business with his “Further study is needed” ruling. Jepperson’s Transitioning bill was now stalled in the Senate, going nowhere.

Meanwhile, Elderheaven’s profits were up 50 percent, thanks to the new actuarial software that Sidney, his chief operating officer, had purchased-at some considerable cost-from that software company in California. The software allowed Elderheaven to be selective in deciding which old folks to admit, and so far, it had been brilliantly accurate. The recent admissions had been dropping like flies, right and left, after signing over their life savings, leaving Elderheaven awash in cash. Which was good, since Elderheaven and Gideon needed cash to settle the damn Arthur Clumm-related lawsuits. But at this rate, the company would be able to expand, rolling up more and more nursing homes. The future looked very green indeed. And there was nothing like money to pump a man up, fill him with confidence. Gideon felt like sashaying on down to the White House, banging on the door, and demanding that the president declare his support-wholehearted support, none of this no-objection-in-principle gargle-for Gideon’s memorial to the 43 million. The time for equivocation was over. Had he not fought the president’s battles on the commission? Gideon was owed.

“Gideon! I’m so sorry not to have called you until now,” said Bucky. “I’ve been busier than a one-legged Cajun in an…” No, he told himself, don’t use the “one-legged Cajun in an ass-kicking contest” joke with a man who calls himself “Reverend.” “Well, busier than all get-out. How are you? How’s everything?”

“Well, I’m fine now,” Gideon said. “I’m happy finally to hear from you, Bucky.”

“I know, I know. Huge apologies. Profound apologies. So, the commission seems to have worked out.”

“I would have preferred a more categorical denunciation. But I suppose in an imperfect world, ‘Further study is needed’ amounts to a kind of victory,” Gideon said.

“Off the record, we leaned on old Bascombe pretty hard. Don’t be surprised if he’s appointed to the Federal Reserve Board one of these days.”

“My, my, my,” Gideon said, “how very different are the workings of government from what we all read about in books as children. I wonder, do the Founders weep in heaven?”

“It’s good to hear your voice, Gideon. We’re going to need you in the coming months. We’ve got a tough road ahead of us.”

“So it would appear. I have seen the latest approval ratings. Thirty-one percent. My, my, my. Would that be a historical low for someone seeking a second term of office?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “No, no. But clearly, it’s not where we want to be. That’s why we’re counting on you so much to help get out our message.”

“Which message would that be, exactly?”

“I hardly need to tell you. Our message is your message. Vigorous moral leadership for troubled times.”

“Yes, well we certainly could use some of that. Couldn’t agree more. Which brings me to the purpose of my call.…”

Bucky groaned inwardly. Here it comes. Should I pretend that the president’s just buzzed me-

“The memorial.”

Shit, too late. “The president has already signaled his support for that, Gideon.”

“Yes. A very wispy signal. Reminded me of the smoke signals that the Indians in the cowboy movies used to send to one another. I had in mind something with a little more, shall we say, oom-pa-pah?”

“Gideon…”

“Bucky…”

“Have a heart. It’s an election year. We’re in the worst economic shape since 1929. Due to circumstances beyond the president’s control, of course. The economy’s flatter’n a pancake. The government’s hemorrhaging money. A memorial to forty-three million fetuses-pardon the expression-is just not”-he sighed-“at the top of anyone’s agenda right now. But I promise, right after the election, we will…make it happen…somehow.”

“All right, then, we’ll talk. Right after the election. In the meantime, I will convey to the forty-three million nonfetuses who constitute the pro-life portion of the American electorate that they are free to shop around for a candidate who shares their commitment to the inviolable sanctity of human life.”

“Gideon-”

“Good day to you, sir.” Gideon reflexively reached for his gold watch. Still not there.

Bucky shuffled into the Oval Office with all the alacrity of a sedated mental patient. The president looked at him with a long face.

“For crying out loud, we created a whole commission more or less just for him, and then made sure old candy-ass Bascombe would put everyone to sleep with the conclusion…what the hell’s he want now?”

“The memorial,” Bucky said. “I think he wants it next to the FDR Memorial.”

“Oh no. Uh-uh. No fucking way. No fetuses on the Mall. That is not how this presidency will be remembered. The pro-choicers and women’s groups would chew off my dick. You tell Gideon Payne-in-the-ass…Hell with it.” The president reached for the phone. “I’ll tell that fat little Bible-thumper myself!”

“Mr. President,” Bucky said, “please put down the phone. No good will come of yelling at a man who commands millions of voters.”

“I am sick and tired of being jerked around. Gimme gimme gimme. That’s all I hear. All day. Gimme gimme gimme. I’ll shove forty-three million fetuses up his ass! And I’ll bet there’s room for them!”

Bucky let the president huff and puff awhile longer, then shuffled out of the Oval Office and telephoned Gideon.

“I discussed your proposal with the president,” he said, “and he wholeheartedly agrees that we must have a memorial on the Mall.”

Bucky’s call, though prompt, had come just a few moments too late. After making his lovely little speech about how he would tell his followers to shop around for a candidate, Gideon had suddenly become enamored of the idea that he should run for president. Why not? Lesser men had-and heck, some of them had even won. He probably wouldn’t, but the experience might be entertaining. And it always seemed to have a salubrious effect on one’s lecture fees.

“Well,” Gideon said to Bucky, “I do appreciate that. You give the president my very best regards and tell him I look forward to our debate in the fall.”

“Debate?” Bucky said. “In the fall?”

Gideon said, “That is normally when they hold the presidential debates, is it not? Though I imagine we’ll be bumping into each other in New Hampshire and Iowa before then. I imagine it’s very cold in New Hampshire in February. Not my favorite climate. No, no. I am a creature of the South. But one must make sacrifices. I suppose I will need one of those puffy parka things from that Yankee store-what’s it called?-L. L. Bean? Good day to you again, sir.”

It was Cass’s idea to have Randy announce his candidacy outside the Social Security Administration in Washington. She and Terry wrote his speech.

“This building behind me, once a symbol of a compact between the people and their government, now stands as a symbol of betrayal of the people by their government, a veritable warehouse of shame and empty promises. For Americans under thirty, it might as well be the New Bastille-the prison where all their hopes of a bright future go to die.”

For the climax, Randy handed to a group of twenty-somethings (chosen, frankly, for their wholesome good looks) an enormous piece of paper with huge lettering that said:

Randy was very excited by it all. He had wanted to insert the line “Boomer retirement is costing your generation an arm and a leg.” And then reach down, detach his prosthesis, raise it over his head, and say, “American policies cost me a leg, so I know how you feel!”

He, Cass, and Terry had a heated discussion about whether it was “presidential” to wave artificial limbs over one’s head during speeches. Cass and Terry finally said they’d resign if he did. Randy backed down. After he left the room, Terry said to Cass, “I’m going to Super Glue that thing to his stump for the duration of this campaign.”

For their campaign slogan, they’d come up with “Jepperson-No Worse Than The Others.”

It was not without risk, but there was logic to it. Cass’s idea was to target the under-thirty voters, to convince them that Social Security was a form of indentured servitude; that they’d been economically disenfranchised by the previous generations. All the polling showed that the under-thirties were, in the words of one pollster, “the most cynical generation in American history.” Most of them got all their political information from late-night TV comics. That being the case, Cass argued, there was no point in a slogan trumpeting Randolph Jepperson as an improvement over any other candidate. She called it “the ‘whatever’ factor.” The idea was to say, “Here’s our candidate. He might make things better. He probably won’t, but at least we’re not claiming he will. So why not vote for him? At least we’re honest.” A Mobius strip of persuasion.

It was a hard sell on the candidate, who saw himself as some kind of latter-day JFK.

Randy stared at the poster with his handsome face in profile and the slogan.

“Can’t you come up with something a little more positive? This makes me sound like something on a menu that you’re not sure you want.”

“That’s the whole point,” Cass said. “That’s why they’ll go for it. We focus-grouped it. They loved it. Anyway, we’re not doing traditional TV and radio advertising.”

“We’re not? Who signed off on that?”

“I did. We’re putting all the money into podcasts and social networks. We’re making major buys on Google, Facebook, and MySpace.”

Randy looked uncomfortable. “Shouldn’t we be appealing to more than just …kids?”

Terry said, “There are twenty-five million voters under thirty. There may be as many as seven or eight candidates on the ballot in November. There may be as many as three or four new independent parties. Our old friend Gideon Payne is gathering signatures for his SPERM party. It’s going to be a crowded field. If we throw everything we’ve got at the under-thirties, we might pull it off.”

“How do we even know they’ll vote?” Randy said. “They never do. They’re too busy shrugging and putting out, what do you call it, attitude.”

“Because we’re going to scare the shit out of them. We’re going to convince them that if they don’t vote this time-for you, the ‘No Worse Than The Others’ candidate-they’re not going to be able to afford iPods and Mocha Frappuccinos. They’ll be too busy paying for bedpans for Boomers.”

“Hm…,” Randy mused. “Not a bad line. But for the slogan, what about…‘Jepperson, Leading the Way’?”

“What, into minefields?” Cass said. “Forget it. You do demagoguery, I’ll do message.”

“Hold on a mo. Who’s paying whom here?” Randy grumbled.

And so Randolph Jepperson became the most formally modest candidate ever to seek the office of president of the United States.

The Establishment commentators, the punditariat, were initially appalled by the slogan. They felt insulted. Pundits expect, even demand, a certain minimal level of pretension in political candidates. This gives them something to deplore in order to affirm their own superiority. Randy’s shrug of a slogan denied them this moral high ground. But they recovered quickly, and they were soon going after him for other than just his shamelessly modest campaign slogan. They attacked him for his scorched-earth Senate campaign against poor old Senator Bradley Smithers; his wealth; his affair with the Tegucigalpa Tamale; his embrace of legal suicide as a means of solving the Social Security impasse; even the Bosnian incident. There had been a lot of new wink-winking about that one on the talk shows.

“Let’s face it,” Cass said to Randy and Terry one day after a particularly nasty press conference, “we’re going to have to deal with the were-they-or-weren’t-they-doing-it-in-the-minefield thing.”

Terry interjected, “Before you two go rushing out to put myths to rest, I had a focus group on that.”

“A focus group?” Randy said.

“Yup. Doing a lot of I-d-I’s these days. All under-thirty. In this one, a majority of them didn’t even know about the minefield. So we told them about it. Then we fed them two scenarios. One where you two were screwing-”

“Aw, Jeez, Terry,” Cass said.

“Hold your horses. The other scenario we gave them, you weren’t banging each other. Then we asked them how they felt in the event scenario number one was true and how they’d feel if number two was the case. Want to hear the results?”

“Not really,” said Cass.

“They preferred scenario number one. By four to one. They thought it was quote-unquote aces, whatever that means. They actually prefer a guy who’ll risk getting his leg blown off trying to get laid in a war zone to one who just bumbled into it. So-you sure you want to go issuing Shermanesque statements about how you weren’t playing hide-the-salami in the minefield?”

“What manner of planet do we inhabit?” Randy said, rubbing his temples.