“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:
INVOICE
TO: AMERICANS UNDER 30
FROM: BABY BOOM GENERATION
FOR: OUR RETIREMENT BENEFITS
AMOUNT: $77 TRILLION
PAYABLE ON DEMAND
– U.S. Government
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.