That earned a groan. “I think I’ll be satisfied if they are simply single and without child!”
I gave a worried look out the door and down the hallway. “Do I need to clean my gun again any time soon?”
She waved it off. “No, it hasn’t gotten that bad yet. Give them time, though. I’m glad they’re on the Pill.”
“WHAT!?”
She rolled her eyes. “It helps them keep regular periods and eases their cramps. I thought you knew.”
“Oh, good Christ!” I muttered. I looked back towards the living room. “I am really liking the idea of a boarding school. Someplace high in the Alps, girls only, run by nuns, and with a drawbridge and a moat. A really deep moat!”
Marilyn snorted at that. “If you become the Vice President, maybe we can get the Secret Service to start shooting their dates.”
“We’ll have to ask, for sure!” I turned back towards her. “All joking aside, do you want to do that?”
“Maybe. Would we have to move to Washington full time? The girls have two more years of school here, and they would freak out. Where would we live? The Naval Observatory?” The Vice President’s residence is on the grounds of the Naval Observatory, in northwestern D.C.
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s probably only a mile away from the place we have now, if that. I wouldn’t think we would have to live there full time. Nobody cares about the Veep. We could keep our current schedule. Summers you could all stay down there with me. I am guessing I might have more travel than I do now. The biggest job is advising the President. I might not make it home every night, or even every other night. Once the girls have graduated, we can live there full time.”
“Is this definite?” she asked.
“Hardly! They gave me a job application around ten feet long. If I get through that, I’m simply on the short list, and George Bush picks from there. The usual procedure from that point is that there is a public announcement a few weeks before the convention, and that is at the end of July. After that, I would be on the go until the election, non-stop, in November. Figure a solid four months.”
“So this just might get you on the list. You wouldn’t have to accept or decline until later.”
“If I make it to the list, right.”
“Do you think you might make it onto the list?” she asked.
“I have no fucking clue! There are times I can’t figure out how I ended up a Congressman! Wait until I have to explain to some shitkicker in Alabama why my parents disowned me, and he agrees with them that I shouldn’t have married a Yankee, a Catholic, or a Democrat!” I replied.
That made my wife laugh. I wasn’t so sure how funny it would be. You develop a thick skin in politics, but switching from a couple of counties in Maryland to the entire nation would be a challenge. At home I didn’t have but a few television stations and one newspaper to contend with. When Bumfuck TV 6, “The News That Bumfuck Needs!” decided to go after Marilyn and the kids, I could easily see myself punching out a reporter!
There was one thing I could do in the meantime, and I handled that immediately. Pulling out my cell phone, I hit the speed dial for Tucker and asked for a meeting the next day. Since I was really Tucker’s only client, he agreed to meet me at his office early. I would dump the packet with him and let him and the accountants worry about it.
For the next few days, Washington D.C. played the ever popular game of “Who’s the nominee?” There were all sorts of names being tossed around other than mine. Colin Powell could have had it if he wanted it, but did George Bush want a guy who had worked for his father? Otherwise it was the standard mix of Senators and Governors, with names like Bill Frist, Tom Ridge, and George Pataki being tossed around. The fun part of the guessing game wasn’t to point out anybody’s particular strengths, but to point out their weaknesses, as to why they wouldn’t be picked. This one was too liberal (me, for instance), that one was too conservative, maybe somebody wasn’t known to a national audience, maybe someone was too well known by everyone. My name was just one more thrown around, and Marilyn delighted in reporting to me my various character flaws, as revealed on television.
We got the packet back to Cheney’s office by mid-May, and I was told I would be contacted at some point. It was a waiting game at that point, and my best guess was that somebody would make a decision in June. At the minimum, they would need at least a few weeks to print up the bumper stickers and signs before the convention in Philadelphia starting July 31.
By the end of May, I hadn’t heard anything, and after talking to a few Senators I knew had been approached, I realized they hadn’t either. I was smelling a rat, and its name was Dick Cheney. I gave it some thought, and then called George Will.
“George, you doing anything this evening?” I asked.
“I was going to watch a ball game. Why? What’s up?”
“Come on over to the house. Let’s talk. I can make dinner for us or you can come over after you’ve eaten.”
“What’s this about, Carl?”
I didn’t answer. “You want anything fancy? I was just going to make hot dogs and Michigan Sauce.”
“Okay, be that way. I’ll see you at six.”
George showed up on my doorstep a few minutes after six, still in his suit from the office. I was already in shorts and a sport shirt, and barefoot. He had been to the house before, as a guest at various dinner parties, but it was unusual to have him there alone. He glanced at my attire and said, “You were serious about the hot dogs?”
“Sure! Take off your tie and jacket. Get comfortable.” He shrugged and took off his suit coat and tie, and then followed me into the kitchen.
I already had the hot dogs and fixings out, and a can of baked beans was on the counter. “You want two?” I asked.
“What’s that?” he said, pointing to a small pot on the stove.
“Michigan Sauce.”
“Which is?”
“It’s sort of like chili. It’s a family recipe from my wife’s side of the family. If I actually told you what’s in it, she’d have to kill you.” He held up two fingers and I opened the package of hot dogs. I pulled out four and fired up the broiler. “Beer?” When he said yes, I pulled a couple of bottles of National Bohemian out of the refrigerator. “National Bohs. It’s the last of them, though. Pabst is shutting down the brewery and going to tear it down. They’ll still make it, but it won’t be in Baltimore.”
“Trying to prove you’re a man of the people, Carl?”
I shrugged. “Trying to stay in office, if nothing else. It’s pretty popular stuff back in Maryland.”
“So, why’d you want to see me? It’s not like there’s a ball game on, so I can’t sit back and pretend I’m at a stadium somewhere and have hot dogs and beer.” George’s biggest interest outside of politics was baseball.
“George, we’re just a couple of fellows talking politics, you know, on background. What could be more innocent,” I answered. “You know, off the record.”
His ears perked up at that. “Off the record?” On background and off the record were key phrases meaning that he couldn’t use me as a source. “Okay, I’ll play along.”
“Well, let’s just chat a bit first while we eat, and then we can go into my office. I have something for you.” He gave a cautious nod, and I continued, “Hearing anything from the other people on the short list?”
“Is there a short list? I thought you were auditioning for the short list.”
I smiled. “That would be the question, wouldn’t it?” I had the beans on a burner, low, along with the Michigan Sauce. I rolled the franks on the broiler tray, and set some condiments on the kitchen island along with rolls. I grinned at him and commented, “It’s a little less formal when we don’t have a room full of politicians.”