Uneasy Being Green
"What's the matter?" Donna asked, settling beside Sam at the only
available
table in the mess. "Don't like your breakfast?"
Sam poked suspiciously at his plate, gauged the plate's reaction, gauged
Donna's reaction, and then sighed. "I don't understand my breakfast."
"I just eat mine," Bonnie offered from a nearby table. "I
don't ask it to
explain itself."
Sam knew it was a lost cause, but gamely continued anyway. "It's
just not
right," he said. "It's wrong."
"It's Saint Patrick's Day," Donna said. "Go with the
flow. Have some fun!"
"This isn't fun," Sam insisted. "It's intrinsically
unnatural, like a
Republican who--"
"Oh, please continue," Ainsley said, having materialized from
somewhere
behind Sam's chair.
"--who cuts me a break," Sam finished, because it had already been a
lost
cause, and was now only more so, and he had long been used to that.
"You
don't have an extra doughnut, or anything, do you?"
"I do," Ainsley said, "but we all know Republicans don't
give handouts to
those who can help themselves. And you, Sam, have a perfectly good
breakfast right there in front of you. A holiday breakfast, even."
"I'd settle for a Poptart," Sam said to no one in particular.
"You do not like green eggs and ham?" Ainsley said in a
sing-song voice
loud enough for most of the mess to hear.
Sam stifled another sigh. St. Patrick's Day was always like this.
He'd had
hopes, when he was younger, that someday it would become someone else's
cross to bear, but so far that had not panned out. He was considering giving
up hope. "I do not like them," he agreed mechanically.
Maybe if he found
another job, one where someone else - preferably a younger someone else -
was named "Sam"...
"He does not like green eggs and ham," Ainsley announced to the mess
at
large while Donna giggled. "He does not like them in the
mess..."
"Or with a radio address," Bonnie chimed in. "He does not like
them in
this nation…"
"With secret plans to fight inflation!" Donna called out gleefully,
even
though that hadn't been Sam's mistake at all. "He will not eat them
in a
box, he will not eat them in his socks..."
"He can not eat them on the unemployment line if he doesn't get his ass
upstairs in two minutes," Toby said calmly, having done the
materialization
thing somewhere behind Ainsley. Sam was unsurprised. Nothing good
ever
happened to him on St. Patrick's Day.
"That didn't rhyme," Bonnie said under her breath.
"You act like chickens, cluck, cluck, cluck," Toby began, his voice
carrying
probably to the Hill, and possibly to the Kremlin. "My deputy is
such a
shmu—"
"I just wanted breakfast," Sam said, in the tone a person uses when
he knows
no one is listening to a thing he says.
"You should have had green eggs and ham," Ainsley said, seeing a dead
horse
in need of a beating. "You should have had them, Sam-I-Am."
Toby's "What is wrong with you
people?" was directed toward Ainsley, and
not him, and Sam felt almost lucky as he slipped away.
*******************************************************************************************
He made it to his office without anyone engaging him in conversation about a
fox or a box, and noted that, unlike the last two years, there was no Dr.
Seuss book on his desk. So far, anyway. There was a lengthy speech which
he'd labored on until
red-inked comments and editorial criticisms. Sam's stomach grumbled, and
he allowed
himself the passing thought that
it was going to be a long, long day.
At least Toby wasn't using green ink.
Josh appeared in Sam's doorway. "Staff," he
announced. "You
going…?"
Sam wondered if he actually had a choice about the meeting. "I went
to the
mess," he said, because he knew there was no choice, and because he
thought he might
as well get Josh's inevitable
comments out of the way.
"Yeah," Josh said, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"I do not like green eggs and ham," Sam said, because he knew it was
coming,
eventually, and it was sometimes better to take the offensive. And
maybe this
would somehow demonstrate a sense of sportsmanship and good humor to the
rest of the staff, and they'd lay off the Sam-I-Am jokes for the rest of the
day. Also, truly, he hated the mess' unfortunate tendency to spread St.
Patrick's Day cheer via food coloring.
"Would you stop that already?" CJ called out as she sailed by the
door.
"Honestly, someone would think the two of you were in preschool."
"I didn't say anything!" Josh said.
"Okay, then. Josh, keep up the good work," CJ continued.
"Sam, grow up."
She disappeared down the hall.
"I hate St. Patrick's Day," Sam said to her retreating figure.
"You really shouldn't whine," Josh counseled as they left the office
and
made their way to their meeting. "Women really don't like that sort
of
thing."
Sam wondered how woman felt about men who murdered their co-workers with a
baseball bat.
He probably couldn't actually have less success with women than he was currently having, so it
wasn't an entirely untenable
option.
************************************************************************************************
The staff meeting was highlighted by surly moods, snappish comments, and Leo
suggesting
that Sam start and finish two days' worth of work before going home that night. This
came on the heels of Toby demanding that Sam do the same thing for an unrelated project, so
Sam felt this St. Patrick's Day
was running pretty much par for the course.
He returned to his office to find a copy of "Green Eggs and Ham" on
his
desk. He swept it into a drawer as Donna showed up, beaming.
"I thought
you might want this," she said, extending a paper bag in Sam's direction.
Inside were the remains of his breakfast, now not only green but also
congealed and nauseating. He
did not hit Donna with the bag, and mourned,
for a tiny moment, the fact that no one would ever know about this quiet act
of boundless self-control. He had always hoped that his finest hour would
benefit mankind, and perhaps even draw the notice of a few people.
He was considering giving up on that dream, too.
He thanked Donna politely, closed his office door, banged his head on it a
few times, took a handful of Tylenol, and sat down to work.
Bonnie knocked a few hours later. "You have the—"
"I know," he said. "I'll be there."
"You have to call Senator Kalmbach," she went on, flipping through a
stack
of messages. "Also Representative Hastings, the Assistant Secretary
of HUD,
somebody from Vanity Fair, and your father. Oh, and Ainley sent you
this."
She laid a doughnut on his desk. It was green, but he was hungry, so he
took a huge bite anyway.
"Tell her thanks" he said with his mouth full. "And give
her this." He
handed Bonnie the folder he'd been working on. "Tell her I need a
synopsis
by tonight. No, tell her Leo needs it. If you tell her I need it, she'll
probably write it in rhyme. In green ink."
Bonnie accepted the folder and rolled her eyes."You know what your problem
is?"
"Yes," Sam said.
Bonnie gave him a look, and he thought it was almost sympathetic.
"All
right, then."
"Give me a heads up fifteen minutes before the thing, okay? And hold my
calls. Toby's going to kill me if I don't finish this."
"Toby will find some reason to kill you even if you do finish it,"
Bonnie
said as she turned for the door. "He's really in a mood today. I
think he
hates St. Patrick's Day even more than you do."
"No one hates St. Patrick's Day more than I do," Sam said as he
hunched
over his laptop again, but Bonnie had already closed the door.
******************************
By
once, and had gone back and forth three times about the changes he wanted Sam to make to
the President's speech to the AFL-CIO. The beginning was now back to its original state, the
way it had been three days and fourteen edits ago. Sam ran a hand through his hair,
squinted at the blinking cursor on
his laptop, and sighed. Eventually, he hoped, Toby
would go back to the original middle and end sections of the speech as
well. Now the middle section sounded as though it had been
written by someone with an enormous grudge against corporate
was balanced by the last part, which came across as being written by
someone - a Republican someone - with an equally enormous grudge against
labor. Sam had pointed out neither of these facts to his
boss. He was not
particularly eager to see what Toby would come up with after defenestration
and the rack, and anyway, he had to finish both this and Leo's position
paper if he was ever going to make it home, or at least live till morning.
He tapped a few keys and opened Leo's file, offering a short prayer that
Ainsley was finishing the bit he'd farmed out to her. He had to have it
finished on time. If he didn't, Leo would kill him.
No. He'd have CJ do it.
And he'd still expect Sam to finish the project.
The words on the screen swam in front of his eyes. At least, he thought,
as
his head sank forward, St. Patrick's Day was almost over.
Sam was dreaming. He
knew he was dreaming, because it was a beautiful,
glorious day, and he wasn't in his office, but out sailing. The ocean
was
shimmering, shards of light dancing on an endless expanse of
emerald
green. If that wasn't enough of a clue, the sails - usually a
pristine
white - were also green, and even the sky had a distinctly greenish tint.
And as a final kicker, Ainsley was sitting on the deck in a bright green
bikini.
This couldn't end well.
Sam ventured cautiously to Ainsley's side. She looked up and smiled,
and he found that hopeful,
if somewhat confusing.
"Hi” he said, because he was fairly sure nothing bad could come of
that.
"Do you like me on a
boat, Sam?" Ainsley asked, fluttering her lashes at
him. "Do you like me all afloat? Would you like me in a
car? Traveling from near and f…”
And he had to stop her, he had to, and there was only one thing to
do, and he did it. He kissed her.
And it worked, so he kissed her again, and they sailed on under the pale green sky.
Someone was yelling in the office next door, but Sam slept on.
*************************************************************************************************
Toby scrawled another angry red line across the closely-typed paper on his
desk,
almost tearing it in half. "Who the hell wrote this crap?" he yelled. This was what
came of working with morons, and politicians -- not that they weren't one and
the same thing. You couldn't kowtow to corporations; he'd said that all along.
But you couldn't lay down in front of labor, oh no! It was like the drop-in
to the environmental group: you had to be cruel to be kind. Sam hadn't liked that,
and neither had the environmentalists, but he was right, damn it. Well, Sam
hadn't said a thing about this speech, so maybe he was finally learning. He hadn't
said much all day, actually, except for some stupid rhyming game he was playing
with Ainsley in the mess that morning. Amazing that anyone had the energy to play
in this place, but that was the young for you. Youth was certainly wasted on them.
Toby rubbed his eyes. Well, he didn't need youth. He made his way to the couch
and settled heavily into the
cushions. A brief rest, that's all he needed, and then he'd fix
the damned speech, and everything else in this place, because he was Toby
Ziegler, and he was...
Late. It was late, and he was rushing down the hall, and how
did it get so
damned late? "I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. President," he called
as he burst
into the Oval Office, and then he stopped cold as he took in the man behind
the historic, elaborate desk.
"Glad you could finally join us," said President Ritchie.
"Though I have to
tell you, in this administration, when we say 7AM, we actually mean
"Yes, sir," Toby said automatically, searching the room for a
familiar face
and finding only one. "But..."
"Is there a problem?" President Ritchie asked impatiently.
"I'm sorry sir, but...isn't there something wrong here?"
"It seems that way at first," Ainsley piped up. "Being
the token, I mean.
It seems strange to the only woman in the room, for instance, or, in your
case, the only
Democrat in a room full of
Republicans. But take it from me, after a while you get used to it."
Toby stared at her. "I'm the only...?"
She nodded briskly. "The only Democrat in the room, that's
correct. The
only Democrat in the building, if I'm not mistaken."
"How...?"
"Well, it turned out the public loved the idea of someone from the
opposition being
on President Bartlet's
staff. They thought it was a great bipartisan gesture, and
that sort of thing always does
well in the polls. So President Ritchie decided to offer
a job to one of the outgoing Bartlet staffers. I mean, since you all already knew the ropes, and all."
Toby stared at her.
"Of course, in this
administration, you're expected to agree with the President,"
she added. "None of
that liberal crap about honoring other viewpoints here."
"And you chose me for this
job?" Toby choked out. "Why, in the name of...?"
"Sam Seaborn," President Ritchie said, as thought that
explained everything.
"President Ritchie offered the job to Sam," Ainsley continued,
since Toby didn't
seem to understand. Democrats were often
slow, she knew. "But Sam said he
wasn't qualified. He insisted you were
the best man for the job."
"He really sang your praises," another staffer concurred, pulling
at the
collar of his button-down shirt.
"He meant what he said, and he said what he meant," the President
added.
"Your deputy's faithful, one hundred percent." He smiled at
Toby. "You
must be a hell of a boss to get that kind of support from a
subordinate."
Toby thought back over the past few years. Surely he hadn't been that
awful to Sam?
Oh, hell. He had. He was so very, very screwed.
"Please," he said. "You've got this all
wrong. Very, very wrong.
You have to listen to
me. You have to...YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO ME!!"
*********************************************************************************************
CJ stopped briefly outside Toby's closed door, but decided not to interfere.
If Toby was yelling at Sam again, well, that was Sam's problem. She
walked
through the mostly-empty bullpen, down the corridor, and across the hall to
her office, and sank wearily into a chair. Sam just had to learn how to
look out for himself, that was all there was to it. That what she did.
Right now, for example. She was tired, and it was late, and she had work
to
do. She wasn't getting involved in anyone else's petty problems.
Not to
mention the childish behavior -- why, if she closed her eyes, she could
absolutely see Sam in his office,
spouting Dr. Seuss to Josh. They were as bad as children,
or Charlie, or for that matter
Danny Concannon....
The room was white. That made sense, as this was, after all, the
White
House, but CJ didn't remember a room so large, and so looming, and so very,
very white. Also, there was a gate, and Danny Concannon was standing
beside
it in a truly ridiculous-looking white robe.
"Danny," CJ began.
"One fish," Danny intoned sternly. "Two fish."
"Danny," CJ said again, but Danny silenced her with a look.
"Old fish. New fish." He glared at her.
"Dead fish."
"True, fish," CJ offered with a giggle. "Danny,
what the hell is--"
"Ssh," Danny ordered. "No 'hell' talk here. And
you don't speak until you're
called on."
"I'm the Press Secretary!" CJ said, outraged. " I call on you."
"Not here," Danny said.
CJ looked around suspiciously. "And here is...?"
"No questions," Danny said. "And no photos."
"But--"
"I can have your credentials revoked," Danny warned.
'If this is about Gail, I can explain," CJ said.
"One fish," Danny said sadly. "Two fish."
"Think of her as Gail Two," CJ said quickly. "And
really, a goldfish has a
very short life span..."
"Old fish, new fish," Danny went on. "All
neglected."
"That's not fair, Danny!" CJ shot out. "I have a very
demanding job!"
"And rejected."
"I didn't -- Danny, that's ridiculous, no one rejects a fish. Fish are
just--"
"Why does CJ act so mean? I don't know. Go ask the
Queen."
"Are you saying I--"
"One fish, two fish," Danny announced, as if passing
sentence. He pointed at
CJ, who was suddenly surrounded by a host of white-robed reporters
brandishing cameras, pads, and goldfish bowls. "Sad and blue
fish!"
"Tell us, CJ," the reporters yelled, "is it true you don't
have a kind word
for your coworkers, and that you kill your pets?"
"I---I---" CJ said wildly, sweat dripping into her eyes.
"I..."
Someone was shaking her. She opened her eyes. "You what?"
Carol asked.
"I--nothing," CJ said. She was shaking. "I must have
fallen asleep."
Carol nodded. "Well, it's another late night. I heard Bonnie
say Sam
probably won't get home at all. But hey, I went down to the mess, and
they
put out some snacks for us. Everything's green, but it's still
food. I got
fish and chips. Want some?"
CJ just groaned.
********************************************************************************************
Josh stared at the pile on his desk, as though willing it to grow smaller.
He'd been at it all day -- all day! -- and he still hadn't made a dent in
it. Leo
had pulled him aside before his meeting with the Democratic leadership, and
said he wanted the pile read and sorted and done,
and Josh had said, "No
problem." Except it was. And that had to be someone's fault,
didn't it? He was hungry
and tired, and doing the work of two men, and...
Two men. That was it. Sam should be helping him. And Donna should be
helping, too, because hadn't he told her to find him something to eat, like,
hours ago? He was going to fire Donna. After she got him the food, and got Sam to come help him.
She was good at getting people to do things. And she was younger than he was,
so she should be doing things, because he was older, and wiser, and her boss. And he
was tired. He'd rest his eyes
for just a minute, and then he'd call Donna to get Sam for him, and then ...
"Donna!" he yelled.
"You don't have to yell, Josh," she said. "I'm right
here."
"There's too much stuff on my desk," he said.
"I'm heartbroken for you," Donna said.
"Get Sam," Josh wheedled. "Tell him to help me."
"Sam's doing stuff for Toby, and for Leo, and he has a food-tasting
thing
going on. And anyway, this isn't Sam's job," Donna said.
"It's yours. "
"You're my assistant," Josh said sternly. "You have to
help me."
"Not true," Donna said.
"What do you mean? Of course you're my assistant."
"I'm your assistant, Josh," Donna said. "But when Leo
went up to the House
for the day, he said, 'Somebody has to clean all this away. Somebody,
SOMEBODY has to, you see.' And he picked out a somebody -- you,
Josh. Not me."
Josh simply looked at her for a moment, his mouth hanging open.
"Sam put
you up to this, didn't he?" he finally asked when he could form words
again.
"Damn, I should never have left that Dr. Seuss book on his desk.
Look, I'll
take it back. And I'll tell Ainsley to knock off with the poetry.
Donna, you have to help me here. Please. Please, please, help
me..."
Bonnie stood with Donna by Josh's door. " 'Please, please help me?'
You
really do have him trained," she said in awe.
Donna smiled modestly. "You ready to go to the mess?'
"Sure. But what's the rush? Josh probably won't wake up for a
while. And
I wouldn't think you'd want to spoil him with goodies now -- it'll undo all
your hard work."
"Oh, I don't want to get something for Josh," Donna said.
"Don't laugh, but I want to get a
sandwich for Sam."
"You too?" Bonnie grinned. "He is having a kind of rough day."
"And he really is a sweetie," Donna said. "Besides, I don't like green
eggs, either."
*************************************************************************************************
"Sam?" a voice said near his ear.
"Go away," he said urgently, because reality in no way could be as
good as this dream, ever,
and if he woke up it would
probably still be St. Patrick's Day.
"Sam?" It was Ainsley's voice, and louder now. "I've got
that synopsis you
wanted. The one for Leo. I have it here in a box. I have it in a box with
locks. I have it with some eggs and ham, I really have it, S---"
"SHUP UP, AINSLEY!" Sam yelled.
She was stunned into silence. He sat up, snatched the report from her outstretched
hand and stared at her for a minute. She wasn't wearing green, but she looked pretty good.
What the hell, he thought. Opportunities came to those who made them, and
the day couldn't get any worse, and he really, really hated green eggs. "I feel like
getting some Chinese food, and
maybe seeing a movie," he announced. "Want to come?"
Ainsley, still mute, nodded once tentatively, and then again more firmly.
"Okay, then," Sam said, trying not to let his surprise show.
"We'll just—"
"Tell me something," Toby demanded from the doorway. What was
left of his hair was
on end. He looked, Sam thought, like the entry for "distraught" in a pictorial dictionary.
"Am I a Democrat?"
'You' re the Democrat," Sam said
without missing a beat.
"And you?"
"I believe in freedom of choice, freedom of speech, clean air, gun
control,
affirmative action and the ERA," Sam said. "Almost everybody in
this
building does."
Toby eyed Ainsley suspiciously.
"I said almost everybody,"
Sam said, before Ainsley could open her mouth.
He was enjoying the quiet, and besides, he felt a strange urge to protect
her. "She's a Republican, but she's basically okay. And I'm
trying to
convince her of the error of her ways."
"I don't listen to a thing he says," Ainsley said primly, but she was
blushing.
"I love you both," Toby said, stepping into the office
and quickly hugging Sam
before taking off down the
hall. "And the speech you wrote?" he called
over his shoulder. "The original version is fine. Wonderful,
in fact."
Sam stared after him for a moment, and then turned to the window and focused
intently on the view outside.
"Sam? That was weird," Ainsley said. She followed him to
the window and
practically burrowed into his side.
"Sssh," he said, peering into the starry night. "I think
there may be pigs
flying out there."
"Can we look for them on the way to the restaurant?" Ainsley asked,
squeezing his arm. "I'm hungry."
"Okay," Sam said, because you never knew when flying pigs
might decide to land, and you had to take advantage of the moment.
"We can go as soon as I drop
off the stuff for Leo."
"I'll take it for you," Josh said from the door. "You
go. If Leo needs any
changes, I'll do 'em."
Sam looked at him for a moment. "Well, okay," he said. You
couldn't argue with flying pigs.
You shouldn't argue with flying pigs. Not in a box, and not in your socks, and probably
not in a Chinese restaurant with Ainsley. He handed Josh the files, and watched him hurry
off to the Chief of Staff's office. "Okay, we're going. But Ainsley, even if we order
green food, we're not doing
Dr. Seuss."
"Okay," Ainsley said, nodding.
"And also," Sam said, because he was on a roll, "sometime during
the course
of the evening, I'm going to kiss you. Probably more than once."
"Okay," Ainsley said again, taking his hand as they walked past the
guards
and the security checkpoint.
CJ was standing by the reception desk as they signed out. She beamed at Sam.
"Are you going? That's
good. Have a wonderful evening."
"You too, CJ," Sam said.
"And don't worry about Toby," CJ added. "I'll take care of
him."
"That's good," Ainsley said. "Because Sam might be late
tomorrow."
"Well, that's good," CJ said.
"I think so," said Ainsley.
They both smiled at Sam, and he knew that just this once, whatever he said
would be the right thing, no matter what it was. "Okay," he
said, and it
occurred to him that from now on St. Patrick's Day was probably going to
be his favorite holiday. And that, just possibly, he might yet develop a fondness
for green eggs and ham.
END