Chapter Seven
The arrival of a string of black SUVs outside Sally's Place, a Washington, DC homeless shelter in the part of town that sometimes scared people who didn't live, work, and play in it,* meant one of three things: a politician in need of a photo op, a celebrity in need of community service, or some serious shit about to go down. In this case, there was no celebrity or shit going down or up for that matter**, just an appearance by the President of the United States, whose staff had convinced him that he needed a show of empathy and then strong-armed him into making an appearance at Sally's. Normally Sally was not inclined to provide a prop for a President with whom she shared not a single goddamn point of view, if one could attribute the capability for points of view to such an empty, soulless, no good mother . . . well you get the idea. However, thanks to some old fashioned quid pro quo, Gale had NOAA’s budget back to where she wanted it, and Sally’s place had received a large anonymous donation from someone whose only request was to allow a certain politician to swing by for a photo op.
A phalanx of Secret Service agents exited the cars and created a secure path to the front door. President Stockbridge jumped out of his SUV and made a beeline for the door belatedly remembering to wave to the television cameras only once he was safely inside, so was forced to awkwardly brush his hair back with his outstretched hand, only then realizing there were people inside he could have waved to, but now things had gotten awkward.
“Hey,” he said weakly, looking for an aide to solve this public relations crisis. Alas, there was no aide prepared to do so, but Sally stepped forward to greet the President temporarily filling the void.
Meanwhile, the SUV from which the President had just departed began to roll away, stopped, backed up, and disgorged the President's son from the back seat. Web Stockbridge sulked his way into Sally's at a pace best described as turgid. Waving was never an option.
Sally's was a three-story red brick townhouse with a common room and kitchen on the first floor. The twenty five or so people staying at Sally's were already forming a line for dinner and the President was being given some basic instructions on how best to convey mashed potatoes from the tray to the plate most of which he failed to grasp, as he was otherwise occupied trying to navigate an apron that seemed designed to thwart his efforts to get over his head without messing up his hair. Web oozed toward the back of the room and found a seat at the table farthest from the cameras’ focus, his father, and the mashed potatoes.
A teenage girl with cornrows decorated with polished wood beads sitting across the table from him asked, "Are you with him?"
Web hoped she was talking to someone else, but since they were the only two people at the table, that seemed like a long shot. He then thought maybe she was one of those homeless people that talked to themselves--he was pretty sure it was homeless people who did that, right? Finally, he realized he better say something before the girl starting assuming he was the one with issues. And, if you knew Kayla (which you do), you know she was already thinking this kid had issues.
"Um, yeah. He's my dad," Web responded.
"Dragged you along for the photo op, huh?" Kayla observed.
"I guess."
“How come you’re not serving dinner, too?” she asked.
“I . . .” he started and then realized that the honest answer was that the idea had never even occurred to him and no one had suggested that he should, so he said, “I did it last time at the, uh, animal shelter thingy.” Whew, nailed it.
"Okay, sure. Bet the puppies liked the mashed potatoes,” Kayla joked, a comment that was sadly wasted on her audience. “My dad and I got here two days ago. We were caught in that hurricane and had to hitch a ride up from Richmond. Can you believe all that rain and wind? I heard people died," she went on.
Web had the faint sense that there had been some sort of disaster recently, so maybe this was what she was talking about. News was so boring.
"Yeah," Web said, because saying something seemed to be required. Then, “that’s really bad,” because it seemed that saying more was actually what was required.
Kayla studied him now. He didn't look like an idiot. He looked like a pretty normal teenager, a little round in the middle with brown hair, messy and in need of a cut, a faint red spot on his forehead that was likely the remnants of a pimple. She decided to give it one more shot--with both verbal guns a'blazing.
"What's it feel like living in the White House? Are there servants? Where do you sleep? How many rooms are there? Have you been in them all? Are there secret passageways? There must be secret passageways. Do you love it?"
Web's first reaction was like that of any male who's asked what he's thinking or feeling right now, he panicked, then lied, then actually thought about it, lied again more thoughtfully, and then finally realized he did have feelings and was failing completely at expressing them. What Kayla heard was, "Uh, a thousand, no, maybe a hundred, but I've been in them all, of course, wait, what, secret passageways? Do you want to come over?"
"Definitely," said Kayla.
What the Hell just happened, wondered Web.
At that moment, on the other side of the room, another female was equally exasperated with the rantings of a specimen of the male persuasion, but having much less success in dealing with him. Gale had slid in the door just as the President was dumping a second spoonful of mashed potatoes onto the floor. His overall ratio of potato to plate was horrifying the staff, but somehow it seemed to come off as folksy to at least some of the residents rather than bumbling and obnoxious. Gale was definitely not in the folksy camp. How had she ever thought this man was worth investing in? And now, right in the middle of a national disaster, instead of actually doing something useful, she was providing moral support to a pile of doomed potatoes.
A national crisis. That was the key she realized. No one thinks about those when they vote or make a donation, even big ones. She hadn’t. She’d thought Henry Clay Stockbridge as someone that would vote the way she wanted him to and not ask a lot of questions. He’d sign the bills that were placed on his desk and he’d leave anything too complicated to the multitude of experts every President underappreciated until they were needed. Of course, as she was now understanding, all that got chucked out the window like a cheating husband’s set of golf clubs when a real crisis showed up. Now, Henry was supposed to step up, lead; and dammit that was just not his strong suit. More and more, it looked like the golf clubs were going to land right on the hood of the Mercedes. Shit.
She spotted the President's son across the room talking to one of the residents, which was strange, because she was not aware the kid had that capability. She wandered over, if for no other reason than to avoid being filmed looking horrified at her boss. Before she had a chance to say a word, Web jumped up in front of her.
"Gale, hi! Can you take us back to the White House?"
God, it irked her that he called her Gale, but repeated dirty looks followed by repeated "don't call me Gales," seemed to have no effect. However, in this particular case she was willing to overlook it, since their agendas aligned--they both had a strong desire to escape.
She glanced towards the President to see him begin to juggle three ladles. As each one dropped onto the floor, a Sally's Place worker grabbed it and ran in the back to wash it.
"Where are the ladles?" the President cried, as the food line ground to a halt.
"Let's go," said Gale.
***************
*It also sometimes scared the people who live, work and play there, but they couldn't afford condos in places less scary, so were assumed by those that could to be cool with it all.
**To be fully transparent, the President's son was referred to by some less than discreet senior staff as "that little shit," but never as "some serious shit."
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