The Pretender: The Administration

by Dash Nolan

H-Con - 172

A typical day. Toby moved past the open door to the resident office secretaries for the head of Housing and Urban Development, ignoring the burst of telephone rings and urgent voices. In a public statement that morning, an event covered only in case a bomb snuck under the podium meant for someone more influential went off early, had taken some questions she shouldn't have. One would think, Toby said to himself in thought, that after calling half of the country racists and bigots, the director would walker with softer steps into the public field.

No such luck. As it stood, the woman his administration had put in charge of the most sensitive poverty- and crime-stricken cities in the country had declared that white gun owners, Baptists, and the Family Values Alliance were part of a vast conspiracy to put "blackie" in his place. She hadn't said exactly that, but after the last press cycle and three hours of talking heads, she might as well have been standing in the street, taking a blast from a fire hose, thrusting her fist into the air. Toby knew he was going to spend the next three days of his life doing, among other things, damage control for her.

It occurred to him that if the Mets hadn't won last night, it's entirely possible he would be parading through the cramped halls with a machine gun, blasting interns and snippy temps. He almost smiled. The homicidal fantasy had occurred to him no less than eight times in the past two days. This was only unusual in that he only envisioned putting hot metal through the foreheads of his coworkers two or three times between weekends. Toby came to an intersection of hallways and paused, another unusual act for that week, and prevented himself from colliding with a young man with curly red hair packing two feet of papers. The boy didn't notice him.

Where ever those papers went to, what they had to say would end up in Toby's lap. He was the singular, invisible voice of the administration, country's government, taxpayers, and President. He had irreplaceable help in the form of Sam, but Toby had realized Sam's thoughts as a significant part of his own thoughts ages ago. Whatever was happening, between the Communications Director's office and the Jordan Valley, was going to be filtered through his and Sam's voice before becoming part of President Bartlet's legacy.

Slipping past a young black woman in quite the hurry, Toby found himself at home. A room surrounded by glass partitions, letting them see the chaos of the world without having to be a part of it, the older man embraced the controlled mayhem of the Communications Bullpen.

"Jarod's in his way over."

Toby faced his secretary, a young, attractive redhead in her late twenties, waiting for her to explain.

"Jarod Sorkin, the image guy th-"

"I know who he is," Toby said in is typical annoyance. "Why is he headed here?"

Ginger snatched up a spiral pad of specific paper and leafed through it furiously, focused, until looking back up at Toby.

"You put this meeting together. 'Full of-' well, you said he wasn't telling you everything he knew. Look, he's new. I don't need to be a part of this."

Then he remembered: He had asked Ginger to scheduele a follow-up meeting with Jarod the second the new man had been out of earshot. To anyone who gave a second's care about the day's events, it looked like Toby and Jarod had had productive meeting and would need a seocnd session later. To Toby, it was a chance to sit the man down and find out where the hell he really came from. At the time Jarod had persuaded Toby to let slip one of his deeper personal issues, Toby's shock hadn't allowed him room to think about how Jarod might know everything he did, and why he wold be asking the questions he was.

Toby had taken some time.

"Yeah," he said. "Just tell him to knock. Thanks."

That last touch of courtesy fell to the air. Ginger was already making a note of wha Toby had said before he thanked her for it. Either she already knew how thankful he was for her immeasurable help, or she never expected anything resembling common courtesy from him. It was something that had occurred to him many times before, and once again, it took a backseat to the issue at hand.

Toby slipped into his office, stepping past the sofa and around the long desk. Papers were strewn across every surface inch, three teevees projected people behind hand held microphones, and the muted light filtering through the blinds suggested rain within the hour. This was his domain. Whoever should enter through that door was here to speak to Toby's points.

The older man reclined back, thinking on Jarod. The young publicity expert had blazed in, quickly solving several low-level issues that Mandy, the previous person in that office, would have painted with the same big brush. Her way may have solved the problems just as well, but it would have led to a larger issue. Jarod had dealt with each issue individually, using full precedence, without passing the buck to an other entity in he building.

In thought, it didn't make any sense. A press-related staff's job was to read the whole's train of thought and advise accordingly. Jarod ad taken specific issues head-on. Then he stepped into Toby's office.

"You wanted to see me," Jarod asked, just as bright-eyed and honest as the first time he's stepped into Toby's office. Of course, there was no reason for Jarod to have changed in these few days, but it was awfully odd to Toby for the younger man to act so surprised by everything. This was the same man who had called Toby out on the singular reason behind the President's bullet scar in is lower torso.

"Yeah," Toby said. "What are your thoughts on the HUD secretary's comments?"

It was a feint. He simply wondered if Jarod saw in him what he saw in Jarod.

"It's a tight issue. We must stand by her, obviously. Mabe there is a multiracial issue we can have her help introduce? A church-based local movement she can hop onto?"

Toby reached into his desk and drew out a light red rubber ball. Looking at Jarod for a brief moment, Toby slammed the ball against the floor at a specific point. It bounced from the thin carpet, hit the glass between his office and Sam's, and returned to his hand. He threw again. Bounce, bounce, catch. Jarod's eyes moved between the balll and Toby's face, then the ball, and back to the speechwriter's face.

Toby caught the ball and Jarod's glance in the same moment.

"Were are you from, Jarod?"