I poured scotch into my glass. No ice. Held the glass in my hand, went over to the window that looked out over the parking lot. Next year maybe I’d have a view of the mall. For now I had a nice look at a fleet of black Lincolns, with the occasional cop car thrown in for relief.

Belinda came into the room without knocking. She was a good chief of staff, but had adopted DC ways. Which meant everything was a crises RIGHT NOW, and niceties had to be ignored. Because the work of the people was IMPORTANT, even when, maybe especially when, that work just meant hitting up the people for money. Because democracy runs on cash, and governance go hang. I laughed to myself at the thought. Governance. Three years in, and I still thought that mattered, like some rube from the hills.

“You heard about this?” she said, waving her phone. “It’s not funny,” she continued, mistaking my chuckle for something meaningful. “Morris could make this hit the next cycle.”

I sipped my scotch. Turned to her. “Nothing Morris ever does is funny. No, I haven’t heard, what is it?”

She came to stand next to me, thrust the phone under my nose. Holy… It was a picture of me, my teenage self, looking smug and confident. Obviously scanned off some old snapshot. I was standing next to my first motorbike, the old Honda, wearing my punk jean jacket, scrawls up and down the sleeves, two-tone pins across the lapels. And, was that… Yeah, Muffet, the girl I’d sort-of, kind-of, really-but-not-really been seeing then, looking up from underneath her bangs next to me. Huh, must’ve been 1984, no, wait, ’83. That Summer, riding all over town, everything bright, new and meaningful. Nothing in the world like being 16, not ever again.

I stared at the photo. Snippets of music floated through my head… The Clash, The Selector, Madness, Black Flag. I chuckled again, looked at Belinda. “So what, everyone has embarrassing shots from being a kid. What’s the big deal?”

“There!” She said, a mixture of triumph and despair in her voice as she zoomed in on the shot, on the jacket, on the sleeve. A big red A in a circle. Oh, yeah, anarchy. Screw the man. Power to the people. Don’t trust anyone. Three chords and the truth.

I looked at Belinda again. “Seriously?” I said. Took another sip of scotch and turned towards the window. Staffers were beginning to straggle out. I saw them pick their way past the cars to the gate, towards the metro down the hill.

She seemed frustrated. “Yeah, seriously. Sir, it’s not like you’ve got any slack to spare. Latest numbers show you losing among olds and rurals.”

I went over to my desk, sat down, mulled things over. “Yeah, I didn’t exactly have a pick-up truck, sitting under the bleachers with the head cheerleader, kind of experience in High School. You really think the optics of something forty years ago is going to push things over to him, though? Seriously?”

She sat down opposite me. “It’s imperative you get a statement out.”

“Oh yeah? Saying what? I was a dumb kid? I do not now, nor have I ever truly believed anarchy is a viable alternative form of government for these here United States?”

She didn’t laugh. A bad sign. Everything always a problem… no sense of humor. I tried again. “Look Belinda, Morris is a genuine drunk, and didn’t you say we’ve got indications things weren’t all above board on that trip he took to Central America. Wasn’t it hookers or something?”

She nodded, “Yeah, but only a whisper here and there. Nothing any journo would touch. They locked that story down soon as it happened. No sources. Ever since that trip he’s been going to church every Sunday, too. Him, the wife, the kids.”

I knew. He’d even made his announcement of his challenge for my seat on the steps of the church. Nice small-town white shingles behind, American flags draped all over the place. Had to admit, whoever was running him had a good eye. The man himself was an idiot, couldn’t tie his own shoelaces without three assistants telling him he was the best shoelace-tier in history while a fourth actually did it for him.

“So we take the high road. He drops the photo, we tell the press we can’t believe they’d stoop so low as to bring up something like this… I mean, Christ, High School! Really?”

She was shaking her head. “The rurals already can’t identify with you. Urbans are mad you didn’t go along with the gay flag thing. And they’re still hammering away at the gun bill. You’re soft, is the line. Already they were trying to paint you commie red. This… this is just not good.”

She had a point. To get medicare funded through the next fiscal and extended to ineligible vets I’d thrown a sop to the other side, voting against that optics bill about flying a gay pride flag on some damn day, and to get the roads funded for the transportation bill I’d voted for background checks on handguns. Soft. Huh. Let’s see any of those asses go against their side on a single issue. Just once.

“Sir?” She was leaning forward, not worried exactly, but ill at ease. “Sir, we can’t just dismiss it. Things don’t work like that. You know how it is.” I looked at her. Thought some.

“You ever see that old show ‘Happy Days’?” I asked. She looked confused. “I’ll tell you about the first political thought I ever had,” I continued. “I was still a kid, we’d just come back from being stationed overseas. Europe. I hadn’t set foot in the states in years. Anyway, one day we all sit down to watch that show. It was the episode where Richie’s campaigning for Adlai Stevenson. Anyway, he’s all idealistic and everything, but then at the end, he asks The Fonz, you know, the ‘Aaaayyy…’ guy, how he’s going to vote. And the Fonz says, ‘I like Ike.’”

Belinda stared at me. Maybe she thought I was losing it. “The point is,” I said, “it didn’t really matter. Politics didn’t matter like it does now. You could have two characters on a TV show who vote completely different, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter.” I suddenly stopped. Hadn’t thought of that in years, didn’t even know where it came from. She was avoiding my eyes, fidgeting with her phone. Probably thinking of sending out resumes. Maybe to the Morris campaign.

I looked at the portrait of Washington hanging next to the door. Cherry trees and the battle of Yorktown. Now look at us. I took a long swig of the scotch, drained the glass.

“Yeah, you know what? Forget it. Draft a release… ‘I do not now, nor have I ever, believed anarchy to be a viable form of government for these United States. Then see if you can get someone from that Central American trip to spill some beans.”

Belinda left. I stared at Washington. He stared back.

He seemed disappointed.