Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  As one of just a few democrats in the entire state, the choice to run was aided considerably by the fact that he wouldn’t need to appear in a primary, his only intention at the time being to give himself a bit of extra time to make a final decision on the matter.

  How he had somehow managed to turn that into a narrow victory to become the sole representative from Wyoming was something that still boggled his mind, the sort of thing government classes all over the country were still dissecting.

  Perhaps even more surprising was the fact that he had managed to turn the shocking upset into five more successful runs in the House before jumping over to the Senate, securing four straight terms there as well.

  What had started as a crapshoot, a longshot wager that sounded like it might be interesting, had turned into more than three-and-a-half decades, the youthful exuberance that he had arrived in town with now long gone, beaten away by time and reality.

  What was left in its wake was something Ridge still wasn’t quite certain of, less sure if he even wanted to know.

  “One more day,” Ridge intoned, repeating Beckwith’s words. “Thirty-six years, and we’re down to one last day.”

  To that Beckwith again remained silent, just as he suspected she might.

  Moving slowly, Ridge pulled his feet back from the corner of his desk, setting them down one at a time on the floor, the heels of the boots echoing out on contact. At sixty-six years of age, he was slowing down for sure, though he liked to believe he was doing a might bit better than most of his colleagues.

  Still hanging on to most of his hair, the strawberry-blonde color of his youth had ceded to silver, cut short and pushed to the side. A matching mustache graced his upper lip and drooped down along either side of his mouth, stopping just short of his jawline, clipped to a uniform length.

  Standing an inch above six feet in height, he weighed only eight more pounds than he had the day he first showed up at the Capitol, his very first suit still tucked away in the corner of his closet, changing fashion styles being the only thing keeping it from being a mainstay in his rotation.

  Shifting around to face forward, Ridge laced his fingers atop the desk before him, regarding his Chief of Staff fully for the first time that morning.

  More than twenty years his junior, everything about her gave off the impression that she was the eldest in the room, from the frumpy style of her business attire to the straight brown hair that was forever pulled up high on her head. Donning the same pointed glasses she’d worn since the day she was hired, the effect was to make her eyes look two sizes larger than normal, seeming as if she were perpetually boring her gaze into him.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

  The question seemed to be exactly what Beckwith was waiting for as a spark of energy moved through her, putting her into motion. Dropping her attention down to her lap, she flipped open the faded leather organizer she was never without, going directly to the red ribbon tucked down along the top to mark her place.

  “January 2nd,” she began, just as she had every morning for years, pausing only long enough to clear her throat. “First thing this morning we have a media event with some of your constituents.”

  Making no effort to mask the small groan as it rolled out of him, Ridge allowed his head to drop, his focus on the bare desk before him, his thoughts on the topic clear.

  “Those jackals couldn’t leave me alone for one more damn day?”

  Brushing past the comment without acknowledgment, Beckwith continued, “These are people that happened to be in town visiting from Wyoming, folks that voted for you in the last election. Shouldn’t be much more than saying thank you and asking a few softball questions. Each of the attendees has already been vetted completely.”

  Reading between the lines, Ridge knew that his Chief was telling him to quit complaining and suck it up, this sort of thing being just another of the hundreds he had already performed, some things simply unavoidable when ascending to a post such as his.

  “And after that?” he asked.

  “After that, you are having lunch with the majority caucus to discuss final transition plans.”

  “Final transition,” Ridge repeated, the words bitter on his tongue, allowing his face to relay how he felt about the situation, the new reality still a long way from having completely settled in.

  If it ever would.

  “Are we still getting bombarded by that peckerwood wanting to get in here to redecorate?”

  Pausing long enough to look up at him, her mouth partially open, a look of disapproval on her face, Beckwith said, “Yes, Senator-elect Hodges has again requested to gain admittance to the office so they can begin making plans for move-in tomorrow, if that’s what you mean.”

  It was exactly what he meant, just as they both knew it was, the backhanded comment a perfect summation of Beckwith’s masterful use of passive-aggression.

  Moving past it, Ridge waved a hand before him. “No, absolutely not. I am still Senator until noon on the 3rd of January. He can wait until then like everybody else.”

  “Sir-“ Beckwith began, barely getting the word out before Ridge again waved his hand her way, cutting her off.

  “And you can tell the Senator-Elect that if he has a problem with that he can take it up with the United States Constitution.”

  “But-“

  “Amendment Twenty.”

  “May-“

  “Section One,” Ridge said, cutting her off for the third time before settling back in his seat, his mustache twitching just slightly as he fought to hold back the smile that threatened to burst forth from him.

  Tormenting Susie was truly one of the things he was going to miss in the coming months.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Beckwith countered, pushing the words out slowly, as if waiting for him to jump in again at any moment, “everybody else has allowed their successors to begin making plans.”

  “Yeah, well, everybody else hasn’t been in the same office for twenty-four years only to get thrown out on their ass by an ungrateful populace.”

  Her face neutral, giving away nothing in response, Beckwith stared at him a moment before closing the book on her lap. Rising from her seat, she pressed the planner against her torso, folding both arms across it, and slowly stepped around to the backside of the chair she had been seated on.

  “Yes, well, the media will be arriving here shortly, sir. I’d suggest not saying anything like that while they are here.”

  Chapter Two

  The only thing that still looked even vaguely familiar from an hour before was the desk Jackson Ridge was seated behind and the assortment of God’s creatures arranged along the walls, everything else in the room having taken on a massive overhaul.

  Gone was the single chair positioned in front of him, replaced with a trio of matching seats, each one with thick wooden legs and brightly colored cloth stretched over padded cushions. In each one sat someone from the local Wyoming constituency, their collective faces relaying that they had not signed up for the situation they now found themselves in and would love nothing more than to turn and bolt from the room.

  Looks that Ridge empathized and even sympathized with, the same feeling permeating his body.

  Behind them most of the remaining space in the room was consumed by no less than a dozen members of the media, their respective brands plastered across the microphones and cameras they held, indicating an equal split between local stations tucked away in the Rockies and brands much closer to where they were now seated.

  With each passing moment, they seemed to push in a little tighter, a constant battle of jockeying for position, each wanting to get the best vantage for any potential newsworthy item that might come to pass.

  What they thought they might possibly be able to glean from such a staged presentation Ridge couldn’t pretend to have any idea, well past the point of caring.

  “Senator Ridge, what do you think you’ll miss most about being here in D.C.?” a middle-aged
woman with thick red hair asked. Seated in the far right chair, her voice was deep and low, her body wrapped in a heavy woolen sweater and a long denim skirt.

  Acutely aware of the mass of humanity crammed into the back half of the room, Ridge opted to bypass the first response that came to mind, doing the same for the second and third choices as well.

  Flicking his gaze to the side, he could see Beckwith pressed against the wall, her mouth drawn into a tight line, a barely perceptible twist of the head displaying she felt the same way.

  More than a handful of such instances where he hadn’t exercised such restraint could be easily found on YouTube or a number of other sources. There was no need to add to the collection on his way out the door, no matter how much he wanted to.

  A fact Ridge liked to believe was a sign of something known as personal growth.

  “About D.C.?” he asked, raising his eyebrows slightly, feigning sincerity, playing the part. “The traffic, of course. Do you know how much I’m able to get done going from one place to another in this town?”

  On cue, a bit of scattered laughter rang up from around the room, the woman offering a polite smile in response.

  Doubling down on his attempt at levity, Ridge added, “I mean, we come from Wyoming, where a traffic jam is considered four cars at an intersection.”

  To that the laughter rose just a bit, the woman’s smile thawing slightly as she added, “And usually a cow or two.”

  Again more laughter could be heard, the woman’s crack bringing about more amusement than both of the Senator’s combined.

  For a moment, Ridge let it go, allowing the woman the floor before the smile began to fade from his face. “No, but seriously, it will undoubtedly be the people. Not necessarily my colleagues here in Congress, but the people I’ve been able to work with every day.”

  There he paused, again glancing to Beckwith and pressing his lips together, nodding just slightly, hearing the clicking of cameras in the background as he did so.

  “And just as much, I’ll miss the constituents,” he continued, turning back to face the woman. “People like yourselves, that take the time and effort to stop by in their journeys, or even in some cases, making this their destination, just to come see us.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how many quality folks from Wyoming I’ve encountered here that I otherwise wouldn’t have, and how much they have meant to me.”

  Seemingly content with the response, the woman’s cheeks flushed, her complexion fast approaching the same hue as her hair. Sliding her hands down the front of her thighs, her face bunched up tight in a smile, a small nod of thanks was her only response.

  Matching the look for an instant, Ridge shifted his focus a few feet to the right, staring at the man seated straight across from him.

  Wearing Levi’s and a pressed pearl snap shirt, the man was rail thin, his long frame contorted slightly to the side. In his hands was a light tan cowboy hat, Ridge unable to see the label on the inside, but reasoning that it looked a lot like the Stetson he had back at home in his closet.

  Just a few more days and a ring of mashed hair around his head would be as clear as the one now worn by the man seated before him.

  “Good morning,” Ridge said, nodding to the man, unspoken permission granted for him to speak.

  “Morning,” the man said, pausing to clear his throat, using the gesture to glance back over his shoulder at the reporters standing within arm’s reach of him.

  “Oh, now, don’t worry about them,” Ridge said, one corner of his mouth curling back slightly. “The only person in this room they’ll bite is me.”

  Again, a small round of laughter could be heard, the comment drawing a bit of relief from the man, tension visibly fleeing him as he smiled, his shoulders sagging slightly.

  “Senator Ridge, I guess I have more of a statement than a question for you here this morning.”

  Feeling a tiny pinprick in the pit of his stomach, not sure where the man’s next words might be headed, Ridge kept his face neutral. Over the years he had faced more than his share of situations that began in such a manner, someone cloaking a backhanded stab with a thinly veiled compliment, or even worse, arriving under false pretenses only to use their ten seconds to accomplish some sort of deep-seated vendetta.

  Casting his gaze over to Beckwith, he saw her standing without reaction, again hearing her words from just a short time earlier guaranteeing him that everybody present had already been vetted.

  “By all means,” he said, using his right hand and motioning toward himself, indicating for the man to continue.

  “Well, as you can probably tell, I earn a living as a rancher in the Big Horns,” the man began.

  There would have been no rightly way to know where the man called home, though the first part of his statement was indeed true enough.

  “You’re right,” Ridge replied. “My daddy was a rancher all his life. You have a similar look.”

  Stopping there, he waited for the man to continue, not bothering to go any further.

  Years before, he might have pressed the matter, even going as far as to offer thanks to the man or launching into a lengthy diatribe about how vital his vocation was to the state, and even the country as a whole.

  Through time he had come to discover that such words often came out as pandering, the media seizing on them, using every opportunity they could to undermine his credibility and integrity.

  “I didn’t know that,” the man replied, “but it makes sense, given that you were one of the leaders to spearhead getting the gray wolf removed from the Endangered Species List. I can’t begin to tell you what a difference it has made for people like me to be able to protect our herds.”

  Feeling the previous bit of apprehension evaporate from within, Ridge smiled. Working to de-list the wolves was at the top of the list of accomplishments he felt most proud of from his career, the move managing to simultaneously help people like the man before him and piss off a lot of tree huggers and media types in the process.

  Leaning back, he shifted his gaze down for a moment, allowing his eyes to glaze over, letting every person in the room wait while he seemed to process the statement.

  “You know,” he began, “as a Democrat, I knew my efforts were going to alienate and infuriate a lot of people, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me.”

  Moving his attention back up, he continued, “Like I said before, my father was a rancher, and a great many of my voters – people like yourself – are ranchers, so I’ve seen and heard firsthand for years what a concern wolves posed to that way of life.

  “It may not have been popular, as many of the people behind you can attest, but I thought it was the right thing to do then, and I still do now. I’m just glad it helped.”

  “It did,” the man replied, nodding in earnest before retreating back into himself, his attention again moving to the hat in his hands.

  Taking an extra moment to drive home the words he’d just said, Ridge waited until just short of the brink of the room becoming uncomfortable before turning to the final chair in order.

  Seated in it was a woman that looked to be nudging fifty, her face heavily lined from exposure to years of the Wyoming elements, her hair an equal mix of sandy brown and silver. Dressed in khaki slacks, her top half was swallowed by a burgundy jacket zipped to the throat, her fingers twisted together in her lap, displaying obvious nervousness.

  “Hello, how are you?” Ridge asked, dipping the top of his head just slightly.

  For a moment there was no response, the woman simply meeting his gaze, before she too nodded. “Hi.”

  Pursing her lips slightly, she continued to stare at him, seeming to be debating something internally, before saying, “Senator Ridge, I’m here to ask a favor of you.”

  Despite her stare, her ramrod-straight posture, her words were soft and clipped, bearing a clear amount of uncertainty in what she was doing.

  Fighting to ensure there was no external response, nothing that s
eemed to not be completely planned, Ridge looked back at her. “Well, I’m only Senator Ridge for another twenty-five hours, but I’ll be happy to see what I can do.”

  Despite the smile on his face, the handful of chuckles around them, the woman’s features betrayed nothing, her nostrils flaring just slightly.

  “Senator, when you were a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, you voted to send soldiers into Afghanistan.”

  A palpable shift in the room occurred the moment the words were out, Ridge almost sensing the hyenas along the back pressing in, the pair of constituents that had already had their turn shrinking back.

  His own insides clenching tight, he refused to glance toward Beckwith, making sure his aim was on the woman and her alone.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “One of those soldiers that went over was my son,” she said, a few red lines creeping into the whites of her eyes. “And the favor I’m here to ask you today is, can you tell me if his death meant anything at all?”

  Chapter Three

  General Arnold Ames was the first to arrive, just as he usually was. A military man to the core, his mind was built to automatically subtract seven minutes from every appointment, the tedium of having to wait a few extra moments minor compared to his extreme distaste for ever arriving late.

  The bright winter sun was blotted from view by the dark tinted glass of the front doors as he stepped inside the restaurant, the unmistakable aroma of charred meat hanging in the air, the low din of conversation and utensils scratching against porcelain just audible.

  “Good afternoon, General,” a young hostess with a white Oxford shirt and even whiter teeth greeted him as he entered, her lower half blocked from view by a wooden podium. “How are you today?”