by Chris Hauty
“Can’t be for real, right?” Sophia asks. Becca shrugs in response.
“Where is that accent from? Kentucky?” Luke asks Hayley.
“West Virginia.” Hayley indicates the desk nearest to the door, currently being used as a file dumping ground. “Guessing this is where I sit?”
Becca is again regarding Hayley with cool, analytic precision, taking measure of the threat level posed by the newcomer and how she might be manipulated to personal advantage. “We’re under a lot of pressure, if you didn’t notice. Sit there if you must, but don’t mess any of that stuff up.”
Hayley doesn’t respond. The unfriendly and unwelcoming attitude of the other interns doesn’t much bother her. The other interns just seem to be kids, not worth her time or energy. Hayley places her bag on the floor and, ignoring Becca’s admonition, begins to organize the mess of folders and papers on the desk.
“You look kinda old,” Sophia tells Hayley. “Where do you go to school?”
Hayley continues to work as she answers Sophia’s prying question. “Two-year community college in Texas, near where I was stationed.” Their blank faces prompt her to add, “Believe me, you’ve never heard of this place.”
The three other interns exchange a communal look of bewilderment.
“Stationed?” Becca demands clarification with distaste.
Like most civilian Americans, none of the other interns have had any personal interaction with an actual serviceperson, let alone set foot on a military installation. That ignorance does not stop them from forming the near-universal bias against military personnel. This prejudice prompts all three college-educated interns to share an opinion that a US Army veteran, particularly one who enlisted, is of subpar intelligence, backward thinking, and perhaps psychopathic. Why else join the military if not a hopeless loser with mental issues?
Hayley has encountered this sort of prejudice since her earliest days in the army. Typically, she wouldn’t bother justifying to anyone what was a profoundly transformative life experience. But, in this instance, encouraging the cooperation and affinity of her fellow interns strikes her as important. “Enlisted out of high school, discharged about a year ago,” she tells the others. “And here I am.”
“But I thought … ?” Sophia’s question dies in midsentence.
Becca lays it out for the USC girl’s benefit. “White House interns must be a current college student, recent grad, or veteran with high school diploma.” With that explanation, the judgment of the intern kangaroo court is final. Hayley is nothing but a carbon-based organism taking up valuable space and time. On first sight, Luke had privately mused on the potential of fucking Hayley, her sex appeal undeniable. Knowing what he does now, however, the Georgetown student decides to keep his focus on the brighter sparkle of Sophia. Luke instinctually assesses that his dad would have a shit fit if he took up with this baby-killing white trash from West Virginia.
As Hayley continues organizing her work space, the other interns utterly ignore her. Not one says another word to Hayley the entire day. Luke departs first, at four thirty, for an appointment with a personal trainer at an Equinox on NW Twenty-Second Street. Sophia and Becca leave together at 6:05 p.m. for a double drinks date with two congressional pages at Black Jack near Logan Circle. Hayley’s workday, therefore, ends peacefully and gloriously alone. She finishes organizing the pile of documents on her desk, then turns to other stacks of position papers, memos, and briefing binders stacked throughout the cluttered office. At eight forty-five that night, her work is finally complete. The CoS Support office has been meticulously organized. Hayley puts on her jacket, turns off the lights, and begins her commute via the 38B Metrobus to her modest intern housing at the Henry House.
* * *
AFTER A WEEK and a half in the West Wing, Hayley has yet to leave the former janitorial closet. History may be made in the White House, but the real action might as well be happening on Mars for all Hayley knows. Her primary duties and responsibilities have consisted of maintaining the organization she had brought to the interns’ office and preventing it from sliding back into a persistent chaos. Becca, Luke, and Sophia are perfectly satisfied with this new arrangement. The West Virginian’s diligence has allowed them to cherry-pick assignments while receiving glowing performance reports for work actually done by the newcomer. In effect, Hayley is the interns’ intern.
Karen Rey occasionally drops by for a few minutes but deals exclusively with Becca, who has achieved this elite status through sheer force of personality and Machiavellian cunning. Luke and Sophia never really had a chance. Since their first encounter in Hall’s office suite, Rey has exchanged only a few desultory words with Hayley. Confined to the CoS Support office, the West Virginian toils in abject anonymity, a real-life Cinderella. If there’s a silver lining to her exploitation, it’s that the other interns rarely include Hayley in their feckless chatter.
Their immediate task on this particular morning is responding to emails sent to POTUS, electronic missives that range from outraged condemnation to idolizing approval of administration accomplishments, real and imagined. Whatever the category, each email receives the same cordial and appreciative reply. Even messages threatening harm toward the president are given respectful response while simultaneously being forwarded to the Secret Service. The volume of these disturbing missives fluctuates, depending on the news of the day and latest presidential statement or action. The record for actionable emails was set one week earlier, after Monroe gave a speech at a national VFW meeting in which he attacked NATO as a relic of twentieth-century geopolitics having no relevance to a twenty-first-century world. In proposing an alternative, eastern European alliance reflective of the new world order, Monroe generated a total of thirty-five active threats in the span of twenty-four hours, all of which were meticulously investigated by the Secret Service.
But answering emails isn’t met with abundant enthusiasm. Becca, in particular, is feeling underutilized, her ambitions roadblocked. Frustrated, she shakes her head in disbelief as she types. “Freaking morons are driving me crazy! This lady wants POTUS to help her son get a liver transplant. What does she expect Monroe to do, invade Mexico and harvest some?!”
“That’s actually not such a bad idea,” Luke muses, already attuned to exploitative opportunities in every facet of human existence. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll prove to be an even more successful hedge fund manager than his dad.
Sophia is more cursory in her response to the emails, with replies reading more like Zen koans. Some of these marvels of epistolary brevity have been printed and tacked to the office bulletin board. “Sir, the President appreciates the concerns of every citizen of this great country but cannot discern exactly the nature of yours. God totally bless the United States of America” was an early example. In straightening up the interns’ office, Hayley had considered taking down Sophia’s little gems, but even she had to appreciate their value as morale boosters and left them in place.
“I might as well be doing product support at Apple and actually get paid for my talents,” Sophia surmised, resisting a habit of reminding the others that her semi-famous father once hosted Steve Jobs for dinner. On that occasion, the Apple founder gifted a ten-year-old Sophia with the first model iPhone before the device’s official release, an event Sophia naturally mentions in telling the story.
“It’s either this or studying for the GREs. Frankly, I’ll take this,” confesses Luke, reflecting his country-club work ethic.
Becca glances toward Hayley, who has been quietly loading briefing binders. The job is not without its significance, and the other interns have come to rely on the flawlessly conscientious military veteran to handle the job.
“What about you, G.I. Jane? What’s your plan B?”
Hayley is surprised to be included in the discussion. Her response doesn’t require meditation. “Long as I can serve my country, I’m good.”
The other interns exchange a look, barely restraining their guffaws. Before
one of them can get off a snarky remark, however, there is a quick rap at the door, and it’s pushed open, revealing White House Chief of Staff Peter Hall. Without his suit jacket, Hall is in roll-up-your-sleeves work mode.
Becca, Sophia, and Luke freeze, not quite believing their eyes. The chief of staff has never stopped by the ground-floor support office. As a matter of fact, none of them have exchanged more than a few words with Hall besides expected pleasantries. He certainly doesn’t know any of them by name.
“Staff’s jammed. Need someone for fifteen minutes,” Hall announces, needlessly adding, “not another second more than that, I promise.”
Luke, Sophia, and Becca all stand in unison, but the NYU grad finds her voice first. “I’m available, Mr. Hall!”
Hall glances around the room, ignoring Becca’s declaration. “Which one of you is the army vet?”
Hayley raises her hand to half-mast. “That’s me, sir. Hayley Chill.”
Hall’s normally fierce demeanor instantly softens when he turns his gaze on Hayley. “Chill? Sure. How the hell could I forget a name like that? Fort Hood base commander wrote your letter of recommendation. Among the first females to gender-integrate the infantry. History making, General MacFarland said. Hell of a boxer, too.”
“Yes, sir. Honored to serve in any capacity.”
Hall fancies himself an ear for regional accents, not without justification. “Kanawha County, West Virginia?”
Hayley grins. “Pretty close, sir. Green Shoals, Lincoln County.”
Watching Hayley interact with the chief of staff, Becca knows she has lost a major battle here, though the war is far from over. Sophia and Luke’s game is strictly two-dimensional, and they don’t even realize the contest is over for them. Becca now understands that this was a two-man race from day one of Hayley’s arrival. Underscoring that point, Hall’s focus remains exclusively on the West Virginian.
“Your father, he made the ultimate sacrifice?”
“Yes, sir. Bravo Company from Marine Corps Reserve’s First Battalion, Twenty-Third Regiment. Second Battle of Fallujah. Killed in action at Blackwater Bridge, sir, when I was eight. My mom raised us six kids slingin’ grits and black coffee at a Shoney’s in Charleston, up until she got sick herself.”
Hall nods, sagely, recognizing the backstory. “Monroe people,” he assesses approvingly.
“Yes, sir. The president is very popular back home.”
Without a glance toward the other three interns, Hall crooks his finger and tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go. Not enough hours in the day to save a country.”
Hayley stands and follows Hall out the door, leaving Becca, Sophia, and Luke to exchange looks of stunned misery.
Hall leads Hayley up the stairwell and down the corridor to his office suite. The reception area is empty except for his primary assistant seated at her desk, running traffic control on the office phones. “No calls or interruptions for fifteen minutes,” Hall barks at his assistant as he strides past. Hayley follows him into his office.
She gestures behind her. “Door closed, sir?”
“Leave it.” Hall picks up a sheaf of papers from his desk and thrusts the papers at Hayley, indicating a chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”
Hayley takes the pages and briefly scans them.
“The president’s speech in Ohio Saturday on national security,” Hall informs her, sitting on the corner of his desk with arms folded across his chest. Through the window behind his desk, the Washington Monument looms. “Read. I want to hear it.”
Hayley glances down at the pages for no more than five seconds, then looks back up to Hall.
“ ‘This is a time, my fellow Americans, when we must reach within ourselves and discover the essential strength of our convictions. We must recall the lessons taught to us by our elders, ones that spoke to ideals that once made this great country—’ ”
Hall raises a hand, stopping her recitation. “Bullshit.”
“Sir?”
Hall gestures for the speech transcript impatiently. Hayley hands the pages back to the chief of staff.
Hall asks, “Photographic memory part of army training now?”
“Fortunately, sir, my recall has always been pretty good.”
As a child, Hayley did not begin to speak until the age of two but then spoke in complete sentences and was reading by the age of four. It was her second-grade teacher who first discerned Hayley’s photographic memory. On a field trip to the local park, Hayley had flawlessly recited the birthdays of every student in class by recalling the dates written on a homeroom poster. As it developed, Hayley realized her eidetic memory wasn’t limited to visual aspects of memory but also included auditory memory and other sensory stimuli associated with a visual image. Sensitive to the freakish nature of this gift, she downplays its significance to the point of obscuring it unless exposure is absolutely necessary.
“Fantastic. How good are you at forgetting it?” Hall unceremoniously dumps the pages into the garbage can. “Speechwriters we hired couldn’t write a thank-you note without a fucking thesaurus. I’ll write the damn thing myself.”
“A field general is only as good as his EO, sir.”
Hall nods in agreement, his impression of this army veteran from West Virginia only getting better by the minute. With four grown sons, he has always lamented having no daughters. In the car later that evening, after a long day, Hall will recall these few minutes with Hayley and consider fixing up his youngest son with her. After Hall’s wife, Carol, died from cancer three years ago, Paul has been the most attentive in helping his dad through the dark, lonely times. Next time his youngest is down from New York, Hall makes a mental note to invite the new intern over to the house on Kalorama Road for brunch.
“No one expected him to go all the way. No one even saw Richard Monroe coming. Ninety-nine percent of Washington figured him for just another war hero with a book deal at Simon and Schuster,” Hall informs her. “I saw a chance for national redemption.”
“It was a good book, sir. Read it twice,” she relates.
“And its author actually wrote it! Words like hand grenades and napalm for ideas. How else to win a political war for the ages? Obliterate the status quo and take no prisoners.”
“Yes, sir, but as Bismarck said, politics is the art of the possible.”
Hall scoffs. “The art of the next best? Nice try, Ms. Chill, and kudos for being better read than all of your Ivy League colleagues combined. But don’t underestimate the forces mobilized against us.” He pauses for dramatic effect, hinging at the waist as he leans his face toward hers. “They want us dead!”
“Sir … ?” Hayley protests.
Hall cuts her off with an index figure pointed to the ceiling. “The president or me. Dead! And don’t be surprised when it happens. They’ll do anything to stop us. Trust no one.”
“Who is ‘they,’ sir?”
“The people who actually control this town, the shadow government, or ‘deep state.’ Call it what you will, they are a hybrid association of elements of government joined with parts of top-level finance and industry that effectively governs the United States, and without consent of the electorate. They’re afraid of what Richard Monroe might do to the precious power they’ve accrued over decades of entrenchment. These elements are mortally afraid of an end to a status quo of their creation and will preserve what they believe is rightfully theirs through any means necessary.”
Hayley remains quiet, Hall’s words hanging in the air.
“We, as a country, think we’re so different, that we’re better than all of that. But we’re not better. We’re not all that different from anyone else. This country was founded in blood. Blood is our heritage, just like every other country on the planet.” The chief of staff gives Hayley a sidelong look, a wry grin on his face. “But I’m not telling you anything, am I, Ms. Chill? You’ve seen something of the real world, unlike your fellow interns.”
Hayley’s face remains impassive. “Yes,
sir.”
Hall nods, satisfied with this meeting of like minds, however disparate their professional positions. He casually gestures toward the door, as if the dire threat he had just mentioned was simply part of the job. “Don’t have much time to bang this out. Appreciate your time.”
“That’s all, sir?”
“For now.” Hall seems to consider saying more but decides against it.
Hayley dutifully rises to her feet and strides toward the door.
“Keep close, Ms. Chill, and stay alert. Your country needs you,” he calls after her.
“Thank you, sir.” Hayley quietly leaves the room.
* * *
WASHINGTON’S DELIGHTFUL INDIAN summer ended with finality three weeks after Hayley started her internship. Balmy temperatures and blue skies were replaced overnight by a low ceiling of gunmetal clouds and air temperatures in the midthirties, with snow flurries in the forecast. Disinclined to join one of the budget fitness centers in town, Hayley begins every day before daybreak with a five-mile run through the District’s dark streets. She follows that cardio workout with a series of basic calisthenics in her studio apartment, a condensed twenty-minute workout comprised of multiple sets of pull-ups, push-ups, woodchopper squats, and sit-ups. Six days a week, without deviation, Hayley’s workout is the same.
After a shower, Hayley dresses and then ducks back into the tiny bathroom. Studying herself in the partially fogged mirror, her self-assessment isn’t gentle. Since she was thirteen, Hayley has judged her lips too thin and nose too wide. The issue here isn’t one of attractiveness or imperfection so much as competence. If you can’t fix your own face, then how capable can you be? She opens her makeup bag and contours her nose, skillfully narrowing with concealer. Next, lips are overdrawn with liner and then filled with lipstick and gloss. After she has finished and carefully studied her work, a dissatisfied Hayley removes all of the makeup with a quick wash and leaves the bathroom cosmetics-free.
