Big Things in Far-Away Places — Part 2 (Patreon)

***The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. This post does not constitute, insinuate or recommend an offer to sell, a solicitation of an offer to buy, or a recommendation of exchange, monetary or otherwise, services that are sexual or pornographic in nature.***

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Part 1 is here.

When our grandkids ask us what we did during the pandemic (likely while we’re all hunkered down around… three pandemics from now), we’ll probably be tempted to tell them of all the heroic ways we maintained our resilience: how we were there for others with a spirit of generosity and kindness; how we used our precious time to actively improve our minds, bodies, and souls; and how, overall, humankind abandoned its primitive prejudices and came together in harmony to defeat a common foe.

In other words, we’ll totally fuck with their heads. It’ll be hysterical.

But if we wanted to be killjoys — y’know, be honest with them, or some shit — many of us would say something akin to, “I dunno. I was drunk and fat most of the time. I remember when it started, there was free money and this dude who had a bunch of tigers, and that was cool. Wonder Woman got in trouble for singing a John Lennon song, and… Yeah. Then it got weird and depressing and boring from there. Stayed that way for a while. But I caught up on a lot of TV, so there was that.”

“But grandmama, what is this “TV” you speak of?” they will say in a tone that’s oddly polite and for some reason, an accent that’s Late Victorian.

To which we will reply, “Shut up, kid. That’s enough stories for today. I just transferred 20 credits to your digi-wallet. Go get your ol’ granny a six pack of Victory Gin, and watch out for the robot dogs.”

They will happily oblige. They already know to be back before sundown, and to stay clear of Sector 14G, lest they fall victim to the GodSeed Fragments.

The future sucks. Anyway — TV.

We all watched our fair share during the last couple of years. I would even venture to say that some of us reached the long-storied but ne’er proven “end of the internet:” that dark and lonely realm, where all streamable content has been viewed and digested.

What happens then? Oh, scary stuff, bro. At that point, you have to — gasp! — Go Back and Rewatch Stuff You’ve Already Seen Before, But Not So Recently That it’s Repetitive, But a Little While Back, Because It Was Good the First Time Around, and You’ve Kinda Been Wanting to See It Again, Because You Already Know What’s Gonna Happen, So Now You Can Focus on All The LIttle Minutia of the World the Showrunners Were Trying to Convey!!!1!!

So, when I was putzing around, cooking, that show, for me, was The West Wing. Classic stuff, right? If you haven’t seen it, the show ran for about seven seasons, and focused on the inner workings of the fictional administration of President Josiah Bartlett. It was an Aaron Sorkin thing, great cast, awesome writing, some heartwarming stuff, good drama, funny moments, yadayadayada.

If you have seen it, and you got a kick out of it, you’ll know what I mean when I say that (I think) I’m a C.J. Cregg. Damn, I love that woman. Allison Janney has great timing, and her character development was just on-point. Worked in Hollywood PR, hated it, got fired, decided to get into politics with the underdog presidential candidate, he won, and she’s allofasudden the White House Press Secretary. Then, later in the series, she’s promoted to White House Chief of Staff, a position that many would argue is the second-most-powerful in the Executive Branch of the U.S. government. SO!

There’s this one episode, in season 6 (ep.4, if you’re curious), where she’s officially gotten the job. She’s ready for it, but has NO idea about what’s entailed once she’s in the seat. Her little apartment is now under Secret Service protection; she is briefed on emergency plans, and what to do if some serious shit goes down; catching up on some paperwork about situations in the Baltic, a virus outbreak; keeping her cool. It’s her job to get all the info, digest it, and shoot it along to the President. She’s a calm, collected chick who focuses on her duty, while still letting her heart peek out of her sleeve, which I think is pretty cool. But… she’s still in Press Secretary mode.

Then. There’s this one scene, when she’s just barely hanging in there mentally — we all have long days, right? — where she sits down for a meeting with some random dude in the Roosevelt Room. He’s from Georgia (the country in the former Soviet Block, not the ‘Go Dawgs’ one) (but for real, Go Dawgs, [Sick ‘Em]). Damned parentheticals… He’s from Georgia. Cartoonishly polite. Has a Halliburton case cuffed to his arm. Former economic advisor to the Georgian president, brings a bottle of wine to say hello. It’s all a little too much, and she starts to get the whiff that it’s a prank. This dude very kindly informs CJ that Georgia’s got just a shitload of enriched uranium lying around, that they don’t know what to do with it, and that they want the United States to just have it. CJ politely excuses herself, and approaches her coworkers to get to the bottom of what’s obviously a tasteless joke.

Then, she stops herself, and a look of confused shock crosses her face. The reality hits her. This isn’t something that’s been instructed to her in the form of a memo — she’s the person who actually has to handle this madness: in this case, 300kg of weapons-grade uranium that’s also being offered to Iran. “This is really happening, isn’t it.” She’s a smart chick, sets up meetings, starts to get to the bottom of things, and the plot continues from there.

I thought that was a pretty cool twist in the plot. Character-building. It’s relatable: how easy it is to lose yourself because you’re just so freaking immersed in what you’re doing and who you are, and how life has a way of just bumping you on the freaking head to remind you that absurdity is, in all actuality, very much a thing that happens IRL.

I think the analogy half-works. It’s not that people are White House Chiefs of Staff for their entire careers or anything; it’s just that a lot of folks who end up with that position have slowly worked their way up to it over a long period of time. They know the ins-and-outs that are required, and how best to respond. Sometimes, however, it all just kinda… happens.

I’m sure CJ wasn’t jealous of Leo McGarry for his years of experience. Just in the same way I’m not jealous of my friend for having near-Heather-class boobs since high school. It’s just that she’s had more practice at the “big breast lifestyle” than I have, and is more aware of all that’s entailed. (If you’re new here, I talk about how I was a C cup until my 30s in one of my very first Patreon posts, published way back in 2018.) I imagine, when you spend your late teens and all of your 20s lugging around a pair of soccer balls on your chest, you build a pretty thick skin. You’ve heard it all. Everything from a lifetime of catcalls, to mitigating the effects of summertime boob sweat, to fielding earnest solicitations for the pleasure of your most divine company, to… well, sometimes taking people up on those solicitations?

He got an ‘A’ for effort, and at this point, my curiosity was piqued.

What the hell.

I was still on the fence. Not entirely convinced this wasn't still some joke, I figured it couldn’t hurt to just send this guy a quick reply and see what this “expanded proposed itinerary” of his was all about. I chewed on a pencil while I paced, and then, went back to the Compose box. Sixteen minutes after I'd first opened it, I finally started typing.

[European Finance Dude Name]

Greetings. Thank you for your inquiry, and for the kind words.

I mean, he was polite, and very formal, so why the hell not match it.

I’ll start by saying that your inquiry is unexpected and a bit unusual. I’ve not participated in anything like this before, so I can’t say that I know where to start with this email.

At that point, I went back to pacing with the pencil in my teeth. Keep it short and sweet…?

And then, I wrote something a little out of character. If it was all a lark, and it was just somebody having some fun at my expense, I might as well return the favor and have a little fun of my own. 

Not going to say it doesn’t sound like it could be fun, though.

(Don’t you love that? How a grammatically correct sentence can contain the words “not,” “doesn’t,” and “could?” Along with something as ambiguous as “sound like?” Viva English. It is a silly language.)

I can certainly imagine that jumblies such as mine are a bit unique. Ah, for those small-titted glory days, before I was bitten by that radioactive cow. But giant boobs is what I got, and I'm pleased that you'd care to take a peek and cop a feel. Would I just keep them on display on a table the entire time, or something a bit more free-swingin'? I appreciate, also, your offer of spacious transport — as I am sure you can imagine, I am not much of a fan of middle seats. Unless there are peanuts on board, which there aren't, I s'pose, because of all those little brats and their allergies. 

There we go. Just a touch of that snarky deadpan. I think I hit the sweet spot between jokey and a little sarcastic, and that the deciphering would depend on this fellow and his intent. 

Anyway. I hear your requests, and I’m sure I’ll have lots of questions. You mentioned a packet with information. Please send it along, and I will be glad to review.

Good Evening,

Heather.

I don’t think I came off as some ice-queen. That’s wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to keep my hand close to my chest. (Euphemism semi-intended.) I clicked “send,” and went back to my business (having a drink, watching some Werner Herzog documentary — always a good combo.)

The next morning, a reply.

The “packet” was… thorough.

(To be continuuueeedddd…)