“Andrew, why are you here, anyway?”

Waxman, the guy on his way out, and I, the guy who’d just come in, were, I guess, bonding.

“You invited me, Henry, don’t you remember?”

I thought I was pretty funny, but he just felt I was dissolving the bond.

“Seriously, Andrew. Everybody’s been talking about how little you seem to even have tried to accomplish since you came to Washington.”

“Really? Everybody? I didn’t think most of the reps even knew me.”

“Well, okay. They don’t. But I’M everybody. I want to leave this body as close to the position of honor I found it in as I can and I can’t do that if jokesters and slackers are filling the seats on our side.” (I know my relating of this makes him seem uptight and proper but, though these are his exact words, he came across quite Jewy and warm.)

“Sounds like more than one person you’re talking about, but you’re just talking about me, right?”

“Right,” the Angeleno schpritzed “chocolate death” ice cream direct from a teat into his mouth.

“I know you’ve had a truncated term,” he admitted, “but you’ve got to start stepping up to the plate. It’s already time for you to start gearing up for reelection.”

“I’m not even sure I want reelection,” I said glibly.


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