The following fictional story is just that -- a fictional story.Six Months Ago, November 2nd, Election Day, 6:00 A.M.
The alarm blares. “You know what that sound is, Honey?” I asked my wife Jane who rolled over, mumbling. “That is the sound of change and today that’s what this country is getting.”
“Jim, if you don’t silence that sound you’ll be getting a divorce.”
“Come on, Jane, come with me and vote for Senator Newsome, soon to be President-Elect Nathan N. Newsome, the country’s first African-American President.”
“You know, Jimmy, I wish the force that unleashed your passion for that guy had done the same for this girl.”
“Not to worry, my love, for tonight I’ll produce a special election erection for you.”
“For me or for Keith Olbermann?”
“Now that’s cruel.”
“I’m going back to sleep. Just take the garbage out before you change the world?”
Poor Jane had a point. For over a year I’d been tooting Newsome’s horn so loud her eardrums could have exploded. But at least she still talked to me, unlike most of my family and friends. In our staunch Republican enclave of New Jersey, backing a Democrat for any office was unusual. If you leaned that way, you did so quietly, discreetly, a far cry from the in-your-face approach I took.
Driving to the polling place, I sensed not just the dawn of a new day, but the first light of a nation reborn. Senator Newsome, though short on experience and an improbable candidate at first, displayed a remarkable presence, poise, and sense of purpose – the right man at the right time to lead the country. Almost trembling with patriotic pride, I pushed the voting button next to his name.
Same Day, 8:00 A.M.
I practically skipped into my office building, giving the security guard Oscar a high-five and taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor. I had barely sunk into my desk chair when my boss Bruce entered the office and shut the door.
“Good morning, Bruce, you don’t look so good. Is everything okay?” He stepped to the window, looking out, saying nothing.
I continued, “My polling place was packed earlier. Did you vote yet?”
Still looking out, he spoke: “Jim, I have to let you go. Corporate ordered me to cut costs by 40%. That means people. Jesus, Jim, I’m sorry.”
“Oh. Okay. Huh. Wow. Really? Wow. Shit.”
“They authorized me to give you two months’ severance pay. Jim, you need to collect your personal belongings and leave now. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you’ve been sorry twice now. Two months, huh? Did Corporate also authorize you to go fuck yourself? For God’s sake, Bruce, my 20 years is worth two months’ pay? Can you at least look at me? I don’t believe this. Shit!”
“Good luck, Jim. I’m really sor . . .”
“Don’t say it again, Bruce, I beg you. I’ll go, but do not tell me you’re sorry again.”
And so, Election Day for Nathan Newsome became Ejection Day for James Sherman. One minute I was 45 years young and on top of the world. The next, I was 45 years old and stripped of worth, relieved of dignity.
The Next Day, November 3rd, 7:00 A.M.
I woke up and realized I had nowhere to go. “Janie, any housework you need done? I have some time today, and tomorrow, and the day after.”
“Never mind that, Jim. Why don’t you write him a letter?”
“Write who a letter?”
“President-Elect Nathan N. Newsome, that’s who. It’ll take your mind off the other thing and, who knows, maybe he can get you a job.”
“Yeah, maybe he can come up and clean out the garage, too.”
“By the way, what does the ‘N’ stand for?”
“Nothing.”
“His middle name is Nothing?”
“No. He has no middle name, only the initial.”
“Isn’t that a little weird? I swear there’s something fishy about that guy.”
So after wandering from room to room like a forlorn puppy, I sat down and composed the following:
Dear President-Elect Newsome,
In the unlikely event this letter reaches your hands, I wish to congratulate you on running a brilliant campaign and achieving an historic victory.
I embraced your candidacy in its infancy, recognizing a powerful combination of youthful optimism, fresh ideas, and a fierce desire to serve all Americans. Although a lifelong Republican, I proudly voted for you, Sir.
Ironically, on your day of triumph, I became a victim of the national epidemic of job cuts. Yet I remain hopeful and buoyant of spirit, knowing you will forcefully address the economic woes afflicting the country. Incidentally, if your White House staff could use another able worker, please don’t hesitate to call.
I pray that God will grant you the strength to carry the heavy load that we, the American people, have placed on your back.
Sincerely,
James T. Sherman
Two Months Later, January 19th, Inauguration Day, 8:00 A.M.
“Here’s your honey-do list for today, Sweetie. I’ll call you at lunch time.” Janie’s lists kept me nearly as busy as my former job.
“No you won’t. Newsome’s inauguration speech is at noon.”
“Okay, sorry. You know, Jim, I want to share your certainty about Newsome, but I still don’t trust him. Bye.”
And Jane set off for work, something I hadn’t done in more than two months. Searching for a job was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I never wanted to sell anything for a living, especially myself, but that’s what the situation required. Why wouldn’t anyone buy me?
Same Day, 12:50 P.M.
Before I conclude, I’d like to share the substance of a letter – one of thousands I received – from Mr. James T. Sherman of New Jersey. Mr. Sherman, a stalwart Republican all his life, enlisted early in our “Change for Real” campaign. Due to cutbacks in his company, he lost his job on the very day that he helped me to attain mine. Despite the personal setback, he took the time to write and express his belief that better times were ahead.
Mr. Sherman, I promise you that I shall not stop working until you start working once again. I promise you, and all others in similar straits across this land, that I shall not stop striving until you start thriving once more. God bless you all and God bless this great country.
After pinching myself 20 or 30 times, all I could think was, Holy shit!
The phone rang, my friend Marty. I answered, “Holy shit!”
“I take it you were watching.”
“Holy shit!”
“Still processing, are we? You’re a celebrity now, Jimbo. Get ready for a little attention.”
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Okay, that’s a start. Good luck, Pal.”
One Week Later, January 26th, The Larry King Show, CNN
“Our guest for the full hour is James T. Sherman, the unemployed office worker catapulted to fame by President Newsome in his inaugural address. We’ll hear from Mr. Sherman how his life has changed, tonight, on Larry King Live.”
Needless to say, occupying the national stage was hardly routine. My butterflies metastasized into hummingbirds as I awaited Larry’s first question.
“Tell us, Jim, what has it been like this past week?”
“Well, Larry, may I call you Larry? It’s been a blur, a whirlwind. I never expected the new President to read my letter, much less make it part of his inaugural address.”
“You’ve received plenty of job offers, I hear.”
“Yes, and they continue to come in every day, from all over the country. It’s amazing.”
“What has been the most unusual one so far?”
“I’d say the brothel manager out in Luckless, Nevada. Tantalizing fringe benefits, may I say.” A chuckle from Larry.
“Have you decided what job to accept, Jim?”
“I have, Larry. And other than my wife Jane, you’ll be the first person to know.”
“Uh, don’t forget, Jim. I have a pretty fair audience out there.”
“Oh yeah, good point. Well, President Newsome’s chief of staff called me yesterday and offered me a job in the White House as the assistant to somebody’s assistant. I start next week.”
Congratulations and a handshake from Larry. “Why do you feel he’ll be such a great President, Jim?”
“A lot of reasons, Larry, but the main things are his honesty, integrity, and compassion for the disadvantaged among us. I don’t just feel he’ll make a great President; I know it.
Current Day, May 1st
The Washington Post headline reverberates in my head:
Newsome Resigns in Disgrace
‘Daughtergate’ Scandal Topples New President
“What a stinking bastard! From savior to scumbag overnight. Did he expect to suppress this thing forever? An illegitimate 15-year old daughter living on the Chicago streets, turning tricks for food . . . holy shit! Jane’s suspicion was on target after all.”
“What’ll you do now, Jim?” My White House co-worker Betty asks as we pack up our belongings. Newsome’s Vice President – now elevated – decided to clean house, so to speak.
“I don’t know. I dread going back to Jersey to face the mocking masses waiting to serenade me. Jane’s got herself a good teaching job here, and I’ve got the D.C. fever despite this debacle. I’d love to work for a Senator or Congressman, but what politician wants me on his team right now?”
“Hey, don’t forget this.” Betty hands me the photo-op picture of the former President and me shaking hands on my first day. “Do you wish now you hadn’t written that letter?”
“Huh, good question. No, I’m glad I did. For one thing, it put me in the game after a lifetime on the sidelines. For another, how else would I know that Larry King has bad breath?”
