All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. The title's from a 10,000 Maniacs song. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. Hey, Jack Kerouac Violet
It was a Sunday afternoon, and so C.J. was cleaning her apartment, wearing a
campaign T-shirt and an old pair of jeans, her feet bare and her hair pulled
back in a loose knot. She hummed along with the radio, wondering how her
stove could be dirty when she used it so rarely.
As she tried to scrub a sticky spot off the counter, she heard a car stop on
the street in front of her building. When she didn't hear it drive away, she
went to the window and glanced outside. Recognizing the vehicle, she set
down the washcloth in her hand and hurried downstairs.
Toby got out of his car and walked around to the sidewalk. He leaned against
the passenger door, folding his arms as C.J. came out to the stoop.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
He looked her over, faintly amused. "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning." She looked down at herself. "Obviously."
"Having any success?"
"I've succeeded in moving a lot of the dust around to new places. What are
you doing?"
"Thinking."
"Here?"
"Obviously."
She pushed a stray wisp of hair away from her eyes. "So you just came by to
be glib and inscrutable?"
"In part," he admitted.
"Can I go inside now?"
"If you like."
Instead, she sat down on the steps, resting her elbows on her knees. "So
what are you doing?"
"I think we need to come up with a different approach, and we need to do it
fast." He looked at her expectantly.
She covered her face with her hands. "I hate you."
"I'm sure."
"What's wrong with what we said yesterday and Friday?" she demanded. "We
were the right temperature, we were smart, we were on point--"
"Not strong enough."
"Not strong enough?" she repeated, incredulously. "For heaven's sake, Toby,
Gillette's one of ours."
"All the more reason." He tapped his fingers restlessly against the side of
his car. "Our people shouldn't -- we shouldn't have Democrats that stand
around taking not-so-subtle potshots at a good President. We shouldn't be
treated like second-class citizens. We shouldn't accept this from our
people. Gillette wants to tear us down and play himself up. This is
unacceptable. This--"
"You hate him."
"--What?"
"You hate Seth Gillette."
"You don't?"
"I don't like him," she said thoughtfully. "I think he's selfish and
extremist and a bit blind to the bigger picture. But he isn't always evil,
and he isn't always wrong."
Toby stared at her. "Thank you, Billy Joel."
"I'm just saying, you hate him. And I think I know why."
"I really didn't come here to be psychoanalyzed."
"Then you're standing on the wrong curb, my friend." She folded her hands
under her chin. "I think you know he's right sometimes, and you hate him
because you don't get to agree with him."
"That's--"
"That's the way it is," C.J. told him. "Our jobs have limitations. The
price we pay for serving at the pleasure of the President is that we have to
give some ground. And I know that in your heart you want to be extreme and
righteous and never compromise what you believe in, but I also know you're
well aware that you make more of a contribution to the world where you are."
Toby was silent, looking at the ground. After a while, he faced her again.
"In my heart?"
"In your heart."
"That's very... pop music."
"Thank you."
"Sometimes we lose our place," Toby said. "We work hard to try and get
somewhere, and then we forget the directions we're supposed to be going. And
we end up running back and forth, north to south, when we're trying to go
west."
"Very poetic," she said, half-teasing.
"Thank you."
"You need a Seth Gillette to remind you of the direction you're supposed to
be going."
"That's a very unpleasant thought."
"You made me talk about work on a Sunday. I have no sympathy." She leaned
back and looked at the sky. "It's cold out here. Are you cold?"
"No, but you're barefoot," he pointed out.
"There is that. But you're bareheaded."
She struggled not to smile as he leveled a steady look at her. "I hate you,"
he said finally.
"I know."
Toby looked off at the horizon for a while. "It's getting dark already," he
said, mostly to himself.
C.J. stood up. "Hey, Jack Kerouac, I'm heading back inside."
"Okay."
She walked up the steps to the front door, then turned back. "Are you coming
in?"
"Do I have to help you clean?"
"Maybe later."
She held back the smile again, but her eyes were twinkling. He raised his
eyebrows and said nothing as he followed her. They walked sedately up the
stairs, but he reached out for her as soon as they were inside her apartment.
For a long time, he simply held her close, which made her happy, because she
felt messy and she knew she smelled like dust and the chemical lemon scent of
furniture polish. He kissed her cheek and breathed in, then drew back
suddenly and sneezed. When he looked at her again, his eyes were big and
startled, and that made her even happier.
"Come on," she said, leading him away from the front door.
"Where are we going?" he asked, and she knew he was wondering if they were
headed for the bedroom or the bathtub.
"I don't know." She gave him the full benefit of her brilliant smile.
"Let's go."