Fiction Friday #18

The Fiction Friday posts are going to a different for a little while. Instead of me rushing to write about a thousand words of a story I'm going to post what I've written for NaNoWriMo. I'm not going to post the whole thing over and over again, I'm just going to post the new stuff I wrote between Fridays. So, some may start in illogical places and all will probably end without logic. Just deal with it.

This week's is short because it's just what I wrote all day yesterday and today here at work.

This is the way Fiction Friday is going to go until
1. The first Friday after the 30th, which is the first, I think.
2. I finish the 50,000 word and/or the novel.
Or 3. I decide to give up on NaNoWriMo.

Day Zero

Marcus Gandbuth walked into the press room by himself and stood off to the side of the platform. He didn't want to announce his presence just yet. He wanted to get a sense of the room before he let them know he was there.

More or less, it was a normal Friday before a holiday crowd. About half the seats were filled with their usually reporters only halfway listening to what Dan had to say. And he had nothing to say. There were no big bombs to drop on them this week. No hostages. No attack. No overtime basketball games just ending. Beside, most of the reporters in the press room went over the video tapes that were made available afterward. The only reasons any reporters showed up anymore was in the hopes that they could catch Dan, and therefore the entire administration, off guard with a pointed question, but since the Vice President hadn't been caught sucking geezer midget cock this week, Marc didn't think anyone was going to even try. Besides, they all wanted to get on their Christmas break as soon as possible, too.

Marc cleared his throat a little too loudly and stood there watching the reporters. The young guy in front did a double take and was the first to start staring. Slowly, the other people in the room turned to look at him, too. Then one camera, CNN, he thought, turned and then another and then another, like dominoes being knocked over. Not Dan though, he always focused on his notes instead of the actual people and was reading, word for word, some report put out by the Secretary of Agriculture about the restructuring on some farm subsidies they hoped to get through Congress next year.

Actually, it was Dan's sort of incompetence that helped him get the job of Press Secretary. He could hardly remember anything, so he always used notes. When he was asked a questions, he'd rifle through pages of information trying to find an answer. Sometimes he got lucky and the information was in the top couple of pages, but more often it was somewhere in the middle of his stack. When that happened he start searching and if the search took more than a few seconds, he'd ask all the reporters to quiet down, even if they were already quiet, because he needed his concentration and as he looked through the papers he'd mumble to himself, but into the microphone, that everyone needs to keep quiet. But the incompetence was masterful. By the time he found the answer most of the reporters had forgotten the question, so there were no follow-ups. Marc wasn't sure, but he always thought the reporters didn't ask more follow-ups because they were afraid that Dan would have to go through his notes, again. The best way to keep people from getting the information they wanted was to present it in a way they didn't like.

Once, the Chief of Staff, Alan Zimmerman, and Marc made a drinking game out of one of Dan's press conferences. Every time Dan said quiet loud enough for the camera to pick up, they took a shot. Forty minutes into the conference, Zim was a happy drunk, the kind that figures no one else can tell he's drunk and he wants to go around telling everyone how great they are. Marc just sat and focused on the TV so he wouldn't miss a single "quiet." Neither one of them had much memory of the rest of that day; Marc only had flashes of toilette's and grinding rolling chairs and asking people to keep quiet because he and Zim, they were looking for something so everyone had to keep quiet.

It was probably one on Marc's most productive days since he started working with these people.

Marc watched as Dan finally looked up into the half full room to answer the question he had been asked and noticed that no one was looking at him. Dan looked back at his notes and then at the reporters again. Marcus let his grin get huge because he knew that if he tried to hold it back, he'd laugh and Dan never took well to being laughed at. So he waited.

Dan cleared his throat once and then a second time, more forcefully. He opened his mouth, and closed it, then opened it again. He cocked his head to the left and followed everyone's gaze to his right. When he noticed Marc standing there, he closed his mouth with an audible snap.

Marc smiled as warmly as he could and half waved at Dan.

Dan half waved back.

Marc pointed to himself and then to the podium Dan was standing behind and then to himself again and nodded.

Dan straightened up with a jerk, pulled his coat straight, pushed glasses higher on his nose, and leaned toward the microphone. "Uh," he said, "ladies and gentlemen, I, uh, huh, I give you the, uh, the president of the United States of America. Um, Marcus Gandbuth."

Marc climbed the two stairs as the small group of reporters sat in silence and Dan collected his notes in a messy pile from the podium. When Dan turned toward him, Marc shot out his hand and grabbed Dan's and started shaking. Notes flew everywhere.

Dan and Marc both crouched down and started pulling papers into a pile.

"Sorry, Dan," said Marc. "I know how you hate surprises, but I thought it would be nice to come and talk and, maybe, answer a few questions. You know, as a sort of Christmas present."

"It's okay, uh, sir -- Mr. President, sir."

They got the pile of notes together and into Dan's arms. Both men stood up and Marc leaned in close and whispered, "You may want to watch this from your office."

Dan winced, nodded, and scurried down off the lift.

Marc walked over to the podium and smiled the smile his staff told him won the election. A friendly and confident smile, he was told. One that inspired people to flock to his cause. A smile that dentists could put up in their office to show what years of painful orthodontic work and bleach treatments could do for anyone of any age. And having such a big smile and such white teeth nestled in a light box tanned face made it all the better.

Marc didn't feel as confident as his smile made him look. His palms were sweating, his heart fluttered, and his stomach was trying to reenact Stomp. He hadn't felt this way making a speech since he was in high school.