text: Coming back to DC was something I never thought I’d do. I grew up hearing the stories: how it used to be the capital, about the surprise attack, and the remnants that remained. In fact, even being this far up the coast was unnerving. After eighty years, nothing seemed like it’d gotten back to normal or that it ever would. It was as if the whole eastern seaboard retreated inland when DC was lit up. The only people who lived here now were the ones who were changed. The van slowed to a stop. The driver, a muscular man sporting jet black aviators, an earpiece, and a pistol turned to me and my chief of staff, Aaron, in the back. “We’re here. Make sure your suits are fastened tight.” I turned to Aaron. “You ever worn one of these things before?” “Yeah, once,” Aaron said, “Make sure it’s snug.” Aaron pulled the zipper of his nanotryte suit up to the top of his neck and then clasped the four buttons at the top to keep the zipper in place. He then placed the reflective helmet on top of his head. I followed suit. We hopped out of the van and made our way up to the driver who was about a hundred feet ahead of us. “This is as far as we can go. Any closer and not even these suits would protect you,” the driver said, staring straight ahead at the ruins. “What’s your name?” I asked, eyeing him awkwardly. “A-549d3k” “That’s not--don’t you have a human name?” I said. The driver didn’t answer. He looked down at his feet as if contemplating whether he remembered his name at all. “Fred. My name is Fred,” he said finally. I nodded turning away from Fred and out towards the ruins of the White House. Smoke rose from the rubble as if the building still smoldered some eighty years later. My mind ventured to church as it often did. There was always talk growing up of judgment day and how the sinners would be the ones left behind. The Pastor would yell and scream and wail and raise his fists. I used to marvel at it. It was a special kind of theater. Now, I thought what if judgment day had already passed. “This whole place is a wasteland,” Aaron said, surveying withered husks of apartment complexes that dotted the edges of what was left of the National Mall. The stump of the Washington Monument poked out like a nub, the rest of it either obliterated in the blast or lost in the piles of rock that surrounded it. Aaron turned and put a hand on my shoulder pulling me in close, “I’m gonna go back to the car and make some calls. We should head out in fifteen to make it to the ANCF event on time.” As I took one last look at the remains of the nation’s former capital, I debated whether or not to blow the ANCF thing off. The Association of Non-Denominational Churches in Friendship’s annual gala was being held tomorrow and I was invited. In reality, it was just some podunk association of mega-churches that wanted to interview me and give me an award. I was the one who had convinced Aaron to leave a bit earlier so we could make this detour into the heart of DC. I turned to Fred and asked, ‘You have family around here?” I looked straight at him, his face motionless betraying nothing. He shifted slightly and said, “Uhhh, yeah, down by Georgetown.” “How are they?” “Fine.” “Good,” I said. \-- *“Welcome back, everyone! I believe we are now going live to Olivia Fields, who’s on the ground in Charleston where the protests are raging. How many Scarred would say are out protesting tod--”* The signal cut out as the TV screen turned to noise. I wasn’t surprised. It’s a miracle these small towns got any connectivity at all with how thick the cloud cover had gotten these days. I surveyed the green room in which I was now situated. A bank of TVs to my left showed a three-camera live feed to the auditorium where Jake Hannible was giving his monologue dutifully reminding the attendees about the offering plate that would make its rounds later. A lanky man in a button-down shirt that was two sizes too big monitored the feed, flicking a button every once in a while, but mostly just dozing in and out of sleep. “Jim? Jim Pennywalker?” A petite woman with a small clipboard and an ear mic stood at the door to the green room. I raised my hand in a brief acknowledgment of my presence and then walked over to her. “Am I up?” I asked. “Yep, you’ll be on in three minutes. Follow me backstage. You’ll be coming on stage right. Shake Jake’s hand. Pause for a few shots. Take the award and then sit on the couch. Jake will ask you a few questions and then you’ll leave. Got it?” I nodded, eminently sure that I’d forgotten every word she’d said. I had been to a few of these things over the years, though, so I wasn’t too worried. I walked onstage and spotted Jake, offering a handshake. His palm felt clammy to the touch. I looked at him. He had the expression one has when they are physically in the moment but mentally had checked out hours ago. As the audience cheered and several photographers snapped away, we meandered over to a pair of chairs situated behind us. “Welcome Jim, thank you for coming all this way. I know West Virginia is a bit of a trek for someone from Florida. How was the trip up here?” “Thanks,” I said, “I am so glad to be here and accept this honor. The trip up was fine. One I’ve made a few times over the years.” “Take any stops along the way?” Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly. I felt like a monkey in a cage being leered at by knowing scientists. “Yeah, we made a few.” “Did you stop in DC?” “Uhh, yeah we did a brief detour there. I’ve always wanted to see the remains of the White House. My mother used to talk about it all the time. “ “Ah yes, again we all were sorry to hear about Mildred’s passing. We were praying for you,” Jake said. “Thank you.” Jake paused, his eyes shifting off into the distance as if mulling in his mind the phrasing of his next question. “Jim, it does seem odd to me that a member of the Risen Savior Alliance would venture so far into Scarred territory.” “All I did was visit a monument. Nothing more,” I shot back. Jake’s narrowed again, but then in a flash that look was replaced with a smile. “Well Jim, as I said, it’s been an honor. Thanks again for coming and stay safe out there,” Jake said putting out his hand again. I took it and then made my way off stage, mumbling an incoherent thank you as I went. I rode back to the hotel in silence, turning my conversation with Jake over and over in my mind. Aaron was on his phone next to me organizing the schedule for the rest of the trip and Fred was upfront driving the van. “Tomorrow morning, we’re scheduled to have lunch with Bobby at 12:30 so we got to make sure we’re up early,” Aaron said, not looking up from his phone, “Fred, could you make sure to have the car running by 9:30?” “You got it,” he said. “How many more stops we got?” I asked, leaning over to Aaron. “Well, we’re meeting with Bobby tomorrow and then the Secretary’s dinner in Columbus the following day,” Aaron responded still not looking up from his phone. “How important is it that I go to that?” Aaron looked at me with a thinly veiled smile that was some sort of mixture between shock and horror. “You told me yourself this whole trip wasn’t just to accept some tacky award, right? It was to feel it out. Take the temperature. This is how we do that?” He whispered. I looked at Aaron for a while and then leaned back in my chair. “Yeah, you’re right, you’re right. Sounds good.” I turned my head and stared out the window, my mind fluttering longly towards the wet rolling marsh grass of Summitville and how I couldn’t remember what possessed me to take this trip in the first place. \-- Bobby was thirty minutes late to the meeting. As the West Virginia Head of the Patriots Party, he was a busy man. I heard a loud bang and turned my head to the entrance of the restaurant near the hostess stand. There he was in all his slovenly entitlement. I never liked Bobby. He waved to me. I nodded and turned back towards the table taking a sip of lukewarm coffee and nibbling on a bit of egg. Bobby waddled over. I was afraid he might tip over if he went too fast. As he passed by me to sit in the chair opposite me, he laid one of those hands on my shoulder that said I’m sorry to hear your mother passed, but I only learned that fact today and not two months ago at the funeral. I smiled, not willing to get pulled in. Bobby still had some crumbs from a previous meal taking up residence in his beard. Couple that with the rancid alcohol that was on his breath, and it took everything in me to not get up and leave. “Jimmm.” Bobby hung onto the “m” as if his mouth was permanently stuck in that position. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Jim,” he finished. “Thanks,” I said tersely. Bobby shuffled into his seat and flagged down the waitress, barking his order of scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy as she made her way over. It had been a while since I’d been up north but Bobby was a blatant reminder of why I had stayed away for so long. His was a legacy of failing upward into vital positions of power. “So Bobby, I’m sure you know why--“ “You’re looking to run, no?” Bobby grunted in between bites of egg and bacon. “Yes.” “Not gonna happen,” he said. “Wait, what do you mean? I’m running,” I responded. “You’re too moderate Jim. People are worried you’re too soft.” “Bobby, I head one of the largest parishes in Florida. What do you mean?” One of Bobby’s eyes twitched slightly. I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead from a heart attack in two years. “Ever since Mildred started to go downhill, people got worried. She said some things. And then the incident with Cato? Jim, it’s just not your time yet. Wait a couple more years. We’ll take you off the bench then.” My face felt hot. I would be lying if I didn’t say there was a small part of me that wanted to reach across the table and strangle Bobby in the chair where he sat. “Is this coming from you, or--?” “Straight from Chicago. We’ve already chosen our guy,” Bobby shot back. “Who?” “Vince Bakersfie-- “Vince?” “Jim, lower your voice. It’s done. Now we expect you to throw your support behind him,” Bobby said with a thin toothy grin, “For the good of the party.” I didn’t say anything. I got out my wallet, laid a couple of bills on the table, and left. \-- “You’re the guy who wrote that op-ed?” I looked around the bar to see who recognized me. A few washed-up bikers talked amicably at the far end of the bar and a middle-aged woman chain-smoked cigs at a table in the back. Besides them, the place was dead. I turned back in my chair only to come face to face with a brown-haired, bespeckled young man sitting next to me, too close for comfort. I nearly fell out of my chair in surprise. “Jesus Christ, what do you want? And back up a bit would ya?” I said, doing my best to keep my balance and not make a fool of myself. “Apologies, it’s just not every day we get someone of your caliber in our town’s bar. I thought preachers weren’t allowed to touch the stuff,” the man said, speaking quickly and gesticulating wildly with his arms as if he was a character in a sitcom. “If you could please, just leave me alone. Let me be. Thanks!” I responded, motioning to the bartender for another drink in the hopes of registering clearly my dismissiveness of this conversation. The man didn’t take a hint. “Who writes an op-ed denouncing anti-abortion laws and still manages to keep his job as a preacher?” the man asked. I shrugged in response. I couldn’t help but feel like I was under interrogation. “Look, I don’t even know who you are. Please stop harassing me or else I’m going to call the cop--“ I said. The man raised his hands in surrender, pausing for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not I was worth further conversation. “Forgive me,” he said, “my name is Stevie Marriot. I’m a consultant for DMA.” I nearly spit out half my drink. “DMA? What brings you guys here? To West Virginia” “We want you to run,” Stevie responded, far less animated and energetic, making me think his earlier schtick was an act. “Me? Run for president? Are you nuts?” I said, waving the bartender over again in the hopes of getting rid of this looney toon for good. “Here’s my card. If you decide to run give me a call,” Stevie said in a low voice, placing a card on the table in front of me. It said “S. Marriot, DMA.” I flipped it over and all that was on it was a phone number. “Is there a problem here, sir?” I looked up and the bartender, a burly man with thin eyes and a large forehead, was staring at me. “Umm, no sir,” I said, “My friend--“ I turned to the chair next to me only to find Stevie gone. I turned back to the bartender. “Uhh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong. All good here, man. Thanks!” I mumbled. The bartender frowned and lumbered away. I just sat there staring at the card. It was gold on one side and black on the other. \-- “The Democratic Martyrs of America want to draft you as president?” Aaron said, pacing around our hotel room. The question hung in the air, each word inviting the dissent and dissection. Aaron struggled to hide his adverse opinion of the idea. Next to him was Fred, my driver, and Rebekah, my communications director. I looked at everyone individually trying to get the best read I could or at least any read at all. I knew the DMA was problematic. They’d been practically non-operational for almost eighty years and for me to happen upon a supposed member in a random bar in West Virginia felt strange. “Well there’s no harm in calling the number,” Rebekah chimed in. She sat gracefully, cross-legged on the floor next to Fred who was leaning comfortably against a wall. A framed pastel painting of a beach house hung beside him. Stevie’s business card sat on the bedside table next to me. I grabbed it, turning it over and over in my hand. It had some heft to it and the phone number was indented, contrasting nicely with the solid gold textured background of the card. “It would certainly grab Bobby’s attention,” I said to no one in particular. The room was quiet in response. Fred looked deep in thought. Rebekah was fiddling with one of her shoelaces and Aaron was deep in his phone. “Thanks, everyone! Can I have the room?” Aaron said, still not looking up from his phone. Rebekah gave Aaron an annoyed side-eye glance and then sauntered out. Fred followed. Aaron moved to a chair directly across from me and breathed in deep as if mentally preparing himself for what he was about to say. “You can’t do this. It would ruin your credibility if it went sideways, and it’s likely to go sideways because all we have to go on is a business card from a creep in a bar. This could easily be a plant from one of the lesser parties -- maybe, Climate or Freedom? -- Point is this is too much of a risk? You do this and your career is over. I know the meeting with Bobby didn’t go as planned, but you wait for just two, maybe four years, and you could easily run for a major--“ “Aaron, relax. I was just curious. That’s all. I’m not gonna do it,” I said. Aaron let out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said, kneeling down next to me, “And look like I said, a few more years you’ll get approval to run for a serious office, I’ll make sure of it.” I nodded. Aaron got up, grabbed his phone, and left. A moment later he poked his head back in and said, “Oh, and Mildred would be proud of you.” I nodded again, unsure of how to respond, still turning the business card in my hand. Aaron took one last look and then darted out. I set the business card back on the table. Looking at my watch, it read midnight so I quickly changed into more comfortable pajamas and brushed my teeth. Turning out the lights, I laid face up on the bed with my legs hanging off the end. I felt unsatisfied. This trip hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped and there wasn’t much to be done. The political winds had spoken.