2030_ The Real Story of What Happens to America - Albert Brooks [53]
“It’s been so overused, people think that sounds more suspicious than giving an actual reason.”
“The resignation was tested?”
“Thoroughly.”
“What were the numbers?”
“Fifty-five percent thought it was a basic disagreement in philosophy, twenty percent perceived it as Spiller wanting to get back into the private sector to make more money, ten percent thought he was a bad choice in the first place, and fifteen percent didn’t know who he was.”
“Okay, then. But I wish we could get something in there that suggested the job was more than he could take.”
“He would never sign off on that. Let’s just get rid of him and start fresh. We have some very good prospects.”
“Like who?”
“Well, we’re giving the President a list this afternoon. I’m sure he will share them with you.”
“I’m sure he will.”
* * *
The President’s closest advisers sat around the Oval Office going over the names for Morton Spiller’s replacement. All the usual suspects. Men from banking and finance and a few CEOs of big accounting firms. All of them seemed the same to Bernstein. “What’s wrong with this list?” the President asked.
“It’s boring?” Van Dyke answered.
“Not just boring, but what else is missing?” They all stared at it but didn’t see the obvious. “There are no women.”
And the men who were gathered there realized Bernstein was right. As a matter of fact, this remained the very last cabinet position in the United States government that had never been held by a woman. “Why don’t we make history and bring in a sharp gal who can figure out Los Angeles and maybe get the world currency going,” the President said.
“Well, sir, we have to find someone who can get through Congress. That may not be easy.”
“Congress is not going to turn down the first female Treasury secretary unless she’s a half-wit. Get me a list. Take two days and have fifteen great names. This is a real opportunity. It’s always fun to make a little history.”
* * *
The music was too loud at Chelsea Bar, but Paul Prescott liked that because no one could overhear any other conversations. Since he had been in a relationship, which was celebrating its six-year anniversary, he didn’t much go to the bars anymore, although he found them an endless supply of gossip, which he readily admitted he was addicted to. A gay bar in the heart of Washington—God, there was just too much information there.
The first time he saw a congressman dancing the night away, it was such a big deal, but over the years seeing big shots in the bars became routine. Senators, judges—the running joke was if you came in often enough, you’d see the president. Paul was amazed at how sexual urges trumped everything else. And even though the appearance of prejudice seemed to subside with each generation, Paul always thought that was all it was, appearance. Being gay was different from being black or Jewish or Hispanic. When people hated those people they weren’t afraid of becoming one; they just hated them. But hating gays, or at least not being comfortable with them in high office—well, that had more to do with one’s fear of his own sexuality. People who hated gays feared that one morning they might wake up as one, or at least with one. No one who hated black people thought their skin would change color.
As Paul sat down at the bar, his ego was stroked by how many guys were giving him the eye. At six foot one, with all of his hair, he looked thirty-five and was extremely fit.
Over the decades muscle stimulator machines had come and gone, some a gimmick, some not, but they never really caught on big until the early 2020s, when they were made matchbook size and could be worn under clothing. The little stimulators would send a small electrical current into the muscle, tighten it up, and then release, so while you were at work or driving or watching a movie, you would be doing the equivalent of a thousand sit-ups. Not everyone used them, but anyone who wanted that type of physique found them an easy, painless way to get a six-pack. And Paul loved having a six-pack.
Tonight, however, he was only interested in one