"Cascade" a stupid little vignette after watching "Ellie"

The West Wing is the intellectual property of one Aaron Sorkin. I am playing with his characters, well, one in particular. Don't like it, tough. I'm in that sort of mood; and seeing that I've decided Toby shares a specific talent with me I can say that I know of what I speak. It can really be an excellent stress reliever, and though I was told to start doing this to help my coordination, it didn't really help a damn bit, since I seem to only be able to walk and chew gum at the same time while doing it.

Wondering what the hell I'm talking about? Keep reading.

Spoilers: Big time "Ellie" spoilers.

Archive: As you see fit.

"Cascade" a The West Wing story by CretKid aka Calvin

He was lying on the floor. Not for any particular reason; there was no medical impetus, like standing flat against a wall to relieve stress. Though, from the swollen nose Josh had been sporting a few weeks ago, standing against a wall was farthest from Toby's mind at that point.

He just liked lying on the floor. Small of his back flat against the ground, knees bent, hands behind his head. He had moved the coffee table out of the way so that he would have more room.

There were marks on the ceiling; curious, crescent shaped scuffs that had multiplied in recent weeks. The Blue Ribbon commission had been a bear, they had been painted into a corner and one false step would leave an ugly mark on the shiny new rug they had laid down during the State of the Union. When he needed to relieve stress, he threw things. Pencils, rubber balls, and the occasional phone book when the mood suited him. More often than not, the target was the ceiling. It was no fun throwing things against the glass partition between his and Sam's office when Sam was not in there to be bothered by it.

Turning his head, he spotted the three offending rubber implements of stress relief under his couch. Throwing baseballs at the ceiling had been proclaimed a prohibitive no-no when Bonnie caught him doing it one night. She had offered to buy him whiffle balls; he had said they didn't have enough heft. What was the point of throwing something if you couldn't put substantial force behind the throw? So the pyramid of autographed and non-autographed baseballs on his bookshelf had been replaced with similarly shaped pyramids of tennis balls, rubber balls, hacky sacks and bean bags.

The hacky sacks and bean bags had met an untimely demise. The cleaning staff still complained of the crushed walnut shells ground into the carpet.

Tennis balls had been banned after the "Stefi Graff" incident. If they had not been in his office, a certain high ranking politician would not have gotten it into his thick, obsessive-need-to-win head that Toby could play tennis. There were no questions asked pertaining to a certain effigy, a strange tennis-ball man with pencils for arms and a letter opener stabbed through its head, hanging from Bonnie's computer monitor that appeared soon after the match. Though, there had been much speculation concerning the note hanging from the doll's neck:

YOU'RE TO BLAME FOR THIS--

P.S. I NEED ANOTHER LETTER OPENER

Stickballs, the soft pink rubber globes from his youth, had made the grade. They had weight, they had bounce, they had the tendency to drive Sam to jump a solid three feet into the air when they banged against the glass. All befitting the perfect instrument of stress relief in Toby's opinion.

It had started when he was a sophomore in high school. The baseball coach had said it would improve his hand-eye coordination. He wasn't sure about that so much, but when fighting for a starting position at second base, he had needed every edge he could get. His coach had snagged a few tennis balls from the locker room, showed him the basics, tossed them to him, stood him in a corner and said, "Don't leave until you can get them all in the air without dropping one. After that happens, take a step away from the wall. When you can juggle those three balls without hitting the ground or the wall once, you come find me. When you don't have to use your eyes to find the ball in your glove, you'll start at second base."

So he practiced. And practiced. And practiced some more.

He had had the starting position the following spring.

It had become more of a hobby after that, one that he did not advertise. He had been losing his hair since his senior year of high school, and when he had neither the time nor the inclination to cut his often-times unruly, wavy hair, the comparison to Bozo the Clown was not an especially welcome one. More often than not, he threw the rubber balls against the ceiling or the wall, the rattle of the window or the thud against the plaster a much more satisfying sound then successfully keeping the balls in the air for more than a few minutes.

No one was around that night. The President was screening "Dial M for Murder". Josh and Donna were there. CJ was sequestered in her office, trying to find a way to tell the Press that Seth Gillette was their man to run the Blue Ribbon commission without having to deal with the fallout of having his people screaming up a storm. Sam was, well, he didn't know where Sam was, but he wasn’t in his office. Leo had a late dinner meeting with Defense Department people over the damn shield thing again.

There was absolutely no reason why he couldn't start juggling those same rubber balls lying under his couch.

Too lazy to sit up, he rolled over, grabbed the balls from under the couch and went back to his original position. Laying two next to his chest, he experimented with the third, testing the weight and flexibility in his fingers. The ball rolled along his palm and fingers. He tossed it in the air, testing gravity and memories ingrained since he was fifteen years old. Lying on his back to do this was probably an accident waiting to happen, but he didn’t really care. After a few experimental tosses between hands, he grabbed the other two balls and started an easy cascade pattern above his head.

After the first few throws, the arcs were getting a little more wild. He was more out of practice than he thought. Deciding to sit up instead, he leaned against the front of his couch with legs crossed Indian style. Retrieving the wayward balls, he started once again. Pink globes arced before his eyes, always two in the air with the third in one hand. He changed the pattern subtly, tossing in a circular pattern instead, starting with the ball in his left hand, tossing it high to his right and scuttling the next ball in succession. The balls moved in a clockwise motion from his perspective. He changed gears and forced them into a counterclockwise pattern. All the ease and familiarity of years spent experimenting with different patterns and tricks fell back into play.

"How long are you going to keep that up?"

Without breaking his rhythm, Toby glanced over his shoulder to find CJ leaning against the door jamb. "My personal best is three hours and twenty-seven minutes."

"And how long have you been doing this now?"

Toby shifted all three balls to his right hand and continued to toss them as he looked at his watch. "About fifteen minutes." He returned to a cascade pattern.

"No, I meant in general. Where did you learn?"

"Sophomore year. St. Michael's in Brooklyn."

"Can I put your name down for the talent show?"

"We're not staging a talent show."

"So, it's a hypothetical talent show."

"No."

"Please?"

"Keep it up and I'll find a new place to store these that may prevent you from asking anyone anything ever again."

CJ sat on the edge of the sofa.

"I heard Sam put Morgan Ross in his place."

"I heard you wanted to make Morgan Ross cry."

"Sam asked to handle it. Small sacrifice."

"But you wouldn't have wanted to declare, 'I quit' after doing it yourself, as you have so many times this week."

"True, it would have made my week. Is it my imagination or have we had to do an amazing amount of spin doctoring these past few days?"

"It's your imagination."

"First, the Surgeon General and the chat room from hell. Sam and "The Prince of New York" fiasco with Morgan Ross. Eleanor calling Danny Concannon. Leo telling me that the President is asking for Millicent Griffith's resignation this afternoon or else he's firing her, and now Josh is telling me that the President has refused her resignation. And you," she said, poking his shoulder, "leaving me with a cryptic message in the hall about Seth Gillette and the Blue Ribbon commission and the headache that's going to give me this weekend. All of you are trying to make my life a living hell."

"It's still your imagination."

"What did I do to deserve this torture?"

"Would you like a chronological list or the bullet points?"

"You're hilarious. So, Karamazov, going to share why I'm announcing Seth Gillette at tomorrow's briefing?"

"You can blame Andi and the fact she thinks I look good in a tux."

"That won't fly when Gillette's chief of staff is pounding on my door, since I am pretty sure neither thinks you look good in a tux."

"Tis easier to seek forgiveness than ask for permission."

"You really are out to make my life a living hell."

"We didn't think you had enough to do this week."

"I'll remember that the next time you need a favor." CJ grabbed one of the balls from mid-air and let it drop in his lap in a not so conspicuous place. "I'm going home before someone asks me if the President prefers "Dial M for Murder" or that remake with Michael Douglas."

"I'll see you tomorrow. When Gillette's chief of staff calls, direct the call to me. I'll deal with the fall out."

"I'll make sure there are no sharp objects within easy reach. Night, Toby."

"Night, CJ."

Toby watched her leave, then turned his attention to the three spheres sitting on the floor in front of him. He bounced one off the ground, grabbing the other two and juggling all three off the carpet for a few minutes before age and wisdom in the form of a charlie horse forced him to get off the floor.

Placing the juggling balls back on his book shelf, he straightened his desk of the minutia of the day. He put a note in his calendar to have his tux dry cleaned and a post-it note on Ginger's desk to remind him to check his calendar about have his tux dry cleaned. Throwing his trench coat over his left arm, he closed his office for the night.

As he walked down the corridor, his hand naturally went for his trench coat pocket. Leaving the staff entrance, he bounced a red rubber ball as he walked to his car.