100,000 Pecans, And Maybe Some Lemon
(post-ep to 100,000 Airplanes)
by Sary


What is it with that guy? He needs numbers, like,
overwhelmingly, at every minute of the day and night,
or his whole world will just implode. He wants numbers
to just appear instantaneously out of the air; he once
went so far as to suggest that we open up a computer
to *get* numbers. And even when I'm giving him
numbers, it's not enough. He wants the *next* numbers.
It's one part amusing and two parts highly irritating.

But aside from Josh Lyman annoying me, I'm feeling
pretty good right now. I've done a lot of polling for
a lot of people, but this is the only place where
anyone's ever picked me up and spun me in a circle
when I've told them good news. Now they're spinning
all around me, laughing, dancing; they've put on music
and they're celebrating the numbers I so hoped I would
be able to give them.

Poor Kenny. Utterly professional, he would never admit
to me that he's been overtaken by signer's cramp. I
guiltily admit to myself that since I've fallen in
with the White House crowd I've probably given Kenny a
strong push toward carpal tunnel syndrome. There are
people all around us and he's trying to be all of
their voices for me. In the middle of CJ's victory
speech interspersed with Josh and Donna's cheerful
bicker, I take up Kenny's hands to silence them. 

*Take a break*, I tell him. *It's okay.*

*You sure?* he asks, and looks relieved when I insist.
Only then does he find a chair, leaving me free to
smile into faces under the pretense of reading speech.
Gives me a thrill, staring into faces this happy.

Sam's back from wherever he's been, and his face isn't
happy, exactly, but he looks all right now. He catches
my eye and tells me thank you, as if I singlehandedly
created the results of tonight's poll. I give him a
thumbs-up and watch him as he turns to watch his
colleagues.

It's Toby he's watching, and suddenly I am, too --
Toby who's been just as joyous as the rest of them,
but now standing apart from the others, just
scratching his chin and thinking. He doesn't look
altogether troubled, but then he doesn't look like
someone who's just danced three rounds with the Press
Secretary, either. I make my way toward him, for some
reason, and he smiles a little when he notices me, and
nods hello.

"Some party," I tell him, and he leans a little closer
and shakes his head; it must be pretty loud in here.
"Some party," I tell him, louder, and he pulls me into
Josh's office, where the noise would be cut off a
little. "Some party," I say.

"Yeah."

"You've stopped dancing."

Now he laughs appreciatively, but it doesn't quite
reach his whole face. 

"Long week?" I ask , as if I don't know, and he
doesn't understand; I repeat myself. "Long week?"

He laughs again, making me laugh, too, because of
course it's been a long week, and worth it, sure; I
mean, it's not like we cured cancer or anything, but
we all did a pretty good job.

"I was just thinking," he says, and then he shakes his
head, embarrassed.

"Of what?"

"You should go back out there .... looking for a dance
partner."

I've missed a name. "Say again?"

He says it again, and I miss it again, and grab a pen
off Josh's desk and ask the name. Larry.

"I don't dance," I answer, which for some reason
cracks him up; maybe because I just made him get the
point across even when the answer would be no. I grin
a
little, too, but ask again, "What were you thinking
of?"

He shruggs, and smiles, and I know he's not going to
tell me.

"I'm wondering what it's going to be like to eat
something other than pie," he lies. "It's like this
every January."

"What sort of pie gets the State of the Union
written?" I ask him, twice.

"Pecan for me, but Sam likes lemon."

"And barrels of coffee, I'll bet."

He smiles and nods and goes back to looking distant.
"I don't know how much more pie I can --" he starts to
say after a while, and I think he's said it quietly,
and I think he's forgotten he's talking to a
speechreader, and I see him remember. He shrugs
apologetically. 

"What?" I ask him.

"I -- it was a -- it was a bad month to get writer's
block," he says, and that's all I get out of him. A
minute later he returns to the party, and I follow,
thinking maybe I understand. Sam and Toby are both
brilliant writers, and they both did an incredible job
on this thing, but I think maybe Sam had less time for
pie than did Toby. I also think it'll look better to
Toby tomorrow, and I don't worry about him too much.

Now Josh Lyman -- that's someone to worry about. He's
trying to dance with Donna, only he's done something
to tick her off and she's deliberatley stomping on his
toes. And CJ Cregg. I might worry about her because
she's just climbed onto a desk to make an announcement
-- Kenny, ever professional, signs acrross the room,
*She's about to do 'The Jackal.' Ronnie Jordan. You
want me to --*

*I know the lyrics,* I laugh. *You're on break.* He
raises his hand and smiles in thanks. 

No, I won't worry about Toby, because the Jackal seems
to be cheering him up just fine. And I might worry
about Sam a little, because he's the only one who
seems really upset that it was impossible for us to
cure cancer just now, but Sam will be all right.
They're all going to be all right, and I think this is
the first night since the MS disclosure that any of us
has really believed it. 

Now seems like a good time to slip out. I'm not in a
party mood, really; I'm a quieter sort of hopeful. I
tell Kenny I'm going, and he follows me, and it takes
us ten full minutes to get out, everyone stopping me
to say thanks, and Joshua spinning me around one more
time. At last we're outside, but I'm not quite ready
to go home; the glow from the party hasn't left me. I
should treat Kenny to dinner, or maybe a hand massage.
I wonder if there's anywhere to get pie at this hour,
and figure, if the State of the Union got written,
then there must be.

~Sary
1/17/02
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/wwwhores/thecookiejar

geocities.com/wwwhores

(to report bad content: archivehelp @ gmail)