Charlie's Business Trip

Charlie stepped off the plane clutching his briefcase in his left hand and a gray trenchcoat in his right.  He walked quickly, trying to put some distance between himself and Howard, who was drunk. 
 
Howard caught up to him.  “Hay, Charlie,” he slurred, “Shomebuddy’s lookin’ fer ya.”  Charlie looked around and noticed a well-dressed chauffeur holding a placard inscribed with the words “Mr. Babbage.” 
 
Charlie walked up to the chauffeur.  His gilded name tag read “Albert Hopping.”  “Are you looking for me?” Charlie inquired hesitantly. 
 
“Are you Babbage?”  Albert was brusque, businesslike. 
 
“Um, yes…” Charlie couldn’t believe the salesmen’s conference would send a shuttle.  In past years, they had always had to split a cab.
 
“Then I’m your driver.  Let’s do hurry, we’re late.  I presume your…associate…will be riding as well?”  Albert wrinkled his nose in Howard’s general direction. 
 
“Uh, yes, sir,” Charlie stammered.  Albert looked at him, shook his head inscrutably, and strode off at an incredible pace.  By the time they reached the car, Charlie and Howard were both too breathless to speak.  They collapsed into the limousine and Howard immediately checked the minibar. 
 
By this time, Charlie was beginning to think that something wasn’t quite right.  A shuttle would be one thing, but a limo seemed a bit much.  Granted, he had been Swain and Clintock’s top salesman of the year, but somehow he couldn’t picture the Vice President of Sales Management Personnel shelling out for a stretch.  No, Charlie thought.  This must be some kind of mistake. 
 
But it was his name on the sign, and how many Babbages could there be in the airport that day?  At any rate, Charles rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes, listening to Howard curse under his breath and try to uncork a bottle of wine with his house key. 
 
Meanwhile, David Babbage was standing near the baggage claim, clutching his briefcase, silently cursing the idiot driver who jilted him and the whole damn limo company. 

***

The limo door opened and Albert’s head appeared.  “Mr. Babbage, your staff is waiting.” 
 
Charles emerged into the sunlight and squinted at a tall blonde woman in a blue suit holding a clipboard.  “Mr. Babbage, you…merciful heavens, you look…younger…in person.  Did you get a hair cut?  Look, never mind.  You’ve got to get in there.  I heard your flight was delayed, so I took the liberty of preparing your remarks…your office back East emailed them this afternoon.  Here you go.”  She stuffed a sheaf of papers into his hands and half-shoved, half-dragged him towards an impressive-looking building with a large imprint of the state seal on each of its six glass doors.  His briefcase -- and Howard -- were still in the limo.  He hoped they would both still be there when all this was over, whatever “this” turned out to be. 
 
Charlie was good at taking orders.  He did what he was told and tried not to say too much as he struggled to understand what exactly was going on.  The blonde woman led him through the one of the big glass doors with the state seal.  He looked at the seal as he shuffled through.  He had never paid much attention before, but now he noticed a grizzly bear in the foreground, just in front of the shield.  It seemed to turn and growl accusingly at him. 

The blonde waved nonchalantly at the security guard, who nodded back as he was patting down a guy in a brown sport coat whose car keys had set off the metal detector.  She led him though another door that she accessed with a keycard and down a long, long hallway with big oak doors on both sides.  She stopped in front of a doors on the right about two-thirds of the way down, fished a key out of her cleavage, and opened it.  She strode to the podium in the center, draped with red and blue crepe and yet another imprint of the state seal, and whispered in the ear of the man who was speaking to a small crowd of cameras and men with microphones.  The man who was speaking stopped, looked towards Charlie, smiled, and turned back to the cameras.  “Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, Assemblyman David Babbage!” 
 
Charlie staggered to the podium, still clutching the sheaf of papers.  He leaned towards the microphone.  He looked at his papers.  He leaned in again.  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  He looked back at his papers.  He leaned towards the mic.  “I…I have a speech prepared…” he began.  The press corp chuckled, a monolithic media.  He cleared his throat.  His resolve strengthened.  “I have a speech prepared, but I’m not going to deliver it.”  The tall blonde woman and the man who had been speaking both gasped.  “I’m not going to deliver it,” he continued, “because I’m not the man you think I am.” 
 
A murmur overtook the gaggle of reporters, and a few flash bulbs went off.  Charlie looked around, unsure how to continue.  He searched the pages in his hand for clues.  Isolated phrases spun together.  Ten years in our state’s General assembly…pleased to announce my candidacy…United States House of Representatives…my opponent, the Incumbent…
 
Charlie stared into the cold, dead eye of the television camera, set his jaw, and announced, “I’m the new David Babbage, and I’d like to be your next Congressman.” 
 
At the airport, David Babbage’s jaw dropped.  He stood gaping at the television, which was muted, and read the scrolling text beneath the live feed of a younger, handsomer version of himself: Babbage announces candidacy, promises reform. 
 
***
 
Charlie strode out of the room feeling taller than ever.  He led the way now, back down the long corridor with solemn oak doors like sentries, through the keycard-access door, past the metal detectors and the brown-suited security detail, and out the tall glass doors with the state seal emblazoned upon them.  The seal was in reverse from this side, and Charlie nodded at the grizzly bear as he passed.  From this angle, it seemed to be smiling. 
 
Reporters were already outside, pressing close to Charlie and tossing questions like rice at a wedding.  “No comment, no comment,” barked the tall blonde, and held an outstretched palm between the cameras and Charlie.  In truth, there were not as many reporters as it seemed, but to Charlie, who had never been on television before, it felt like the whole world was watching, and he enjoyed it. 
 
They reached the limo and he piled in.  His briefcase was still on the seat, and Howard was snoring loudly.  “Take him to headquarters,” the blonde told the driver.  “I’ll meet him there.”  The limousine lurched and zoomed into the heavy downtown traffic of the state capital. 
 
“Howard, wake up,” Charlie shook him.  “You’re not going to believe what just happened.” 
 
David Babbage yelled into his cell phone.  “Get Allison on the phone.  Get her now.  I don’t care where she is; I need to talk to her.  I’m glad you liked the speech.  No, I didn’t get a haircut.  Could you just get Allison on the line, please?” 
 
***
 
“Ms. Janney, telephone for you.” 
 
“I’ll take it later, Sarah.”  The tall blonde was introducing Charlie to the staff members who would be working for his -- his! -- Congressional campaign.  There was Sarah, the receptionist, and the man who had been speaking to the press in the other building.  He was apparently the press secretary, and his name was Jim Dienes.  Ms. Janney -- Charlie hadn’t been able to divine her first name yet -- was his campaign manager, and he had a graphics guy, a legal guy, a money guy, and a get-coffee-for-everybody guy.  Charlie’s office had a copier and a neat machine that folded regular sheets of printer paper into thirds for mailing, and there were a couple of student volunteers sitting at folding tables stuffing envelopes. 
 
Charlie looked around the two small rooms on the third floor of a building owned by the state Party and asked, “Is this it?” 
 
The graphics guy stopped flirting with Sarah.  The money guy looked up from his desk.  The legal guy stood by the copier with a staple remover poised in mid-air.  Jim put his hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece, and the coffee guy dripped steaming latte foam onto the carpet.  The students stopped shuffling envelopes and all eyes turned towards Charlie.  He felt his cheeks grow warm. 
 
Ms. Janney started to explain, and he noticed that her cheeks were red, too.  “Well, Mr. Babbage, Sir.  We are…that is, your campaign has just begun recently, and we…um, well, we are waiting on…additional funding.  From, that is, um.  Non-Party sources.” 
 
“This is all the Party will pay for?” Charlie’s voice rose; he couldn’t help it.  “Isn’t this a national office we’re running for here?  How do they expect us to win without more staff than this?” 
 
The uncomfortable silence was broken by Howard’s emergence from the restroom.  Inspiration came to Charlie like the final blaze of a dying light bulb, and he raised an outstretched hand towards his inebriated friend.  “Today, ladies and gentlemen, we turn this campaign around.  I’d like you to meet our newest staff member, speech writer Howard Shaw.” 
 
A smattering of applause and a few nervous chuckles rose from the relieved staff, and Howard bowed awkwardly, stabilizing himself on a nearby coat rack.  The telephone rang at Sarah’s desk, and the staff resumed their previous engagements, each pleased to avoid Charlie's gaze and hoping that somehow Ms. Janney would sort things out. 
 
“Allison,” Sarah addressed Ms. Janney; aha! Charlie thought.  “It’s Gladys, from the Eastern office.  She says it’s urgent, and she won’t take no for an answer.” 
 
Allison sighed, walked to her desk, and picked up the telephone.  “Yes, Gladys?  What?”  She turned pale.  “Are you sure?  Yes.  Yes.  Put him through.”  She turned away from Charlie.  “Yes.  Yes.  Yes, sir.   Yes, sir.  He’s right here, sir.”  She turned back towards Charlie and held the phone out to him with a shaking hand.  “It’s for you.” 

Charlie blanched.  “Who is it?” he croaked.  Allison lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper.  “It’s…Mr. Babbage.” 
 
***
 
"What exactly do you think you're up to?"  David Babbage was more curious than accusatory, but Charlie was still speechless and terrified.  "Are you there?  Who is this?" 

"It's...I'm...Charlie.  Charles Gordon Babbage, sir.  And I'm...I...apologize for the, uh, confusion."  

"Confusion?" David's laugh roared in the receiver, and Charlie pulled it away from his ear.  "Son, do you realize you could go to jail for what you did today?"  

Charlie began to sweat.  "Sir, I...I didn't mean any harm.  I just..."

"No, no.  I'm not going to call my lawyers just yet.  So you're a Babbage.  What's your father's name?"

"Benjamin, sir."  Charlie's throat was dry. 

"Benjamin, Benjamin..." David thought hard.  "Is that...Frank's boy?"

"Frank's grandson.  My father's a junior."

"Ah, yes.  That makes more sense.  By my calculations that makes us..." David counted up an invisible bracket.  "Fourth cousins, once removed." 

"How's that, sir?"  Charles wasn't sure what David was getting at. 

"Fourth cousins, once removed."  David's mother had been rabid for geneology, and she had passed much of her knowledge (though not here interest) on to him.  For once, he was glad.

"Oh, yes sir.  I heard you.  I just don't know how it works."

"Oh yes.  Most people don't.  But that's no matter now.  Seems you and I have enough DNA in common that so long as nobody pays too much attention you can do a pretty nice job of passing for me.  What are you, about thirty-five?"

"Thirty-seven, sir."

"Yeah, that's about right.  Change the hair and update the clothes and you could be me fourteen years ago.  I suppose everyone will think I dyed my hair, got Botox, whatever the kids do these days, when they think about it at all."  David had stopped addressing Charlie and was now merely thinking aloud. 

"Think about what, sir?" 

"Why I look younger all of a sudden.  When you take over my job." 

"W..when I what?" Charles stammered. 

“Do you have a family, son?”  

“No, I…”

“Well, that’s fine.  I’ll arrange for some actors to stand in when you have to make public appearances.” 

"When I..no.  Sir, with all due respect, sir, I...this is ludicrous.  You have...you're a politician.  You do things.  You have a fantastic career.  You have my dream life.  Why would you give it to me?"  Charlie pounded his fist on the desk in confused frustration.  "What are you playing at?" 

David took a deep breath.  He hadn't been fair to the boy.  Charlie was uninitiated, he couldn't know how such things work.  "Charlie, listen.  I have been a state assemblyman for over ten years.  I'm sixteen months from the end of my term, and I can't complete it.  I have cancer, Charlie, and I'm getting sicker.  I want to spend my last year with my family, privately.  Heaven knows I owe it to them, after ten years of forsaking them to pursue this 'fantastic career.'  I accepted the nomination for a race that everybody knows I can't win so that I could resign from the assembly without telling the public about my illness.  Have you ever heard the term, 'sacrificial lamb?'" 

Charlie shook his head slowly, realized that David couldn't see him, and whispered, "No." 

"When a people expect a politician to win by a really big margin -- seventy five percent or more -- sometimes the opposing party runs someone against him just for the sake of having a name on the ballot.  They don't expect the other guy to win, so they don't give him much funding or a lot of support."  As David spoke, Charlie looked with new eyes at the meager two-room office suite, the minimal staff, Howard snoring head-down at the table with the college students.  "He's just there for the sake of the Party, like a lamb being led to slaughter.  That's what this campaign is, Charlie."  Charlie felt a sob rising in his chest as his illusions about democracy slipped away.  But David continued.  "You can turn this around, Charlie.  You can change this from a runner to a winner.  I saw you on television this morning, Charlie, and I believe you really are the new David Babbage."

“But, Mr. Babbage, sir.  I don't know anything about politics!  I mean...I’m just a salesman!” 

David chuckled before responding.  “Well, son," he laughed, "you'd better start selling."