The vice president’s car
stops outside the Applebee’s, brazenly parked in the carry-out spot, and Mike
Pence hesitates. He’s breaking his own rule, he knows. He shouldn’t be here in
the face of such temptation. The sun shines down on the “Eatin’ Good in the
Neighborhood!” sign, the curves of the letters somehow illicit in the ordinary
afternoon.
The agent opens his door.
“Sir? She’s waiting.”
Mike Pence walks through
held-open doors, past the hostess smiling in her crisp shirt, past the fake
sunglasses-wearing alligator head on the wall, past the salad bar with hurried
DC office workers loading up on bacon bits, to the discreet booth at the back.
She rises to greet him.
The eyes of the vice
president drink her in, all in one glance. Sensible black flats. Knee-length
gray skirt with matching jacket. Light blue blouse. Delicate silver necklace. She
extends a hand.
“Mr. Vice President? Thank
you so much for meeting with me today.” The deputy undersecretary of the Office
of Management and Budget smiles and Pence thinks he hears a lilt at the words
“so much.”
Pleasantries follow. He
orders an iced tea, no sweetener. She opts for an Arnold Palmer: Just enough
off kilter to pique his interest.
“As you know, I wanted to
talk to you today about the enrolled bill memorandum. Our office has a number
of concerns that we need to hammer out before reconciliation,” she says.
“Of course,” says the VP.
“I understand the importance of the issue.”
Drinks arrive and she sips
her iced tea/lemonade concoction. Light filters through a hanging stained glass
panel and comes to rest on the woman’s ash blonde bob. A halo. She speaks
again. He nods at her but has trouble hearing what she says.
The two peruse the menu,
each of them coming to a consensus on a lunch special (2 for $20!), and then
get back down to business. He focuses.
“Yes,” he smiles in the
midst of discussion. “As I recall from my days in Congress, that budget reconciliation
process can sure be a bear.”
She laughs. The waiter
comes over to take their orders.
“Let’s
see,” he says. “I’ll have the tomato basil soup and three-cheese chicken
cavatappi.”
“Hmmm
… what looks good. I’ll have the southwest steak and black bean soup and the fire-roasted
chicken salad wrap,” she says.
Fire-roasted.
The vice president blushes.
“So
how about we go over those numbers?” She smiles.
Mike
Pence can’t take it anymore. He excuses himself and leaves the table. Near the
salad bar, he grabs a phone from one of the agents and dials.
Karen
answers. “Hello?”
“Mother?”
he stammers. “Mother, I have sinned …”
