The Cultmaster

Chapter 9: Grantham

It was a busy night, as most nights are, at Nando's Grill along the Capitoline, straddling the border between the district and Silver Spring,
Maryland. It was early May, and the first 80 degree day of the year after a cold winter, which prompted everyone to be out and about all over the city. Because of the nicety of the day, a dinner with all the congressmen on the Budgets Committe and their staff to celebrate the recent passage of new legislation was was scheduled at the grill. As Jacob walked up to the restaurant wearing a more casual suit, Chester took note of how respectable he looked, for the most part.
"Turn your collar inside," he said, and Jacob complied because Chester was his father figure and knew the political world and the world as a whole much better than him. Jacob wanted to show formality in his figure. He also wanted to make a good impression on Grantham, for this might have been the first time he had a full conversation with the man.
Both he and Chester walked into the restaurant and sat down at the table that was reserved in advance for their party of politicians.
"Wait up! I'm here!" Chuck called out as he ran to the table and took the empty seat next to Jacob. Jacob immediately turned to Chester on his other side.
"Switch seats with me," he said, but Chester was confused.
"Why?"
"Please," responded Jacob. Mostly everyone else was already seated: Ravinian of California, O'Flaherty of Massachusetts, Schwepke of Pennsylvania, Bertrand of Arizona, and some of their staff. In total, the party was about 25. The only one missing was Grantham of New York, Master of the Committees. Jacob felt excited to be surrounded by some of the most important people in the nation, where he might be able to communicate his own thoughts to them while being bestowed upon by their wisdom. As Ravinian opened his mouth to say something, Jacob could almost feel the anticipation of something intelligent approaching.
"Is pasta, like, good for you?" asked Ravinian as he stared at the menu. Jacob was about to answer, disappointed that it wasn't something intelligent like he had hoped, but O'Flaherty suddenly butted in.
"Well, it really depends on what ya get it with. If it was wit broccoli instead of dem meatbawls, then you'd be eatin' healthy." The words almost passed straight through Ravinian's mind.
"I do like my greens, of course. I'm from California, after all."
"Vegetables is good fah you. Too bad dey don't grow yeah round up in Mass."
"If you lived in Cali, every day could be as nice as this one," Ravinian responded.
"What are you getting?" Chester asked Jacob.
"I haven't decided yet."
"Oh, the cedar plank salmon with mashed potatoes here is really good. They braise it really well. I get it all the time because I eat here every week," Schwepke said to Jacob across the table.
"Thank you," Jacob responded.
"So, you're the fabled Speechwriter," said Schwepke again to Jacob. Jacob suddenly looked up from the menu. He was finally recognized by another congressman. It felt exhilarating, as though he was finally considered someone important for the first time in his life.
"Yes, I.. I write all of Chester's speeches," he responded nervously.
"Well, obviously, that's what speechwriters do," responded Schwepke with a laugh, "anyways, I'm Pete Schwepke, Pennsylvania's 17th. I represent the suburbs of Philly going all the way into Amish country. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Speechwriter." He reached his hand out across the table for a handshake, and Jacob nervously shook it. As Jacob sat back down, his collar went back up again, revealing a small but noticeable wound below his collarbone and into part of his chest, as though a knife had slashed it. Schwepke took note of it.
"Hey, Jacob, right?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't mean to pry, but it looks like you've got a bit of a scar there on your
chest. Everything all right?" Jacob immediately became defensive and uncomfortable.
"It's fine. You don't need to bring it up, Pete."
"Well, okay, but, I'm just concerned that-"
"Pete," Chester responded,"just let it go." Pete shut up for the time being.
"So," said Ravinian to Chester, "where are you all from again?"
"New Jersey, the 8th district." Ravinian suddenly had a confused look on his face.
"Really," he said, "because, like, you don't, like, sound like you're from Jersey." Jacob's ears perked up when he heard this.
"What are we supposed to sound like, then?" Ravinian felt stupid for speaking in the first place.
"Well, like, maybe, like, you're like, I don't know, like, Italian, and like, super rude, and like, thick, and you know, something, like, you know like, something like that." Jacob was counting with his fingers the amount of times the uneducated Californian used the word "like" in that awfully drawn out statement.
"We're English, not Italian," Chester responded, "maybe that's why we don't use the word 'like' extranneously like you. It's an improper use of the word." Ravinian also shut up for the time being.
"They're from Jersey," butted in Schwepke, "they're not that far off from my accent, considering that we're next door neighbors."
"You and I don't sound alike," Jacob responded, "I grew up closer to New York than Philly, in the burbs. I'm from Metuchen, not the Main Line."
Just as Ravinian was about to respond with some more bullshit, everybody's gaze was suddenly directed to the tall, towering figure of a man standing above them. It was Grantham, just arrived, wearing a fine unicolored Armani Suit and a Rolex on his right wrist. He was about 35, same height as Anthony, and had a curly brown mustache with some hair growing down from his face to his cheeks as well. As Jacob stared at him and his respectable stature from a distance, the image of the man evoked that of a pirate, but professional and formal, if it made sense in his own mind. Standing next to the giant man was a shorter 30 year old man, perhaps Jewish, looking bored but confident.
"Burt," said Grantham to the Jewish man, "go park the Mercedes somewhere. You know she's my baby. They're going to tow it if it sits there too long." Burt must have been in a bad mood that day, because his response was just as irritable as the expression on his face.
"Joe," he griped, "literally no one is going to take your precious bebe, like I told you several times before. The parking meter said it was valid for two hours." Not wanting to deal with Burt's attitude any longer, the giant New Yorker pulled out an equally giant wad of 50 dollar bills and slipped it into Burt's pocket. Burt looked astonished, as though it was the most money he had ever seen in one place in his entire life.
"In that case, I'll go find a garage."
"Thank you, sweetheart," Grantham responded sarcastically, making little kissing noises as Burt left. Grantham then turned to face the table.
"Guys, I'm not gay if that's what you're thinking. That's just our relationship. We're friends," he said.
"That's how it always starts with homos," joked Chuck, or whatever he viewed as a joke, but no one was listening or laughing. Grantham continued with "sorry I'm late. Traffic on the Anacostia was horrendous. It's all those federal workers going home to Manassas or Arlington or Alexandria or Leesburg or wherever the hell they live. Wasn't sure if I was going to make it at first, but here the fuck I am! Did everybody miss me?"
Everybody just stared blankly at him as he looked around the table, eventually locking eyes with Jacob.
"Well, well, well. You know, I've seen you around before, but I've never formally met you. What's your name?" As Jacob was about to answer in excitement, Chester took the opportunity to introduce Jacob for him.
"He's Jacob Winstead, my speechwriter. He's a bit shy." At this, Jacob elbowed Chester lightly.
"We call him the Speechwriter," said Schwepke.
"Why, thank you for that, Pete, but I'll have you know, I'm not stupid. I could have deduced that myself."
"I'm not shy," Jacob said to Chester defensively.
"Well, you told me you were an introvert. Isn't that the same thing?" Chester responded.
"It's not, actually," said Grantham, "in fact, I'm an introvert. It's perfectly all right. It takes a little bit of getting to know someone to break one out of their shell. Maybe I can help Jacob here do that." Grantham took the empty seat on the other side of Jacob, the only seat left at the table.
"What about-"
"Burt? Oh, he's a little mofo. He can eat at his own table for all I care, and he can also pay for it himself. Every time we go to Bertucci's in Hempstead, he pays. Today should be no different. Besides, he's been getting on my nerves all day. God, I just want to kill him..." A long pause of silence followed at the table after this comment, before Grantham broke with "I'm just kidding! You guys need to learn how to take jokes." He then turned to Jacob and said, "You know, ever since Huey made Sports a few years ago, I've been trying to adopt a more relaxed personality. That was his whole personality on that album. That album really changed my life, and for the better! My favorite song from it is Bad is Bad. What music do you like, Jacob?" Jacob was hardly listening to Grantham speak, for he was swamped by the exhilaration of only being spoken to by a man of such high stature to begin with.
"Oh, sorry," Jacob finally responded after breaking out of his trance, "yeah, I don't really like music." This was not true. Jacob loved Sports as well, even had his own copy at home and several songs from it for his Walkman, but he was too nervous to admit it. He even loved Bad is Bad as well.. Grantham turned to look at O'Flaherty, who had his shirt somewhat unbuttoned, exposing some chest hair and a cross necklace, and Grantham had no filter when it came to pointing it out.
"Patrick," said he, "this is a public place. Show some decency and button up your shirt. What are you trying to do, turn me on, or something? 'Cause I'm not having it. You're not getting the dick tonight, bud."
"Sawry, boss," responded O'Flaherty, meekly, "I nevah thawt I hadda look pruhfessional outsidda work, ya know?"
"Yeah, I don't care. Button it up." Jacob was taken aback by Grantham's treatment of others. He had never been bothered by O'Flaherty's fashion sense in all the time they had been sitting there. Jacob was no longer sure how much he really respected the man. Maybe he should have been more professional. O'Flaherty was at no less fault either, allowing himself to be stepped on by another man, and he was supposed to be a nice guy.
"So Jacob, tell me about yourself. What's your background? What brought you to Washington in the first place?" asked Grantham.
"Well, I was a lawyer in Jersey before. Still am, technically." Grantham looked as though he was ignoring Jacob, but Jacob still continued at a slower speed.
"Chester told me that he was running for Congress. He told me about his desire to instill discipline and morality into the members of Congress, especially the freshmen. He wanted that message to resonate across the nation as a campaign promise of his, but I guess it resonated more with me instead."
"Yes, yes, I agree," Grantham responded, sounding almost half hearted, "this country does need some major unfucking. We seriously need to unfuck the world." A thought suddenly came to Jacob's mind regarding what Grantham had just said. He needed a new discussion to be had, something to perhaps make him look within himself.
"Have you ever heard of the concept of a 'common good'?" Grantham's attention was finally caught and fixated on something for once. The common good was one thing he could not criticize.