***

It's cold out here. The sun is out. So is the crowd.

More people than they expected, more than I expected. People teeming, indistinct and faceless. Shapeless except for their collective size.

The stage is plywood, covered with cheap weave mats. The mats are a deep burgundy color, faded now from use. Above the stage, a large marine blue tarp is buffeted by short gusts of wind.

I stand still. Someone is at the podium, speaking into a microphone. People applaud and cheer.

"All clear at Checkpoint Bravo."

Nathan is speaking into a microphone attached to his sleeve. At his hip is a dark brown leather holster. It holds a stainless steel Sig Sauer 9 millimeter, and with his arm up like that, the gun makes his jacket bulge out a little.

"Copy that. Showtime in two minutes."

No one applauds or cheers for him.

"Any assassins or homicidal political dissidents in the crowd, Nathan?"

"No, sir."

"No one looking particularly suspicious?"

"No, sir."

"No one scratching their nose at a signal man?"

"No, sir."

"Anyone scratching their nose at all?"

"Blue windbreaker. Pistons cap. Fourth row. Eighth seat from the left."

"Probably just trying to warm up his honker, that's all."

"I'm sure you're right, sir."

Just as well. An overdeveloped ego might crush what little sense of humor he possesses. If any at all.

I shift on my feet and look down. The cast on my left leg is bulky and colorful. Very noticeable. The crutches are plastic and plain.

My new coat stretches unevenly over the tops of the crutches. The collar is pulled down, uncomfortable and tight against my neck. I reach up to adjust it, but it budges only an inch or two, not enough to make an appreciable difference.

"Any word from the hospital?"

I can feel Brody step closer to me from behind. "Mr. Seaborn is still unconscious and in very critical condition, but his vital signs are currently stable."

"You've been calling like I told –"

"Every fifteen minutes. Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Brody."

My other coat, my good coat was ruined. Torn up from the glass, and it had my blood and Seaborn's blood all over it. It had to be thrown out. I don't know who bought me this new coat. But it will have to do.

"The Vice-President of the United States…"

I stand up as straight as I can with the crutches.

"…an American hero!…"

The handles are damp with streaks of rapidly cooling sweat.

"John Hoynes!"

That's my cue.

***

___

Detroit Daily Press

March 2, 2001

Section A, page 1

Column 1

___

JOHN HOYNES AT RALLY: AN AMERICAN HERO SPEAKS TO US!

V-P speaks of 'painful road' and 'labors of life' at AAWU rally

by Robert Tristen, staff reporter

Detroit – Hobbling to the podium, battered and bruised, Vice-President John Hoynes showed that sometimes the labor of one's job can be a rough and terrifying experience. In front of nearly fifty thousand auto workers, labor supporters, and on-lookers, Hoynes confessed that the harrowing events of the previous day had taught him some important lessons.

Early yesterday morning, Hoynes and his staff were involved in a fatal bus accident seventy miles outside Detroit. The driver of the bus, Edward Miller, was declared dead at the scene, and several members of Hoynes' staff remain hospitalized in Ann Arbor. Several survivors of the crash say that Hoynes saved their lives with his quick thinking and courageous actions.

In his address, Hoynes spoke of the 'road to success' and movingly spoke of his journey upon that road. He noted that the last twenty-four hours had been "painful, to say the least." Saying that the road would never be "simple," Hoynes told those at the rally that America was a nation of labor and that "we must try harder."

Hoynes continued, saying that the results of any individual's work do not come only from physical labor, but from a more personal and spiritual labor as well. In a halting voice, Hoynes talked of his own experience and of his own sense of the unexpected. He revealed a vulnerability rarely seen in politics when he told the audience that he had thought his job and his life would be "different."

Finally, he commented that if America wants to protect itself and its people, then individuals must recognize the "jobs that we each do" and the "labor that we invest in our family, in our friends, in our jobs, and in our lives."

At several points during his speech, which lasted almost an hour, Hoynes was interrupted by applause…

___

***

"Sir?"

I'm busy. I'm taking pictures with white-haired old ladies who smell of hairspray and menthol. "I'm busy, Janeane."

Big smile. Show the teeth. "Not now, Janeane. I'm with very important visitors from the Detroit Home for the Aging."

My cheek is pinched by knobby fingers. "I've never had my picture taken with a real hero before."

I smile again, and I can feel my lips stretch into my cheeks. Check out the molars, ladies. Caps. "And I've never had my picture taken with a lady as lovely as yourself."

Giggle, giggle. Blush, blush.

Oh, how they love that.

I don't think even one of them is younger than Methuselah.

The cameras flash, bright and harsh against the faded wallpaper. Again and again. Keep smiling.

"Sir?" Janeane taps her cane lightly on the floor.

I unwind my arms from frail, bony shoulders and turn to her. "What is it, Janeane?"

She makes her hand into a fist, holding it vertically, and extends her thumb and pinkie. She waves her hand a little and mouths words at me.

Phone. Yes, I know that, I'm not blind. Gillette. Oh.

I make my excuses and hobble to the door. Janeane waits before falling into an uneven gait beside me. At our slow pace, it is easy for Nathan to stay one step behind and to the left.

Thomson holds open the door to a small office, and I gesture for Janeane to enter first. It takes me a bit longer. With the crutches, I have to enter sideways.

"Well, we make quite a pair, don't we?" I finally squeeze through.

She sighs, and the sigh hangs in the air to remind me of her long years of service and suffering. "Yes, sir. Line one."

"Yeah."

I pick up the phone and punch a button. "Hello, Seth. How are you?"

"Mr. Vice-President, hello, sir. I should be asking you that question, I think."

Brody positions a chair behind me, and I sit down. Nathan takes my crutches and leans them against the scratched desk next to me.

"I've been better. But I'll live."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir."

I lean an elbow on the top of the desk. I can feel the grooves and pockmarks through my jacket sleeve. "Thank you."

"Your speech yesterday was impressive. Very impressive…"

I look at the worn wood. Dick was here, 1984. Wow. A real piece of American history, that's what I'm leaning on.

"…and we'd like to set up a meeting for when you return to D.C. to discuss some important issues to which we're both committed."

"Like what?"

He clears his throat, steeling himself for reciting a steady stream of suck-up. "Well, Mr. Vice-President, as I'm sure you know, we share many of the same views on education…"

The phone lights up with another call. The light blinks, then holds. Janeane's answered it.

"…economic reform, welfare, healthcare…and of course, the environment."

Of course, of course.

"You're right."

"We have quite a bit in common. Sir."

"We do, Seth."

He murmurs appreciatively. "Yes, we do. We should meet, John, and talk. We have many things about which we could speak."

The tip of my finger fits into one of the pockmarks on the desk. I rub my finger inside the pockmark, back and forth. Back and forth. "About education and healthcare. Right, Seth?"

"Yes, sir. And the environment, of course."

Of course, of course.

Hand on my shoulder. I look up. Janeane.

She mouths words at me. Line. Two. Hospital.

"Seth, I have to go. We'll have to schedule something later."

"Yes, sir, of course, and if I may just say again, your speech yesterday was –"

I hang up, punch another button to activate the speaker phone. I press down on another button that someone, sometime ago, labeled 'line 2.'

"Who is this?"

Nathan stands across from me, on the other side of the room. His eyes are focused on the wall behind me.

"Hello, sir. It's me, Dr. Trakowsky."

"Hey, there. How's it going?"

Thomson stands off to my side. His jacket is unbuttoned, and his hands are still at his sides.

"About as expected, sir. He's still under heavy sedation, still unconscious."

"You still have him on that ventilator?"

Janeane is in the doorway. She listens and blinks at the floor.

"Yes, sir. He'll be on it for a bit longer, I'm afraid. The punctured lung is getting better, but the broken ribs don't help the healing process."

"That because of the CPR?"

"Some of it, yes. But most of the damage was sustained from the accident itself, rather than from the resuscitative efforts at the scene."

Brody is stationed outside the door, in the anteroom. I can see the tip of his shoe on the carpet behind Janeane. His shoe shifts on the carpet, then stills.

"You shouldn't worry about it, sir –"

"I'll worry about what I want to worry about."

"Yes, sir. What I meant was that the broken ribs are really the least of his troubles. The internal bleeding was more worrisome. The ruptured spleen and the lacerated liver –"

"Oh."

"But we're monitoring that, and we're pleased so far. So far, so good, sir."

"Good. That's good." I nod. "How about his leg? And you said there might be…uh, you know, spinal damage?"

"We operated on his leg. There was… extensive damage. It's been set with steel pins, and he's on an anti-biotic drip to prevent infection. We're not too sure how much function he'll retain."

I wonder what happened to Dick from 1984. What'd he do with himself? "And the spinal damage...what about that?"

Nathan stares at the wall, impassive and unblinking.

"Yes… The X-rays indicated that four vertebrae were fractured, and we believe that one of the bone fragments might have nicked the spinal cord. There's swelling, and we'll have to –"

"Will he be able to walk?"

"We don't know, sir."

I can hear Thomson breathing, quiet and even breaths. In and out, in and out…

Maybe Dick became something, someone important. Or maybe not. "Yeah."

"We'll have to wait and see. We won't know for sure until the swelling subsides."

"Oh."

Maybe Dick is working somewhere warm, somewhere dry and sunny. Maybe Dick's in Texas, working in an oilfield outside Houston, doing just what his daddy told him to do instead of running off like a goddamned crap-shooting jackass. Yes, maybe that's just what Dick is doing. That sounds nice.

"We're hopeful, sir."

"Ah." I catch a glimpse of a polished black shoe shifting again over the carpet, and I nod one more time. "Okay. Well. Thanks very much for the update, Dr. Trakowsky. I appreciate it…being kept informed like this."

"Yes, sir. It's no trouble, sir."

I hope Dick is happy, wherever he is. "And you remember what I said about –"

"Yes, sir. Mr. McGarry, Mr. Lyman, and Mr. Ziegler don't know that you've called."

Doesn't really matter what Dick is doing now. "Good. That's good. Well. We'll talk again soon."

"Yes, sir. Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye."

***

______

The New York Times

Sunday Edition

March 4, 2001

Section 4: Week in Review

Page 39

= John Hoynes: On the Road to the Unexpected =

by Karen Cahill, Times Editorial Staff

-Who would have thought that John Hoynes was a hero? Hiding in the shadow of President Bartlet, or maybe just overshadowed by that most homespun and honest of presidents, Hoynes often gives the impression of being a slick political player, a man who likes to keep himself clean of controversy, and subsequently, of high expectations. That play-it-safe strategy is probably what lost him the Democratic nomination in 1998.

But, as it turns out, John Hoynes might not be all that we've come to expect. Unexpectedly, we've learned in the last few days that John Hoynes can get down on the ground and get his hands dirty too – sometimes with shards of glass and debris to pull people to safety, and sometimes with blood to save a dying man on a cold, clear day in Michigan.

Who is John Hoynes? His speech at the American Auto Workers rally in Detroit gave us some clues. He's a man who cares about work, about labor. Unexpectedly, he's a man who has shown us that he cares very deeply about his job and about his place in the intricate web of labor that makes our country…well, our country.

He's a man who knows more than we thought he knew about trust – trust in his abilities, trust in what must be done, trust in the act of work. He's a man who trusted himself enough to climb into a dark, burning bus, and he's a man who can be trusted to work in the most exhaustive of labors – that of protecting and maintaining others' lives.

Unexpectedly, John Hoynes is a worker who can be trusted, a man who can be followed down the proverbial road, and a man who is acting more and more potentially presidential than we ever thought he would or could.

___

***

"…and another message from Secretary McInerny. He wants to know about Forestry and the prescribed fires initiative."

I sign my name on the dotted line, flip to the next page. "Burn, baby, burn."

"Yes, sir. Also, Mackenzie Garrett from 'Life' called. The photo shoot will be on Thursday afternoon."

I look up, blink a few times. Stupid small print. "Here in the office?"

"Yes, sir." Janeane nods at me. "She'd like to have the Roosevelt desk in the background. Historical interest and a sense of continuity, she said."

I finger the knob of the top drawer. "Mm-hmm."

"Seth Gillette called. Twice. He wanted to let you know that he'll be holding a roundtable with the GDC and Toby Ziegler tomorrow at ten."

There's a snort from the armchair a few feet away. Carl. "Gillette better hope that Ziegler leaves the sharp objects at home."

I rub the bridge of my nose and look back down to the next paper. "Not my problem if Ziegler decides Gillette looks better with only one eyeball."

Carl leans forward. "Hey."

I shrug, focused on the black print. "What?"

"We might need Gillette to have both his eyeballs."

"Maybe."

Delicate cough. "The Senator invited you to drop in at the roundtable," Janeane continues. "He said he thought it would be impressive."

"For whom?"

"He didn't specify that, sir."

Another snort. "Really wants to raise Ziegler's hackles."

I put my pen down. "I don't like it."

Carl glances at me. He shakes his head. "I know. Neither do I."

It is silent for a moment, and I watch Janeane push a sealed envelope across my desk. "Sir."

"Yeah?"

The envelope lies at the edge of my desk blotter. "This came for you."

I'm tired. Long day, and my eyes ache from squinting at tiny type all day. I should have worn my glasses. "What is it?"

"I think it's a letter."

I look at her. Her eyes stay on the envelope. "Well, Janeane, I can see that just fine. Why didn't you open it?"

"I think it's private."

"For crying out loud. You've opened letters from Marcia for me."

I pick up the envelope and break the seal.

"Sir. I think this is –"

I pull out a page of stationary and squint at the bad handwriting. Peurr Sin? No, no, no. Dear Sir… "I can't even read this."

Janeane sighs and stands up. She reaches over the desk and holds out the envelope, turning it right-side up. "It's from Michigan, sir."

I stare at the envelope, then take it gently out of her hand. I can't make out the return address, but I know the post-mark is stamped Ann Arbor.

I look at the letter again. "Yeah. Okay."

I fold the letter back into the envelope and tuck it into the side pocket of my suit jacket.

"I'll read it later."

***

____

The Washington Post

April 26, 2001

Section A, page 11

____

Injured White House Communications Deputy Transferred to Rehab Center

by Gary Yin

Ann Arbor, MI – White House Deputy Communications Director Samuel Seaborn was transferred from Ann Arbor Memorial Hospital to Shagel-Rollins Rehabilitative Center in Arlington, Virginia early yesterday morning. Seaborn, who suffered severe injuries after Vice-President Hoynes' tour bus skidded off the road and collided with another bus nearly two months ago, was transferred by way of a MediLife plane.

Seaborn's injuries were life-threatening: several broken ribs, a broken arm, a collapsed lung, internal injuries, and massive blood loss. In addition, the accident nearly severed the lower half of his left leg, and fractured four vertebrae, causing his spinal cord to be bruised. Doctors were unsure, at first, whether Seaborn would survive.

Seaborn still faces a long recovery and will undergo extensive physical therapy. The Shagel-Rollins Rehabilitative Center, which gained renown three years ago for helping football star Jackson Willett walk again, was personally evaluated by First Lady Dr. Abigail Bartlet before Mr. Seaborn's arrival.

The White House plans on making an official comment on Seaborn's return to Washington at a press briefing later today, but White House Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman, who accompanied Seaborn on the two-hour flight, said that White House staffers were "ecstatic. We're very happy to have him back home in the D.C. area. All of the staffers here at the White House plan on visiting him frequently, so that we can keep him up-to-date on everything that's going on."

Vice-President Hoynes, who helped rescue Seaborn from the wreckage, briefly answered questions after attending a trade summit in Seattle and stated that he was "pleased that Mr. Seaborn's condition continues to improve."

___

***

"Got everything?"

"Yeah."

"Your bowtie on straight?"

"No."

I hear a loud sigh, then a snort.

"What? It's straight enough. It's too tight, anyway."

Janeane crosses the room. She stands in front of me. "You're already ten minutes late."

"I had to change!"

Carl walks to stand behind Janeane. "That's one helluva crooked tie."

"Shut up."

Janeane grasps the edge of the tie and pulls it. "Stand up straight and be still. I'll fix it."

I oblige her and focus my gaze on Nathan. He is muttering something into his sleeve. Cowboy's tie is crooked. Full alert. All agents prepare to perform the Heimlich.

"Sir?"

I look at him with a scowl. He does not seem impressed.

"Mrs. Hoynes is downstairs and waiting in the car."

"Shit. Hurry up, Janeane."

Carl watches the delicate maneuvers of proper tie-tying. "Excellent technique."

"Thank you. All done."

Too tight. I reach to loosen it. Janeane slaps my hand. "Don't do that."

"It's too tight."

She turns around and walks to the coat rack in the corner. She takes down my coat. Carl walks to her, and she hands it to him.

I shake my head. "I don't need a coat. It'll be too hot."

Carl holds it out. "It might rain tonight. Just wear it."

"Fine."

Stupid coat. I'll get too hot in the car. I let Carl stand there, with his arms out and the coat open while I pat down my pockets. Wallet. Got it. Glasses? Don't need them. I slip the case out of my pocket and put it on the desk.

"What's this?"

"Sir, you're going to be late."

I pick up the envelope that leans against the phone. Sealed.

Janeane clears her throat. "That came for you earlier this afternoon, while you were in conference with Senator Gillette. It's from Virginia."

I turn the envelope over and read the return address. Arlington, Virginia. The handwriting is clearer now, much neater, and I can read it easily.

"Yeah. Okay."

Carl walks to me, holds out the coat. "C'mon, you'll be late."

I put the envelope down and step into the coat.

"Is this a new coat?"

Carl shrugs. "I guess. Yeah."

"How do I look?"

"Good."

I roll my shoulders. "My shoulders look okay?"

He brushes some invisible lint off the sleeve. "Like a quarterback."

"Good."

He takes the envelope from the edge of the desk and hands it to me. "You ever write back to him?"

I shake my head.

"You should."

I put the envelope into my inside coat pocket. It makes the front of the coat bulge, and I pat it down until the coat hangs smooth and straight. The coat is wool, and the collar itches a little. It's too hot. "He's a lot better. I hear they got him walking some at that rehab center."

"Yeah. I think they expect him to come back to work. Later. When he's better."

I button the coat. "Yeah?"

"Maybe."

"Well." I shrug. Maybe.

I walk to the door, careful to set my heel down straight, so that my knee won't be jarred. There's a small scar there, on my knee, almost invisible. It doesn't hurt.

I pass Nathan, and he falls in behind me. One step behind and to the left. The door opens. Thomson and Brody take up their positions.

Carl takes too-long strides beside me. "You should write to him."

I'm late. My wife is waiting.

"Yeah. Maybe later."

***