A Raymond Chandler Evening

Luna
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It's a Raymond Chandler evening
At the end of someone's day
And I'm standing in my pocket
And I'm slowly turning gray...

Sam's been told he has an obsessive personality. He used to think it was a compliment, albeit a backwards one. It takes a bit of an obsessive nature to be a good politician, or a good writer; it takes precision and concentration and skill and attention to minutiae. He thinks he is a good writer. There are agonizing nights where he's sure he has no talent or sense, and rare, beautiful moments when he's sure he's channeling every bit of genius the Muses have to give, but all in all, he thinks he is a good writer. And the evidence suggests he's a pretty good politician. So a little bit of obsessive personality isn't doing any harm.

Although right now, standing on the street in the dark and the rain, he's starting to reconsider that.

It gets him into trouble sometimes, like when he couldn't leave the difference between Kyrzygstan and Kazakhstan alone, and look where that landed them. Or like tonight, when he's been unable to stop thinking about his father. He'd collected his things at work and gone out for a drink. Alone this time, to run the past through his head, Little League games and Christmas 1981 and a birthday here and there -- the things his father had missed, though he'd never thought much of it. And there were a hundred more things he hadn't missed, not one birthday or graduation or the first time he gave a speech in a school assembly. Sam wasn't sure which was worse -- knowing where his father had been when he wasn't around, or knowing that he'd really believed they'd had a happy family.

The bartender had set a drink in front of him. It wasn't what he'd ordered. He looked across the bar, and the blonde smiled and came to sit beside him. She looked phenomenal from across the room, though up close she lost a little of her luster. Sam didn't really want company, but he had smiled politely and bought the blonde another martini.

"Do you come here a lot?" she asked, with a sidelong look to show she knew it was a silly line.

"I don't come anywhere a lot," he said honestly.

She laughed. "What, are you a monk in your spare time?"

"I don't have any spare time."

Sam realized that they were talking like characters out of a detective story, and he said so. The blonde looked a little puzzled and shrugged it off. He didn't say much for a while, and she gave him another sidelong glance and asked what he was thinking about.

He didn't know what possessed him to start explaining his father to her, except maybe that he couldn't explain it to himself.


I remember what I told you,
But I can't remember why
And the yellow leaves are falling
In a spiral from the sky...

The blonde -- Heather, she'd introduced herself -- had gotten a bored look on her face, a little later, and he wound up lamely by explaining that it had just been a crazy few weeks, what with the Senate and all. Heather smiled apologetically, and then her eyes widened.

"I know who you are now," she'd said.

He'd looked glumly into his glass.

"I saw you on television last month. You work for Bartlet."

"I serve at the pleasure of the President," Sam agreed.

"No wonder you don't have any spare time." She'd edged closer to him and laid a hand on his arm. "Are you free tonight?"

He had been tempted to say yes, which would have been the truth. He'd been tempted to ask if she was a call girl, though he knew she'd probably slap him. He'd been tempted to pull her close to him, take her home for the night and try and forget about her as soon as morning came.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to get back to the office."

So he left Heather to finish her drink, and walked the streets for a little while, not letting the light rain get to him. It's all very film noir, he thought, turning his collar up. It's a black and white movie with Bogart and that other guy who was always playing Bogie's partner. It's international intrigue and mysterious beauties and ridiculously mixed metaphors. It's the feeling of October, even at the beginning of spring.

But really, he added mentally, it's none of those things. It's a sad single guy in his not-so-early thirties and getting older fast. It's trudging around under streetlights, bemoaning the state of the world and the faithlessness of fathers. It's a pathetic cliché. It's not poetry at all.

Sam had started to doubt himself, to wonder if he really believed in things anymore. Senator Stackhouse notwithstanding, it seemed that they saw a lot of the worst of people. Sometimes he couldn't help fearing that they were making very little difference at all. It had been a hard year. He wasn't sure if it was in the weather or his mind, but there was an ominous feeling that things weren't about to get easier. The next two years could be a nightmare.


There's a body on the railings
That I can't identify
And I'd like to reassure you
But I'm not that kind of guy...

So he finds himself standing on the street, damp and distracted. He pauses at the foot of a stoop to check his watch. It's later than he realized it was getting. He tells himself he's being obsessive, being foolishly negative. There are plenty of things to be satisfied about. He has a dream job, which makes up in significance and prestige what it lacks in salary. He has friends who care about him; he has a President who cares about him. An attractive woman bought him a drink and flirted with him. The hell with the bad politicians and the compromises, and the people you couldn't trust.

He raises his eyes from the mulchy sidewalk and realizes where his feet have taken him. "Oh," he says softly, and it lingers on the humid air.

The building doesn't stand out from the others on the dim street. There is a light in one window, warmer than the moon but cooler than the glaring orange streetlights. There is someone home in that apartment.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to walk inside, and knock on the door. But it would be harder when the door opened. It would be difficult to explain what he was doing there, especially because he isn't sure. He wants to be comforted. He wants someone to tousle his wet hair and hold him close and tell him everything's all right. He wants to crawl into a warm bed and sleep for a week and wake up in a new world. He wants someone to touch him, someone to touch, to convince himself that he's not his father's son.

Of course, that's childish. He's a man, and he tells himself he has to make his own world. There is no reason to be afraid. There is nothing to do but be strong, be honorable, to walk down the street and keep going. And he doesn't talk about these doubts, because it's not a thing men do.

Maybe someday, he thinks, I'll write a book, and everyone can figure it out for themselves.

He leans against the railing that runs down the steps, and wipes a little rain out of his eyes. It's his obsessive personality that causes it. Sam can't stop examining the possibilities, any more than he can take his eyes off the lit window. Any moment now, the person inside will see him and yell down to ask why Sam's hanging around his building at night, like a stalker or a private eye. And he'll make some lame excuse and leave without a wistful glance back.

Any moment now, he'll have convinced himself to go home. Or maybe a miracle will happen and he will go upstairs after all, and be dry and comforted and even a little bit in love. He'll dream about his childhood, or his future, or nothing at all. But for the time being, he stands still.


It's a Raymond Chandler evening
And the pavements are all wet
And I'm lurking in the shadows
'Cause it hasn't happened...
...Yet.

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