“You say to somebody, you shouldn’t go to work before you’re what, 14, 16 years of age, fine,” Gingrich said. “You’re totally poor. You’re in a school that is failing with a teacher that is failing. I’ve tried for years to have a very simple model,” he said. “Most of these schools ought to get rid of the unionized janitors, have one master janitor and pay local students to take care of the school. The kids would actually do work, they would have cash, they would have pride in the schools, they’d begin the process of rising.”
He added, “You go out and talk to people, as I do, you go out and talk to people who are really successful in one generation. They all started their first job between nine and 14 years of age. They all were either selling newspapers, going door to door, they were doing something, they were washing cars.”
And then he went home, and Gingrich slept soundly.
In the morning, Gingrich woke, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then his stomach rumbled. At the breakfast table he sat flipping through the newspaper. The debates were going well. He was rising in the polls—leading, in some cases. One day, my vision of America will be the America we live in, he thought as a plate was set down before him. And then the people will love me again.
Fork and knife in hand, he tore ravenously into his omelet. A big appetite for a man of big ideas, he chuckled to himself--and yet the first bite was tasteless.
“Jeeves,” he called. “What’s the meaning of this? This omelet is bland as Romney.” Gingrich chuckled once again.
A boy, perhaps ten years old, appeared from the pantry.
“Yes, sir?” the boy said. “Good morning, sir. How it is?”
“Terrible!” Gingrich spat, putting down his fork. “What spices did you use?”
“I…I couldn’t reach them,” the boy stammered. “They were on the…top shelf.”
“That’s no excuse. Jeeves made the best omelet in the land! What am I paying you?”
“Nothing,” the boy said. “This is an unpaid internship.”
“Hogwash!” Gingrich checked his watch. “It’s no matter. I’m late.”
He rose, swallowing his coffee—the sugar, he remembered, was on the top shelf too. His mood darkening, Gingrich then smiled brightly, remembering that the debate was tonight. He had better get to work.
He sat down in his office, awaiting his talking points. “Melissa?” he called. “Where’s my speech writer? Where’s Tim Denton?”
“You fired him,” came a small voice from below.
“Melissa, you’ve shrunk!” Gingrich exclaimed.
“I’m Chelsea,” the little girl said. “Her daughter.”
“What is this, take your child to work day?”
“No sir,” Chelsea said. “Mom wanted a vacation, so she asked me to fill in for the next two months—she said you wouldn’t mind. In fact, you’d approve.”
“Mind? This isn’t daycare,” Gingrich growled. “But I don’t have time to argue with you. The debate is tonight. Fetch my talking points.”
The little girl disappeared. Gingrich stared at the desk in front of him, on which were various photographs of himself and his class of 94. God those were the years, he thought. I felt so alive then. His concentration was broken by a speech laid down in front of him.
--New guys don’t work hard, read the first talking point.
--Cain pizza bad pizza, said the next.
--Need letter to America.
All of his talking points—his brilliant ideas, his clever schemes, his plan to rebuild America from the disastrous socialist takeover of the last years—had been dumbed down, simplified. Why, there are no words greater than two syllables, he thought. How am I to impress the public with my enormous intellect?
“Denton,” he screamed. “What the hell is this? What…you’re not Denton!”
“I’m Brad,” said a boy of eight with glasses. “Brad Fisk. Happy to be on board, sir!”
“Fisk, this speech is bullshit,” Gingrich thundered. “And these talking points! Economy bad. Job guys need less taxes. It’s like a first grader wrote this!”
“Third grader,” Fisk replied confidently. “I skipped two grades.”
“How the hell--” Gingrich tried to calm himself. His blood pressure was already through the roof, and tonight was the debate that would send him to the top of the Republican field. Losers. “Who hired you?”
“Chelsea,” Fisk said. “We’re in the same class—FYI, I think she has a crush on me. But—that’s not how I got the job. Teacher says I write the best!”
“Children making my omelets. Kids scheduling my events. Third graders writing my speeches. It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he said. “I only meant that…that children would clean up vomit and sweep. I didn’t intend…”
“Personally, I think you’re a genius,” Fisk said. “We’ll grow into our jobs, sir, and the econ-omy, whew! Tough one. The economy will be super!”
“Mr. Gingrich,” Chelsea called. “Your driver is here to take you to the conference center.”
“We’ll speak of this later,” Gingrich said gruffly to the little boy. “Revise these talking points with three syllable words. How else--”
“--is the American public supposed to realize your genius? You’re right,” Fisk said enthusiastically. “Smart stuff. That’s why I’m working for you, sir. Good luck tonight.”
Gingrich grumbled, grabbing his coat at the door. “Chelsea, have the…spices moved to the bottom shelf. Fire that kid. Hire a six grader—from a gifted class.”
Outside, his beloved limousine was waiting, the door already open. Gingrich climbed inside, trying to remember some of his talking points from the previous debate. They were bound to ask him about Freddie Mack. Bastards—he was a historian. He had a goddamn PhD. They should be calling him Dr. Gingrich!
The limousine’s engine turned. With a jolt, the behemoth pulled out of the driveway, nearly hitting his beloved bird feeder.
“Be careful, you dolt,” Gingrich cried.
He tried to turn his thoughts to the issues at hand. Finally, after months and months of wallowing behind Romney, Perry, Bachman, the Pizza Man—it was finally his turn. And he would ride this wave to victory. Still, his heart was restless. He stared out at passing cars, honking furiously as the limousine picked up speed, running several red lights. This driver must be drunk, Gingrich realized.
“Stop the car,” he ordered, getting out his cell phone. “For Christ’s sake. You’re a maniac! You could have killed me. Do you know how important I am?”
With difficulty, the divider was rolled down. The driver turned and took off his sunglasses. “What? I’m trying to drive, here.”
“When you’d get your license?” Gingrich asked, flabbergasted.
“It’s a learners, pops,” the limousine driver scoffed. “Don’t street it, dude.”
“Get out,” Gingrich said, calling Chelsea. “Get me a new driver, Chelsea. Now!”
It took a half an hour, but finally the limousine started up again. Thank heavens, Gingrich thought. Better late than never—which also held true with the Republican primary. He smiled, self-satisfied. Tonight’s debate would send him over the top. Then he’d take on Obama, who would look like a public school reject next to him.
The limousine went faster and faster, swerving across all lanes of traffic. Abruptly, the the car slowed down, then turned once more into oncoming traffic, slowed down again, and then turned slowly back into the right lane.
“Who am I, Goldilocks? Faster,” Gingrich exclaimed, checking his watch. “I’ll be late!
The limousine picked up speed, traffic blurring. Gingrich was going to be sick.
“Stop…” he wailed. “Stop.”
The limousine broke suddenly, sending Gingrich into the divider. Then there were police sirens. Scrambling to his feet, Gingrich exited the car, dazed. The driver’s door open, revealing two children, one pressing the brakes and accelerator, the other holding the steering wheel with his little hands…
Gingrich awoke, glistening in sweet. “It was all just a dream,” he said, relieved. Making his way to the bathroom, he washed his face, and held out his hands.
“Jeeves,” he said. “A hand towel, please.”
The hands that held out the towel were small—too small. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Gingrich despaired.
It wasn’t supposed to be.
