DISCLAIMER: They belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells
Productions, and Warner Bros.

SUMMARY: CJ and the gang have fifteen hours to kill
in the Big Easy. This is set during the end stages of
the Bartlet for America campaign.

THANKS: To Jo March, whose constant encouragement
keeps me writing, and whose friendship I am
exceedingly lucky to have.



Drunk and Quartered
Ryo Sen



I am incredibly amused.

Don't get me wrong--I'm irritated (but not surprised)
that the fundraiser is canceled. But this discussion
has reached absurd proportions.

The core members of the campaign staff (minus Toby,
who is currently in seclusion with his laptop) have
gathered in Leo's suite to hear the bad news: The
Louisiana Democratic Women (of which, I gather, there
are not many) have had to cancel the fundraiser they
planned in honor of Jed Bartlet. But typically, Josh
is refusing to accept defeat.

"No, Josh." Leo shakes his head for emphasis. "Let
it go." Considering the conversation finished, he
gestures at the door.

Sam, who has been leaning against the wall opposite
me, pushes away and heads for the hallway. I stay
put, because I know Josh isn't finished arguing, and
Fiery Josh is always fun to watch.

Josh jumps up from his seat, "Leo, we can still--"

"Exactly which part of 'no' did you fail to
understand, Josh?"

Sam halts and looks back. I am still lounging against
the edge of the sofa, on which Donna is curled into an
uncomfortable-looking position while typing up our
position on strip-mining (we're strongly opposed).

Josh glares at Leo, not at all happy with the turn of
events. "We're not flying out until tomorrow
morning."

Leo looks bored with this discussion. "Yes."

"But we're going to just sit here and do nothing for
the next, what, fourteen hours?"

"Sixteen," Donna corrects without looking up.

Josh absently nods his thanks. "Sixteen hours?"

Leo sighs. "Josh. We've been working our asses off
on this campaign. I'm telling you that you have
sixteen hours off. In New Orleans. Surely you can
find something to occupy yourselves?"

Arms defiantly planted on hips, Josh continues to
argue, "We can still win Louisiana."

I am smiling as I join the discussion, "No, we can't,
Josh. There's no way Bartlet will carry Louisiana."

Leo gives me a grateful look. "Are we finished?"

Josh hesitates before acquiescing. He certainly does
not take defeat gracefully. "Fine."

Leo tilts his head towards the door. "The Governor,
Abby, and I are going to this thing. I don't expect
to hear from you," he gives Josh a pointed look, "but
you can reach me on my cell."

"Fine," Josh repeats listlessly. He abandons his
pugilistic stance and slumps onto the couch next to
Donna. She shifts slightly and they end up shoulder
to shoulder.

Leo rolls his eyes heavenward. "Downtime, Josh. Go
out. Have a drink. Dance with a pretty woman. Do
anything that's not illegal."

"There's not a whole lot that is illegal in this
town," Donna points out.

Leo cracks a small smile. "That means you, too,
Donna. No writing. No answering this guy's messages.
Relax."

Josh moans. "How about I stay in the room and get a
head start on--"

"Josh, you will have fun," Leo interrupts. "That's an
order."

Donna and I exchange an amused look at this directive.
Leave it to Leo to order his subordinates to go out
and party. I told you the discussion had taken a turn
for the absurd.

Nevertheless, I recognize a dismissal when I hear one,
and I nod at Sam. The poor dear stood in the middle
of the room, uncertain, during the preceding
conversation. He gives me a boyish grin and retreats.

"Donna," Josh whines. "What are we supposed to do for
the next sixteen hours?"

Donna quickly closes her document and shuts down the
laptop--she's already quite adept at reading Leo
McGarry's unspoken commands. "It's New Orleans,
Josh."

"I'm aware of that," Josh replies sharply. "Why does
everyone say 'New Orleans' like it's some heaven on
earth?"

I nod at Leo and head for the door, Josh and Donna on
my heels.

"Stick with me, kid," Donna says. "And you'll find
out all in due time."

***

I left Sam perusing a map of the French Quarter
(refreshing his memory, he claims--I think I'll bring
a copy along just in case), made Donna promise to get
Josh into something a little less, well, lame, and
went to round up Toby.

When we checked in, I stole the duplicate keys for all
my boys' rooms--they have an uncanny knack for either
losing their keys or doing incredibly stupid things
that require my intervention, so I figured I'd save us
all the aggravation and get copies in advance.

I knock once, then let myself into Toby's room. He
is, predictably, hard at work. "Toby--"

"Ssh." Even more predictably, Toby ignores me. He's
sitting at the small table at the other end of the
hotel room, writing his little heart out.

"Toby," I try again, "we--"

"One minute," Toby growls, frantically scribbling away
on his ever-present yellow legal pad. He won't admit
it, but he's old-fashioned. Prefers pencil and paper
to those confounded machines.

I am getting impatient. We've only got about fifteen
and a half hours left. I know Toby will ignore any
direct attempts at conversation, so I say, "I thought
you were an environmentalist."

Toby doesn't even slow down. "Huh?"

"Toby?"

With an irritated sigh, he slams down his pen.
"What?"

"You're wasting paper," I note helpfully. I am having
a hard time not grinning at the look on his face.

Toby blinks. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I gesture at the legal pad. "You only use the one
side. That's a waste of paper."

Toby gives me that mirthless smile that says 'you are
annoying the hell out of me right now' and responds,
"I recycle."

"No, you don't. You shred."

"The shredded paper is then recycled."

I give in to the grin. "Whatever you say, Toby. Are
you ready?"

"No," Toby answers, irritably retrieving his pen from
the table. "I'm working."

I stalk over to him and seize the legal pad. "No,
you're not."

"CJ," Toby warns. "Give me that."

"We're under direct orders from Leo McGarry to have
fun tonight," I fold my arms across my chest, pinning
the pad to my body. Let him try to get it back--he
knows I know Tae Kwan Do. "And you are not going to
sit in this hotel room and write."

Toby glares at me. "CJ, I am not in any mood
for--for--frivolity."

I can't help it--Frivolity? I start laughing.
Sometimes he is such an unmitigated jackass.
"Frivolity?"

"You know what I mean," he answers, surging to his
feet.

"C'mon, Toby," I toss the legal pad on the bed and
grab hold of his arm. "You're definitely in need of
some frivolity."

***

Sam, who had been (in his own dorky words) something
of a party animal in college, volunteered to lead our
foray into frivolity. He actually wanted to name our
night on the town The Foray into Frivolity when I
relayed Toby's words, but I put my foot down.
Besides, I'm bigger than he is, and I think he's kind
of scared of me. That amuses me.

At any rate, I send Sam to the lobby to wait for us,
then argue Toby into changing clothes. Who knew he
even owned blue jeans? I unearth a maroon henley and
coax him into it, then head to my room to don black
cigarette pants and a forest green v-neck top.

Toby is waiting outside my door when I open it, and
his gaze rakes over me. He doesn't say anything about
my outfit, which is decidedly less staid than my
trademark suits, but that doesn't surprise me. Toby
doesn't say much, unless he's complaining about
something. He does that quite a lot. Like now, for
instance.

"I still say this is ridiculous," Toby grumbles on the
way to the elevator.

"The frivolity of it all?" I commiserate, biting back
a grin.

Toby shoots me an evil look, but refrains from further
comment until we reach the lobby and join Sam.

"Toby! CJ!" Sam greets us cheerfully. He is wearing
khakis and a lightweight sweater. Preppy chic. He
doesn't appear to notice my critical appraisal. "Our
first stop is dinner. Now I'm thinking authentic
N'Awlins food. We could do Antoine's, or maybe
Landry's seafood--"

"Sam," Toby warns. "I have killed many tour guides in
my life. I will not hesitate to add you to the
total."

Sam swallows hard, but before he can come up with a
response, his attention is caught by the duo heading
towards us. Donna, clad in a shimmery blue blouse and
tight dark pants, is chattering as she approaches with
Josh in tow. Josh, still muttering, apparently
consented to changing into jeans, a dark green shirt,
and tennis shoes.

"And so they're still fighting over whether Legacy or
the Ursuline Convent is the oldest building in the
French Quarter," Donna is saying as they reach us.
"Because, you know, there were still some parts of the
original structure left after the fire in 1788."

Toby stares at Donna. "What the hell are you talking
about?"

"Madame John's Legacy," she answers promptly. "It's
located at--"

"I don't care," Toby says decisively.

Donna shrugs, used to Toby's brusque manner, and
quickly checks her pockets for the required
elements--license, money, room key. I follow her
example (yes, I have all of our room keys), until Josh
gives my arm a tug.

He looks desperate. "If I sit through dinner--"

"No, Josh."

Toby crosses his arms. "If I'm going to be subjected
to this--this--"

"Frivolity?" Sam suggests with a smirk.

Toby cuts him a glare. "This insanity," he continues
pointedly, "then so are all of you."

Josh is doing that annoying sulking thing we all find
so unattractive. "I still don't see why--"

"We're bringing you along?" Donna interrupts. "I'm
beginning to wonder that myself."

Sam and I stifle our laughter. Even Toby cracks what
may be a smile.

Josh doesn't appear to be amused. "I'm just saying,
we could still take Louisiana," he mutters.

My poor delusional friend. In deference to his
apparently unstable mental state, I try not to laugh
outright.

Sam, on the other hand, actually guffaws. I've never
really heard a laugh that qualified as a guffaw
before, but Sam manages it. "Are you kidding me?" he
grins. "An academic, liberal Democrat from New
England?"

"You don't get much deeper South than this," I offer.

"And the other guy is a conservative Republican from
South Carolina," Toby adds.

Donna nods, "Who's leading here by eleven percentage
points."

"Still," Josh counters stubbornly. "It wouldn't hurt
to keep trying."

"It really would," I argue.

Donna pats him on the shoulder. "Yes, because you'd
stay in this obnoxious mood and then we would have to
kill you."

I knew I liked Donna from the start. She knows
exactly how to handle Josh for maximum efficiency.
And she was able to keep him from self-destructing
after what I like to call The Mandy Fiasco. But
that's behind us now, praise God, Jesus, Allah, and,
considering where we are, Marie Laveau.

Josh doesn't have a ready reply, and Sam jumps in with
more suggestions for dinner. After much bickering, we
settle on Galatoire's, which is towards the far end of
Bourbon street. As Sam helpfully pointed out, we can
start at Galatoire's and drink our way back to the
hotel.

I am definitely looking forward to the next fifteen
hours.

***

Toby stares, openmouthed, at Donna, who is winding
down her brief lecture on the history of Galatoire's.

"So this building," she explains in her inimitable
fashion, "which was built in 1831, was originally the
home of another restaurant called Victor's."

Josh watches his erstwhile assistant, a lazy smile on
his face. Sam is grinning--well, in between spoonfuls
of gumbo, he's grinning--at all of us.

For my part, I am content to watch the interplay
between these people. Running a presidential campaign
doesn't allow for much downtime, and I've rarely had
the chance to just sit and talk with the gang.
Especially not in such a relaxed setting.

Toby turns his dazed look on Josh. "Does she do
this--?"

"All the time," Josh confirms with a grin in Donna's
direction. "You get used to it."

Toby glances back at Donna, "Did you memorize the
history of every restaurant in the French Quarter?"

"No," she answers with a satisfied smile. "Just the
places I wanted Josh to take me."

Toby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.

I figure it's high time I redirect the conversation,
"Donna, have you been here before?"

She hastily swallows a bite of salad and asks,
"Galatoire's or New Orleans?"

I shrug. "Either."

"Neither," she answers. "I meant to go to Mardi Gras
when I was in college, but--" she stops suddenly and
looks over at Josh. "I didn't have a chance to go,"
she finishes lamely.

There is a story there, I surmise, but not one that
Donna wants to tell in front of the rest of these
idiots. Josh especially. So I nod and offer, "I've
only been here one other time. My brother and his
boyfriend lived down here for a few years."

Toby looks perplexed. "I thought Peter and Charlie
lived in San Francisco."

I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.
Whenever I think about that day--Oh, dear. It's just
too amusing. "They did then, Toby. They moved down
here for a few years--for Charlie's job--but now
they're back in California."

Josh is looking back and forth between Toby and I, his
brow furrowed. "Wait, 'they did then'? What are you
talking about?"

Sam pauses his gumbo intake long enough to mumble,
"Yeah."

I catch Toby's eye, but he merely shrugs. I take it
he's leaving it up to me to tell the tale. Not
surprising--the man is a master of words, but when it
comes to relaying comic stories of his own... Well,
let's just say his timing leaves something to be
desired.

I steal one more bite of my salad, then push it away.
"I was referring to when Toby and I met."

Sam, having reached the last pathetic drops of gumbo,
turns his attention to me. "I don't think I've ever
heard this. How did you two meet?"

Donna appears just as interested as the other two
twits, but she doesn't say anything. She does,
however, take another bite of that french bread that
is absolutely delicious. The last piece of the french
bread, I can't help but notice.

But we were talking about Toby. "We met at a gay
rights demonstration," I grin.

Toby rolls his eyes at me, as Josh, Sam, and Donna
turn speculative looks his way. He doesn't bother to
assert his heterosexuality, which is an example of
what I like about him--he may be an ornery old goat,
but he honestly couldn't care less what people think
of him. It's a refreshing quality, especially in the
political world.

"Really?" Josh asks in that smarmy, mocking tone.

"This was--what, 1990, Toby?"

After a moment of thought, he nods. "Sounds right.
That's when he was running."

"Ah," Sam grins. "So this was a political thing."

"A gay rights demonstration?" Donna interjects. "I
would consider that a political thing."

I shoot her an appreciative look. "Fair point."

"You know what I mean," Sam says defensively.

"But, yes, Sam is right." Sam gives me an idiotic
grin. I ignore him. "Peter and Charlie were heavily
involved in the group--it was a gay rights advocacy
group. You've got to remember this was pre-Ellen,
pre-don't ask, don't tell. Gay rights was still
something that you didn't really discuss in public.
So they staged demonstrations all over the state."

"Wait," Josh interrupts. "Is this the group that did
the thing at Callahan's fundraiser?"

Toby and I exchange an amused look.

"What thing?" Donna asks.

Josh is still staring at me, but he answers her.
"They threw something at him, right? Food or
something?"

"Apple pie," Toby supplies.

Donna snickers, "They threw apple pie at a candidate
for--what was he running for?"

"Governor," I answer, relishing the memory of Callahan
covered in pie. Ah, the good old days: Fiery
demonstrations, bright-pink signs, local news
coverage. Sometimes I miss my activist days. "He
didn't win."

"And yet we all remember the apple pie incident," Sam
comments. "He must be so proud."

"He brought it on himself," I shrug. "He spewed the
usual bullshit about homosexuality being an
abomination, then went on to proclaim himself
heterosexual and 'as American as apple pie.'"

"Offensive *and* clichéd," Sam observes. "No wonder
you threw pie at him."

"I didn't throw pie," I say, which is something less
than straightforward. Anyway, I didn't so much throw
pie as I did toss it. But that is a story for another
time. "I was working the phones and giving interviews
when the whole pie-throwing thing happened."

Donna turns to Toby with a curious look. "Were you
throwing pies?"

Toby actually laughs a little at the suggestion. Sam
gapes at this unusual display of, you know, regular
human amusement.

Ignoring Sam's slackjawed expression, Toby shakes his
head, "No, I was pied."

"You were working for Callahan?" Josh asks,
incredulous. He looks over to me for confirmation.

"To be fair, he quit within the week," I say, still
grinning at the recollection.

"Still," Josh says, turning back to Toby. "Roger
Callahan?"

"Shut up, Josh," Toby answers. "He was good on the
environment, good on women's issues--"

"But had a thing against gays?" Sam asks sharply.
Apparently he's over the shock.

Toby shoots him a withering look. "He managed to keep
that tidbit to himself until the apple pie thing. And
I'd already given notice at the time of the
demonstration."

The waiter arrives, and we are silent until he
finishes delivering our meals. Then Donna asks, "So
if you were on opposite sides, how did you actually
meet?"

Toby glances at me. "It was your first time on the
news, wasn't it?" I nod. Unfortunately, I have taken
a large (and quite tasty) bite of my blackened
chicken. Toby continues while I'm still chewing. "We
got into something of a debate. She called me an
unmitigated jackass."

The table erupts into appreciative laughter. What can
I say--the man still deserves the appellation.

***

After dinner (which was amazing, as most of the food
in New Orleans is), we set out on our walk down
Bourbon street. It's been years since my one and only
visit to this fair city, but the smell of urine, beer,
rum, and countless unnamable things in the gutters
brings it all back immediately: The topless and
bottomless bars, the freak shops, the drinks-to-go
storefronts.

No one does wretched excess better than New Orleans.
Except maybe Vegas.

Toby, Sam, and I have all experienced Bourbon street
before and are amusing ourselves watching Josh and
Donna. They are stumbling down the middle of the
street (it's Saturday night--there are far too many
pedestrians staggering about to permit vehicular
traffic), wide-eyed and staring. They are also
hand-in-hand.

Toby is giving them an occasional sour look, Sam
appears amused, and I am withholding judgment. So far
as I can tell, they are both utterly oblivious to
their mutual attraction. As long as they stay that
way, they can hold hands all night long.

Josh tugs Donna towards a store called The Love
ConXXXion. Toby, Sam, and I exchange long-suffering
looks and follow them inside. This is the third freak
shop Josh has insisted on entering (that drink he had
with dinner must have been pretty strong). So far,
he's been talked into feeling... well, let's just say
the shopkeepers have been able to persuade him to
sample their wares, much to Donna's amusement. (She's
only touched one... thing.)

"Donna!" Josh yells excitedly as we enter the store.
"Look!"

He yanks her over to a rack of black tank tops with
the word "F***" emblazoned countless times across it
in dark red. Donna shoots me a helpless look, feigns
interest, but declines Josh's offer to buy the shirt
for her.

"Honey," says the (transvestite) woman behind the
counter. "Don't you buy your girlfriend no crazy
shirt like that."

"Oh, for the love of God," Toby mutters beside me. He
is hovering uncomfortably near the doorway while I
peruse the selection of blatantly sexual t-shirts.
Sam, in all of his infantile curiosity, has wandered
over to a display of what look like... Nevermind.
He's occupied, at any rate.

I turn my attention back to Josh, who is haplessly
flirting with the clerk.

"What do you think I should buy her?" Josh asks, with
what I'm sure he thinks is a charming smile. It's
lopsided, however, and although I swear he only had
one drink, he's starting to slur his words.

"You buy her something for *her*," the clerk says.
"Something like this."

I can't see what she--he?--has tossed onto the
counter, but Josh takes about three steps back and
Donna is blushing and giggling. I start forward--just
out of curiosity, you understand--but Toby places a
restraining hand on my arm.

"Honey," the clerk is addressing Donna now, "trust me.
Feels just like the real thing."

Donna is still snickering. "I'm sure," she manages.
"But I'll take your word for it." She grabs Josh, who
is still staring, dumbfounded, at the disturbingly
large device on the counter, and heads for the door.

Toby pulls me aside just in time, and Josh and Donna
burst out into the street, laughing. I glance over at
Sam, who appears to be mesmerized by the display.

"Sam," Toby snaps. "Let's go."

Sam jerks around and follows us sheepishly to the
door.

We emerge onto Bourbon street, collect Josh and Donna
from the curb where they collapsed in laughter, and
continue our trek.

***

It occurs to me, somewhat belatedly, that Pat
O'Brien's was probably not the best place to stop for
drinks. In my defense, I was very drunk the last time
I was here, and I didn't remember the exact size of
the drinks--they're huge! And deadly, if memory
serves.

In fact, Donna asked our waiter (apparently she's
always in search of more trivial facts), and he
explained that each Hurricane has four ounces of rum
and four ounces of Hurricane mix. That's rather a lot
of rum.

Too much for Josh, apparently, who is half-done his
Hurricane and already giggling like a schoolboy.

The five of us are crowded around a small, cast iron
table, pressed up against the edge of the railed off
centerpiece of the courtyard--a fountain of fire.
Seriously, there's a flame that looks suspiciously
like the Olympic torch, and a ring of water splashing
right into the fire. Very pretty.

Toby appears to be captivated, in fact. He's already
finished with his Hurricane--by God, the man can hold
his liquor--and he's just sitting back, ignoring us,
and watching the flames.

Sam and I are both nearing the ends of our drinks, and
we've been discussing our strategy for our upcoming
swing through Texas. (The strategy, if you're
curious, consists mainly of keeping Jed Bartlet from
making any more cowboy jokes.)

Donna reaches across the table and pokes my arm. "No
more shop talk."

Startled, I abandon my conversation with Sam. "Okay."

"Yeah," Josh slurs. "No more shop top." He frowns,
confused.

"Talk?" Donna suggests.

"Talk," Josh echoes with a silly grin.

Donna and I exchange amused looks. I glance down at
her glass. "You're finished?"

"Yup," she smiles. "Very tasty."

I narrow my eyes, but she doesn't appear altered. I'm
impressed. I like a woman who can drink male
politicians under the table. Although, it doesn't
appear to take much effort when the male politician in
question is Josh Lyman. Who knew he was a
lightweight?

Sam is shooting glances at Toby, but doesn't address
him directly. Instead, he asks Donna, "So what should
we talk about?"

Donna shrugs. "The weather is the same as it's been
all week--hot and humid. Politics is business, and,
therefore, off limits. And it's impolite to discuss
religion. I'm open to suggestions."

It occurs to me that they've heard the story of how
Toby and I met, but I have no idea when Sam and Josh
met. I presume college, even though they're a couple
years apart in age. They certainly act like frat
brothers. Hell, it's as good a topic as any. I turn
to Sam, "What about you and Josh?"

Sam looks momentarily confused. "What, you want us to
suggest topics?"

"No," Donna grins. "She's saying you and Josh *are*
the topic."

Josh raises one hand. "We're not a topic," he says
very seriously.

"I know, Josh," Donna pats his hand.

"Just sayin'." Josh drops his chin back into his
palm.

Toby finally turns his attention back to the rest of
us. "CJ and Donna are, I believe, endeavoring to
determine how you two idiots met."

I cover my sudden amusement (I knew he liked those
two, even though he vehemently denies it) by taking a
large swallow of my drink. Oops. That's the last of
it. My face feels a little flushed.

"Oh!" Sam says with a happy grin. Maybe the rum is
getting to him. "Right. We met in D.C."

Toby gives Sam a long-suffering look. "Specifics,
please. Not that I care, you understand."

Josh, who has finally figured out the topic, chimes
in, "We were on the Hill."

"Yes," Sam nods. "Josh was working for Gardner--"

"Pauline Gardner," Josh confirms, sounding slightly
less drunk. "It was her second term in the House.
She's nice."

Donna gives her boss an amused look and then helps him
take another sip. I'm not sure he really needs any
more, but it's not my place to regulate the dolt's
drinking. And anyway, Sam is still talking.

"So I was trying to decide between clerking for
Weddington--"

"You were considering clerking for a Republican?" Toby
interrupts, his face drawn in an expression of
distaste.

"Weddington was a Supreme Court Justice," Sam points
out, his tone defensive.

"A radically conservative Justice," Toby counters,
"whose dissentions on numerous decisions should have
been enough to convince any so-called liberal Democrat
not to aid or abet him in any way."

"Toby, I was twenty-five. It was the Supreme Court.
And what does it matter? I didn't clerk for
Weddington."

"I should hope not," Toby answers. "I would have to
kick you off the campaign."

"You're one to talk, Mr. I Worked For Callahan," Sam
says.

"Leo actually hired you to write?" Toby asks, his tone
caustic.

I decide to step in before Toby tosses Sam into the
fiery fountain. "Guys, I don't think either of you
have the power to remove the other from the
campaign--"

"I could remove him from this earth," Toby mutters.

I raise my voice and talk right over him, "And you've
both worked for, excuse my language, assholes. Let it
go."

"But I didn't work for the asshole," Sam reminds me.
"I ended up on Gardner's staff."

"You two worked together before?" I ask. I didn't
know that. But it would explain that whole boys club
thing they've got going. And I don't mean that in a
Good Ol' Boys Network kind of way--they're not
exclusionary; they're just infantile.

"No," Josh mumbles. "He took my job."

"Sam took your job?" Donna laughs. "And you forgave
him?"

"No, no, no." Josh sits upright--well, almost
upright--and blinks at Donna. "What was I saying?"

Laughing, Sam takes over the story. "I didn't steal
his job, if that's what you mean, Donna," he explains.
"Josh left Gardner to take a job on Hoynes's staff."

"Ah," I say, addressing my drunken comrade. "You
jumped to the Senate."

"That's my asshole," Josh says.

The rest of us exchange amused looks at the apparent
non-sequitur.

"What?" Donna laughs.

Josh is confused. No more rum for him. He shrugs,
"What'd I say?"

"Well, Josh, you appear to have called the United
States Senate your asshole," Toby answers, deadpan.

Josh giggles.

I have never heard a man giggle before, but there you
go. He giggles and those dimples appear, and he is
just so adorable you want to hang him on a wall. Or,
in Donna's case, jump him.

Did I just say that?

This is some damn good rum. I think I may be
snickering.

But I was talking about Josh and the giggling. He
giggles.

"No," he finally recovers enough to form words.
"Hoynes. We all worked for--"

"Oh," Sam nods. "Hoynes is your asshole."

"Well, that is just too much information," Toby notes.
I swear, he needs to loosen up. Fortunately for
Toby, our waiter miraculously appears.

I nearly knock over the tall glasses when I gesture at
the table. "Another round."

***

We are, once again, stumbling down Bourbon street.
Josh and Donna are in the lead. Well, to be accurate,
Donna is in the lead, and she's managed to keep Josh
upright and mobile so far.

I am in between Sam and Toby, our arms linked. For
camaraderie, you understand, not because I'm having
trouble walking. Of course, the remainder of my
second Hurricane is splashing out of my to-go cup with
every step, but that's probably all for the best.

Sam is a bit unbalanced (he tossed the rest of his
drink when he thought we weren't looking), while Toby
is rock steady on his feet. He downed his second
Hurricane before we left Pat O'Brien's, but I swear,
the man could drink an entire bottle of rum and still
just be morose.

I am lost in my whirling thoughts, so I nearly walk
right into Josh, who has stopped dead in the middle of
the street, head tilted up. I look back and forth
between Toby and Sam, but they are both staring in the
same direction as Josh.

I notice that Donna has let go of Josh, who is swaying
alarmingly, and then the chanting penetrates my rummy
daze. I glance around at the swarm of men staring up
at the second floor balcony of one of the countless
storefront clubs. These men--grown men, mind you--are
shouting, "Show your tits."

Oh, yeah. This is why I never bothered to come back
to New Orleans. I hate this part.

Donna is standing, arms crossed, and glaring up at the
balcony. I follow her gaze, and there are three
drunken women, probably college-aged, who are happily
obliging the crowd's demands. In exchange for
flashing their breasts, the women are pelted with
cheap strands of beads from the neanderthals at street
level.

And, yes, my three idiotic boys are captivated by
the--if you'll pardon the pun--display. I smack them
each on the back of the head.

"Ow!" Sam says, turning to me. "What was that for?"

Josh is still grinning up at the balcony--that is,
until Donna says something to him that I can't quite
hear. Then he jerks his attention back to the rest of
us, a sheepish expression on his face.

Toby merely looks at me, bemused. "Yes?"

I'm not sure exactly what happened to my Hurricane,
but I'm standing with my hands on my hips. "You
juvenile, sexist, rude, boorish--"

"Idiotic," Donna supplies.

"Yes," I nod. "That, too. What is wrong with you
three?"

Sam shrugs. "We were appreciating the human form."

"That," I say, pointing at the balcony, "is degrading
to women!"

A jerk standing nearby looks over at me and scoffs,
"Oh, great. Someone brought a *feminist*!"

"You're damn right," I shout, advancing on him. Toby
grabs my arm and swings me back around. "I am a
feminist," I yell over my shoulder. "And this is
disgusting!"

Sam's silly smile disappears when I turn my angry gaze
on him. "CJ," he says, "no one's forcing those women
to flash the crowd."

I sputter. I actually sputter. I cannot form a
sentence to save my life.

Thankfully, Donna is less affected by the rum. She
gets right in Sam's face and says, "It's offensive for
the following reasons. Number one--"

"Here we go," Toby sighs.

Donna blithely ignores the interruption. "The only
people flashing body parts are female. The only
people throwing beads are male. This is a rudimentary
system of payment for sexual favors. Also known as
prostitution."

"Oh, come on!" Josh smirks. "That's not prostitution.
That's..." he trails off with a shrug after this
brief shining moment of lucidity.

"Well stated," Donna says sarcastically.

Sam is watching her with a dazed look.

"Point number two," Donna continues, "Those beads
cost, what, fifty cents a strand? These women are
flashing their breasts for fifty cents! This is a
complete undervaluation of the female body." She
pauses for breath and Toby jumps in.

"Donna," he says quietly, "undervaluation is not a
word. Now if I promise never to toss beads at women,
could we please cut the lecture short?"

"No," I answer stubbornly. Donna smiles at me. I
have regained my ability to speak, at least. Let's
see if I can form a rational argument. "Women have
been taught by society, and by the media's reflection
of society, to value their physical attributes more
than their mental abilities--"

"So have them sit up there and recite Shakespeare,"
Toby interrupts impatiently. "I still won't throw
beads. Can we at least move this discussion along
before we get, you know, beaten soundly by these
cretins?"

I glance around. There certainly are some malevolent
looks being tossed our way. Apparently these jerks
don't want any logical feminist reasoning to interrupt
their misogynistic good time.

Donna gathers Josh and starts off at a good clip,
which prevents the drunken idiot from attempting any
backward glances. Sam, chastened, I assume, by my
stellar arguments, is right on their heels. Nearly
tripping over them, in fact.

Toby stands still, awaiting my decision. The big lug.

I grin at him. "Fine, Toby," I say. "I won't let
anyone impugn your manhood by, you know, beating you
senseless."

He snorts and takes my proffered arm. "I don't think
I was really the one in danger."

"Hey, I know Tae Kwan Do," I say. "And furthermore, I
am not done discussing the seventeen different ways
that was sexist."

Toby sighs. "Please tell me you can do that and walk
at the same time."

"Of course," I answer haughtily. "I am woman."

***

LaFitte's Blacksmith Shop is dark, small, and kind of
crowded. It's the perfect antidote for that chaotic
scene outside. The five of us are in various stages
of drunkenness. Toby, of course, appears to be
completely sober, but he's chuckling. Just randomly
chuckling.

He would deny it to the death, but he's enjoying
himself tonight. Toby is a complicated man, who
prefers to keep his private life private. But Bonnie,
his de facto assistant on the campaign, told me that
the divorce papers came last week. Since then, Toby
has been in even more of a funk than normal, snapping
at Sam, and growling at the rest of us.

Toby turns to me, a small smile still in place.
"What?"

"What what?" I answer. Okay, so I'm a bit drunk
myself.

"You're staring at me." He sounds amused.

"I am not," I shake my head, which causes the room to
tilt slightly. "I was looking at that." I point past
Toby at the wall, which is hard to see in the dim
light. The entire bar is lit only by the flickering
white candles on each table.

Toby grins at me. Actually grins. "You're staring at
the wall."

"The writing on the wall," I correct.

"Are you being metaphorical?"

"Toby, there are words carved into the wood," I answer
impatiently, leaning past him to feel the rough
surface. "'Bruce Lakewood was here.'"

"Oooh," Donna says, having caught the gist of our
conversation. She scoots her chair closer to Josh to
examine the wall. "'Andrea loves Joey, August 2,
1992,'" she reads, giving us a grin. "I wonder if
they're still together." Donna is flushed, her eyes
sparkling. She's holding her liquor fairly well,
considering she downed two Hurricanes and is now
nursing a rum and coke. I'm even more impressed with
her.

Since she showed up, brokenhearted but not broken, at
the campaign office in New Hampshire, Donna has become
a friend. We've had a few interesting conversations
on the trouble women experience in a man's world.
She's whip-smart, organized, and doesn't take one iota
of Josh's shit. Which is refreshing.

Speaking of Josh, he's only semi-conscious at this
point. He's slumped down in his seat, leaning against
the wall in question. He is also staring at Donna,
who is half in his lap in her attempt to read the
writing, with a goofy grin on his face.

I wasn't sure about Josh when I first met him. The
man is brash, cocky, and he struts like a peacock.
Then I heard him arguing with Leo over some obscure
part of New Hampshire legislation that could be
interpreted to restrict marriage to a union between a
man and a woman, and I understood. Josh is all heart.
He feels things very deeply, and the way he learned
to protect himself was to project this aura of
egotism.

Sam grabs my arm and jolts me out of my thoughts. He
is practically bouncing in his seat.

"Can we write something?" Sam asks. Told you he was
scared of me.

I give him a smile, "You want to carve all five of our
names into the wall? It's pretty full."

"No, no, no," he shakes his head enthusiastically, and
I can barely resist the urge to smooth down his hair.
He's like a little boy at times like this, and I get
very protective of him.

"Sam," Toby interjects, "I'm pretty sure Leo specified
that we were not to do anything illegal tonight."

Donna laughs. "There's not much that is illegal in
this town," she repeats.

Toby nods. "True, but I think vandalism still
counts."

Sam is pouting. Actually pouting. "But look at the
wall," he says. "Everyone else did it."

"A compelling argument," Toby answers dryly, "but that
doesn't make it legal."

I look back and forth between the two men, and I
realize it's going to come down to me. Josh is well
out of it and Donna doesn't have the rank to act as
tie-breaker, so that leaves me to decide.

I study Toby for a moment and I can tell he's
objecting out of habit. I give him a surreptitious
pat on the arm and turn back to Sam. "Go ahead, Sam.
But try to be subtle."

"Woohoo!" Sam yells as he jumps out of his seat,
pocketknife raised triumphantly over his head.

So much for subtlety.

I watch, amused, as Toby grumbles his way out of his
chair, allowing Sam access to the wall. Sam is no
longer very intimidated by Toby, which is good if
they're going to work together for any length of time.
As amusing as Sam's initial obsequiousness was, his
writing complements Toby's nicely. Even more so when
he finds the courage to argue with Toby about it. I
think Jed Bartlet's stump speech has improved
considerably since Josh brought Sam aboard.

I look around at these people and maybe I'm drunk, but
I just love them all.

Toby pokes my arm. "You're a happy drunk, aren't
you?"

"No." I think I'm grinning stupidly.

He rolls his eyes. "Okay."

I glance across the table, where Donna is coaxing Josh
to take some sips of his water. Josh blinks at me,
then slurs, "I love you guys."

Donna mirrors my smile; I can tell she's feeling it
to, this sense of rightness.

We make a damn good team, the five of us.

Sam curses, and we all turn to him.

He holds up his left hand sheepishly. "Cut myself."

It's barely bleeding, but Donna insists on pouring
some of her rum and coke over it--to stave off
infection, she explains. Sam grimaces, but allows it,
knowing she's only fussing because she cares.

Hell, even Toby looks benevolent.

I shake myself out of my reverie and ask, "What did
you write?"

"What?" Sam looks confused. Maybe he's drunker than
I thought.

"On the wall," I say with a helpful gesture in that
direction. "What did you write?"

"Oh." He's blushing. Sam Seaborn is actually
blushing.

The four of us end up half-standing, leaning over the
table and each other to get a good look at Sam's
handiwork.

Right at eye level, Sam's neat block letters spell
out: 'Bartlet for America.'

I couldn't have said it better myself.

***

My seven a.m. wake up call is the rudest of all
possible awakenings. Shrill and insistent, piercing
holes in my pounding skull. I am momentarily without
a clue as to where I am.

Then it all comes back to me: Fifteen hours off.
Bourbon street. Many, many drinks.

As hard as I try to remember, I have only a hazy
recollection of getting back to the hotel. I sit up
with a groan and try to convince my mouth to produce
some saliva to wet my parched throat.

There's a knock on the door. I run a careless hand
through my hair, rise on trembling legs, don a robe,
and answer it. An entirely too cheerful room service
employee brings in a tray with some toast and a large
glass of ice water, compliments, he explains, of Toby
Ziegler.

The waiter stands there, watching me with a knowing
smile while I slurp down about half of the water.
Eventually, it dawns on me that the man is probably
waiting for a tip. I grab my discarded pants from the
floor and pull out a couple singles, which is
apparently all the cash I have left. Oops.

I start to feel more alive in the shower, and by the
time I get dressed, I am clear-headed enough to pack.
I trudge down the hall to Leo's suite, suitcase in
tow, and throw myself onto the sofa.

Toby is already there, grumpy, but otherwise
unaffected by last night's excess. Apparently. He
gives me a tiny smile--a quirk of his lips,
really--and goes back to scribbling away on his legal
pad.

Leo appears from the bedroom, looking crisp and
efficient as ever. "Rough night, CJ?"

I shoot him a scathing look. "No."

There's a peremptory knock on the door, and then Donna
appears, looking her usual, perky self. Josh stumbles
in on her heels, rumpled and squinting even behind his
sunglasses. He looks extremely unhappy with life at
the moment.

I grin at him. "Hungover, Joshua?"

"Death wish, Claudia Jean?" he grumbles. Then his
nose crinkles. "Is that--Did someone have bacon?"

Leo is leaning against a table, watching us all with
amusement. "Yes, Josh," he answers. "Bacon and
scrambled eggs and--" He breaks off, smirking, as
Josh bolts for the bathroom.

Donna looks worriedly after him, but Leo shakes his
head. She hesitates another moment, then crosses to
the sofa and bounces down beside me. "How are you
feeling, CJ?" she asks.

"Weak," I answer. "Thirsty. Not sick, though."

"Yes." She frowns absently in the general direction
of the bathroom. "Josh appears to have a rather
sensitive system."

"He's a lightweight, you mean," Sam says by way of
greeting. He drops his suitcase by the door and
strolls in, looking almost normal. "Josh is a
terrible drinker. Always has been. Can't hold his
liquor at all." He glances over at Leo. "Do you have
any water in here?"

I roll my eyes. Idiot.

"By the way," Donna says, "thanks for the water, Toby.
That was incredibly sweet."

I swear, Toby is blushing behind that beard. He waves
a dismissive hand in her direction. "I just didn't
want you idiots to wake up too sick to fly."

Josh staggers back into the room, still dripping from
the water he must have splashed on his face, and drops
into an armchair. "I think I'm too sick to fly," he
admits miserably.

"Good morning, all," Governor Bartlet booms as he
strides into the room, Abby at his side.

Leo, Toby, Sam, Donna, and I offer our greetings

Josh winces. "Could you not, you know, yell?
Please?"

Jed Bartlet is getting far too much amusement out of
Josh's condition. "A bit under the weather, there,
Skippy?"

"He has a delicate system," Donna explains.

Josh shoots Donna an evil look, then turns to Abby.
"Please tell me you have some secret doctor remedy for
this."

She moves to his side and grins down at him. "Sorry,
Josh. Although I seem to remember from my college
days that if you take a swig of the same alcohol you
drank last night--"

"Oh, god," Josh groans, turning a lovely shade of
puce. "Please."

Abby pats his shoulder. "Vomiting is good, Josh.
Gets all that undigested alcohol out of your already
overtaxed system. And you should really drink a lot
of water today. Between the dehydration due to
excessive alcohol intake--"

"I had two drinks!" Josh protests.

"Apparently," she replies with a smirk, "that is two
too many for your system."

"Well," Jed Bartlet says, clapping his hands together
with enthusiasm, "while you kids were out imbibing, I
stumbled upon the most amazing little bookstore. A
little place called Crescent City Books. They had a
wonderful collection of first editions--"

"Jed," Leo interrupts, "The plane leaves--"

"Yes, yes," Jed waves off the practical reminder.
"There was also a cat named Ali Baba who lives right
there in the store--"

Leo ignores Jed's ongoing lecture and addresses the
rest of us. "Let's go."

We all rise--Josh somewhat unsteadily--and gather our
things.

As always, Toby and Sam are bickering over some
esoteric fact, Donna is plying Josh with trivia and
good spirits, and Jed is lecturing Leo about a place
they'd been together not twelve hours earlier.

Abby catches my eye and smiles. "Did you manage to
come up with a strategy for Texas in between drinks
last night?"

I shoulder my suitcase and grin at her. "I would say
the essence of the strategy is: No more cowboy
jokes."

Abby laughs appreciatively, links her arm through
mine, and we set off, catching up with the rest of
them, just as Jed calls out, "CJ, walk with me."

I squeeze Abby's hand, then hustle to Jed's side.
"Yes, Governor?"

He gives me that fatherly smile and says, "Did you
have a nice night off, Claudia Jean?"

I glance over my shoulder at my friends, then nod, an
answering smile on my face. "Yes, I did. An
excellent time."

And I am still incredibly amused.

***


THE END