©1996, by Alison Greene

Midnight of Thanksgiving. Newt wakes in a dry heave. He can't get back to sleep. He tries his favourite insomnia cure, letting his mind drift to that brilliant scene in his novel (he wrote it himself!) where sensuous Erika Van Strass is sitting "athwart his chest" wriggling and twining. Newt waits. He replays it again. He waits, he waits... but something dire, something terrible is happening: the fond fantasy no longer has the same kick! And he hasn't been able to write anything new for weeks...

It's that budget thang. To the titillating roar of 73 freshman Republican representatives, Newt throws down the gauntlet to Bill -- a balanced budget or else. Or else a lot of people would pay the price! Why not? He doesn't know those people. He wouldn't invite them to dinner if he did know them. Hell, he wouldn't invite them to a nit roast. Newt falls asleep to the image of 73 young, gaping mouths athunder with his praise.

Newt sits back in the last row of Air Force 1, staring at Bill's nape. It's making him twinge, a twinge that he usually equates with zinging hormones. This time it must be ... anger? Yeah, anger, that's it.

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas is to see Bill on his knees. I have a plan, if you can't stuff him down the chimney.

First, stop paying all those government people who aren't doing anything except wheeling meals to a lot of old farts on their second hearts and fifth hips, and are so weighed down by their colostomy bags they'll never make it to a voting booth. Of course, we'll keep prison guards and anyone remotely concerned with handling coloreds.

Then, let's pretend that if Bill accepts our budget demands, all those tax-sucking workers can go back to feeding the old buzzards. The American people will get their knickers twisted because the poor people aren't getting their handouts and nobody will get passports to go to EuroDisney and Smoky the Bear will be slinging J.D. in a bar in Truckee instead of fighting forest fires.

Everyone will hate Bill. Hate him, hate him, hate him.Bill will have to give in, crying on his knees, sobbing for my forgiveness. I swear I've been good this year.

Thanks Santa.

Newt

Newt wakes up with a little heartburn and a vision: What if, after all this is over and the budget is balanced, all the arts administrators and forest rangers and secretaries are replaced with military men? Military men in every office, sitting, typing, giving orders, taking orders and taking them and taking them and wearing those... uniforms.
And maybe Erika's name isn't Erika? It's really Erik. Yes Erik Van Strass. Newt fingers this over in his mind and has the first good night's sleep in a long time.

V. P.S. Santa?
There's a little matter of a bill authorizing $265 billion for defense programs in fiscal 1996. That will pay for a lot more military men. Thanks, Santa. I mean it. Come to think of it, I've been really, really good this year.
I Am Speaker of the House.

Newt

"If you work, you should get paid, for God's sake," said Howard Egerman... "This is a type of 20th century slavery. We're responsible for our rent and board. Nobody else is going to be paying it. We can't file for unemployment. We can't file for food stamps. What can we do?"*

"This is clearly purgatory," said Martha Phillips, executive director of the Concord Coalition, ... "We're going to have to sit at this table with stale coffee and flat sodas and talk about this stuff until hell freezes over."* Stale coffee! Flat sodas! And to top it all off, the Emporium is closing, Martha. How on earth are you going to make it, girl????

A Dole banana is a great banana and it's great because it's Dole. A Dole banana is a great banana and it's great because it's Dole. A Dole banana is a great banana and it's great because it's Dole. Nowhere in the above campaign mantra is a mention of sacrificing Dole's political career for Newt's Secret Santa Wish.

No banana, no military men.

Santa, I said, Let's pretend that it's Bill's fault - didn't you understand? BILL's fault.

Newt is typing away furiously. Erik Van Strass is astride his furry, thwarted chest, twining and wriggling and submitting and resigning -- Good God, must he always be writing fiction? Newt breaks down in tears, weeping over his keyboard. He sobs until he can sob no more. And then suddenly, it comes to him. Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow. There will always be military men, as God is his witness, he will never go without them again.

*Direct quotes from the San Francisco Chronicle

And next week?
San Francisco awaits the coming of its new mayor. If you listen hard enough around here, you'll hear that SF is one giant, quivering, glistening virgin in heat. "Aaah, the Brionis, the Brionis" murmur the dailies. (a Brioni, apparently, is a suit of clothes, although to the sartorial neophyte, it might as easily be a hot and runny cheese plate).

Pages of every newspaper are devoted to anticipating the suit Mr. Brown will be wearing to the inauguration, that first date of all first dates. Brown's been playing it cool and quiet, eliciting heaves of excitement from the city's hilltops.

Do we give it all up on the first date?
He's going to show us a good time.
Will he do us?
Will SF be satisfied at last?
Next week in...