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 Fuck 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, Abbey 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 Abbey.  "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."

Abbey 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.

Abbey 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."

Abbey 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 Abbey'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

01.11.01