It comes to me as I settle into my marginally comfortable seat:  I have no idea why I decided to travel by train.

I mean, it's not really my style.  It's an eight hour trip to Boston, during which time I will be trapped with a couple hundred people in these almost-as-uncomfortable-as-airplane seats without the ability to do, you know, work.  I have my laptop, I have my cellphone, and I originally had every intention of getting some work done during this trip.  Only problem is, I can't very well discuss sensitive campaign issues while surrounded by the unwashed masses.

I wouldn't want to put on a show for my train-mates, and it can get frustrating screaming into the void.  What's the point of winning the nomination without a platform?

I can't worry about that right now.  Hoynes is the best bet we've got to win back the White House.  A moderate Democrat is better than a Republican of any stripe, and I can feel it, I know the public is ready for a change.  I can't put it into words, but I just... know.

Of course, if you ask me, Americans aren't just looking for a change from the Republican Recession Machine, but from this kind of politics.  This narrow-minded, Beltway-focused political infighting that serves only to drive all "serious" candidates to the middle.

Hoynes doesn't believe me about that, either.  Even if he did, though, I can't honestly say he'd stray much to the left of center.

Still, I have no desire to give up my admittedly frustrating job to join the vanity campaign of some small-state Governor.  I'm going to be a player in the first Democratic administration in almost twenty years.  No way am I giving that up.  The only reason I'm going to New Hampshire is to appease Leo McGarry.  If anyone else had asked me, I would have refused.

Probably I would have laughed them out of my office.  Secretary McGarry knows me well enough to see that one coming.  He's one of the best political minds I've ever seen, and he got me away from Hoynes, got me outside, got me talking about my father before imploring me to come to Nashua.

Masterfully done.

Granted, it's not quite primary season, but I'm still a little busy running a large part of Hoynes' campaign as best I can absent an actual, you know, platform.  There's no way I should be taking two days to go to New Hampshire on a flight of fancy.  I should be in Hoynes' face, forcing him to make a public statement that's not full of dissembling and coded messages to the DNC.

Yet, here I am.  Sitting on a train.  For eight hours.

I'm trying to convince myself that this will be a nice break, a little mini-vacation.  You should've heard the disapproving tone I got from Janet when I asked her to book me a ticket.  As it turns out, not only is this an all-day sojourn, the train only goes to Boston.  After that, I just have to rent a car and find New Hampshire.  This doesn't seem like it should be a problem, but my navigational skills are rusty after spending ten years inside the Beltway.

Anyway, I'm sitting in business class on the Acela, staring sightlessly out the window and fighting the urge to lean across the aisle and ask the elderly woman with the too-red hair if she thinks serious candidates for the Oval Office should have a position on Social Security.  I try to distract myself by crafting a platform that Hoynes would endorse, one with watered-down issues and overused platitudes.

Instead, I find myself going over Jed Bartlet's résumé in my head.  After Secretary McGarry's visit, I did some research on the New Hampshire Governor.  And by "did some research," I mean that I called my friend Garrett over at the DNC and asked him a few pointed questions.  I knew the basics, of course, since Bartlet is -- in theory anyway -- a challenger for the Democratic nomination.  Considering his single digit polling numbers, I haven't been paying him much attention.  My assistant gets that job, monitoring the polls, papers, and pundits, and I know I'll hear about it if Jed Bartlet ever becomes a threat.

I'm not holding my breath.

Since I talked to Garrett, I'm more sure than ever that'll never happen.  Bartlet is far more liberal than Hoynes (which, to be honest, isn't all that hard), and has the disturbing tendency to open his mouth and tell the truth, a habit that may win him some votes, but not the support of the DNC or the Beltway crowd.

Though I'm loath to admit it, priding myself, as I do, on my political pragmatism, there's a part of me that admires the hell out of that guy for standing up and challenging the status quo.  Reminds me of a late-night conversation I had with Sam once, before he left his job on the Hill.  Sam told me that, despite the rhetoric and the gamesmanship, he honestly thought the American people would prefer a leader who trusted them with the truth.

Sam would like this guy Bartlet.  He'd like the idealism and the honesty.  Sam would probably think Jed Bartlet could win.  Me, I'm just hoping Bartlet stays in the race through the primaries.  Sure, he's crazy and has no chance of winning, but if he makes it to the debates, he'll probably force the rest of the Democratic field to confront some actual issues.

The populist in me is almost proud of him, despite my own candidate's reluctance to get near the "scary" issues.

So, yeah.  I have eight hours to kill here, and the more I think about it, the more curious I am to see this Bartlet guy speak.  To see for myself whether he's for real, whether he'll be a factor in this election.

That dull, impotent anger I've been mired in for weeks is supplanted, somewhere in New Jersey, by a delicious tingle of anticipation.  The farther I get from Washington, the lighter I feel.

The train stops at Penn Station, halfway to Boston, and I suddenly find myself half-running up the stairs, bursting through the doors, momentarily blinded by the bright, crisp air.  Manhattan is cold and bristling with people as I make my way by rote to Sam's block, Sam's building, Sam's office.

I can't say what I'm doing here, wouldn't begin to try.  I'm working on pure instinct at this point, and when I think of impossible idealism and honesty, I always think of Sam.  I remember that blank expression on his face, the defeated slump of his shoulders the day he quit Brennan's campaign to move to New York.

His office is so sterile.  Too tasteful, somehow, and I can't quite figure out why that bothers me.  Politics conflicted with his unyielding optimism, but a Big Five Manhattan law firm seems to satisfy him.  Sam is a puzzle sometimes.

Also contradictory is the thought of Sam, one of the most unpretentious people I know, working day after day in this bland McOffice, indistinguishable from the rest of the offices I wandered past down this hallway bounded by oak and frosted glass.  Where's Sam's Lakers pennant?  Where's that beaten up Don't Tread on Me flag that followed him from that crummy law school apartment in North Carolina to the tiny little office in the Rayburn building?  And what in God's name is that hideous modern art on the wall?

Where is Sam in this office?

It seems to me that he hasn't bothered to make himself at home here.  He may think that he's happy, he may even like the cool half million he probably pulls in each year, but he hasn't settled.  Seven years later, and it's still not his office.  That realization fills me with something that feels remarkably like relief.

Before I can ponder the implications, Sam is here in a $600 suit.  And then it all makes sense -- the suit, the job, the office.  Lisa Sherbourne strikes again.  He's obviously still with her, a contentious woman torn between her lust for the next cool thing and her love for a man who couldn't care less about such trivialities.

I don't like Lisa and her preoccupation with appearances, never have, but she really does love Sam.  And he seems to really love her, considering what he's willing to do for her.  I'm uncomfortable suddenly, wondering why I thought I could waltz into his office and...

And I don't know.  I don't even know what I'm doing here.

Then Sam suggests hot dogs, regardless of the fact that it's 9:30 in the morning, and everything makes sense.  He's still Sam.

He strides purposefully to the elevators, wearing that suit like he was born to it, which in a way I guess he was, and I'm aware, suddenly, of the wrinkles in my suit from too many hours on the train.

Sam turns to me, still grinning, and I know he's never cared at all for things like that.  He asks curiously, "Hoynes let you have a day off?"

"Two, actually."  I shift the backpack, hitching it up on my shoulder as it starts to slide.  "But I didn't ask so much as told him I would be in on Wednesday."

Sam cocks his head to one side, moving closer to allow two businesswomen in crisp suits onto the elevator.  "Where'd you tell Hoynes you were going?"

"To see my parents."

"You're going to Westport?" Sam brightens.  "Tell your mother I've missed her brownies.  And tell your father hello for me."

"Well, I'm not actually going to see them," I admit with a shrug.  I don't want to talk about this, not yet.

Sam looks puzzled as he solicitously holds the elevator doors open for the women.  "Okay."

"I'm going to New Hampshire," I explain, squinting against the sunlight, stepping into the crowd on the street.  I haven't spent this much time outside in months.

Sam nods wisely.  "Who are you going to see?"  It's amazing the way he does that.  One minute, he's the fresh-faced, credulous twenty-one-year-old I met when he did a summer internship on the Hill, and the next he's... wiser, somehow.  He moves in two worlds, and I think that's why he's so conflicted.

"No one," I answer.  "Don't worry about it.  It's just this thing I'm doing for -- Never mind."

Laughing, Sam says, "You really need to go to Westport."

"What are you talking about, Sam?"

"You're a terrible liar, Josh," he answers.  "And Hoynes is many things, but stupid isn't one of them.  Stop in Westport, see your parents, and make it so you don't have to lie."

I check my watch.  "I'm not sure I'll have time."

"When's--" he stops, shrugs when he realizes he doesn't know who I'm going to see.  "When is the speech?"

"Tonight," I admit.  "But the train only goes to Boston."

"Oh, God," Sam remarks, pausing next to a hot dog cart.

"What does that mean?" I ask after I order a hot dog, burnt, lots of relish.

Sam pays the vendor, takes a bite, swallows, and says, "If I dropped you in northern Virginia, you couldn't find your way back to D.C.  You really think you can get to New Hampshire from Boston?"

"Nashua's only like this far away from Boston on the map," I answer defensively.  I deflect the conversation, start in on how I couldn't remember the name of Gage Whitney.  I know Sam was always amused by Stupid Josh stories.  He used to say it was a relief that someone so damn smart could be so damn stupid.

It almost works.  I almost get away with it.

But in some ways, Sam is smarter than I am, and he doesn't let me.  "Josh, what are you doing?"

And right there, on a crowded Manhattan street, I know why I jumped off the train.  I know why I sought Sam out, though I haven't seen him in a couple years.  Sam always finds a way to ask the right question.  It's that side of him that made him an invaluable ally on the Hill, the side of him that sees through all the subterfuge and manages to put into words the things other people try to hide.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing.  I've been so caught up in the politics that I've lost sight of the rest.  I only want Hoynes to win in the sense that he'd be less hurtful to the country than the guy in that Office right now.  I don't feel it, haven't felt it in quite some time, that thrilling sense of rightness.  Of realness.

Sam's right, and even as he heads back to that office in the sky, I know he's thinking about it.  I know there's a part of him that misses it -- not the politics, but finding the right guy for the job and going from there.

I can finally name that strange feeling in my gut.  It's more than anticipation.  I think it might even be hope.  And I'm really looking forward to Nashua.

***

Okay, who decided that the Big Dig was a good idea?

I'm pretty sure I convinced Brennan to vote yea a few years ago, and I belatedly curse myself and the Representative.  Downtown Boston is a nightmare, and I don't think the ten-year construction project is helping much.  It took me nearly two hours to get from South Station to the car rental place (via taxi), and then from the wilds of South Boston to Route 3.

In my own defense, I must point out that Boston's road maintenance people seem to be unfamiliar with the concept of street signs.  That's the only reason I ended up going west on Route 2 instead of North on Route 3.  Twice.  They really do love their traffic circles in Massachusetts.

Whatever.  I made it.  I found New Hampshire right where the map said it would be.  Once I was in Nashua, I found a giant mall four or five times before I found the little downtown area where the VFW hall is located.

After abandoning the car in the VFW lot, I wandered down the quaint mainstreet-type area until I found a pizza place.

Now I'm killing the couple hours before the thing by calling precinct captains from my hotel room, trying to lock them up for Hoynes.  Most of them are unavailable, so I leave a lot of messages.  My heart's not in it anyway, so I spend some time reading an article on Jed Bartlet in the Boston Phoenix, a leftist weekly that seems to like the candidate, but not his chances.

The VFW thing starts at six, so I make it a point to get there at 5:45, newspaper in hand.  Leo's nowhere in sight, but there are a gaggle of suited guys holding clipboards and planners that I take to be the campaign staff.  I make sure to steer clear of them, in case they have orders from Leo to woo me.  There's another guy near the back of the room, vaguely familiar, in a rumpled suit.

He catches my eye and does a nearly imperceptible double take.  I nod and keep moving.

"You're Josh Lyman," he says quietly, but I can hear him.  There aren't enough people here yet.  There aren't enough people here at all, actually, if this is supposed to be a serious campaign thirteen weeks before the New Hampshire primary.  It baffles me, considering we're in Jed Bartlet's home state and he's the sitting Governor.  How incompetent is the campaign staff that this is the turnout?

I hitch my backpack up higher on my shoulder and change course, stopping near this balding man with the skeptical look.  I can smell cigar smoke, and have a jarring, vivid memory of my grandfather speaking Polish to me, gesturing with his cigar, making smoke designs in the air.

"I'm Toby Ziegler."

I blink.  "Huh?  Oh.  Hi.  Yeah, Josh Lyman."

I switch the newspaper to my other hand, then shake Toby's hand perfunctorily.  I want to claim a seat in the back of the room, not sit here and make small talk with some small-time political operative.  His name sounds familiar, though.  There's a connection tickling my mind, but I can't quite get it.

"You're working for Hoynes," Toby tells me, as if I don't know.  He's looking at me like I know the answer to some important question.

"Yeah."  I nod my agreement.  "You work for Bartlet?"  And then it comes to me: Toby Ziegler is Andy Wyatt's husband.  Huh.  I study him more closely.  "You're married to--"

"Andrea Wyatt, Democrat, Maryland fifth," Toby nods, his expression somewhere between curious and suspicious.  "Why are you here?"

I raise my eyebrows at his forthright question.  "I was in the area."

"No, you weren't."  He shifts in his seat, tilting his head toward the side of the room.  "Leo asked you to come."

I follow his gaze, and sure enough, Leo McGarry is tucked away at a table near the far wall, watching.  I wonder if that's on purpose, if he, like me, prefers to sit back and absorb the whole picture.  It's easy to be convinced that your guy brought down the house if you're in the front of the crowd with the die-hards; the people lingering at the edges are a more accurate gauge.

"Josh?" Toby prompts, and there's an edge to his voice that I can't quite figure out.

My gaze snaps back to him.  "Yeah," I answer.  "Leo asked me to come."  With a shrug, I add by way of dismissing my presence, "He's an old friend of my father's."

Toby's eyes are still narrowed.  "Okay," he says after a moment.

I gesture in Leo's direction.  "I need to--"

"Yeah," Toby answers.  "Good to meet you."

"You too," I answer distractedly, making my way between the tables to Leo's side of the room.  He looks up at me and waves.  "Josh."

I indicate a table near the back of the room with my newspaper.  "I'm gonna--"

"Sure," he answers, nodding.  "Try the chicken."

I'm sure my face registers how appealing that sounds, but I don't comment and Leo turns his attention to Jed Bartlet, who's taking the stage.  Dropping my backpack on the floor, I settle in, expecting a speech and probably some questions and answers.

I'm right, and the speech is... not what I was hoping for.  Jed Bartlet is comfortable behind at the podium, I can tell that much, and the words and sentiments are what I expected, if not better.  But he's... it's as if he's holding back.  As if his heart isn't quite in it.  He's mouthing platitudes to a placid crowd, and if I had wanted to see that, I could've gone to Hoynes' campaign stop tonight.

As Jed Bartlet drones on, the depth of my disappointment shocks me.  I need to work on controlling my expectations.  Somewhere on the train I apparently decided that Jed Bartlet was going to be the savior of the Democratic Party, and I was going to help him.  Ridiculous, I tell myself, and flip the paper open to the crossword puzzle.

I can't leave in the middle of this.  I couldn't do that to Leo.  But I'm done with this event, with this candidate.  He's no different than Hoynes when it comes right down to it.

I'm trying to think of a six-letter word for skillful when someone challenges Bartlet during the Q&A.  The questions and answers have been registering somewhere in my subconscious, but nothing's struck me as interesting or, really, worth paying attention to.  Nothing until the pregnant pause after a question about the New England Dairy... I missed the rest, but it's something about cows.  Or milk.  I'm not really sure, except that it has to do with Bartlet's voting record from the House.

But the silence drags on so long that my curiosity acts up and I find myself waiting, watching Jed Bartlet, wondering why he's struggling all of a sudden.  And then he opens his mouth and tells the truth.

He's there, all of a sudden, this guy I'd imagined from his file.  A passionate, principled candidate who can rattle off statistics about children living in poverty and explain to his constituents why he'd voted against something that would've helped them.

I think I might actually have goose bumps.

"But if you expect anything different from the president of the United States, you should vote for somebody else.  Thanks very much, everybody.  Hope you enjoyed the chicken."

I can't move for a long moment, my attention riveted to this man who disappears as quickly as he appears.  He's the disengaged Bartlet again as he descends from the small stage, stopping to shake hands and talk to people in small groups.

But I don't care about that anymore, I care about that other Bartlet.  That other Bartlet is why Leo came to D.C. to get me.  That other Bartlet is who Leo thinks can win.  That other Bartlet is... the guy I want in the Oval Office.

He could do it, too.  If he presents himself as a true alternative to the spin-zone, as someone who honestly cares about the people, not the PACs... Jed Bartlet could be the next President of the United States.

I'm still clapping when I catch Leo's eye.  He's grinning a little, and he nods at me.  It occurs to me that I'm smiling too, and I nod back.

"Yeah," I say, knowing he can't hear me over the crowd, but trusting that he'll understand me.  "Count me in."

THE END

12.17.02