I haven't had a good year since Bartlet took office, to tell the truth.

Damn Democrats.

This never would have happened under a Republican administration.

Damn IRS.

I blame Bartlet.  Not personally, I mean, but it's weird about the timing:  Six weeks after Bartlet takes office, the IRS comes after me.  The timing is enough to make anyone bitter.

"A simple audit."  That's what my accountant called it.  "You have nothing to worry about," he told me.  Hell, he even told me they'd probably just look over my tax returns for the last few years.  Instead, when the bastards showed up, they started looking at everything.  Every last little thing.  Like they were on a mission of some kind.  Like they had orders from somewhere higher up the chain of command.  My accountant said he'd never seen anything like it.  Said they must have been told to keep looking until they found something.

I don't know how they could have suspected.  I hid my tracks pretty well.  And it wasn't anything that illegal -- just a little Medicare fraud.  Tell me a doctor who doesn't engage in a little Medicare fraud.  A smart doctor, that is.

Not that I'm a doctor anymore.

When the Republicans were in the White House, I had everything going for me.  I was just starting my own practice, I was making money hand over fist (thanks in no small part to that little Medicare fraud), I had a house and a Porsche and I'd just gotten engaged to Marianne.  Marianne came from Old Money.  I would have had a good life with Marianne.  She dropped me like a hot potato the day the charges were filed.  Said she couldn't believe I'd do something like that.

Obviously, Marianne and I hadn't known each other that long.

Four years of the Democrats -- four years of Bartlet -- and look at me:  No medical license, a one-room apartment, a second-hand Toyota, and a job as a pharmaceutical salesman.  And the irony of it all?  The ultimate, humiliating irony?  I'm stuck in Madison, Wisconsin.

I had plans.  My plans did not include spending my life in Wisconsin.  Now I'm damn lucky I can get a job here.  If it weren't for some med school pals of mine who are still here and thought I got a raw deal from that judge, I'd be on unemployment.

I'd probably be making more money on unemployment.

Madison, Wisconsin, as far as I'm concerned, has exactly one thing going for it:  It's a college town.  College towns are filled with naïve co-eds, the type who got me through university and med school.  I haven't lost my looks completely; I'm still young enough to appeal to the more desperate among them; I can still find undergraduates to help me out with my living expenses from time to time.

So I use women.  What of it?  They're young; they'll get over it.  Hell, I figure I've taught each and every one of them a valuable lesson: I mean, you think they'll be that gullible again?  I'm doing them a service is how I see it.

It started innocently enough my freshman year.  Pre-med is hell.  You have to take some tough classes.  Math, chemistry, stuff like that.  Was it my fault that the brunette who sat next to me in math class was willing to share her notes with me?  That she helped me out with those equations?  That she let me copy off her paper come exam time?

What was her name anyway?  I can never remember their names.  I think of her as The Brain.  Very smart girl.  Except when it came to men, of course.

We had a good thing going for a year or so.  Started signing up for the same classes.  I had a great time.  Did a lot of partying since I didn't have to study.  Hell, I didn't even have to go to class since The Brain was doing all that for me.  Which was, of course, my big mistake.

She figured out, once I stopped sitting next to her in class, what I using her for.  Dropped me pretty quickly after that, she did.  So I was a bit more subtle with the next one -- The Sorority Girl.  That lasted a year and a half, until her little sorority sisters got her to wise up.  After that there was The Artist (a title which applied to more than her major, let me tell you), The Redhead and finally The Chatterbox.

The Chatterbox -- Dear God, those were the longest three years of my life!  A man should get hazard pay for putting up with that woman.  As the name implies, she didn't know when to shut up.  Had an opinion about everything.  And a truly freakish turn of mind.  I mean, this woman collected odds bits of trivia and pulled them out at the strangest times.  I kept telling her I wasn't interested; I kept telling her to shut up; I kept pointing out that I was a med student and therefore smarter and better educated than she was.  It didn't faze her.  I would have kicked her to the curb long before I did, but I was getting a lot out of that relationship.  She took me on as some kind of project, kept talking about how I needed to organize my life.  I will admit that my life never ran as smoothly as when I was with her.  She quit school and went to work, paid all our bills, paid my tuition.  And that freakish turn of mind of hers?  She got me through a lot of classes I would have had trouble with otherwise.  Yeah, I never would have become a doctor without The Chatterbox.

I wonder what happened to her; she was kind of cute, back in the day.  She's probably married now with a couple of kids.  She's probably lost her figure.  She's probably driving her husband crazy with all that trivia she spouts.

Whenever I get depressed about my lot in life, I think about The Chatterbox.  At least I don't have to put up with that anymore.

She was crazy about me though.  I bet I could get her back in a minute if I ever saw her again.  I bet she's never gotten over me.

She's probably in some little suburban hellhole worse than Madison, Wisconsin.  She'd probably give her eyeteeth to be back in good old Madison.  This probably seems like Paris, France, to her.

Come to think of it, this restaurant I'm in right now -- she used to love this place.  I started coming here with her.  God, she'd love it here today -- all these freaking Democrats out here to see their precious President Bartlet campaigning in good old Madison.  That's another thing I remember about The Chatterbox: she had this thing about politics.  She'd go on and on about it, and she was very big on the Democrats.

So she'd love it here today.  The place is filthy with Democrats.  Out-of-towners too, by the looks of them.  I wonder how they all found out about this place.

Take a look at the two who just walked in -- man and a woman.  The woman looks vaguely familiar; I think I've seen her on TV.  Tall -- must be at least six feet -- pretty, but she has that look I hate.  You can tell she's a real feminazi; she's sizing up every man in the room and finding most of us wanting.  I hate women like that.

The guy she's with -- now this I just don't get.  Women are looking at this guy.  There are women looking at this guy like they want to jump his bones right here and now, and he's not that good looking.  He's got this frizzy sort of hair, a receding hairline, his clothes are expensive but kind of rumpled, and he's too damn sure of himself.  You can tell that by the way he walks, sort of like he thinks he owns the place.

You know, I think I've seen him on TV too.

They're sitting down in the booth behind me.  Hey, it's not my fault if I can overhear everything they're saying.

"Where is she?" the guy asks.  "She said she'd be here before us."

"Stop worrying, Josh," the woman says.  For some reason, she thinks what this guy's saying is funny.  You can tell she's close to laughing at him.  "She was going to visit those friends of hers, right?  She probably lost track of time."

"Donna does not lose track of time," the guy answers.  "I lose track of time without Donna."

This guy is pitiful.  Like I said, you can tell there are plenty of women in this place who would do him in an instant.  And the woman he's with, while she's not my type, is no dog.  But he's whining -- actually whining -- because this Donna chick isn't here waiting for him.

"What is going on with you two lately?" the woman asks.  "You're acting bizarre, even by your standards."

"It's June," this guy says, as if that should explain everything.

"I am aware of the month, Joshua."

"We got married in June," the guy goes on, as though he's offended that this CJ woman doesn't remember when he married the legendary Donna.  "To be more precise, we got married two years ago tomorrow."

"And they said it wouldn't last."

"This is why -- CJ, you owe me.  Remember that you owe me."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I saved your ass, idiot boy.  I saved Donna's ass too, but I don't blame her for that.  It's not entirely her fault that you nearly got her fired."

"You complicated things.  You and your damn wonderings."

"It was a year-and-a-half ago, Josh.  Let it go."

"No.  You owe me, and I'm calling in the favor."

These two people must be politicians.  Also Democrats.  I hate politicians, especially when they're Democrats.

"And just what favor am I supposed to be doing for you?" the woman -- CJ, what the hell kind of name is that? -- asks.

"You know that meeting I have tonight?"

"No, can't say I do."

"It's with -- I forget who it's with.  Donna knows.  Anyway, you have to take the meeting."

"Again, I really don't."

"You have to take the meeting because I'll be in Chicago."

"Chicago is tomorrow."

"Not for Donna and me.  Chicago is tonight."

"What half-baked scheme are you hatching, Josh?"

"It's completely baked.  I have thought this out in detail."

"Which is why you're only now getting around to asking someone to cover your meeting."

"I'm not.  I asked Sam and Toby.  They said no."

"Give me one good reason -- other than this favor I absolutely do not owe you -- for doing this."

"Anniversary.  Dinner.  Dancing.  Donna."

"Hey, Mr. 760 Verbal, you want to speak in complete sentences here?"

"I made reservations -- in Chicago -- to take Donna to dinner and go dancing.  We haven't had an evening to ourselves in a month, CJ, and it's our anniversary.  If we don't do something special, she'll get that face.  Her forlorn face.  I can't function when Donna gets her forlorn face on."

"I'm going to regret asking, but just how are you getting there?  We all arrived on Air Force One, and I doubt that the president is going to let you borrow it for the evening."

"I made reservations on a regular plane and everything."

"All by yourself?"

"Yes."

"Without Donna?"

"Yes."

"This has disaster written all over it."

"I can make reservations, CJ."

"Not without Donna you can't."

This guy is completely whipped.  He can't make plane reservations without his wife?  He could be flying on Air Force One, and he's giving that up so he can spend a night alone with his wife?  I mean, unless she's a supermodel, what's the point?

"This is important, CJ."

"So is re-election, Josh."  But good old CJ is laughing, and you can tell she's too damned happy that her buddy here is so completely under his wife's thumb.  Score one for the feminazis and all that.

God, I hate women.

"Leo will be pissed that you're missing the meeting," she tells him.

"It's not even an important meeting, and I already cleared it with Leo.  He said it would be fine if you or Toby or Sam would do it."

"Well, I suppose.  But you have to brief me on this thing before I take the meeting."

"Donna can do it."

"You're making her work?  Some surprise this is going to be."

"We have an equal partnership," Josh says.  He sounds kind of smug, like he knows this Donna would do anything for him.  Well, score one for Josh.  Maybe he's not as whipped as I thought.

Several moments of silence follow.  I'm betting that this CJ chick is staring him down.  You just know this woman is a classic ball buster.

Finally, Josh speaks.  "All right," he says.  "I'll brief you.  I won't staff it out to Donna."

"Good boy," CJ says.  "You'll -- oh, there she is."

I crane my head around the booth.  I have to get a look at the famous Donna now, you know?

Wow.

She's gorgeous.  Tall (though not as outlandishly tall as CJ), long blonde hair done up in some sort of braid that makes you want to grab it and undo it and muss her up properly.  Big blue eyes.  And I gotta tell you, while old Josh behind me may be complaining about not getting any time alone with her, she sure as hell looks to me like a woman who's been getting some lately.  Someone calls out to her, and she turns in the opposite direction and waves to them.  "Hey, Bonnie," she says.  "Have you seen my--"

And that's when Josh steps up in front of her.  "Your incredibly attractive husband?"

"My overly demanding boss," she answers.  But her whole face lights up, like this jerk is the center of her universe, and they kiss.

It is, I'm telling you, one hell of a kiss.  There is cheering from Bonnie's table.  Donna starts blushing -- she has this really pale skin, and it's kind of a turn on.  "Shut up, Ginger," she calls as she moves to the booth, Josh's arm around her.

These people have been married two years?  And they're all over each other like that?  Freaks.

"I wish you hadn't done that," CJ says.

"It's all right, Claudia Jean," Josh says.  (Oh, so that's what "CJ" stands for.)  "We're married and everything."

"Still," CJ says, "there are reporters in here.  What do you want to bet that instead of the president's position on Social Security and welfare reform, they all end up writing about you two making a public spectacle of yourselves?"

"Spin it," Josh says.  "We're for family values."

"She has a point, Joshua," Donna says.

"Well, thank you for that vote of wifely support there, Donnatella."

Donnatella.

Shit.

There can't be two of them, can there?  Two women with a ridiculous name like that.

Because I've remembered now.  That was her name.  The Chatterbox.  Donnatella Something.  And she was blonde.  And tall.  And she had that really pale skin, only she used to call it something ridiculous -- alabaster, that was it.  "I have alabaster skin," she used to say, like it some big accomplishment instead of an accident of birth.

It can't be, though.  I mean, for one thing, this Donnatella, she's hot.  She's absolutely and completely sure of herself.  I find that a turn-on in women, mostly because I always want to take that kind of woman down a peg or two.  Not that I ever go out with that kind of woman, but it's a fantasy of mine.  The Chatterbox, she was a kid; she didn't have that kind of -- what do you call it? -- that kind of aura about her.

Can't be.  This Josh guy, I've picked up enough from the conversation to get that he's kind of a player in the Bartlet campaign.  A guy like that, he'd never look twice at The Chatterbox, would he?

She couldn't have turned out like that.  I couldn't have made that kind of mistake, could I?

No, it's a coincidence.

"So," CJ says, "did you see those friends of yours?"

"I did," Donna answers.  Now that I think about it, her voice does sound kind of familiar.  "It was fun, but I kept feeling like I was probably missing something important here."

"Ah," Josh says.  "Two hours without me, and she's lonely."

"Actually," Donna replies, "two hours without you, and I feel like a brand new woman.  I was referring to the campaign."

"Two years and you still haven't got those supportive wife skills down."

"Supportive wife skills are highly overrated," Donna tells Josh.  "In fact, according to the vast majority of studies on marriage, research shows that it is the man who benefits from the partnership.  Women, on the whole, report greater levels of satisfaction with their lives when they are single."  She then goes on for several minutes, spouting all these statistics about marriage and how it benefits men more than women.

If I had any doubts, they vanish.  That monologue has The Chatterbox written all over it.

I ponder what to do for several minutes.  Finally, I decide to go over and introduce myself.  I mean, what can it hurt?  And I admit, I wouldn't mind taking her down a peg or two.  Reminding this woman who has married this guy with too much freaking power that she used to pay my bills -- this sounds like fun.

So I get up and walk over to her.  They all look at me with these polite stares -- you know, they're politicians, I'm a voter, they can't tell me to take a hike now, can they?  And Donna -- my Chatterbox -- she looks at me blankly.  The bitch!  She doesn't even recognize me.

Until I tell her who I am.

"Alan?" she asks.  She sounds absolutely delighted to see me.  Not embarrassed to be meeting up with me in front of her husband or anything.  And, dammit, it's not like she's delighted to see me because she's still carrying a torch.  She's just happy to be running into an old friend.

Not the reaction I was hoping for.  I always did hate that woman.

She introduces me to her friend CJ Cregg, who it turns out is Bartlet's press secretary.  (Only Donna, she says "the president" in this sort of reverential tone of voice, like Bartlet is some kind of saint.)  And then she introduces me to him: "my husband, Josh Lyman."  And if I thought the way she talked about Bartlet was something, this is just disgusting.  She says it like it's some kind of damn miracle that she's married to this guy, who is, as far as I can tell, nothing special.

"This is Alan," she says to Josh.  "You know, I told you about him the day we met."

"Oh," Josh says.  I'm holding out my hand, but he's making a point of not shaking it.  "Dr. Free Ride."

Dr. Free Ride?  What the hell does he mean by that?

Donna rushes into the conversation before I can ask, like she's used to covering up for stuff Josh shouldn't say out loud.  "Alan, how have you been?  How's your medical practice?"

"Old Alan doesn't have a medical practice anymore," Josh says.  How the hell does the bastard know that?  "In fact, I'm a little surprised that he's out of jail.  Medicare fraud, wasn't it, Alan?"

Donna's eyes grow big as saucers.  "When did this happen?"

"Four years ago," I admit.  Coming over here was a big mistake.  How does her husband know about this?

Donna gives Josh this strange look, and she covers her mouth with her hand like she's trying not to laugh.  CJ looks at them both like she's trying to figure something out.

I slink back to my booth after that.  It was one of the most humiliating moments of my life.

Damn Democrats.

The three of them stay in the booth for a while, but their voices are lowered and I can't hear anything else they're saying.  Probably just as well, all things considered.

They finally get up to leave, the women moving ahead of Josh, talking about something political.  I guess Donna has forgotten I was there, since she doesn't even look at me or say goodbye.

The women are almost out the door, however, when Josh stops by my booth.  He's looking down at me; and he moves closer, invading my -- what do you call it? -- my personal space.  I have to say it: the man is scary.  He's got this whole "don't fuck with me" look that makes you think you'd better keep your distance.  But I'm hemmed in by this booth, and I can't get away from him.

"By the way," he says in this low voice -- almost a growl, really -- "my wife neglected to mention:  I'm the White House deputy chief of staff."  He pauses just for a second.  "The IRS works for me."

And then he walks off.  I can see him catch up with her.  I see her laugh, in a way I never saw her laugh in three years, and put her arm around him.  I swear she's practically skipping as they walk off together.

And the IRS works for him.  He can't mean what I think he meant by that?  It's a coincidence, right?  They've only been married two years, and my problems started four years ago.

It's a coincidence.  Strictly a coincidence.

Still, I think I'd better be awfully careful about what I declare on my income tax this year if Bartlet's re-elected.

Damn Democrats.

THE END

01.02.01