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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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Sammy’s
Hill by Kristin Gore |
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Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Capitol I admit that had Sammy’s
Hill not been written by Kristin Gore, daughter of the former Vice
President, it’s not likely that I would have picked up this debut novel.
Having picked it up, and read it through, I came away delighted with the
result. Gore presents an entertaining and engaging glimpse of life in the
nation’s capital and especially what it can be like to work for a member of
Congress. It’s a witty novel and Gore captures the way that work can become
totally consuming, leading to more opportunities for humor. Readers will find
protagonist Samantha Joyce at times irritating, and often endearing. Here’s
an excerpt, from the beginning of the chapter titled, “Summer Surprise,” pp. 23-33: How Liza
convinced me e to join her for happy hour at the Irish Times the next day was
still a mystery to me. She was my best friend, and she had managed a mildly
persuasive argument about celebrating Alfred Jackman’s
twenty-four hours of sobriety, but 6:30 was way too early to be leaving the
office, even on a Friday night. It didn’t matter that RG had already left to
fly back to I
compromised by deciding I’d have a couple beers for Liza
and Alfred and then head back to my desk for a slightly buzzed wrap-up.
Everybody would win. “So
the hearing went great!” Liza squealed supportively
as she hugged me beside the bar stools. “Yeah,
amazingly, Mr. Jackman pulled it off.” I still
couldn’t quite believe it. “You mean you pulled
it off,” she loyally insisted. Liza was the only
consistent cheerleader in my life, and didn’t seem to mind this thankless and
often seemingly pointless role. She also had an odd fascination with
documentaries about reformed S&M enthusiasts and was an avid Red Sox fan,
so it had occurred to me more than once that maybe she was just a glutton for
punishment. She was tall and angular, studiously stylish, and naturally
gorgeous. I had met her at a fund-raiser in Liza was the sort of girl one was
alternately jealous of and shocked by. She was genuinely sweet and
captivatingly attractive, but insisted on continuously stumbling into poor
choices, mainly of the romantic persuasion. Or in many cases, the purely
physical one. She went for preppy, jocky,
unfaithful men. There were plenty of these to go around in D.C., and go
around they did. Her latest had been recovering from a knee injury sustained
during a weekend rugby game on the Mall. He had insisted on buckling on a
knee brace every time before sex and then had left her for his physical
therapist—a petite redhead who’d apparently been handier with the straps. Liza had felt at an occupational disadvantage and was
still bruised by the breakup. I, on the other hand, was overjoyed to be rid
of him and his penchant for trying to provoke me into debates over the merits
of Hooters restaurants and all-male country clubs. “To Sammy Joyce and Alfred Jackman, today’s stars of the Senate.” Liza clinked her Bud bottle
against mine and took a celebratory swig. I’d drink to that. Alfred Jackman had done a pretty great job. His
marijuana-withdrawal—induced grumpiness had been interpreted by everyone else
as frustration with the inadequacy of the health care system, and the list
of legal drugs he needed for his condition, along with their exorbitant price
tags, had made a definite impression on the committee. Senator Gary had made
his point and Alfred Jackman was safely out of my
jurisdiction, so the beer went down easy. That is, until Liza
elbowed me in the side, effecting a sort of
mini-Heimlich. ‘“What?” I sputtered. She nodded almost imperceptibly towards
my right. I swiveled completely perceptibly to check out what she was
signaling about, prompting another elbow attack. “Ouch! Cut that out.” I did see what all the fuss was about,
though. The guy ordering a drink one stool over was undeniably hot, and not
just D.C. hot, but actual real world hot. He smiled inquisitively when he
caught my eye. I immediately swiveled a retreat. Liza was glaring at me. “Are you ever going to learn how to
check someone out?” “No,” I answered honestly. Liza sighed. She was the subtle, cool one.
I brought something else to the table. A sort of unsubtle anticool,
if you will. “Sorry,” I offered. “But he’s not your
type anyway, is he? I thought goatees had been blacklisted.” Liza had dated three goateed men in a row and
her sensitive skin had only recently recovered. She had lately been quite
vocal about her new antigoatee platform—one that
I’d readily endorsed, as I had always considered facial hair unsanitary. But
I had the unsettling feeling that the way our new neighbor pulled his off
might induce me to entertain some dirty thoughts. “Not him,” Liza
whispered. “Him.” This time her phantom nod more
accurately indicated a new bartender who must have just begun his shift.
Okay, that made much more sense. He was hot as well, but in a more muscular,
less trustworthy way. Right up Liza’s alley. I was just beginning to wonder if our
happy hour had devolved into only-a-man-can-make-me-happy hour when Liza refocused her attention On me. “We’ll meet them later. Tell me about
the rest of your day,” she smiled at me. And that was another great thing about Liza. She was just the right amount of girly—guy aware
but not guy crazy. I had lesser friends who would pretend to be interested in
a night of catching up and then morph into giggly backstabbers at the first
whiff of Polo Aftershave—women who were lightning fast with the put-down joke
or dismissive wave, whatever it took to seem more pretty or witty or larger chested to the nightly swarm of male barflies. But not Liza. She was loyal and genuine, not in an aggressively
girl-powerish way, but in a sane and appreciated
one. We spent the next hour
talking and laughing, fueled by several more beers and hampered only by my
niggling sense of guilt that I wasn’t yet back at the office. No problem, I
told myself. Wrapping up the workweek was even more fun when I myself was
wrapped up in a warm beer glow. After all, a happy employee was a more
productive employee. And thankfully, a drunk
employee couldn’t get fired if her bosses had already gone home for the
weekend. I had just convinced Liza that I really did need to head back but that I
really would meet her later when I spotted a man in a wheelchair trying to
make his way through the door. A table leg jammed next to the doorway was thwarting
his attempts, as his front wheel kept bumping into it no matter what angle he
tried. No one seemed to notice his struggle; certainly no one was offering
any assistance. Something in his grumpy determination reminded me of a sober
Alfred Jackman, and before I knew it I was on my
feet and hurrying towards him, while Liza tried to
get the hot bartender’s attention under the guise of ordering another beer. I approached the patrons
of the offending table—a young buttoned-couple on what seemed like their
first date—and fixed them with a polite smile. “I
just need to shift you guys over for a second, no need to move,” I exhaled as
I attained a firm grip on their table. Before
they could respond I gave a quick tug, dragging the table clear of the
doorway and out of the wheelchair’s path, and, in the process, upending the
full pitcher of beer they’d just ordered onto the white-silk-blouse-clad
chest of the startled woman. I
stood helpless for a moment, trying to calculate these latest entries into my
karmic account balance. Did helping a handicapped man make up for assaulting
an innocent woman with cheap beer? “What
the hell is wrong with you?” the man in the wheelchair demanded. Interesting.
I had been expecting gratitude from him, anger from the couple. He was
completely throwing me off my game. “I was just trying to
help,” I explained feebly. “So you could get through the door.” “I can take care of
myself. I don’t need any help from a klutz,” he barked loudly enough for the
entire bar to hear. Right. Okay, so maybe the
beer-drenched couple would also have surprising reactions, but in a good way.
I turned my attention hopefully and apologetically towards them. The woman
was crying softly as she tried to cover the wet T-shirt effect of the spilt
beer with a flimsy cocktail napkin that was nowhere near up to the task. Her
companion looked bewildered and concerned. Hmm. So I’d offended a
crippled man and reduced a nicely dressed woman to tears. Karma-wise, I was
pretty sure I was down. My own eyes began to burn
ominously as I felt the gazes of the surrounding clientele disapprovingly
fixed upon me. The three beers I’d drunk had unfortunately softened up my
normally slightly thicker skin, and I knew that in this state, nothing could
bring a tipsy meltdown quite like the wrath of strangers. “I’m really sorry,” I
whispered to the couple. My voice had apparently been chased away by the
surge of acute embarrassment swelling through my chest. I was about to turn and
retreat back to Liza (who was where, by the way?
Just watching me suffer?), when I felt a strong hand on my arm. “Well, thank God someone
got this night started,” a voice above me drawled. I looked up to make eye
contact for the second time that evening with the very-hot-even-for-the-real-world
guy from one bar stool over. “Hi,” I whispered,
wondering if my voice planned on a long vacation. He smiled at me and I
felt my neck rash flare up. I had always had very
specialized physical manifestations of anxiety— uncontrollable shaking when
self-conscious before authority figures, laughing fits in the presence of
scary animals, and, when confronted by extremely attractive men I wanted to
like me, a severe neck rash. It began with a deep
flush, which quickly dissolved into tiny red bumps that paraded from my chestbone to my ears. It was relatively rare—the guy had
to really do something for me—and it was never, ever pretty. I kept a fashionable
scarf my mother had given me in my bag for such emergencies, but my bag was
back at the bar stool, leaving me no choice but to wrap my hands around my
neck in what could possibly be construed as a whimsical gesture, but much
more likely looked like a bizarre self-strangulation pose. Maybe he was into
that? He had averted his gaze
and was looking kindly at the shaken couple. “Why don’t you give her
your jacket?” he suggested to the man, who quickly complied, covering up his
date far more efficiently than the paltry napkin had managed to do. “And why don’t both of
you have another round on me?” he continued gallantly. “That is, when the
bartender’s done hitting on your friend,” he smiled back at me. I turned around to see
that the bartender was indeed talking conspiratorially with Liza, who appeared to be writing down her number on a
cardboard coaster. My annoyance towards her dissipated, replaced by extreme
gratitude that she had been oblivious to my disaster, because that had
allowed me to be much more satisfactorily rescued by— “My name’s Aaron,” he
offered helpfully, sticking out his hand. “Sammy.” “Well, it’s a pleasure to
meet you, Sammy. You were really sweet to try and help that guy.
Unfortunately, he’s a grouchy drunk, in here every night. You didn’t know
what you were getting yourself into.” No, I sure didn’t. “Now, can I get you a
drink?” Yes, you sure can. He was
staring at me, looking more and more handsome by the heartbeats pounding in
my ears. Handsome and... expectant. Oh right, time
to answer him out loud. “Uh, sure. Sock it to
me.” Sock it to me? Sock it
to me?! Where the hell had that come from? Wasn’t that an old catchphrase
on Laugh-In? What had provoked me to say it? And the tone I’d used
hadn’t been playful at all, which would have saved it—it had instead come out
in a sort of guttural way, which just made me sound crass and demanding. That
wasn’t me! What sabotaging seventies poltergeist was channeling me from the
other side? I decided to get my Ouija board revenge later,
there was an image repair emergency to tend to at the moment. “Uh, let’s see. . . do
they serve Klutz Martinis here?” I asked in what I prayed was a much more
appealing tone. “That’s my signature drink.” Aaron laughed. “Hmm, afraid not. But I
think they’ve got a Good Samaritan shot with a Bad Break chaser,” he smiled
at me. “Sounds great.” We made our way back to
our stools just as Liza looked up from her huddle
with the hunky bartender. She glanced at my neck and quickly and smoothly
handed me the scarf from my bag. “Liza,
this is Aaron. Aaron, Liza.” I fashioned the scarf
around my neck as they shook hands. “And this is Ryan.” Liza indicated the bartender. Ryan was certainly a
looker, and at the moment he was surreptitiously looking me up and down. Oh,
Liza, no. Not another one. “Ryan’s going to show me
some of the mixers they have in the back. I’ve been looking for some better
deals for the Mayflower.” Liza smiled at me as she
disappeared after Ryan through the door behind the bar. “Well, that worked out.
Now I won’t be being rude when I only pay attention to you,” Aaron said. Nope, nothing rude about
that. And even if that was a little line-y, it sounded charming coming from
him. Where was that accent from? Somewhere southern. Maybe a little south of
heaven? I inwardly wretched at my
tumble into cheesiness and was only mildly comforted by the fact that no one
would ever know those words had existed in my brain. But I knew. It was time
to pull it together. He wasn’t that great. “You work for Senator
Gary, don’t you?” Aaron continued. “I’ve seen you around.” He has? When? Where? Had
I known I was being watched? Had I been doing anything embarrassing? The
chances that I had been were distressingly high. “Yeah, I’m Senator Gary’s domestic
policy adviser.” I smiled brightly at him, trying to blind him with either my
freshly whitened teeth or my relatively impressive job title. “Wow, that’s great. I’m impressed!” Those Crest Whitestrips
were a bitch to put on, but they really worked. “And what about you?” I asked, feeling
a little more confident. It seemed as though he also worked on
the Hill. I hoped so. I wanted to be involved with someone who cared about
the same things I did. Oh, but what if he did something really low level?
That was fine with me, but would he be threatened by my success? I hoped I
hadn’t emasculated him—that was no way to start the serious relationship we
were clearly destined to have. “I’m the head speechwriter for Senator Bramen,” he answered. John Bramen.
Senior senator from “Gosh, that must keep you pretty busy.” Could I be any more
bland? It was dangerous to dare myself. “It’s challenging, but rewarding. And
it only drives me to drink every other night.” He smiled modestly. Would I tell our children that his
smile was the first thing I fell in love with? Assuming I could get a word in
edgewise as their father smothered me with passionate kisses for the rest of
my life. Aaron was checking his watch. Oh no,
bad sign. Say something witty, I yelled at myself. Look alluring, goddammit! I felt my neck rash flare stronger under the
mounting pressure. ‘Actually, Bramen’s
on 20/20 tonight and I’m supposed to watch,” Aaron said. There it was. I was getting the Heisman after a mere ten minutes. Sadly, that wasn’t even
a personal record. But I’d really been digging him. This sucked. “The thing is—I’d much rather stay here
talking to you,” he continued. Really? “Plus, for the safety of the other
patrons’ outfits, I really don’t think you should be left unsupervised,” he continued.
“Do you mind excusing me for a second so I can make a quick call?” I felt myself fall instantly and deeply
into infatuation. To mark the occasion, I smiled goofily at him as he moved
away to dial his cell phone. Technically, I was supposed to be returning to
the office, but what if this guy turned out to be the love of my life? In the
big scheme of things, which was more important—killing myself to succeed at
work or finding a soul mate? The unnerving thing was that at this stage of my
life, it was sort of a close call. I decided to use the phone call time
wisely to come up with good conversation topics and prep some of my go-to
stories. I knew I had a foolproof bit about water parks, but how to segue?
Should I open with embarrassing cell phone stories? Certainly a natural
transition and I definitely had a bevy of them. But sometimes when I
mimicked the static crucial to such stories I inadvertently spit a fair
amount, and that probably wasn’t all that seductive. I clearly just needed
to get him drunk pretty quickly. “I’m afraid I have tragic news.” He was back. It turned out his frown
was just as tremendous as his smile. It made him look sexily disgruntled. “I couldn’t get through to someone to
tape the show for me, and Tivo’s not returning my
calls, so I’ve unfortunately got to head out. I’d ask you along, but I know a
lady such as yourself wouldn’t let me get to the Barbara Walters stage before
we’ve even had our first real date.” “No, of course not. Babs
is well on the way to second base.” “Exactly, I feel we need to build to
that sort of intimacy. Maybe Warm up with some good old-fashioned 60
Minutes.” “It’s so refreshing to meet a true
gentleman.” Laughing,
he took my hand and leaned down to kiss it. “Till
later, then.” He smiled one last breathtaking time and was gone. Back
at my apartment that night, I endlessly replayed every moment of my
interaction with Aaron, mercilessly punishing myself for not coming up with
the cleverer responses that seemed so obvious hours later. As I lay there
festering, repartee hindsight was 20/20 in more ways than one. I
was also vaguely curious how Senator Bramen had
done on the show. Probably very well, he was so polished and professional.
One of his glaring faults being that he knew how polished and professional he
was—the fact that he’d never run for president before was a miracle given his
soaringly high opinion of himself I didn’t have any
personal experience with Bramen, but I’d heard
plenty about him through the Hill grapevine since arriving in D.C. Though
Bramen and RG had been elected to Congress the same
year, Bramen had apparently devoted considerably
more of his time during the ensuing decade to relentless pandering and
self-promotion. His undisguised ambition coupled with his aggressive
maneuvering had propelled him from the moment he was sworn in towards an
inevitable race for the presidency. I’d heard others say that anyone who
really knew Bramen didn’t mistake his motivations
for a genuine desire to improve the lives of his fellow Americans. To the contrary,
they understood that he was clearly in the mix for his own betterment. In
my opinion, this made Bramen the polar opposite of
RG in terms of integrity and style. And yet the very qualities that I
deplored in Bramen were the same ones that had
garnered him tremendous clout on the Hill. He held far more sway than RG did,
as unfair as that seemed to me. I
wondered how well Aaron knew Bramen. Was he aware
of his boss’s considerable shortcomings? I hoped that he wasn’t, because I
sensed I’d have trouble being with someone who willingly worked for such a
tainted cause. And there could easily be a respectable reason for Aaron’s
ignorance, I argued to myself Perhaps he was too new on staff He was
certainly far too good-looking. I
decided to give Aaron the benefit of the doubt pending further investigation
since there was a perfectly good chance that he just didn’t know the truth.
Perhaps it was my role to enlighten him! Maybe once Aaron fell madly in love
with me, I could persuade him to renounce Bramen,
leave his job, and come work for RG, thereby effecting a harmonious merging
of my personal and professional lives—a goal I’d been feng
shui-ing towards for months. As I gazed up at the
glow-in-the- dark constellations adorning my ceiling, I fantasized about all
my stars aligning at last and drifted delusionally
off to sleep. Between the work life, the love life,
the politics, and the perils of technology, there’s much to enjoy on the
pages of Sammy’s
Hill. Steve Hopkins,
December 20, 2004 |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the January 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Sammy's
Hill.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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