An Aristotlean Confluence of Events
It was almost quiet in Toby’s office with the door closed. Sam leaned back on the couch, drink in one hand, trying to ignore the muffled voices floating in from outside. Muffled voices that were talking about the miracle that was a Democratic leading in the California 47th. Another night and Sam would have been there with them, fêting what was a feather in the Democratic Party’s hat. Instead he was hiding in Toby’s office. No, not hiding, it sounded so evasive. He was getting away from things. Having a conversation with Donna about what seemed like a completely improbable sequence of events.
“He said,” Sam paused, gesturing with his drink, “what he said was this-- he said, ‘A probable impossibility is preferable to an improbable possibility.’ The impossible is preferable to the improbable. What did he mean?” Aristotle. He would have predicted this, or so Sam thought. “He meant that it's okay to have a broomstick sing and dance, but you shouldn't turn on the radio and hear the news report you need to hear.” He sighed, glancing down.
Donna sat perched on the edge of her chair, eyes wide as she listened to Sam rattle on about Aristotle, “Want some cake?”
“No.” He was nervous and it showed in the way he couldn’t sit still. Sam tapped his hand on his leg, jiggled his foot, he was restless and needed to distract himself.
“You sure?”
“What kind?” He asked, glancing up at her.
Donna shrugged, not really caring. Cake, was after all, cake. “Cake.”
“They have flavours,” he pointed out to her as he sat up.
“I don't know.”
Sam wasn’t listening to her answer. He hadn’t really been listening to much since the exit polls starting showing Wilde trailing by eighty-eight votes. Since he’d gotten those calls from Will Bailey saying that it looked like Wilde had a chance to win this race. This was a seat behind the Orange Curtain. It was impossible to think of a Democrat winning this race, and yet one seemed to be. It circled around in Sam’s head, leading back to Aristotle. “It was a confluence of events that I'm saying, if you pitched it to a Hollywood movie producer, they'd tell you that Aristotle says, a probable impossibility is preferable to an improbable possibility.”
“It doesn't quite sound like them, but I understand your point.”
“The Midwest, the RNC exits, a dead candidate, a rainstorm...?” Sam continued on like Donna hadn’t spoken, fixated on the events that had brought this to a head. The things that had come together in order to make one empty promise suddenly so weighty, “It's Aristotle all over the place.”
“I'm going to turn these off. Why don't you head out into the party? Everyone's asking for you.” Donna stood, switching off Toby’s tvs as she spoke.
“You really don't know what kind?” Sam looked up at her, his thoughts flicking back and forth.
“It's cake!” she said, exasperated, “It's cake.”
Glancing back down, Sam’s face was drawn. Cake couldn’t distract him, it seemed nothing could distract him. It hadn’t been til tonight that the gravity of what he’d done had hit him. He’d made a promise. Given someone his word. It just wasn’t supposed to have meant anything. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. There was no way a Democrat could win in the California 47th, or so they’d all thought. Sam had been so confident in this fact that he hadn’t told anyone other than Donna. After all, what value was a promise he’d run as the Democratic candidate in the special election that would be held if the Democrats won when there was absolutely no chance of the Democrats winning?
“I talked to the woman. She had tears in her voice. Her husband loved the President, admired his integrity. Yes, we're big on integrity.” Sam’s voice lifted, his tone incredulous and his words filled with irony. He knew what he’d done. He knew he should never had made the promise. But he’d seen something in the widow, and in Will Bailey that had made him want to promise. He’d wanted to give them a bit of hope. “By the way, when I said I'd run in his place, it's not like I meant it.”
Donna had had enough of this. She knew Sam had had enough of it too, and if he was left to his own devices he’d just sit in here all night obsessing over something that couldn’t be changed.
“Let's go to the party.” She took the hand he’d lifted toward her, “There are televisions everywhere. You'll know as soon as they're ready to report something from the 47th.”
Sam sighed as he stood, “You're right. You’re right.” She so often was, he thought as the sounds of the party washed over him and he followed her out of Toby’s office. Besides, they were just exit polls, he told himself, looking up at the bullpen television. The polling data was showing it to be a close race, but this was the California 47th, right?
”And we're ready to report some news from the House race in the California 47th where the impossible seems to be happening and we send it to Gail Mackee who's standing in Newport Beach. Gail?”
“Julie, I'm at the Hyatt in Newport Beach with the Horton Wilde campaign and the place is going absolutely berserk. Kay Wilde, the widow...”
Sam knew in that instant that they’d been wrong. His stomach dropped as he spoke, his eyes glued to the television, “Bonnie, Ginger, get me Will Bailey. Get me Kay Wilde very quickly, please.”
...of the Democratic challenger just received a phone call from Congressman Chuck Webb.
He's conceding the election, thanking Mrs. Wilde for a well-fought campaign...
This couldn’t be happening. There was no way this was happening. “Get Will Bailey, please. Got to get him.”
Sam bounced on his feet, the panic rising inside of him, unable to look away from the screen. This was what watching a train wreck was like he realised in that moment, listening to tv personalities discuss the special election and possible Democratic candidates.
“Get him. Got to get him.” This was his own train wreck, and he was watching it in what felt like slow motion. There wasn’t anything he could do but watch it barrel forward, carried by it’s own weight and momentum. He listened to Gail, apparently her name was, funny how he didn’t feel like he should be on first-name basis with her for all that she was about to change his life. He listened to Gail mention a rumour that was going around and how she could report on it. He wasn’t surprised. When did any credible news agency need facts to report on? “Of course you can. Why not?” Donna touched his shoulder and he knew it was too late. He couldn’t stop it now. The train had crashed.
...the former Orange County resident and current White House Senior Advisor Sam Seaborn will seek the seat.
And the plot thickens.
Sam Seaborn, of course, an architect of the President's first victory as well as his-- I think we have to start calling it a landslide-- tonight.”
The bullpen was silent. The only sound was the sound of the reporters discussing it. Discussing him.
He almost managed it. Sam looked nonchalantly at the staffer next to him, shrugging as he spoke, “They're talking about someone else.”
Almost managed it. The almost was ruined by the picture of him they’d thrown up on the screen. Dammit. Sam turned, scanning over the crowd, needing to find his friends. “Yeah, okay. Anyone know where Toby and Josh and C.J. are?” He might not have been able to stop the train wreck, but at least he could start the damage control. It wasn’t like he was actually going to run. Sam raised his voice, the panic rising again “Hey! Toby! Josh! C.J.! Does anyone...?”
“They're over in the thing.” One of the staffers offered, but Sam was already moving through the halls. He was already looking for those faces he knew
...view the California 47th the same way the Democrats view the New York 16th. They see it as unlosable.
Somehow hearing that echoing from multiple tvs wasn’t what Sam would have called reassuring. He forced himself to stay calm, forced himself to not run. Sam smiled at people as he passed, pushing open the door that led down the hall to C.J.’s office only...
It was a kitchen.
"Okay, this isn’t right. I’m not going crazy." Except he was talking to himself, which he was pretty sure was not considered a good sign. Smiling stiffly at the people in the kitchen, none of whom he recognised, Sam backed back through the door. Only it still wasn’t the West Wing. A hallway yes, but not any hallway he’d ever walked down.
“That’s it. I’ve gone over the edge.” He said it quietly, pushing the door to the kitchen back open and hoping that this time when he stuck his head through he’d see someone he knew. Some place he knew. “This really isn’t my day.”
[[OOC: Timed to breakfast time on the 26th. Explain to one West Winger why he isn't in the west wing anymore. LT & ST more than welcome. First person gets to explain the island, other people can choose whether they do that, or find a slightly confused Sam in the kitchen. Just let me know]]
“He said,” Sam paused, gesturing with his drink, “what he said was this-- he said, ‘A probable impossibility is preferable to an improbable possibility.’ The impossible is preferable to the improbable. What did he mean?” Aristotle. He would have predicted this, or so Sam thought. “He meant that it's okay to have a broomstick sing and dance, but you shouldn't turn on the radio and hear the news report you need to hear.” He sighed, glancing down.
Donna sat perched on the edge of her chair, eyes wide as she listened to Sam rattle on about Aristotle, “Want some cake?”
“No.” He was nervous and it showed in the way he couldn’t sit still. Sam tapped his hand on his leg, jiggled his foot, he was restless and needed to distract himself.
“You sure?”
“What kind?” He asked, glancing up at her.
Donna shrugged, not really caring. Cake, was after all, cake. “Cake.”
“They have flavours,” he pointed out to her as he sat up.
“I don't know.”
Sam wasn’t listening to her answer. He hadn’t really been listening to much since the exit polls starting showing Wilde trailing by eighty-eight votes. Since he’d gotten those calls from Will Bailey saying that it looked like Wilde had a chance to win this race. This was a seat behind the Orange Curtain. It was impossible to think of a Democrat winning this race, and yet one seemed to be. It circled around in Sam’s head, leading back to Aristotle. “It was a confluence of events that I'm saying, if you pitched it to a Hollywood movie producer, they'd tell you that Aristotle says, a probable impossibility is preferable to an improbable possibility.”
“It doesn't quite sound like them, but I understand your point.”
“The Midwest, the RNC exits, a dead candidate, a rainstorm...?” Sam continued on like Donna hadn’t spoken, fixated on the events that had brought this to a head. The things that had come together in order to make one empty promise suddenly so weighty, “It's Aristotle all over the place.”
“I'm going to turn these off. Why don't you head out into the party? Everyone's asking for you.” Donna stood, switching off Toby’s tvs as she spoke.
“You really don't know what kind?” Sam looked up at her, his thoughts flicking back and forth.
“It's cake!” she said, exasperated, “It's cake.”
Glancing back down, Sam’s face was drawn. Cake couldn’t distract him, it seemed nothing could distract him. It hadn’t been til tonight that the gravity of what he’d done had hit him. He’d made a promise. Given someone his word. It just wasn’t supposed to have meant anything. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. There was no way a Democrat could win in the California 47th, or so they’d all thought. Sam had been so confident in this fact that he hadn’t told anyone other than Donna. After all, what value was a promise he’d run as the Democratic candidate in the special election that would be held if the Democrats won when there was absolutely no chance of the Democrats winning?
“I talked to the woman. She had tears in her voice. Her husband loved the President, admired his integrity. Yes, we're big on integrity.” Sam’s voice lifted, his tone incredulous and his words filled with irony. He knew what he’d done. He knew he should never had made the promise. But he’d seen something in the widow, and in Will Bailey that had made him want to promise. He’d wanted to give them a bit of hope. “By the way, when I said I'd run in his place, it's not like I meant it.”
Donna had had enough of this. She knew Sam had had enough of it too, and if he was left to his own devices he’d just sit in here all night obsessing over something that couldn’t be changed.
“Let's go to the party.” She took the hand he’d lifted toward her, “There are televisions everywhere. You'll know as soon as they're ready to report something from the 47th.”
Sam sighed as he stood, “You're right. You’re right.” She so often was, he thought as the sounds of the party washed over him and he followed her out of Toby’s office. Besides, they were just exit polls, he told himself, looking up at the bullpen television. The polling data was showing it to be a close race, but this was the California 47th, right?
”And we're ready to report some news from the House race in the California 47th where the impossible seems to be happening and we send it to Gail Mackee who's standing in Newport Beach. Gail?”
“Julie, I'm at the Hyatt in Newport Beach with the Horton Wilde campaign and the place is going absolutely berserk. Kay Wilde, the widow...”
Sam knew in that instant that they’d been wrong. His stomach dropped as he spoke, his eyes glued to the television, “Bonnie, Ginger, get me Will Bailey. Get me Kay Wilde very quickly, please.”
...of the Democratic challenger just received a phone call from Congressman Chuck Webb.
He's conceding the election, thanking Mrs. Wilde for a well-fought campaign...
This couldn’t be happening. There was no way this was happening. “Get Will Bailey, please. Got to get him.”
Sam bounced on his feet, the panic rising inside of him, unable to look away from the screen. This was what watching a train wreck was like he realised in that moment, listening to tv personalities discuss the special election and possible Democratic candidates.
“Get him. Got to get him.” This was his own train wreck, and he was watching it in what felt like slow motion. There wasn’t anything he could do but watch it barrel forward, carried by it’s own weight and momentum. He listened to Gail, apparently her name was, funny how he didn’t feel like he should be on first-name basis with her for all that she was about to change his life. He listened to Gail mention a rumour that was going around and how she could report on it. He wasn’t surprised. When did any credible news agency need facts to report on? “Of course you can. Why not?” Donna touched his shoulder and he knew it was too late. He couldn’t stop it now. The train had crashed.
...the former Orange County resident and current White House Senior Advisor Sam Seaborn will seek the seat.
And the plot thickens.
Sam Seaborn, of course, an architect of the President's first victory as well as his-- I think we have to start calling it a landslide-- tonight.”
The bullpen was silent. The only sound was the sound of the reporters discussing it. Discussing him.
He almost managed it. Sam looked nonchalantly at the staffer next to him, shrugging as he spoke, “They're talking about someone else.”
Almost managed it. The almost was ruined by the picture of him they’d thrown up on the screen. Dammit. Sam turned, scanning over the crowd, needing to find his friends. “Yeah, okay. Anyone know where Toby and Josh and C.J. are?” He might not have been able to stop the train wreck, but at least he could start the damage control. It wasn’t like he was actually going to run. Sam raised his voice, the panic rising again “Hey! Toby! Josh! C.J.! Does anyone...?”
“They're over in the thing.” One of the staffers offered, but Sam was already moving through the halls. He was already looking for those faces he knew
...view the California 47th the same way the Democrats view the New York 16th. They see it as unlosable.
Somehow hearing that echoing from multiple tvs wasn’t what Sam would have called reassuring. He forced himself to stay calm, forced himself to not run. Sam smiled at people as he passed, pushing open the door that led down the hall to C.J.’s office only...
It was a kitchen.
"Okay, this isn’t right. I’m not going crazy." Except he was talking to himself, which he was pretty sure was not considered a good sign. Smiling stiffly at the people in the kitchen, none of whom he recognised, Sam backed back through the door. Only it still wasn’t the West Wing. A hallway yes, but not any hallway he’d ever walked down.
“That’s it. I’ve gone over the edge.” He said it quietly, pushing the door to the kitchen back open and hoping that this time when he stuck his head through he’d see someone he knew. Some place he knew. “This really isn’t my day.”
[[OOC: Timed to breakfast time on the 26th. Explain to one West Winger why he isn't in the west wing anymore. LT & ST more than welcome. First person gets to explain the island, other people can choose whether they do that, or find a slightly confused Sam in the kitchen. Just let me know]]