The West Wing drabble
That tie had to go. He didn't care if it was made out of gold threads, embroidered between the thighs of a Cuban virgin, or a priceless heirloom handed down by Paul Revere, who just happened to be Josiah Bartlet's best friend during the Revolutionary War. Leo knew that if he said anything, he would get a lecture about how clothes made the man, in addition to a treatise on the representation of classes in Dickens' novels, followed by an extemporaneous Q&A regarding sentimentality and patriotism that would indenture everyone in the limo to the President's whim, as if they weren't already, in so many ways. Leo couldn't do that to CJ.
Well, okay, he could, but Charlie didn't deserve it.
He fidgeted and regretted it. He wasn't a fidgeter. Was that even a phrase?
President Bartlet flipped the binder open and scanned the top page with his fingers and eyes. "Leo. You have either had too much coffee, or something is under your seat." When he didn't reply, Bartlet sighed. "We all know you're not a fidgeter."
CJ didn't look up from her brief. "Is that even a word?"
"I think sometimes the English language is constrained in its allowances for expansion, Claudia Jean." He shook his pen. "Out."
Charlie opened the President's satchel and retrieved a new pen, handing it over without looking. "I think you told me yesterday that the Oxford English Dictionary has been letting too many new words in every year. Sir."
The President listed the top paper and applied his signature, then peered at Charlie over his glasses. "'Gaydar' is not a word. 'Fidgeter' is just a preexisting word with a suffix."
CJ looked at Leo. "What's that called when two words are hybridized to create a new one?"
Leo tore his eyes away from the President's eyesore of a tie. "Beats me. Josh would know."
CJ took the binder from the President and replaced it with another. "Final copy," she said softly, and then to Leo, "do something."
Right, then. "Mr. President, is that-is that a lucky tie, by any chance?" he asked as respectfully as he could. He might have said it differently if they'd been alone. It might have involved a swear word.
The President pulled the tie from his chest to inspect it. "This is not a lucky tie, Leo." He let the tie fall and tucked it back against his chest, smoothing it out. "I don't need a lucky tie for this address."
CJ closed her binder and slid it into her briefcase. "I don't know sir. This is a wily pack."
President Bartlet snorted. "My wife is their Secretary. I'm virtually married to The Daughters of the American Revolution."
Charlie took the binder from him and placed it in the satchel, managing to snag the pen before the President put it in his breast pocket, where it would stay until he forgot about it, got another pen, added that one to the pocket until he had a trove of writing utensils pulling his coat down noticeably. "Mr. President, that's not part of your address, is it?"
"It would go over great in Utah," CJ said into her bottled water. "Sir."
President Bartlet ignored her. "Is there something wrong with my tie? It was sent to me by the Chicago Children's Homeless Shelter."
Leo fidgeted. "It's a bit informal."
"It has character."
"If the character you're going for is The Grinch," CJ murmured.
"It's St. Patrick's Day."
"I don't know if they knew about neon green when they created St. Patrick's Day," Leo said. "If they had they might have changed their minds."
The President sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "Fine, then, this is a lucky tie. It is untouchable."
Leo had lots of retorts for that, and CJ did too apparently, because her lips twitched and she stared out the window, but no one said anything. They sat in silence for the rest of the drive, until the gray monolith of the lecture hall came into view and the car came to a rolling stop. Then Charlie reached into the satchel and handed the president a gray checked tie, a better tie.
"Well done, Charlie."
"You were right, sir, the ride was a lot more interesting."