The iCongressman Read Online Free PDF Page B

during your campaigns. I read
every Twitter and Facebook post and watched your online web chats. I was
inspired by your words about what the Founding Fathers envisioned for this
government. I think Americans were too. I’m here because of them.”
    “So what do you want from me?”
    “I was hoping we could work together to help turn this thing
around,” Cisco says with noticeable optimism in his voice. His attitude is
refreshing, and reminds me of how I felt my first few months here. It wasn’t
long after that when I realized how pointless that mentality was.
    “A year ago that would have sounded great. But go back into
the chamber and take a hard look at the people in there,” I respond, pointing
back to the Hall of the House of Representatives. “They don’t exemplify what
was imagined in 1787. The vision of the founders is a myth, Cisco, and Americans
are self-delusional enough to prefer the myth over reality. There’s nothing
either you or I can do to change that paradigm.”
    The Texan looks wounded at my comment, but I just don’t have
the will to qualify my comments to make him feel better. It is the cold, hard
reality, and best he learns now. I wish I had known a year ago.
    “Good luck, my friend. I’ll see you around,” is all I can
say before fleeing this building to return to the sanctuary of my office.

 

FIVE-

 
    CHELSEA

 
    I escaped the confines of our office and retreated to my
spot on the west stairs of the Capitol to admire the sunset and take a short
break from another crummy day here in Washington. The chill in the air, even
now in early May, causes me to shiver, even wrapped in my favorite white wool
winter coat. My butt is freezing on these stone steps, but the serenity is
worth the minor discomfort.
    “You changed your hair. It looks good,” Blake Peoni says in
greeting as he suddenly sits next to me. Ugh, so much for serenity. Now that we
have established he is observant enough to notice my long swooping curls, what
could he possibly want?
    “And your cologne still makes me want to gag,” I say in
retort. Blake is fit, handsome, and has the same Italian features Vince does,
but that’s where the similarities end. A half dozen or so years older than us,
he’s more experienced, twice as jaded, and has a soul as black as road tar.
    “Good to know your hatred of me hasn’t ebbed any over time.
It’s a pretty view, isn’t it?” Blake asks, admiring me more than the setting
sun. I keep refusing to look at him.
    “This is my spot, and I don’t like sharing it.” Blake’s
laughter at my comment annoys me, and the last thing I need is more stress
today.
      “Do you remember that
night after the election when you told me your staff used to meet in the same
park we were standing in?” he asks, eliciting a curious nod from me. “You are
sitting in the exact place I was when Roger sent me up there to go after you
guys. So technically, it’s my spot.”
    “You are turning ruining my life into an art form,” I scold,
rising from the cold stone to walk away. Blake grabs me by the arm gently, and
something about the look on his face and the feel of his hand stops me from
jerking away from him.
    “I’m sorry, Chelsea. I never seem to say the right thing to
you. But I’ve been where you are. Part of me still is. I see your frustration
with the system, with Washington, and even with Congressman Bennit. Nobody
understands that better than I do.”
    As much as I want to leave, I know he’s right. The mere
thought of my experiences here makes me emotional now. And although I don’t
want to admit it, even to myself, I desperately need someone I can talk to who
can relate to me. I shudder inside to think that person may be Blake, but I sit
back down anyway.
    “What makes you the expert on how I’m feeling? What are you
even doing these days?”
    “Nothing of any interest, I can tell you that,” Blake
responds with a deep exhale. “I am the smallest cog in a