The Cultmaster

Chapter 7: Late Nights

"It is my pleasure-no-that sounds stupid." The inauguration was only less than half a month away, and now Jacob's entire life consisted of sitting at a table until midnight writing drafts on a typewriter for Chester's victory speech. It was almost midnight on the night of December 24, 1984, and he was beginning to become more and more frustrated as the words were almost seeping through and out of his head. Maybe it was the fact that it was Christmas Eve and this was the last thing he wanted to be doing.
"Why can't I fucking write?" He yelled out, ripping the paper from the typewriter and throwing it in the trash. He began to cry out of frustration, as he had been working at this unbearable task for almost a month now with no appreciable progress.
"You ought to let me try," a voice boomed from the shadows of the office. Jacob turned and saw, to his dismay, that it was Chuck the Racist, the campaign manager.
"Hey there, sonny," he continued, "what's plaguing you?" Jacob groaned in desperation. He did not need this right now.
"Go away, Chuck. I'm busy." But Chuck only came closer.
"You need a drink," said he, holding three bottles of beer, "I can get you a drink. Take the edge off. Can you honestly believe that Chester has us working here this late, on Christmas Eve too?"
"I can, actually. This is important work. And no, I don't want any drinks. Go away," Jacob said more firmly now.
"Oh well. More for me, I guess." And he threw the first bottle in the trash and opened the second one and began chugging.
"I can tell you're stressed out. Maybe I can talk to you and make this experience more... pleasant."
"You promise not to be weird?"
"Cross my heart. I'm a good Christian, you know?" As Chuck looked around the room, he spotted a television set and suddenly became excited like a child.
"Oh, wow! There's a TV in here! Turn it on, I want to watch MTV!"
"Chuck, please, I'm really not in the mood-" but before Jacob could finish his sentence, his ears were assaulted at full volume by Sledgehammer. As Chuck watched the video and listened to the lyrics, to Jacob's dismay, he began to become weird again.
"You know," he yelled over the loud music, "I feel like that guy there in the video. I'm like, super high right now. I think he was also super high when he made that video too." Chuck danced unrhythmically to the song, attempting to repeat the movements, but he failed miserably.
"Are you serious right now?" asked Jacob, concerned, "are you really high?" Chuck turned off the TV.
"Why, yes, of course. And I'm also drunk. That was my seventh bottle. But it's Christmas. I can do whatever I want. Say, why don't you and I go to the city, rent a hotel room with some nice minority girls on Times Square, and have a good old time for 28 minutes? What do you say, buddy? Sounds good?" Chuck had a gigantic, nasty smile spread across his face. At that moment, Jacob ripped the paper straight out of the typewriter and threw it at Chuck.
"I am on my last goddamn nerve with you," he yelled, "if you're not going to be productive, then you should get the hell out!"
"What, it was an honest suggestion," responded Chuck, innocently, actually believing he had done nothing wrong, "You're almost 30. It's about time for you to procreate. Just one night, and it's not like you'll ever have to see her, or the kid again, and you can still have a good old time. Besides, most of these girls live in the hood anyway, so it's not like a nice white man like you would want to-"
"Shut the fuck up! Just shut up!" Chuck had a more serious, dejected look on his face now.
"Brother, you need to calm your ass down. This anger of yours ain't gonna work in Washington. Maybe you need a gummy from my favorite drugstore in Hoboken. That ought to calm the nerves. Face it, you're nervous about this whole change of pace in your life. I mean, look at yourself. You're up late, working on Christmas Eve, when you should really be waiting for Old Nick to come down the chimney. That's the life you want, right? That's the life everyone wants. You want to find happiness. And if you come with me to the city tonight, you could have that life-"
"No," responded Jacob, "I am not having this conversation with you any more. You're sick, Chuck. And you need help. I have this business card from a doctor I met. I can give it to you as soon as possible."
"Oh, so you'd rather do it with me instead?" asked Chuck, "I'm not one of those homos, but I'm always willing to try new things. So what do you say, my place, right now? Final offer..."
"That's it," Jacob snapped, "I am taking my business elsewhere. I am not going to talk to you while you're drunk and high at the same time like this. God, I don't know why Chester even hired a person like you."
"I don't know why the DNC hired me. I don't even have a degree. It was my first job out of college."
"Well, that's your first problem, right there. Good bye, Chuck," said Jacob, "hopefully forever," he muttered under his breath. He just could not fathom the nerve of a person like Chuck to stand there behind him while he was performing the most important task of his life to make such crude commentary. It was at that moment that Jacob realized that there were two types of people in the world: those that have a path and those that seek to destroy the path that others take. It is up to each person to find their own happiness and morality, and Chuck clearly had none.