At 27, Kristin Gore is already a five-year veteran of TV comedy writing. And with countless political campaigns under her belt (including campaigning in 2000 with her parents, Al and Tipper Gore), she’s got an insider's view of life on the campaign trail. But look out Washington — all that experience has now become material for her first novel, “Sammy's Hill,” a comedy set on Capitol Hill. Gore was invited to appear on “Today” to discuss her book. Here's an excerpt:
Early to Rise
The party really started to rock when Willie Nelson and Queen Nefertiti began pouring shots. I downed one and felt my stomach immediately replaced by a large liquor bonfire that spread through my chest, its flames licking up the inside of my throat. Willie leaned over and whispered that Winnie the Pooh had the hots for me. No way! I loved that guy! As I watched Winnie get down on the dance floor, throwing smoldering Pooh Bear glances in my direction, I all of a sudden felt myself floating. Flapping my arms, I rose higher and higher. Soon I was at 30,000, and a bit chilly. I plucked the edge of the cloud nearest me and draped it over my shoulders, fashioning a cumulus-nimbus pashmina.
Feeling quite stylish, I surveyed the landscape below. I checked in with the mountain ranges, the vast oceans, the tiny cities, the — “...exceptionally long lines at the gas station. Congressman Francis, do you expect some sort of bailout package for Exxon?”
NPR’s Morning Edition crackled into my consciousness to remind me that I was not a party-hopping sorceress but rather a Capitol Hill staffer who had only 20 minutes to get to work.
Huh. If I didn’t do shots with Willie Nelson and Nefertiti, then why did I feel hungover? A brief glance into the kitchen brought it all back. Right, the bottle of wine from the 99-cent store. It had seemed like such a good deal at the time.
Okay, 20 minutes. Considering I was supposed to meditate for 30, I’d have to postpone that until later. I’d also have to delay the 15-minute stomach-crunch set, the do-it-yourself manicure, and the new dictionary word for the day. I promised myself I’d get to all that, but I knew I was lying. In reality, I would crawl home after working late, feeling too exhausted to do anything but maybe test out some 99-cent tequila.
But it was way too early in the day for such cynicism. As my dad always said, anything and everything is possible in the morning.
I’d never been a morning person.
I checked the clock. Seventeen minutes and counting. As I fed Shackleton and began scavenging for clean clothes, it occurred to me how difficult these simple tasks would be without my right arm. What would I do if I suddenly lost it in some sort of escalator- or escaped-hungry-lion accident? People laughed, but I lived only a few short miles from the zoo. So I took a moment to do what I always did whenever these neuroses attacked. I reached for a sling from my pile of medical supplies, fashioned it around my right arm, and continued my routine with this new handicap, confident that I would be the one with the last laugh when I was so ludicrously prepared for life without my right arm.
“Amazing,” they’d all say, “can you stand how quickly she’s adapted?”
“Why, she’s just as capable as she was before! Maybe even more so!”
And thanks to my brilliant foresight, it would be true. I’d just nod and smile and continue my life as a well-prepared, one-armed genius.
I snapped myself out of this daydream to concentrate on the extraordinarily difficult task of opening a container of yogurt with just my left hand. And then, as I gathered up my work folders, cleverly using my foot to lift my briefcase up to the table, I caught sight of Shackleton’s mossy gills. Oh no. The mossy-gill death sentence.
I had managed to inadvertently murder eight Japanese fighting fish over the course of the previous 11 months. I had never meant to kill them. In fact, I did absolutely everything by the book, but they still died.
Mr. Lee, the pet store owner, assured me I hadn’t done anything wrong. I secretly suspected he was keeping something from me — some critical piece of caretaking instruction or water-purifying product that would keep my fish alive — because whatever it was, by withholding it, he ensured my lucrative repeat business. He played the helpful counselor, however, and, according to him, the Japanese fighting fish sometimes just lost its will to live after a simple change in surroundings and performed a sort of fish-style hari-kari. Three of them wasted away, two of them became grossly bloated, and Jacques, Moby, and Ballard had all developed mossy-gill disease.
I looked sadly at my ninth and longest-living fish, the six-month trouper whom I thought had changed my luck. Shackleton, so named for miraculously surviving an unfortunate wintertime power outage that had turned his bowl into an icebound wasteland, stared bravely back.
Amazingly, he had lived through being thawed out. I had assumed this proved he was some sort of fish messiah, a powerful spiritual leader of the marine realm. But I should have known that even the mightiest of fish couldn’t survive for long in my murderous clutches.
I was beginning to obsess about the implications for my fitness as a future mother if I couldn’t even keep a tiny little fish alive for more than a few months when I caught sight of the clock. Twelve minutes. I quickly grabbed some magazines for the commute and rushed out the door, barely remembering to shed my sling along the way.
The good thing about working for a senator I respected was that I felt like I had a chance to make a positive difference in the world every day. The bad thing was that I worked so hard I didn’t have time to notice things like the fact that I was wearing two different shoes until I was already on the Red Line, rapidly approaching my stop. And the pathetic thing was, I probably wouldn’t have noticed at all if I hadn’t caught the snickering glances of two perfectly groomed Senate pages and looked down to let myself in on the joke.
In my opinion, it’s not totally unreasonable to mix up two pairs of shoes of the same style but slightly different colors, like a navy blue and black loafer. Embarrassing, sure, but understandable, particularly if one didn’t have a right arm to turn on the closet light while one rooted around with one’s healthy limb. But a tan sandal and a bright-red sneaker? I was fairly certain the only people capable of that would have to be somewhat mentally handicapped. Apparently, they could also be me.
I decided to act like I knew exactly what I was doing, and shot a pitying glance at the two page-babes — a glance that communicated how sorry I felt for them that though they were immaculately coiffed, they clearly hadn’t heard about the newest look to hit the runways. And I, I who read The Economist for fun on the way to work because, yes, I was that smart and genuinely interested in what it had to say, also happened to be on the cutting edge of fashion. How sad for them, my demeanor purred. How fabulous to be me.
With that work done, I exited the Metro at Union Station and made my way down First Street to the Russell Senate Building, holding my head high and silently cursing the fact that I didn’t have time to run into a shoe store and buy anything that made me look less like a clueless fool. But, I mused, even if I did have the time, there are some things money just can’t buy.
Janet, the ultracompetent, middle-aged personal aide to the senator, glanced up as I entered the office. While talking on her phone headset, stapling a stack of briefs with one hand, and making a scheduling change with the other (difficult multitasking even with two perfectly intact arms), she also managed to smile at me.
“RG’ll be here in five. He needs the committee brief right away,” she said, in her pleasant but no-bullshit tone.
“It’s all ready, no problem.” I smiled back, trying to project confidence and professionalism before my first cup of coffee, which was no small feat.
RG was office shorthand for Robert Gary, junior senator from my home state of Ohio. The committee brief was for the Senate’s Health Care Committee hearing on prescription-drug plans for the elderly, scheduled to begin that morning. And I was responsible for the brief, along with shepherding the constituent slated to testify, because I was a domestic policy adviser to Senator Gary.
The fact that I had managed to become a health-care analyst for a United States senator at the age of 26 still surprised me, and I lived in fear that someone would realize how ridiculous it was to have given me this sort of authority and fire me on the spot.
Excerpted from "Sammy's Hill." Copyright 2004 by Kristin Gore. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Miramax Books.