politics to yourselfâbut I voted for Ryland. Heâs a man who can bring the country together again.â
âThank you, Father. When I see him, Iâll tell him you said so. But thatâs why Iâve got to go back as soon as I can. Thereâs a lot of work to do. I should get to Washington and help with the transition.â
âSo youâll be getting a job in the new administration? You donât look too happy about it.â
âOh, I am,â I assured him. âWho wouldnât want to work for the president of the United States? They canât offer me a big job, of course. Even though I ran the campaign . . . for a while. I donât have any White House experience or the kind of technical knowledge required for the top positions.â
I stopped myself; there was no need to go into specifics.
âAnyway,â I went on, âwith my background, I wonât get an offer for anything that important. Maybe an assistant to an assistant undersecretary in some department. Which is fine,â I said, resting my backside against the door of the car. âIt all matters. But, between you and me, Iâm not crazy about the idea of going back to Washington.â
Father Damon shoved his hands even deeper in his pockets, looking puzzled. âReally? I visited once and it seemed like a wonderful city. Thereâs so much to do. All the museums and monumentsââ
âIâll never get to see any of them. Politics is a great career, especially if you win. But, if youâll forgive the analogy, itâs also something of a mad monk society.â
Father Damon laughed.
âNo, seriously,â I said. âIf you work in politics, there is this silent agreement that you will have no personal life, no outside interests, no outside anything. People who sleep more than four hours in a night are considered slackers. Itâs a competition to see who can kill themselves quickest.
âItâs not so bad when youâre doing a campaign, because thereâs this . . .â I looked up into the branches of the nearest maple tree, trying to find the right word. â. . . this adrenaline rush. I think thatâs why they call a campaign a race. Thatâs what it feels like, like racing.
âYouâre pushing yourself as hard as you can toward the goal, throwing everything youâve got into it. Itâs as if your whole body is flooded with endorphins and you feel powerful, like youâve got a chance to change the world! Your mind is so sharp, your thinking so clear. You know exactly where the goal line is and nothing else matters. The difference is that instead of lasting for one hundred yards, or a mile, or a marathon, the feeling lasts for weeks or months or, if the finish line is the White House, even years! But the feeling of winning is . . .â
I stopped myself again.
If I told him that in the middle of rushing to my dying sisterâs bedside, I had, for a moment, been having the best day of my life, Father Damon would think I was a terrible person. Maybe I was.
âWell . . . itâs hard to describe. Itâs amazing. And fleeting. As soon as the win is over, you start racing again. Governing is just as intense, but the course is even longer and the goal is harder to define. And you know when you finally reach the finish line, four years later, or even eight,â I said, thinking that in eight years Iâd be forty-four years old, âthere is no way youâll be able to match the high of that first victory. Nothing could top that.â
âWhy not join a new campaign?â the priest asked. âFind a new candidate.â
I shook my head. He didnât understand. How could he? Even with his imposing white collar and wise gray head, he was still just a civilian.
And I was a card-carrying member of the Mad Monk Society.
âIt doesnât work like that, Father. Not for me. Iâve spent my whole career
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