A Man of the Peoplemover

Newt had gotten to a point some years ago where he realized that he was frequently talking to people without any sort of solicitation. He didn't know at what moment it started, the random, unsolicited talking. There were a lot of opinions as to the start date. The realization moment for Newt was about twelve years before. He was sitting at a cafeteria near the Old Executive Office Building, reading his Washington Times, when two young people sat down in the table adjacent to his, with a pile of sushi between them that looked to weigh at least a pound. One of the people was a man in a very sharply tailored suit, the other was a woman in an eye-popping blue peacoat, opaque black leggings, and brown leather boots. They seemed like professionals.

"...you know Treasury's just lost its mind on all this," the woman said. "But you know how it goes. I mean Bill, bless his heart, he tells me they're understaffed to the point that the Secretary's getting in a few minutes early to make coffee for everybody. The Treasury Secretary. His own intern. It's kind of sick."

"Shit, the President can't even hire a secretary, little s, anymore. The President of the United States is answering her own calls. She's all like, 'Yes, West Wing. Yes, the President is busy right now.' And hangs up. The President of the United States screens her own calls. Hell of a job."

Newt looked up from his newspaper and turned to the young folks. He smiled broadly. "Do you two work in the White House?" he asked. The two people looked at each other, and then Newt, and then each other, giving a "Is he talking to us?" look. Newt continued smiling, almost pliantly. "It sounds like you do. Great jobs for young people."

"Are you still asking a question?" the woman asked.

"Who are you?" the man asked.

"Yes, and Newt Gingrich, former Speaker of the House," Newt said, extending his hand. The younger people looked at each other again, still puzzled.

"Dude, you're like a hundred and forty years old," the woman said, a look of moderate horror on her face.

"I've seen a lot," Newt said, smiling proudly.

"You're like the decline and fall of the United States in one person," the man said.

This made Newt cry. Every now and then he'd encounter someone in DC who had this kind of reaction to his presence, and so Newt would leave the power center for awhile, and go back to Georgia. Usually, the mere thought of returning to Georgia would make Newt feel better, but this time, Newt cried from the point of the man's comment, on through the National Airport check-in and security gate, through the flight, to the arrival gate in Atlanta, and ending approximately at the Peoplemover at Hartsfield-Jackson. The Peoplemover tended to calm Newt better than most things; it felt like the future, even though it was nearly a century old. So Newt sat in the Peoplemover, his nose and eyelids red. The vehicle only had a few people in it, and Newt kept riding it beyond his destination. He rode the Peoplemover for hours, bewildered as to why he had been so upset. He hoped that by being in the Peoplemover for long enough, he might arrive at some sort of conclusion. But it didn't happen. So he got off, and made his way back to his house.

Once settled, he went to his bedroom, picked up the phone next to his bed, and called his Old Friend. They were political allies turned near-family. When Newt needed advice, or solace, he called his Old Friend.

"Hello?" said a gentle male voice.

"Old Friend? It's Newt."

"Newt? How are you, buddy?"

"Not so good." Newt recounted the conversation at the cafeteria, which caused Newt to cry again.

"Calm down, Newton. Calm. It's okay. People can be so rude. So mean. You don't have to pay attention."

Newt breathed a breath that approached a sigh, and then said, "You're right. I just...have you ever felt like you were a nuisance?"

"Remember when I tried convincing most of the House's Republicans to support gay rights?"

"Right, right." Newt laughed sadly. "But--I just. I've never really felt like I was imposing so much. I just kind of...I don't get it."

"You don't get what?"

"I...I've talked to so many people through the years. Am I just...annoying?"

"Well." Old Friend sounded pained. He was silent for a long time. "You are not annoying, certainly," he said abruptly. He got quiet again. "But you do have, uh...a tendency. You've got a tendency to just...talk to people. Without them...Newt, I'm sorry. Sometimes you just start talking. And I understand why you talk, because you've got passion. You see the dilemma, the world dilemma, the national problem, the civilization thing--you see it for what it is. But. And I'm not one of these people, but some people. They don't want to listen." More silence. "I mean, maybe. It's a theory they don't want to listen."

Newt nodded, and then realized Old Friend couldn't see the nodding. "Right," Newt said. He breathed through his nose in a way that suggested an attempted laugh, unsuccessful due to a lack of mirth. "You think that's why the people want me away from here? You think...you think that's why they want me in space?"

"Goodness no," Old Friend said. "Goodness no." The conversation went quiet for a few more seconds, and then Old Friend said that he would have to go. "We'll talk before you leave for the moon, ya hear?"

"Yeah," Newt said, a smile on his face, that smile translating to a slightly higher voice than before. "We will."

The phone clicked, and Newt looked out the window of his bedroom at an overcast late winter afternoon. The power went out in the room, and then came back on. Newt looked at a digital clock, flashing 12:00. And then he sat down on his bed and cried for the rest of the day.