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That was then... Step Inside: All is Forgiven, All is ForgottenBy Rick Horowitz
Widgely, with opinions, with a record, with a past -- they were gunning for him the moment the new president uttered his name. He'd been around for years, Widgely had, in and out of Washington in one high-profile job after another. Votes cast, stands taken, speeches made -- they were all there to be picked over, and there were plenty of people ready to do the picking. And then there was that business with the cats. A blank slate? Hardly. More like fingernails on the blackboard. There was no hiding Widgely and all he stood for. There was no hiding Widgely -- but there was the Confirmatron 9100. At the very moment the new president was saying the magic words -- "Widgely, my nominee for Secretary of Plants and Animals" -- the Confirmatron 9100 was standing tall and gleaming in a quiet corner of a sub-sub-basement only minutes from the White House. Its brushed titanium skin glowed silver under the ceiling lamps; its fan purred benignly, oblivious to the whispered conversation nearby. "It's...it's a phone booth on steroids!" "Are you sure it'll work? Even that business with the cats?" "That's what it's here for -- let's crank this baby up!" And the man in the lab coat adjusted the calibrations and entered the activation codes; the lights on the Confirmatron 9100's display panel hiccuped for an instant, then announced, lime-green and steady: "Ready." Meanwhile, in another part of town... Widgely, with experience, with confidence, with the slightest touch of arrogance -- Widgely was dubious. He was perfectly willing to take on his critics, to defend his positions, without any help from some machine. He believed in everything he'd ever said and done, he told the new president's people; he wasn't about to change his stripes after all these years just to be in somebody's Cabinet. It wasn't about changing stripes, they told him; it was about rounding off a few edges. The Confirmatron 9100 was the best thing going for rounding off the edges -- better than the Nominaire 4200, better even than the Cabineze 9590. Those senators could make the confirmation process thoroughly miserable for him. Better to soft-pedal a few things here and there. "Even the cats?" "Especially the cats." The new president's people took Widgely across town and down to the sub-sub-basement only minutes from the White House. They strapped him into the sleek leather seat and surrounded him with piles of files and videotapes. Then they double-locked the door, stepped back a safe distance and gave the order to the man in the lab coat. The Confirmatron 9100 whirred and clicked -- five minutes, 10 minutes, 20 minutes -- and then a light on the display panel blinked crimson: "Prepared for Testimony." They hustled Widgely into a car and raced up to Capitol Hill; they weren't sure how long the Confirmatron 9100's effects would last, but they were taking no chances. Widgely walked haltingly into the hearing room, adjusted his microphone and began to speak. He was a new man, he told the senators. The things he'd said, the ways he'd voted -- that was another time, when he'd had other jobs. In this job, he'd be totally different. He'd enforce the very rules he'd always derided. He'd defend the very things he'd always opposed. Were the senators convinced? Or were they still skeptical? Widgely couldn't be sure. He took a sip of water, cleared his throat and went on. "Now, let me say a special word about my good friends, the cats..." Posted 1/18/01. Stop
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Rick Horowitz