This Is How It Starts

  Simon & Schuster

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Grant Ginder

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ginder, Grant.

  This is how it starts / Grant Ginder.

  p. cm.

  1. College graduates—Fiction. 2. Interns (Legislation)—Fiction. 3. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. 4. Washington (D.C.)—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.14567T47 2009

  813'.6—dc22 2008031312

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9994-4

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-9994-0

  Visit us on the Web:

  http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

  For my family

  Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  I

  May 5, 2007;

  2:00P.M.

  So this is how it starts:

  I’m watching Chase Latham lift up the edge of my cousin’s skirt beyond what can be considered polite or appropriate, and I’m just starting to regret introducing them to each other two years ago at that bar in Philadelphia when I see the horse stumble, before buckling at the knees and then collapsing—dead—in an equine pile of hoofs and hair and teeth. Unfortunately for the horse, at that particular moment every man in the Latham, Scripps, Howard, LLP tent is quietly wishing he was one of Chase Latham’s sly, tan fingers, and every woman is fantasizing about being a patched square on Annalee’s madras skirt, so time ticks by for a languid three minutes before anyone notices that the unlucky beast has died.

  A man’s voice crackles and breaks over a loudspeaker and when the feedback finally clears he announces that a horse named Prep School has won, Sophie’s Choice has placed, Enola Gay Ol’ Time has shown, and Light of Our Lives—who was trailing in seventh place—has failed to finish due to sudden death. A wave of low murmurs passes throughout the tent and its exterior and when—thirty seconds later—it’s quieted, it’s been publicly decided that Light of Our Lives was blessed with a fine life and has died honorably: for God, for country, for Gold Cup. I sip my gin and tonic and watch, half curious, half drunk, as a small cluster of girls in pretty flower dresses and boys in navy blue blazers with shiny buttons starts gathering at the rail closest to the horse’s lifeless body. After a few minutes, the congregation of eight-year-olds grows and multiplies to about thirteen mourners who vigorously debate the cause of the horse’s debilitated state (“sleeping,” “tired,” “horsey heaven” seem to be receiving the most votes). It’s a funeral service of sorts, I suppose. It’s something. Poking sticks and giggles aside, these are undoubtedly the best-dressed second graders in northern Virginia: brass buttons just polished and bows freshly tied. They’re not grieving, that’s true, but I’m sure that if they knew any better, they would be, and besides, the Gold Cup is this lavish affair, a celebration of sorts, and if there’s a way to go, this is probably it, among the hats and the cigars and the pearls.

  But then a fly lands on Light of Our Lives’ black marble eye and the first of the eight-year-olds lets out a long, bellowing wail, which causes a mother to stop whispering about Annalee’s lifted skirt long enough to intervene and disband the flock (“sleeping,” it’s decided, is the most probable cause). And I shake my head and I look at a single melting cube of ice in my empty cup as, around me, the world continues apace with some universal metronome whose beat, at least today, I’ve been unable to match.

  The crowd’s doing the waltz, see, and I’m tripping through a tango.

  Maybe it’s the bow tie, I think. After all, I’ve never worn one before and this one (pink seersucker) isn’t even mine, it’s Chase’s, and the lesson he gave me in tying it was hurried and unsatisfactory, at best. I could loosen it, maybe, give my neck a bit of slack, some breathing room. But on second thought I’m not sure how these things work and a little slack could cause the whole thing to unravel and fall apart all together. And I’d ask Chase for his advice, but his hands are otherwise occupied.

  Or maybe it’s the empty cup. Yes. That’s it. That’s what it is; it’s this sudden lack of gin, which I’ve always thought vaguely tastes of pinecones but for some reason seems to be more distinguished, classier, than vodka. No matter it’s likely that intoxication has played accomplice to this sense of mal dans ma peau in the first place. At least if I’m blitzed I’ve got something else on which I can place blame for my disheveled hair and ill-fitting khakis—something other than myself.

  Latham, Scripps, Howard, LLP’s tent is situated inconspicuously along an endless row of white cabanas that are hard to distinguish from one another, if distinguishable at all. In the Tanqueray + sun haze, I wander back into the tent’s populated interior (“LSH Welcomes You to Gold Cup: Eat. Drink. Race!”), which, if a person didn’t know any better, he could easily mistake for a modern re-creation of Versailles, circa 1665. I stumble through the throngs of plunging necklines and correctly constructed bow ties and make my way to the bar that, surprisingly, is empty, which I take as a sign of providence so I order another gin and tonic. As the bartender lets the Bombay waterfall into a clear plastic cup (one finger, two fingers, three fingers…) I brush my blond mop, which has become matted with humidity and sweat, away from my forehead and lean against the bar’s high, wood countertop. The bartender—a young man about my age wearing a white dinner jacket—hands me my drink and gives me a nod.

  “So, where’s your money for the next race?” I say as he rearranges a series of bottles. We could be friends, this man and I—buddies. Both intruders in this club of modern nobility.

  “There’s no formal betting at Gold Cup, sir,” he says with a sneer. “Enjoy your fifth gin and tonic.” Then again, maybe not.

  I finish the drink in a single prolonged chug and order another before leaving the bar. Sixth gin and tonic, thank you very much. Comparisons to Versailles may be unfair—exaggerated, I think, as I make my way through the crowded space. After all, there are no kings here, no divine monarchs or bejeweled thrones. There are votes and elections and a healthy and sedated middle class.

  “And so I said, Madam Pelosi, my apologies, but my cuff links are being polished, so you’ll have to settle for a shirt without French cuffs. But it’s flattering that my reputation precedes me.” Chase’s father—tall, impeccably dressed, Kip Latham’s voice cuts above the din of the crowd. I spot him in the tent’s opposite corner, surrounded by a sea of fans who erupt with laughter after each of his sentences. Kip thanks them by flashing a smile that’s been crafted by an intimidating team of orthodontists and dentists from only the best practices along the eastern seaboard. For the past two and a half decades, Latham’s been crafting his reputation as the District’s most prominent Republican lobbyist. And from the looks of it, his blueprints have proven to be one of the more booming examples of social construction. The man’s a caricature of success. His hair, flecked with streaks of silver that reflect the sun’s glare like some precious metal, hasn’t changed tones in twelve years. He has a collection of loafers that has received pictorial treatments in Washington Life, Capitol File, and Esquire. To date, he’s the only man I’m aware of who possesses a preter-natural knack for bullshitting that’s actually feared, if not actively avoided, on both coasts and in portions of the Midwest. A lunch, a night at the theater, a Nationals game, eighteen holes; they all meant the same thing to a Republican congressman: he was about to be Kipped. He was about to be had, about to be convinced, beguiled, manipulated—even if not for a single second he believed any of the words swimming gracefully from the man’s mouth and into the open air. If Mr. Latham had been operating when Jesus was preaching his monotheistic madness, there would have been no cross or martyrdom or moving rocks. There would have been a misunderstanding; something that could be smoothed over with a little bread and a little wine and maybe (if the mood called for it) some dancing. No one would’ve had to share a cup.

  And so maybe Versailles wasn’t far off, after all.

  Standing next to Kip like two silent Mazarins are the Pauls—Scripps and Howard, respectively. If Latham hosts the palace feasts, these are the men who kill the boars and stuff the pheasants. They’re stoic, I think, as I watch them maintain tight lips and stern faces through Kip’s raucous (and likely inappropriate) jokes. Specimens, really; some kind of nod back to an old guard that I thought, at least before today, was a dying breed. They wear their graying hair—which isn’t nearly as brilliant or as coiffed or as godlike as Kip’s—in the same plantation-inspired southern “swoosh.” Word is they both came from the Hill, where,
a decade ago, they worked as chiefs of staff for two senators who had rhyming names. Kip managed to get ahold of them in a skybox at a Knicks game, which was provided courtesy of another top lobbyist, and since then both Pauls have narrowly escaped indictment on four separate occasions (one of which involved the death of a puppy). To soften their image as political assassins, both have had their wives (Bunny and Kitty) featured three times (holding puppies) in Southern Living. While Chase’s father has spent the past fifteen years sculpting the face of an empire, these two men have been building the gears and pulling the strings and flipping the switches that make shit work. It’s impressive, if not menacing and intimidating and—according to Chase—likely illegal.

  And so I move, careful not to attract the Pauls’ laser gazes, toward the mahogany table set at the center of the tent and start to forage as politely and inconspicuously as my current state of intoxication will allow. For the most part, the spread’s what you’d expect at an event like this: expensive cheeses, fresh fruits, scallops wrapped in bacon that are kept warm on an elaborate chafing set fueled by tiny devices whose source of power and heat I can’t quite comprehend. At the center of the table are two large pewter platters featuring mountains of dark caviar. I stare at the tiny eggs. Thousands and thousands and thousands of them. Murder, I think, before piling a large mound onto a tasteless cracker (spilling at least half down the front of my white oxford) and directing it into my mouth. Absolute murder. At least an entire generation of sturgeon has been wiped out. If only the little bastards could know how delicious they are. The Pauls start looking at me.

  “Don’t let the feds get ahold of that shirt, champ.” I stop picking the tiny beads off my shirt and look up to see Chase (sans Annalee, hands respectfully in pockets). His lips start curling at the corners to form that Cheshire-cat smile. “Evidence of that caviar could get you five to ten.” I stop chewing and consider spitting the roe out while trying to mentally calculate how many tiny undeveloped creatures are already swimming in my digestive tract. “I don’t know how those sons of bitches do it,” Chase continues, “but they do. Dad says something like ‘wouldn’t it be great if we could get our hands on something none of the other tents will have, something a little edgy.’ And fucking voilà! The next day the Pauls show up with ten goddamned pounds of illegal fish eggs from Iran—this shit the UN’s actually banned. Can you believe that? Fucking illegal caviar. From Iran. Iran! Ten fucking pounds of it. Awesome.” Chase pauses for a moment to reflect on the power and the beauty and the contraband, and then starts noticing how much of those ten pounds are staining my shirt and how my eyelids have started dropping a little more than they should in the early afternoon and adds, “Well, it looks like someone’s been having a good time.”

  A man in all white carrying a tray of champagne flutes walks by and Chase grabs two of the glasses and shoves one of them into my chest. “Tough gig, huh?” he says, motioning toward the field. A pickup truck has pulled close to the track and Light of Our Lives’ dead body lies in its bed, covered by a green tarp. “I bet Vance Alexander fifty bucks that fucker would win, and then he has to up and die on me. Goddamned horse.” The truck rumbles, then jolts, and then drives slowly through a crowd of spectators who nod to the deceased beast in deference. He gave it his best shot.

  Even though the champagne’s become lukewarm, I finish the glass in two swallows before asking him where Annalee has gone. (I half expect him to tell me that she’s waiting for him—madras skirt off; a crumpled ball of orange and red—in an empty bus on the outskirts of the field.)

  He laughs. “She’s fine. She’s with her friends. Look.” He points to another corner of the tent, where Annalee and two other girls who look just a little too much like her are talking in a circle that’s as tight as their large hats will allow them to form. Big hats. Everywhere. We wave and she waves back. “Man, I thought Californians were supposed to be laid back! Maybe you should be the one we’re worried about, huh?” He gives me a playful punch on the shoulder that, in my opinion, is a little too hard, a little too brash, coming from someone who’s fucking my cousin. But he’s mostly right, I think. He’s mostly right because I’m the one who just moved here (forty-eight hours ago) and I’m the one who took a year off and went back to California after Chase and I graduated from Penn and I’m the one who’s in a new place, new city, new job. I’m the one who’s becoming increasingly aware of my own displacement. Annalee’s been living comfortably and happily in Washington since she graduated Duke in ’03, making her two years older than Chase and me. She’s a pretty girl, I think, as I watch her awkwardly adjust the floral arrangement that’s been strapped precariously to the top of her blond head. Stunning, almost. Though, really, she’s never known it.

  The flawless product of a mother whose obsessions include Vogue and cayenne pepper–based diets and a father who’d wished for an Aston Martin—not a daughter—Annalee spent most of her childhood staring into a mirror scrutinizing whatever inadequacy had been pointed out to her that day. (Too thin, too fat, too many freckles, not enough freckles, too much Gwyneth, not enough Gwyneth, etc., etc., etc.) It wasn’t a particularly uplifting activity, though it was one at which she certainly excelled. While many young girls spend their days committing Hannah Montana songs to memory, Annalee could—without stuttering—give you a rundown of the stats surrounding her blemishes: this mole’s grown 0.18 inch in diameter since last summer. Seven hair ends have split since breakfast yesterday. When we were younger, I’d found it impressive, if not entirely disconcerting.

  As kids in Southern California, we’d always gotten along well, Annalee and I. Our parents—namely, my father and his brother—lived close enough to each other to allow for at least one playdate each week. We’d spend these mornings and afternoons and nights on the beaches of Orange County, dodging not only the Pacific’s crashing waves but also her mother’s attempts to convert us to whichever fad diet she’d read about that week. (During one such excursion, I’d returned home and had announced to my own mother that I had pledged my digestive tract to veganism. She responded to my proclamation by cooking veal for dinner and telling me that if I wanted tofu, I was more than welcome to eat it with the rest of my burlap-sack-clad friends, but that while I was living under her roof, I’d best check my dietary restrictions at the door.)

  When she turned eleven, Annalee’s family moved to Chicago. My uncle, who had slid comfortably into personal wealth after inventing an obscure (yet highly expensive) bike lock used by nearly every East European cycling team, cited business needs and promptly plucked his wife and daughter from their comfortable California lifestyle and set them down in the wild, wild Midwest. He bought a sprawling mansion in Lake Forest—a decision that at once pleased his wife (thanks to the house’s sheer size) and horrified her (thanks to the house’s location in a region of the country known for its meat-and-potatoes approach to dieting).

  “Business needs,” as it turned out, though, translated roughly to “abandonment.” After the move, Annalee’s father was all but present, opting to spend time with his family solely on long weekends and national holidays and the occasional birthday celebration—visits during which he’d forgetten his daughter’s name after four fingers of scotch and two illegal cigars that he’d obtained during his latest international jaunt. It was hard, she’d tell me in her monthly letters and during our weekly phone calls, but she had faith it’d get better. Although he’d never said it, although he’d never expressed it, she was certain that she was still his princess, still his little girl. Because, really, that’s all she’d ever wanted. She was right, I’d tell her, even though it hurt my stomach to do so. He was just a busy man. Always traveling. Always working. What with the bike locks and all.

  Despite the infrequent visits from her father and the constant harassments of her mother—despite all that—Annalee turned out all right. She passed through adolescence with unprecedented grace and crystal-clear skin, luck that my aunt would attribute to specific portions of kale she ate during her third trimester of pregnancy. Upon graduating somewhere in the top quarter of her high school class (she wasn’t the brightest in our family—though she certainly wasn’t the dumbest), she attended Duke University, where, despite meager protests made on my part, she traded her judgmental mother in for sixty judgmental sorority sisters.