After Sunset Read online

  After

  Sunset

  Clayton Hanson

  Copyright © 2011 Clayton Hanson

  Cover by Christynne Villa

  www.christynneashleigh.com

  Published by Five Seventy-Four Press

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0615501031

  To My Mother

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the following:

  My family for their love and support.

  My brother, Coby, for pushing me to write a book.

  Rhonda Gardner, teacher extraordinaire and all-around awesome person, for being an inspiration in literature and in life.

  Emily Ethridge for making the book better.

  Foster and Julie Foster for everything.

  And a special thanks to Hayley King for her dedication to making the book better and for repeatedly telling me, “I’m not sure what this means…”

  INTRODUCTION

  The events in this book happened. The conversations have been taken from notes and journal entries. The only event that may be a bit fuzzy is when I got my ass kicked by a woman.

  CHapter 1

  Washington, DC is the most heavily guarded metro area in the United States, and outside of Jerusalem and the Vatican, the world.

  The Metro Police Department’s First District reaches from the White House through Capitol Hill to RFK Stadium, south to where the Potomac and Anacostia rivers meet, and north to Florida Avenue.

  The MPD has assigned more than 400 officers to the “Fighting First” and shares jurisdiction with the following: the Supreme Court Police, the Secret Service and the Uniformed Division of the Secret Service, the National Park Police, the U.S. Capitol Police, the Smithsonian Police, the Library of Congress Police, the U.S. Mint Police, the DEA, the FBI, the Federal Protective Service and the Metro Transit Police.

  I learned this in my capacity as a Legislative Liaison for the Department of Homeland Security. When I would tell people outside of the DC Beltway that I worked for Homeland Security, they would start out interested and some would think that I was a badass by association until I told them I worked in the legislative division. Then their eyes would gloss over and I would change the subject.

  That’s all in the past now.

  Now that I’ve changed, none of the gun-toting officers would be able stop me. I could literally rip someone’s head off. I’ve done it.

  CHapter 2

  I used to wake up every weekday waiting for the weekend or waiting for Congress to go into recess or some combination of both. The other departments in the DHS looked down on mine. We had political pull but the other sections considered us children who were raised with silver spoons in our mouths because our bosses were political appointees and not bureaucrats. We were on the same floor as the buzz-cut militants in the Secret Service and the hyperactive spazzes of Federal Emergency Management Agency. The guys from the Secret Service were too cool to acknowledge anyone else’s existence even though it was our efforts with congressional appropriators and the White House that kept them funded. The FEMA folks were so consumed with running mock catastrophic scenarios that they failed to realize that none of their make-believe incidents had ever or will ever happen. They say they couldn’t have predicted a hurricane the size of Katrina, but they have ran hundreds of mock disasters (nukes, toxic terrorist attacks, etc.) involving baseball parks and other densely populated areas.

  I used to wish we worked on the same floor as the Transportation Security Administration (called the crotch grabbers by my boss) because it’s impossible not to feel superior to the guys who screen baggage at the airport and “randomly” screen good-looking women for pat-downs.

  Every weekday I took the Metro rail downtown to our office. Taking the escalators down into the station brought a stench of stale air to my face from out of the tunnel. I felt like I was descending into an underground bio-chemical plant that the government couldn’t put above ground because they didn’t want to risk killing the surrounding civilian population. Other dangerous things underground for the safety of all mankind include nuclear contaminants, sewage and hell. All of them are better options than riding the Metro.

  The trains are generally clean (by public transportation standards) but I couldn’t stand being around a lot of people in a cramped space. In the summer the trains stink because the passengers huff and puff through unbearable heat and humidity before getting on the train. In the winter people cough and sneeze without covering their mouths in an effort to infect me with some deadly disease. Then again, maybe I have been hanging out with the hypochondriacs from FEMA too much.

  After surviving the pitfalls of public transportation, I would buzz into my office building with my security card and then go through the metal detector. I started carrying a bag when I worked there because it was easier to dump my phone, watch, wallet and keys into it instead of having to drop everything into a plastic bowl and then dig it all out after. There was nothing more annoying than waiting at one of the machines because some jackass who has to go through the scanner every single day couldn’t pull himself together and figure out why he kept setting the alarm off.

  When I arrived at my floor I would wander though the maze of gray cubes until I got to mine. The good thing about my location was that if some how a gunman made it onto our floor there is no way that they could find me. It took me a week to be able to find my cube on my own. The only downside was that the felt cubicle walls weren’t much protection.

  On my last day, even though I didn’t know it at the time, I couldn’t bring myself to open my e-mail program because I knew there would be e-mails from my workhorse colleagues who labored through the weekend. On a typical Monday there would be at least seventy e-mails waiting for me, but compared to some of my colleagues and their two hundred e-mails, my load was light.

  I gazed at the home screen for a minute, started to nod off, and then got up to get a cup of coffee.

  I was glad that my coffee mug was dirty because it added a few extra minutes for me to clean it, which let me stay away from my computer for a little longer. Over the weekend the sugar had glued itself to the bottom of my cup and the time that it took me to scrub it out helped me relax. Then I filled the cup with low-grade government-issue coffee and wandered back to my cubicle. I had hoped to find someone to talk to on the way back to my desk to but it wasn’t in the cards. At that point, I would have talked to anyone about their weekend.

  Eventually I opened my e-mail program and was watching it fill up with e-mails from Saturday and Sunday when Megan came over.

  “Hey dickhole. Thanks for showing up on Saturday.”

  Megan overcompensated for her cute femininity by having the foulest mouth of any person I had ever met. There were only two other females on the floor, and as the youngest by thirty years, she had learned to ward off the ill intentions of the men we worked with by insulting them with amusing anatomical sayings based on the penis. She was charming, but I wasn’t mentally ready to deal with her first thing on a Monday morning.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I forgot.”

  One of our coworkers had a party and I told people that I was going to go but I didn’t show up. My colleagues are nice enough people, but the last thing I want to talk about when I’m not at work is work.

  “Mmmhmmm,” she said. “You’ve been here for over a year now and I don’t think you’ve ever remembered to attend a party.”

  “Probably,” I said. “How about a drink or seven after work?”

  “Maybe. I’ll see you at the meetings.”

  “What meetings?”

  “Do you ever look at the group calendar?”

  “Yes, well, no.”

  “We have the Homeland Advisory Council from 9:30 to 1
1:30 and then the Data Privacy and Integrity meeting from 12:00 to 5:00.”

  “Ah fuck.”

  “We had meetings about the meetings last week.”

  “I know, I know, I forgot.” Then I turned towards my computer. “All right, then I have work to do.”

  Then she walked away.

  Our meetings were held in rooms named for famous politicians, but the space had little or nothing to do with the namesakes, unless Polk and Jefferson were involved with mass production furniture covered in bagels, fruit chunks and coffee.

  Before the two meetings, we had meetings to discuss what we were going to discuss at each meeting. We also went over the agenda and action items. A person unfamiliar with government work would think that a gathering we spent so much time preparing for would have gone well, but they would be wrong.

  A few of the department heads, responsible for making decisions, sent their minions who had no decision-making power whatsoever. When the minions were asked for their department’s input they blushed and said that they would have to talk to their bosses. Another department, actually had its boss there, but he had to have questions repeated to him because he was on his phone checking his e-mail the whole time.

  All in all, both meetings went rather well compared to the usual.

  By the time I got off I was ready to have a drink, and fortunately DC is made for happy hours. It has a fiscally poor population (entry-level jobs on the Hill pay crap) that dealing the monotony and frustration of politics, combined with the inefficiencies of government work. It’s the perfect blend for a potential alcoholic. In addition, most of the staff is either just out of college or has only been out a few years so they still drink like college students with no responsibilities.

  While we were in our meetings Congress passed our authorizing legislation, which meant that we were funded for another year. A department-wide email went out announcing that there would be a party and we went to our typical happy hour spot.

  It was also cause for my section to celebrate because we had a fight with a few members of Congress and their staff about “Shall” versus “May” clauses in a bill. If a bill says “May” then a department may or may not do the mandate, but if the bill says “Shall” the department has to do whatever the bill says.

  Our marching orders from the Secretary were to get as many “Mays” in legislation that pertained to us as possible so that he could control his agenda. I understand how boring it sounds to people who live outside of the Beltway but this is how the sausage is made, so to speak. Going out that night, the only item on the agenda was getting drunk. People in DC will use any reason they can find to break out of their tight, structured shells.

  After a few celebratory shots I decided to start some shit with my co-workers. It isn’t that I didn’t like them all the time, just not when I was drunk.

  “Hey Billy,” I said to one of the ridiculously thin terrorist assessment guys. I was a few drinks deep and determined not to be ignored.

  “Willie, Billy, Billiam!” I bellowed, getting louder with each name. He finally looked up at me.

  “Hurricane Katrina and Ike caused more damage and cost to the American people than all of the 9/11 attacks combined,” I said, “so wouldn’t it be more cost-effective to build better storm protection in the Gulf Coast than it would be for the other heightened security measures in the whole country?”

  “Here we go again,” said Megan, who was sitting next to me. “Why do you have to antagonize the nerds? It’s like we’re in high school.”

  “I bet we will have another natural disaster before we have another terrorist attack?” I ignored Megan. “What do you want to bet, 2 to 1? I’ll bet $100 against your $50?”

  “Yeah,” said Billy/Willie, “because we’ll prevent it.”

  “Okay Jack Bauer. You’ve prevented sooooo many attacks. I’m just saying that America would benefit more per dollar if you could figure out how to prevent hurricanes. We both know you didn’t stop shit. Me and Chris saw you fall while walking up the stairs two days ago so don’t act like you’re out there cuffing and stuffing bad guys.”

  “Why do you have to antagonize those guys?” said Megan pulling me away while trying to hold back her laughter.

  “They think they are so badass and all they do is sit and analyze reams of info.” I had a slight slur in my voice. The seams of my sobriety were unraveling.

  “You and the damn hurricanes,” said Megan.

  “But…”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” she said cutting me off. “I’m calling it a night. Are you done?”

  “I’m done with this place. Buncha chumps.”

  “Help me find a cab.”

  “You help me find a cab.”

  “Oh my knight in shining armor. What would I do without you?”

  “Probably bang one of those anal…yst dorks.”

  “Ha. You wish. Then I would never hear the end of it from you.”

  “Damn right.”

  As we were leaving I tried to go out a door that was locked and I slammed into it like a bird into a window

  “Come on genius.” Then she pulled me out of the unlocked door.

  We went outside and there was a cab already waiting.

  “You can catch a ride with me if you want.”

  “I’m not done yet. I’m going to The Pour House. You in?

  “It’s 10:30 on a Monday so no.”

  “All right. Later tater.”

  For a moment I almost hugged her but instead we stood there looking at each other awkwardly from a few feet away. Then she got into the cab and left. I stood outside in the rain. It was cold out, but not quite cold enough to snow. A breeze from the west cut right through my pants and suit jacket. I started to walk up the Hill when a cabbie honked at me to see if I needed a ride. I jumped in.

  When I got to The Pour House there was a steady stream of people leaving. I went upstairs to meet my friends.

  The upstairs part of The Pour House is a typical DC bar. It’s slender in width and long in length, with sticky wood floors and a hint of old beer smell from years of drunken staffers spilling everywhere. Coming up the stairs, the bar is to the right and to the left is a pool table and a random assortment of couches and mismatched tables and chairs.

  My buddies had a table. I made my rounds by shaking hands and saying, “Doctor” and in return the guys said doctor back to me in reference to the movie Spies Like Us. Quoting movies is one of the few things that bind male friendships. The others are drinking and chasing women.

  “How’s everybody doing?” I said.

  “Good,” said Craig with a smile. Craig was the elder statesman who had been working on the Hill for the past fourteen years and had been married for the last ten. He was out for his one “boys night” a week as allowed by his wife. While he didn’t ever chase women, he didn’t mind looking.

  Andrew came up with a bucket of Miller Lites and put them in the center of the table.

  Brandon said, “Three o’clock.” Brandon was a good-looking fellow who found joy in burning bridges with every woman he ever slept with.

  We used a clock system to identify where to look so that we wouldn’t have to point or describe the person we were looking at. It took a little calculating because you would have to look at the person who is calling out the time and then figure out how to read their clock. If someone is sitting directly across the table from you, their three o’clock is your nine o’clock.

  “Your three is lame,” Andrew said, “Check my midnight.”

  “I slept with your midnight,” Brandon said.

  “No way,” Craig said.

  “Hey Summer, why don’t you come over here and give Daddy a hug?” Brandon yelled to a girl with black hair standing at the bar.

  She gave him the finger and then turned her back on the table.

  “Yeah.” I said, “He definitely slept with her.”

  “Jesus.” Andrew said, “What did you do to her?”

  �
�A little bit of this, and a little bit of that.” Brandon said while making hand motions that I don’t need to describe.

  Craig ordered a round of SoCo and lime shots for the table. Whenever there is a group of guys, it’s always the married one who wants to drink the most. They want to prove that they can still drink and they have the biggest need to blow off steam.

  Then this gorgeous, petite blonde came in by herself and took a seat at the bar. She was so gorgeous that I wasn’t able to say the time on the clock for her location to alert the other guys. She had an air of confidence that moved people away from her. She was short and blonde with choppy hair that reminded me of Tinkerbelle. Not the horse-toothed Julia Roberts version of Tinkerbelle, a hot one.

  Craig swiveled his chair a little so he could get a better look at her.

  “Two two two,” said Craig, calling out the time in rapid-fire fashion.

  His frantic number calling alerted the others to look at the same moment she turned to look at us. We were morons.

  “She just looked at me,” I said, “I’m pretty sure she is into me.” That was a lie. I was talking shit.

  “Not a chance,” Brandon said. “A lady like her will steal your soul. By the time she’s done with you, you’ll wish you had never met her.”

  “So the same way you make girls feel about you?” Andrew said to Brandon.

  “It’s true though, she wants me.” I said, “She looked right at me and then her ring finger twitched, just a little bit. She’s already thinking about our wedding.”

  Even though I knew she couldn’t hear us due to the loud music and the people talking all around her, it seemed like she smiled to herself when I said that.

  “Go talk to her then,” Andrew said. “Or are you going to sit here all day and make daydream babies with her in your head.”