Published Jun 12, 2005
While on the campaign trail, I thought I would take a break and see an old friend for dinner. My car drove me and my chief of staff along the 1, up the curves of the coast, to a restaurant on the top of a small rise overlooking the Pacific. Inside, we ate a grand gourmet repast.
Sadly, at the end of the meal my stomach was a bit upset. On the last of a few trips to the bathroom, three beautiful college girls asked me if I was ok. I admitted that I was experencing some stomach distress, and, after some flirtatious banter, one of the women offered me three pills from her handbag. Somewhat sheepish, I took them and, back at the table, added them to a pocket of my backpack that was filled with Advil.
Later, chatting with the three women and having a cocktail on the large lawn of the restaurant, I saw a police officer approaching. I looked over and saw my chief of staff; “I needed to do this now,” he said, “to stop the problem before it got too late.” The cop cuffed my hands in front of me, and grabbed my backpack to search it. “I can’t believe you did this to me,” I screamed, as I shoved my Chief Of Staff against a portico’s pillar and battered him with my cuffed hands.
After a few blows, and with my Chief of Staff mostly unharmed, my anger subsided. It was replaced by tremendous regret, regret that I had accepted those three pills. I had only accepted them out of politeness, and hadd never planned to take them, but those pills were in my bag. What were they — were they prescription medication, over-the-counter medication, or illegal drugs? Would the cop find them? Would my campaign end, and my downfall be assured, by my Chief Of Staff’s betrayal and my own overly-friendly acceptance of the pills?
Of course, I will never know, because then I woke up.