Author's Notes: This is my take on how Jed and Leo might have met. The story is set at an event called Boys' Nation, which is the national level of Boys' State, a mock government event sponsored by the American Legion. It's a demanding application process, which suits our two brainiacs. The story is set at the University of California at Berkley, in August of 1957.
I've already decided that I hate the guy sitting on the front row. We haven't been here for thirty minutes and I can already tell I'm going to hate him. I can't even see him from here; but his imperious voice is bouncing off the walls. I can tell you all about him without even seeing him.
He sounds like New England. Rich New England. His parents probably let him fly out here by himself from wherever he came from; New Hampshire or Connecticut or wherever. I, on the other hand, had to work the entire beginning of the summer just to make enough money for a bus ticket. I'm also on work-study here, which guarantees about thirty seconds of free time the entire three weeks.
I don't even know the other guy from Illinois. He introduced himself and said he was from Rockford or something ... I really wasn't paying attention. I don't really consider myself from Illinois yet. I feel like I should be sitting with the Massachusetts delegation. We just moved out to Chicago last summer.
He's still prattling on about something. I bet the other kid from his delegation is wishing he'd stayed home right about now. Sorry, pal. You're going to be sitting in this room at Berkley for the next three weeks with no air conditioning, Roberts Rules of Parliamentary Procedure, and the kid that won't shut up.
They finally let us out of our first session around six this evening and I had to immediately report to the kitchen for work. I didn't even have time to get back to the dorm and change out of my shirt and tie. The kitchen manager shoved an apron into my hand and stuck me at the front of the serving line. Tonight's special appears to be beef stew, though I wouldn't put my money on the ingredients.
I don't even have to look up. I hear him coming from the opposite end of the cafeteria. Let's refer to 'him' as the Mouth. He's arguing about something. They get in line and I slop some of the stew into bowls for them.
"So you're telling me you wouldn't ride the same bus as a black person," he says. I suck in a deep breath. I recognize the other kid as a delegate from Alabama and I know the Mouth is going to get himself into trouble in about thirty seconds.
"No, I'm saying they don't deserve to ride buses in the first place," Alabama says. I get my first look at the Mouth. He's actually pretty normal looking. Dark hair, no glasses; he holds himself like he's got money. But he's turning red and I can tell he's really going to get himself in trouble. Alabama's a good six inches taller than he is.
"So, in all your time studying at Cotton Pick High School, did you bother to read the Constitution of the United States?"
Most of the cafeteria is quiet now. Two other guys get up from a nearby table and the Mouth seems to shrink back into his collar. Alabama grabs his shirt and shoves him into a stack of cafeteria trays.
"Are we going to have a problem, nigger lover?" The two other guys are standing behind Alabama, ready to pounce. I take a deep breath and decide to step in.
"Come on, fellas. Let's leave the debates on the floor and eat some dinner, huh?"
Alabama and the two guys turn around. The Mouth, for once, says nothing.
"Well, that's a perfectly Catholic solution there, Tam O'Shanter," one of Alabama's cohorts snaps. Alabama releases his hold on the Mouth's shirt. My blood is boiling but I stand my ground. The Mouth is now gaping like some sort of ridiculous fish.
The three of them take their trays, never taking their eyes off of me, and sit down to eat. Conversations resume and I pull my eyes away from them to resume my task of nourishing America's finest young gentlemen. The Mouth stands there for a minute, but I don't look up. He leaves his tray and exits the cafeteria, probably in his own best interest.
I finally finish kitchen duty around nine, and I stroll out of the cafeteria, ready to get back to my dorm, have a drink, and read myself to sleep. When I exit the building, the Mouth is waiting for me.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," I nod, and continue walking.
"Hey! Wait up!"
I get a better look at him as he catches up with me. He must be a year or two my junior.
"Thanks for what you did back there. It really means a lot," the Mouth says, falling into step beside me.
"It's not that big a deal. Seriously, you gotta watch what you say. It's not safe to talk like that," I manage.
"You wanna smoke?" The Mouth offers me a cigarette. I didn't pick the Mouth as a smoker. I laugh and decline. "Where are you from?"
"I'm a delegate from Illinois," I reply. If I keep my answers short enough, maybe the Mouth will get the hint and go back to getting himself beat up.
"You don't sound like Illinois. You sound like Boston," the Mouth replies. He puffs on his cigarette.
"Yeah, I'm from Boston. My mom just moved us out here last summer," I reply.
"I'm from New Hampshire. Manchester," the Mouth is warming up. He's going to keep me here all night if I don't do something.
"Listen, you don't wanna get mixed up with me. You heard the guys back there. He's right you know; I'm a Catholic. I'm also on work-study, and I'm not what you would call the friendly type. Why don't you just go on back to the dorm and go to bed?"
"There are two Catholic delegates here, you know. You can't take all the credit," the Mouth snaps back. I think he's irritated. Maybe he'll leave me alone.
"And where do you get this information?"
"My dad is on the Boys' Nation board. He was rather amused that more than one Catholic had the audacity to fill in the 'religion' section of the application."
"And I suppose you're the other Catholic."
"Yes."
"What, your dad's not Catholic?"
"No, is yours?"
"My dad is dead."
The Mouth is gaping at me again with the fish face. I shrug and keep walking.
"Hey, wait a minute!"
I stop again.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. Seriously," the Mouth looks genuinely upset. He's a long way from New Hampshire.
"I'm Leo McGarry," I say, offering the Mouth my hand.
"I'm Jed Bartlet," the Mouth smiles. We continue walking towards the dorm.
********************************************************************
Four hours later, this Irish kid has beaten me at chess three times and gotten himself pretty drunk while doing it. I can't help but like him. I feel like I've met someone that's been living inside my brain for a year. He manages to say everything I want to say before I can say it.
I wasn't all that surprised when my application was chosen to come to Boys' Nation. I pretty much ran State this year, much to the dismay of the upperclassmen. I'll be a sophomore this fall. I wish I could just graduate and get it over with. I'm already bored with high school.
"So, Jed Bartlet. Where does the New Hampshire delegation stand on the segregation question?"
"Segregation is unconstitutional, not to mention morally wrong. Where does the Illinois delegation stand?"
"How the hell should I know? I don't even know the other kid," Leo gives me a lopsided grin. "Checkmate."
"I don't know the other kid in my delegation either. I'm pretty sure whatever I say will trump any lame idea he's come up with," I respond, ignoring his fourth victory.
"What do you say Illinois and New Hampshire work together and bring some serious segregation debate to the floor?"
"I say I'm way ahead of you," I say as I start putting the chess set away. "I made sure that my dad put segregation on the agenda."
"And how did you ensure that? Your dad sounds like he's not really susceptible to your opinion," Leo says, attempting to sit up from his lounging position on my dorm room floor.
"I took all his papers to the post office this summer while they were finalizing plans," I smile. "I just made sure everything met my approval before mailing it off."
Leo laughs. He throws his head back and almost howls.
"You're a cocky little bastard, aren't you?"
"So I've heard," I sigh. Leo is still trying to sit up.
"What time is it, anyway?"
"It's going on two," I say, glancing at my watch. Leo groans.
"I have to be in the kitchen for breakfast duty at six-thirty," he says, and finally manages to sit up. "I should probably go to bed."
"Do you ever go to sleep this early?"
"No," he says, and struggles to get to his feet.
"Me either," I say.
"My baby sister calls me old man," Leo says, beginning his attempt at walking to the door. "I can see where she might have a point."
He's struggling to stay upright. I'm not sure what was in that bottle he finished, but it must have had quite a kick.
"Where's your room, anyway?" I ask, watching him stare at the doorknob like it's the eighth wonder of the world.
"Two floors up," he says, and lunges for the door.
"You're going to need some help," I say, making a move to help him out the door.
"I'm fine," he says, and shrugs my hand off his shoulder. He opens the door and begins his journey down the hallway to the stairwell.
"Suit yourself!" I call after him. He waves clumsily without turning around.
I give him ten minutes, then proceed in his direction down the hallway. I open the door to the stairwell, and he's sitting on the third step, laughing.
"You were right," he says, looking up at me. "I probably do need some help."
I pull him off the steps and slide my arm around his shoulders.
"Just put one foot in front of the other, old man," I say. He trips over me a couple times but I manage to get him to his room and in the door with little trouble.
"So I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow, then," I say, trying not to laugh at he attempts to untie his shoes.
"Yeah, I'll be the one in the apron," he says without looking up. I watch as he gives up on his shoes and flops back onto the bed. I start to say something, but I can tell he's already passed out.
***************************************************************
My alarm woke me up this morning at five-thirty. I nearly fell out of bed trying to shut it off. I've never had a hangover this bad. Granted, I really haven't been drinking that long. I've never finished a bottle before, but I polished one off last night. I'm not really sure why. I was actually having quite a good time with the Mouth.
Maybe I drank so I wouldn't have to make conversation. Not that it mattered, because the Mouth more than made up for my lack of conversational skill. The Mouth's name is Josiah Bartlet, he's fifteen years old, he's from Manchester, New Hampshire, and he loves Ray Bradbury.
It's really quite possible that we were twins separated at birth.
And, you know, look nothing alike. But I digress.
I don't really like to talk about myself. I don't see what the big deal is. But the Mouth seemed to get that. He didn't ask me too many questions. He just sat there and talked about Ray Bradbury while I kicked his ass at chess. Four times.
He talked about segregation, though. And I'm pretty sure he got into a lot of trouble with his father for doctoring papers en route to the post office. But this kid didn't seem to mind. He seems to really want these unbearable wrongs righted in our country.
The Mouth quoted Gandhi last night, and I really don't even think he realized he was doing it. He's probably said it so many times it doesn't register that he's quoting someone.
When I got on the bus in downtown Chicago, I expected to come out to California and be laughed at. I promised myself I'd say what I meant, no matter what. Then I meet this kid. This kid who's read Gandhi and believes in things that I don't even think our leaders believe in anymore.
This kid wants to know things about me. He's interested in who I am. Where I come from. Why I believe what I believe. I've never met anyone like that. Even my poor sisters get tired of me preaching to them about the downfall of the country. Elizabeth calls me the 'old man.' But I really feel like one sometimes. I bet she wouldn't call me that anymore if she knew.
*****************************************************************
"So, Leopold isn't an Irish name," I say as we walk to our morning session after breakfast.
"Did you just realize that?"
"No, I'm just wondering how you ended up-"
"My mom first heard it in a movie while she was pregnant with me. I'm named after Leopold Stokowski," Leo cuts me off. I can't help but smile.
"You're named after the conductor of the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra?"
"She saw him in Fantasia. It was a cartoon," Leo says, sounding slightly irritated.
"I know what Fantasia is," I shoot back. "So, Leopold Stokowski McGarry?"
"Leopold Thomas McGarry. My name itself is a melting pot," he rolls his eyes at me.
"You know who I'm named after?"
"One of the signers of the Declaration of Independence."
I think I'm gaping at him. It's not surprising when someone at home recognizes my family name, but some smart-ass kid from Chicago? It's uncanny. He's laughing at me.
"So where's Thomas come from?"
"My dad," he says. I see something pass over his face, but I'm not sure what emotion it was. I let is pass.
"It's a good name," I say.
"Yeah," he agrees. "So what are we discussing in this morning's session?"
I grin.
"The economy."
TBC
I've already decided that I hate the guy sitting on the front row. We haven't been here for thirty minutes and I can already tell I'm going to hate him. I can't even see him from here; but his imperious voice is bouncing off the walls. I can tell you all about him without even seeing him.
He sounds like New England. Rich New England. His parents probably let him fly out here by himself from wherever he came from; New Hampshire or Connecticut or wherever. I, on the other hand, had to work the entire beginning of the summer just to make enough money for a bus ticket. I'm also on work-study here, which guarantees about thirty seconds of free time the entire three weeks.
I don't even know the other guy from Illinois. He introduced himself and said he was from Rockford or something ... I really wasn't paying attention. I don't really consider myself from Illinois yet. I feel like I should be sitting with the Massachusetts delegation. We just moved out to Chicago last summer.
He's still prattling on about something. I bet the other kid from his delegation is wishing he'd stayed home right about now. Sorry, pal. You're going to be sitting in this room at Berkley for the next three weeks with no air conditioning, Roberts Rules of Parliamentary Procedure, and the kid that won't shut up.
They finally let us out of our first session around six this evening and I had to immediately report to the kitchen for work. I didn't even have time to get back to the dorm and change out of my shirt and tie. The kitchen manager shoved an apron into my hand and stuck me at the front of the serving line. Tonight's special appears to be beef stew, though I wouldn't put my money on the ingredients.
I don't even have to look up. I hear him coming from the opposite end of the cafeteria. Let's refer to 'him' as the Mouth. He's arguing about something. They get in line and I slop some of the stew into bowls for them.
"So you're telling me you wouldn't ride the same bus as a black person," he says. I suck in a deep breath. I recognize the other kid as a delegate from Alabama and I know the Mouth is going to get himself into trouble in about thirty seconds.
"No, I'm saying they don't deserve to ride buses in the first place," Alabama says. I get my first look at the Mouth. He's actually pretty normal looking. Dark hair, no glasses; he holds himself like he's got money. But he's turning red and I can tell he's really going to get himself in trouble. Alabama's a good six inches taller than he is.
"So, in all your time studying at Cotton Pick High School, did you bother to read the Constitution of the United States?"
Most of the cafeteria is quiet now. Two other guys get up from a nearby table and the Mouth seems to shrink back into his collar. Alabama grabs his shirt and shoves him into a stack of cafeteria trays.
"Are we going to have a problem, nigger lover?" The two other guys are standing behind Alabama, ready to pounce. I take a deep breath and decide to step in.
"Come on, fellas. Let's leave the debates on the floor and eat some dinner, huh?"
Alabama and the two guys turn around. The Mouth, for once, says nothing.
"Well, that's a perfectly Catholic solution there, Tam O'Shanter," one of Alabama's cohorts snaps. Alabama releases his hold on the Mouth's shirt. My blood is boiling but I stand my ground. The Mouth is now gaping like some sort of ridiculous fish.
The three of them take their trays, never taking their eyes off of me, and sit down to eat. Conversations resume and I pull my eyes away from them to resume my task of nourishing America's finest young gentlemen. The Mouth stands there for a minute, but I don't look up. He leaves his tray and exits the cafeteria, probably in his own best interest.
I finally finish kitchen duty around nine, and I stroll out of the cafeteria, ready to get back to my dorm, have a drink, and read myself to sleep. When I exit the building, the Mouth is waiting for me.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," I nod, and continue walking.
"Hey! Wait up!"
I get a better look at him as he catches up with me. He must be a year or two my junior.
"Thanks for what you did back there. It really means a lot," the Mouth says, falling into step beside me.
"It's not that big a deal. Seriously, you gotta watch what you say. It's not safe to talk like that," I manage.
"You wanna smoke?" The Mouth offers me a cigarette. I didn't pick the Mouth as a smoker. I laugh and decline. "Where are you from?"
"I'm a delegate from Illinois," I reply. If I keep my answers short enough, maybe the Mouth will get the hint and go back to getting himself beat up.
"You don't sound like Illinois. You sound like Boston," the Mouth replies. He puffs on his cigarette.
"Yeah, I'm from Boston. My mom just moved us out here last summer," I reply.
"I'm from New Hampshire. Manchester," the Mouth is warming up. He's going to keep me here all night if I don't do something.
"Listen, you don't wanna get mixed up with me. You heard the guys back there. He's right you know; I'm a Catholic. I'm also on work-study, and I'm not what you would call the friendly type. Why don't you just go on back to the dorm and go to bed?"
"There are two Catholic delegates here, you know. You can't take all the credit," the Mouth snaps back. I think he's irritated. Maybe he'll leave me alone.
"And where do you get this information?"
"My dad is on the Boys' Nation board. He was rather amused that more than one Catholic had the audacity to fill in the 'religion' section of the application."
"And I suppose you're the other Catholic."
"Yes."
"What, your dad's not Catholic?"
"No, is yours?"
"My dad is dead."
The Mouth is gaping at me again with the fish face. I shrug and keep walking.
"Hey, wait a minute!"
I stop again.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. Seriously," the Mouth looks genuinely upset. He's a long way from New Hampshire.
"I'm Leo McGarry," I say, offering the Mouth my hand.
"I'm Jed Bartlet," the Mouth smiles. We continue walking towards the dorm.
********************************************************************
Four hours later, this Irish kid has beaten me at chess three times and gotten himself pretty drunk while doing it. I can't help but like him. I feel like I've met someone that's been living inside my brain for a year. He manages to say everything I want to say before I can say it.
I wasn't all that surprised when my application was chosen to come to Boys' Nation. I pretty much ran State this year, much to the dismay of the upperclassmen. I'll be a sophomore this fall. I wish I could just graduate and get it over with. I'm already bored with high school.
"So, Jed Bartlet. Where does the New Hampshire delegation stand on the segregation question?"
"Segregation is unconstitutional, not to mention morally wrong. Where does the Illinois delegation stand?"
"How the hell should I know? I don't even know the other kid," Leo gives me a lopsided grin. "Checkmate."
"I don't know the other kid in my delegation either. I'm pretty sure whatever I say will trump any lame idea he's come up with," I respond, ignoring his fourth victory.
"What do you say Illinois and New Hampshire work together and bring some serious segregation debate to the floor?"
"I say I'm way ahead of you," I say as I start putting the chess set away. "I made sure that my dad put segregation on the agenda."
"And how did you ensure that? Your dad sounds like he's not really susceptible to your opinion," Leo says, attempting to sit up from his lounging position on my dorm room floor.
"I took all his papers to the post office this summer while they were finalizing plans," I smile. "I just made sure everything met my approval before mailing it off."
Leo laughs. He throws his head back and almost howls.
"You're a cocky little bastard, aren't you?"
"So I've heard," I sigh. Leo is still trying to sit up.
"What time is it, anyway?"
"It's going on two," I say, glancing at my watch. Leo groans.
"I have to be in the kitchen for breakfast duty at six-thirty," he says, and finally manages to sit up. "I should probably go to bed."
"Do you ever go to sleep this early?"
"No," he says, and struggles to get to his feet.
"Me either," I say.
"My baby sister calls me old man," Leo says, beginning his attempt at walking to the door. "I can see where she might have a point."
He's struggling to stay upright. I'm not sure what was in that bottle he finished, but it must have had quite a kick.
"Where's your room, anyway?" I ask, watching him stare at the doorknob like it's the eighth wonder of the world.
"Two floors up," he says, and lunges for the door.
"You're going to need some help," I say, making a move to help him out the door.
"I'm fine," he says, and shrugs my hand off his shoulder. He opens the door and begins his journey down the hallway to the stairwell.
"Suit yourself!" I call after him. He waves clumsily without turning around.
I give him ten minutes, then proceed in his direction down the hallway. I open the door to the stairwell, and he's sitting on the third step, laughing.
"You were right," he says, looking up at me. "I probably do need some help."
I pull him off the steps and slide my arm around his shoulders.
"Just put one foot in front of the other, old man," I say. He trips over me a couple times but I manage to get him to his room and in the door with little trouble.
"So I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow, then," I say, trying not to laugh at he attempts to untie his shoes.
"Yeah, I'll be the one in the apron," he says without looking up. I watch as he gives up on his shoes and flops back onto the bed. I start to say something, but I can tell he's already passed out.
***************************************************************
My alarm woke me up this morning at five-thirty. I nearly fell out of bed trying to shut it off. I've never had a hangover this bad. Granted, I really haven't been drinking that long. I've never finished a bottle before, but I polished one off last night. I'm not really sure why. I was actually having quite a good time with the Mouth.
Maybe I drank so I wouldn't have to make conversation. Not that it mattered, because the Mouth more than made up for my lack of conversational skill. The Mouth's name is Josiah Bartlet, he's fifteen years old, he's from Manchester, New Hampshire, and he loves Ray Bradbury.
It's really quite possible that we were twins separated at birth.
And, you know, look nothing alike. But I digress.
I don't really like to talk about myself. I don't see what the big deal is. But the Mouth seemed to get that. He didn't ask me too many questions. He just sat there and talked about Ray Bradbury while I kicked his ass at chess. Four times.
He talked about segregation, though. And I'm pretty sure he got into a lot of trouble with his father for doctoring papers en route to the post office. But this kid didn't seem to mind. He seems to really want these unbearable wrongs righted in our country.
The Mouth quoted Gandhi last night, and I really don't even think he realized he was doing it. He's probably said it so many times it doesn't register that he's quoting someone.
When I got on the bus in downtown Chicago, I expected to come out to California and be laughed at. I promised myself I'd say what I meant, no matter what. Then I meet this kid. This kid who's read Gandhi and believes in things that I don't even think our leaders believe in anymore.
This kid wants to know things about me. He's interested in who I am. Where I come from. Why I believe what I believe. I've never met anyone like that. Even my poor sisters get tired of me preaching to them about the downfall of the country. Elizabeth calls me the 'old man.' But I really feel like one sometimes. I bet she wouldn't call me that anymore if she knew.
*****************************************************************
"So, Leopold isn't an Irish name," I say as we walk to our morning session after breakfast.
"Did you just realize that?"
"No, I'm just wondering how you ended up-"
"My mom first heard it in a movie while she was pregnant with me. I'm named after Leopold Stokowski," Leo cuts me off. I can't help but smile.
"You're named after the conductor of the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra?"
"She saw him in Fantasia. It was a cartoon," Leo says, sounding slightly irritated.
"I know what Fantasia is," I shoot back. "So, Leopold Stokowski McGarry?"
"Leopold Thomas McGarry. My name itself is a melting pot," he rolls his eyes at me.
"You know who I'm named after?"
"One of the signers of the Declaration of Independence."
I think I'm gaping at him. It's not surprising when someone at home recognizes my family name, but some smart-ass kid from Chicago? It's uncanny. He's laughing at me.
"So where's Thomas come from?"
"My dad," he says. I see something pass over his face, but I'm not sure what emotion it was. I let is pass.
"It's a good name," I say.
"Yeah," he agrees. "So what are we discussing in this morning's session?"
I grin.
"The economy."
TBC