The Cave Dwellers

while struggling to reach for the remote control on the edge of his desk. He fails. He lowers his head and wipes sweat with the back of his forearm, then tries again. His tailored J. Press suit pants, which make him feel superior, are around his ankles as he takes Cate, his new press secretary, from behind. She’s sprawled out on his mahogany desk. Yes. Blond, a good Christian girl from San Diego, small breasts, but he doesn’t care, her face, oh her face is fucking beautiful. He flips her over, so young and sun-kissed; he doesn’t want to break her spirit, but he can’t help himself, this compulsion—he feels he needs her. He’s tired of looking into the dispassionate eyes of his wife, which are now tattooed with eyeliner. He can’t believe he’s been made senator of the great state of North Carolina, can’t believe this is his life now: the pounds of mahogany wood, brass doorknobs, a view of the Capitol. People want to hear what he has to say. The cliché would be unbearable if state officials and politicians had never coerced young interns into having sex with them in what was simply “the conference room” throughout history: drawn curtains, empty walls, a cold wooden table. At least Doug had a leather desktop; this is progress, not perfection! A photograph (when Doug still had a full head of hair) with two college buddies at President Ronald Reagan’s inauguration stares him down on his bookshelf: Look how far you’ve come.

On the television screen in Doug’s office—a millisecond: WARNING: This footage contains explicit content. Viewer discretion is advised. Static, then a shaky camera before interspersed sound bites of civilians: “Is that gunshots?… OH MY GOD, IT’S GUNSHOTS!” The sound of bullets like thundering raindrops, probably an AR-15. Civilians cast guttural screams that melt into sobs, beer cans and red cups scatter on top of what is becoming a bloodbath of average citizens that, let’s be honest, we don’t really care about. Perhaps the sound of a ticking bomb is nearby. No one knows. Not even the FBI agents. The broadcaster: “LIVE! From our nation’s cap—!”

Mute.

Doug drops the remote. It hits the side of his desk and falls to the floor with a pathetic thud.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?” She speaks. She’s worried about him.

“Nothing, nothing.” Doug’s focus reverts to Cate. He puts his hand over her mouth, cupping those plump lips, a loving gesture, because he doesn’t want to be reminded by the look of horror that will soon encompass that sweet face, a young Republican who surely must believe in sensible gun control. When she sees the young and slaughtered, she might not understand that his stocks are rising. AR-15 semiautomatic weapons are selling up to a total of fifteen every hour scrolls at the bottom of the screen.

“Yes,” Cate groans, turning her baby face from left to right, grabbing her breasts, assuming Doug is catching glimpses of her ripe nipples, watching her. But Doug isn’t looking at her at all. In fact, neither one is looking at the other. Cate, lost in her own fantasy of what she believes this is, reminds herself that she is worth it, worth losing his marriage, his children, his reputation, his self-respect—this is love, she tells herself. But really, she’s confused. She thinks about how she’s going to start her public relations firm after they publicly declare their coupling—Doug will be her first client. They will build a political empire together. Spend winter weekends hidden at the new seaside mansion in Nantucket; maybe she’ll buy him pants embroidered with baby whales on them for Christmas, he’ll love that.…

Doug humps like a pubescent boy, sweating profusely now, watching the TV as his gun stocks rise. Cate notices he’s not looking at her; she wraps her legs around his waist, pulls him into her with his tie, their noses touching. But Doug can’t bring himself to look at her. He closes his eyes, imagines the prostitute he met on a business trip to China, the porn star from the Pornhub video he watched in his home office last night before bed. He knows he’s made a mistake. He opens his eyes. He looks up. Closed captions on the screen: The AR-15 is the country’s most popular rifle, now a symbol for all sides of America’s gun debate. Gun advocates say the problem isn’t the weapon—it’s the shooter.

“Oh God, I’m going to…”

It’s one of those damp fall sunsets when red and brown leaves stick to the street as the new season descends upon the nation’s capital. The barricade outside the Russell Senate Office Building, which blocks pedestrians from getting anywhere near the parking garage, lowers into the ground, releasing Doug in his black Porsche 911 out onto the streets of Southeast DC. Bureaucrats scatter toward the Metro like little windup toy soldiers—they have no opinions. No identities, no ability to see any kind of truth other than a biweekly paycheck. Several white vans with FEDERAL POLICE: HOMELAND SECURITY written across the side blaze past. Doug doesn’t notice. He’s too busy searching for the hand sanitizer in his glove compartment while he’s calling Tim on speakerphone. Goddamn it. Doug slams the glove compartment closed, unable to find it. He sniffs his fingers.

“Hello?” A voice on the other end of the phone.

“Hey, Tim, it’s Doug,” he says, panicked.

“Hey, Doug, how are you? Haven’t heard from you in a while.” Tim’s serenity is unnerving.

“I thought about our last conversation, maybe I do have a problem. I suppose… Cate could be anyone.” Doug waits for Tim to respond, but there is only silence. “It’s just… I understand that she could be anyone from an intellectual place, but I just don’t feel that, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying.” Doug lets out a chuckle dabbled in shame.

“Uh-huh.” Tim doesn’t offer advice. “Well, I’m about to walk into Al’s right now. You are always welcome back.”

Doug tightens his grip around the steering wheel. “I’m