Washington, DC
Legs together, toes pointed, just the right amount of spring, Vic Summerfield launched into a shallow dive. Once he hit the pool, he churned through the water. First one direction, then the other, as regular as a metronome. Swimming laps was not as easy as it looked. A good swimmer fought the water to advance, then used the resulting force to glide. All in the same stroke. Life was the same way, he thought. First resistance, then surrender. Yin and yang. The trick was to know when and where to apply each.
Vic had suffered the hard knocks of failure, relished the results of success. But he’d been willing to make the effort, to go the extra lap. Not many of his generation did. They grew up thinking they were special snowflakes, entitled to unlimited success and happiness just because they’d won a goddam trophy in third grade for “achievement” in soccer. Or hockey. Their only achievement was showing up, which their mothers had made them do. They were all a bunch of whiners, complaining that the world owed them greatness.
He executed his flip turns, allowing himself a touch of pride. How many other swimmers knew how to poise their body, flip over, and push off without missing a beat? You had to be precisely the right distance away from the end of the lane when you made a somersault, then apply the force of your legs to propel you forward. It took skill. And practice.
But wasn’t that the prescription for success? Especially in this town. If you wanted to make it in DC, you had to know when to push and when to concede. Without showing your hand. That was rule one. Maybe the only rule, despite the chaos that had ensued from the election. He’d once dated a woman who quit her job in broadcasting because she couldn’t bear the thought of walking into yet another party knowing she wanted to exploit the politicos in the room for a story, while they wanted to exploit her to get their guy on the news. She couldn’t handle the cynicism. Vic was of tougher stuff. He wouldn’t quit.
He performed another turn and swam his last length. He’d done almost a mile. Time to get out, shower, get to work. He made himself sprint to the shallow end, pulled up, and started to inhale a chlorine-scented breath. The acidic smell brought back happy memories of the community pool in which he’d thrashed and learned how to swim. Now, though, his reverie was cut short by a pair of Berluti boots at eye level, filling the view through his goggles. Vic looked up, ignoring the tiny rivulets of water that streamed down his cheeks. A man in an impeccably tailored bespoke suit glared at him.
“How much did the assholes pay you to fuck me over?” his boss, Carl Baldwin, hissed.