Trying to get ten people to one place is nearly killing me. In theory, of course, we’re flat and decentralised, a group of people just trying to eke out an existence during the apocalypse in peace. In practice, we’re not exactly trying to go out Come Join Our Disease style, and being holed up on poverty wages in New York isn’t a great way to live. Which means that, yes, the Napoleon Club is trying to organise a field trip.
It’s not going well. Accommodation in Washington is expensive as all hell, the joke value of “let’s all go see the Washington Monument as a symbol of The American Dream” has long since faded, and three separate people are trying to book train tickets on a system that seems to actively hate us. And then there’s the one guy flying in from California, who probably shouldn’t even belong here because he’s actually holding down a house and a family (but then again, you also flew out here to join them, didn’t you, playing the world’s worst cult leader). The ratty purple sofa we got on sale bends under the weight of three creeping deadlines, and the brownstones seem to sweat outside the windows. Jesus, how is it still so hot?
And all the while, creeping in the back of my head, a small voice whispers: “If someone would just stand up and take charge, end all this discussion and wishy-washy pushing about of responsibilities, wouldn’t it be so much easier?”
“Aren’t you failing them, by not standing up?”
“They believed in you, and now you’re just another cog in this dysfunctional machine.”
“Nobody knows how little time is left before it all goes.”
I grit my teeth and turn back to the excel spreadsheet. This has to work. Outside, unabated and uncaring, the world creeps towards midnight.