The Accidental Conservative: The Improbable Story of My Time in the Echo Chamber

By Jim Riggins

In the early nineties, Jim Riggins became a conservative on a bet. He didnt expect to enjoy the ruse but did. Years later, he found himself in the White House working for George W. Bush. Life was good for the GOP, but thanks to the Right's fealty to authority, the party stumbled. As a result, a plan to win back the hearts and minds of America was devised.

Along with chicken-hawks like El Rushbo, Glen Beck, Sean Hannity and, of course, Sarah Palin, Forty-Three enlists in the Army after his two terms. He does so at the direction of Dick Cheney who also orders Jim to enlist and run interference for the former president. But theres a problem. Americans are dying in Afghanistan and Iraq. Then Vietnam attacks a neighbor and provides the group a warzone where Americans arent dying.

Trained up, the flock deploys to Vietnam Part II where Charlie attacks its vehicle and throws its members into a POW camp. Starved and sick, the group is forced to survive in the jungle under the ideological Colonel Mai. But the group can go home if it agrees to do one thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463407599

Jim Riggins

Jim “Chubby” Riggins got his start in the early nineties at the University of Oregon where he started a chapter of the College Republican National Committee with the help of Jack Abramhoff. As chapter president, Jim organized campus canvases, ran mock elections, organized lobbying efforts and managed get-out-the-vote drives, all while he earned a degree in political science. After college, Jim went on to enjoy tremendous success raising money for local and national republican candidates. This led to a position working for the former Oregon Senator, Bob Packwood, before the senator left the senate under less than favorable conditions. Jim then moved to Washington D.C. where Jack Abramhoff introduced him to the inner workings and main players of the Grand Old Party. This eventually provided Jim the opportunity to join George W. Bush’s administration and work in the White House where he was later appointed to the role of Forty-Three’s personal minder.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A television at the foot of my bed blinked to life and Nora O’Donnell stared at me with those blue eyes. Early this morning, said the attractive brunette, Vietnamese forces shot down a Thai helicopter that Hanoi says crossed into Cambodian airspace or what Hanoi now claims as its own since it took control of its western neighbor three months ago. Details are sketchy at this hour, continued MSNBC’s chief Washington D.C. correspondent, but one source stated that at least three Thai soldiers died in the attack. As a result, Thai leaders have issued a formal complaint with the U.N. and recalled its ambassador to Vietnam. A spokesman for the communist government in Hanoi had no comment except to say that his government will take all measures necessary to protect its borders.

I go by a lot of names—Jimmy, James, Riggins, Riggs—but sign my checks Jim Riggins. The night before, I went out with friends and got carried away. I’d been doing that more and more—the getting carried away part, not the going out with friends.

Usually, I was too tired to go out after work and, like Mr. George Thorogood, preferred to drink alone. It had gotten to where I needed seven or eight beers, sometimes more, to muffle the voices. I say muffle because even deep inebriation was no match for the constant nagging in my head. Go now! Drop everything and run! What are you waiting for?

But I had attained a bit of respectability in my life. As an aide to the president, I had responsibilities to him and to the country and even to myself. I never was the poster-child for responsible behavior, but I was trying. Unnerved by Nora’s report, I crawled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom.

Breakfast was cold cereal and banana, and as usual, I sat on my tattered couch in the small living-room of my tattered apartment to watch news. Snippets of the broadcast forced me to pause with my spoon in the air.

According to one, parts of the Eighty-Second Airborne Division had been called up after being home from Iraq for only three months. Unsurprisingly, several top Republicans—none of whom had ever served in the military—chimed in to signal their support for defending Thailand against the scourge of communism.

These same men and one woman also brushed aside calls for an exit strategy or timelines. Sending troops to Thailand, the Republican members claimed, would show the terrorists in Afghanistan that they couldn’t win.

In response, Democrats on the Armed Services Committees in both houses asked the Bush Administration to go slow. They didn’t want the president to send more of America’s children into harm’s way without exhausting diplomatic efforts.

But a spokesman for the administration pushed back with the argument that defeating one rogue regime would create a domino effect in the region. First Vietnam then North Korea and possibly even China would topple into obscurity.

Familiar with the debunked claim, I pulled the door shut ten minutes later and walked two blocks to the Van Dorn Street subway station on the southern outskirts of Washington, D.C.

I heeded the weather guy’s warning to bring an umbrella but didn’t need it. The temperature was only around forty but any rain had decided to hold off. Five minutes into my silent vigil, a train clattered up to the platform and eased to a stop. Pairs of doors slid apart and my little group of fellow commuters boarded the last car.

Allergic to eye-contact so early, I took a molded, plastic seat next to a window and withdrew into my thoughts. The doors swooshed shut then the dozen or so of us in the back car jostled up to speed.

I purchased a paper from one of those spring-loaded boxes outside the station but didn’t feel like reading. Instead, I stared out the window at nothing and wondered where it was that I had taken a wrong turn in my life. I couldn’t say for sure, but getting involved in the Republican Party had to be near the top.

I sat and stared without seeing until Arlington National Cemetery came into focus on my left. I gave a cursory glance for visitors among the rows of white head-markers and green foliage but it was still too early. The day needed a couple more hours before mostly tourists, but also friends and family members, trickled in to pay their respect to America’s fallen.

As usually, I tried not to think of all the Americans who had died needlessly during the Bush Administration. I had long ago lost the ability to rationalize their deaths.

We raced passed the rolling hills and deciduous trees of the cemetery and I drifted out again. I was vaguely aware of the next stop on our route then sort of watched as we first approached then rumbled over the Potomac River. Below and in the distance, Jefferson’s bulbous memorial sat in a layer of fog and also waited for visitors.

The train stopped one more time then slowed for Farragut West. That was my station and by then I had worked myself into a frazzle. A familiar headache—one of the low-grade kind that hammers away at its victim throughout the day—woke up and said good-morning.

According to the doc, stress and probably alcohol caused mine but who really knows? I was a victim of my own stupidity.

Head in an invisible vice, I languished over the addition of more headstones to an already crowded Arlington, and for a moment, entertained the idea of not going to work. Not that I had a choice. Mine wasn’t a job one called into and said that he wasn’t going to make it.

Oh, good-morning, Betty, I’d say lightly. I’m not feeling so hot and can’t make it in today. Could you let somebody know for me? You can? Gee, thanks. Oh, I’m sure I will by tomorrow. Alright. Take care. Bye-bye.

Resigned to the day ahead, I stepped from the car into the cavernous station and followed the muted crowd up an elevator to the surface. An old, black guy in a red beret and white beard stood under an overhang near the exit. He and his dented saxophone showed up most mornings to earn a few bucks entertaining passersby.

By their general state of scruffiness, the two might have been together for years if not decades. Eyes closed and cheeks round, the skinny man played something jazzy that I would have enjoyed in another place and time.

The stooped musician had opened his instrument’s case and laid it on the ground in front of him. A few coins and several dollar bills lay scattered over the case’s red felt bottom. But with no change or bills of any kind, I slinked by the old saxophonist without slowing.

A coffee joint with a name that doesn’t rhyme with barfucks lay on the way. I often stopped in when I wasn’t running late and bought a large latte instead of one of those venti things that piss me off so much.

Inside the trendy nook, I got in line behind a nervous little man who kept staring at his watch. Two skimmed-milk, nutmeg, artichoke, sides-of-beef lattes later, I stepped up and flirted with the barista behind the counter.

I went through my entire ten-second repertoire with the chesty, little blond then mumbled something stupid about the weather. The young woman was polite enough to smile but couldn’t find the energy for anything more. My flirting always needed work and weather isn’t funny.

I paid for my order then stepped aside and waited as a familiar gloom settled in my gut and extinguished what little joy had made it past Arlington. All of a sudden, the possibility of more dead Americans—young Americans, sons and daughters and new parents—not only seemed likely but probable.

I waited and watched the young beauty from the corner of one eye. I was feeling the specter of mortality more than usual and hoped she was too old to be a hypothetical daughter had I knocked up some unfortunate soul earlier in life.

I wanted to believe she was and tried to convince myself by inflating her age. She had that optimistic, save-the-world look of a senior collegian.

But at thirty-eight, I was somewhere in the ball-park of being old enough to be her father. Faster and faster, I was approaching that middle-age thing if I wasn’t already there.

Worse still, I was missing out on the opportunity to start a family of my own and enjoy the American dream. Gloomy but with a large latte in one hand, I left the small nook and walked the final two blocks to the White House.

Chapter 2

I unloaded my briefcase in a small West Wing office that I shared with several other aides then checked in with the president’s secretary.

Forty-Three had summoned me to a meeting in the Oval Office. That was the sole reason I didn’t blow off the day and hit a ballgame or go back to bed. Even if a guy is a clueless dipshit, which I think history will conclude, you don’t blow off the president.

Nervously, I turned off my cell phone and reported for duty.

Vice-President Cheney and Karl Rove were already in the storied room and seated across from the president. Listen, Mr. President, grumbled the vice-president as I walked in and took a seat against the wall to the president’s right and the other men’s left. Have I ever been wrong before? Forty-Three looked up from behind his desk.

With much of his hair now gray and the lines deeper in his face, the president had put on ten years in the past several. He had pushed his leather chair away from the desk and gotten down on his knees in the empty space. Hunched down, only his eyes peered at us over his desk.

The leader of the free world held an orange Hot Wheel Camaro from the late sixties in one hand and a blue Sting Ray from the same era in the other.

He placed the cars down and squinted at the vice-president. But whatever Cheney said didn’t register. Confused, Forty-Three rolled his eyes to his senior advisor, Rove, for help. Hey, Turd, said W in that goddamn twang of his.

Sir? said Karl Rove and sat up straighter. Doughy and balding with a weak chin, a roll of fat squeezed over the collar of his white dress-shirt. Rove looked like a guy with something to hide.

I imagined dubious back-room deals or the possibility of a child imprisoned in a hole behind his house. For the tenth or hundredth time, I wondered how the senior aide had cow-towed to a man like Bush for thirty years. But if anybody could kiss ass to get ahead, Karl could.

Early on, the devious man must have concluded that only by latching onto a person like Forty-Three could he ever hope to achieve fame and fortune. Like a human pilot fish, Rove swam along with his host, the president, and drafted off his power.

Was you lissenin, Turd? asked the president from behind his desk. He screwed up his face to look serious, which deepened the lines in his forehead.

Yes, sir, answered Rove and smoothed his red tie.

Well, then, replied Forty-Three. What d’you think? Is Dick here a person reflecting a half-glass full of mentality?

Rove pushed his glasses higher up on his nose with a finger and cleared his throat. I’m not sure what you mean, sir. Rove presented a bland smile and waited.

What do I mean, dag nabbit? shouted the president and waved the Camaro at his top advisor. He stood up taller on his knees so we could see his entire face. What do I mean? continued the president. I mean there ain’t no cave deep enough for America or dark enough to hide is what I mean.

I agree, sir, said Rove with feigned respect. He had enjoyed the symbiotic relationship with the president long enough to feign well.

Dick, said the president and looked at Cheney. Would you ‘splain to my thick-headed ‘visor here what it is I’m sayin.

Yes, sir, grumbled the vice-president and straightened up his slouch. He had known the younger Bush since Forty-Three’s days of snorting coke from the cleavages of call-girls. Over the decades, the former Halliburton CEO had learned to communicate with the president. Dick turned to his left and grumbled. The president wants to know what you think about my proposal.

You’re serious? asked Pudge in a shaky voice. He looked at the president then back to the V.P. Rove’s gravy train for the past three decades was being threatened and he couldn’t help but show fear.

Very serious, grumbled the V.P, who I’d taken to calling Eeyore for his dour outlook and all-around unpleasantness. Forty-Three had gone back to his Hot Wheels and, once again, only his eyes up appeared over the desk’s flat surface.

You think, said Rove and swallowed hard, that the president should join the guard again? The man known as Turdblossom turned to his boss and dropped his chin several degrees to look him in the eyes. This had the effect of squeezing the role of fat from under his chin even farther. Rove ran a soft hand over his bald head then wiped it off on one knee. Visibly scared now, he turned to the vice-president. But this time as an enlisted member? The president looked up from his desk where he had created a racetrack of paperclips.

Yes, grumbled Eeyore.

In response, President Bush shouted a hearty, Vroooom! then an equally hearty, Errrrr! and, finally, a Krrrrr! as the Camaro spun out of control and slammed into a stack of books that had been left on the president’s desk to make guests think he was reading them. The top book was Winston Churchill’s The War Speeches.

Pudge waited for the ill-fated car to come to a rest then cleared his throat again. He smoothed the red tie and turned his whole body towards Eeyore. A halo of light reflected off his moist head. The president, started the human pilot fish, won’t go into combat will he?

Rove’s face had filled with some color and he looked ready to attack Cheney if he heard the wrong answer. The career sycophant was smart enough to know that without his golden goose, he would eventually be another hapless casualty of the Bush Administration.

Of course not, grumbled Cheney from where he leaned forward in his chair. George will be in-country but away from the danger. We’ll find him an administrative position somewhere safe. Pudge raised a hand to protest but Eeyore was ahead of him and brushed it away. I’m way ahead of you, Karl, he grumbled. A position without much responsibility." Rove sat back and pinched what substituted for a chin.

From under the desk now, the president said, I heard that, Dick. His voice was muffled and echoed in the small space.

Rove dropped the hand from his chin. I knew he was worried about his future but surprised me. It just might work, said Forty-Three’s aid, his eyes blank and mind already running through the pros and cons of his boss’ enlistment and how it would benefit him.

Eeyore nodded sagely. When have I ever been wrong? he asked Rove. From under the desk, an annoying bray of laughter drifted out. The sound, I had decided, was that of a hyena if played too fast on an old record player.

Pudge ignored the question. Okay, he said. A stint in combat or at least close to combat will solidify the president’s record for all time. He’ll go down in history as one of the nation’s greatest statesmen.

Then it’s settled, said Eeyore and nodded as if he never doubted the conversation’s outcome. George, he grumbled. We’ve come to a decision.

Chapter 3

From my place in the big car’s back seat, I looked out my window as the bald Secret Service agent across from me slowed the black Town Car and turned onto a cobblestone driveway. The man paused for a wrought-iron gate to swing in from both sides then drove into the property.

A hundred yards ahead and surrounded by a sea of green lawn, an expansive, two-story house stood in manicured opulence. The agent gave the big car gas and we accelerated up the stone driveway.

I had seen the fortyish man around the White House and at presidential events but had never spoken to him. He seemed familiar with the routine and maintained a silence he had since our departure from the hustle and bustle of D.C. forty-five minutes before.

Fifty feet from the house, the middle door of the house’s three-bay garage started to rise. The burly agent slowed for the door to open all the way then drove into the cavern’s murky interior.

A blue Suburban like those used to ferry politicians and dignitaries around D.C. sat in the left bay in official silence. Its acres of windows were blacked-out and hinted to the importance of its former passenger or passengers. My imagination struggled to guess who was already in the house, offered up several possibilities then left me hanging.

The agent eased up next to the big SUV and shut off the motor as the white, aluminum door banged down behind us. I was now a guest of the United States Secret Service and would leave when allowed to leave.

In front of me, the driver tipped his chin and looked in the rearview mirror. Please, get out, Mr. Riggins, he said but made no effort to do so himself. Another agent will escort you inside.

Right on cue, a tall figure in a dark suit emerged from the shadows and approached the car. I was already nervous and the sudden appearance of another man only made the situation worse. But I knew better than to ignore an order from the Secret Service and slid out.

The second agent, six-two or three with an athletic build and in his mid-forties, wore his salt and pepper hair in the style of soldiers—flat on the top and short everywhere else. I knew him better than my driver but not well enough to joke with him. He had always treated me with respect but no deference. I was too far down the food-chain for deference.

How was the drive? he asked me in a deep voice. I’ll refer to him as David.

Fine, I said and winced at the nervousness in my voice.

David nodded. Then follow me, please, he said and turned away. The middle-aged agent strode over to a set of stairs that led up to a door, glided up the five steps and entered the house.

Three steps behind, I did the same except for the gliding.

I followed David through a mudroom decked out in all the bells and whistles—deep sink, benches and more cupboards than most kitchens. I hurried to stay up with the taller man, turned left behind him and into a wide hallway.

Twenty feet farther, we entered a designer kitchen of cherry, granite and stainless steel. The room was bigger than my tiny apartment in Alexandria, cleaner and much more inviting. If any of the appliances had been used, I couldn’t tell.

David slowed for me to examine the room then veered around a large island on his way into the great-room.

Naked beams met at the center of the twenty-foot ceiling, while around us, a dozen or more stuffed animal heads followed our movement with glassy eyes. Most of the trophies looked African but three or four ungulates and what might have been a black bear looked home-grown.

At the far end of the large room, an oversized stone fireplace with no fire dominated the wall. A weathered timber, something closer to a log with a flattened top, formed the mantel. A ring-necked pheasant adorned in green and red iridescent plumage posed near one end and stared past us to where a wide staircase led up to the second floor.

Follow me, said David then walked over to the first step and checked his watch. I couldn’t help but envy the tall man’s high cheek bones and square chin. With my slight paunch and washed-out features, I stood in marked contrast.

In school, I had always been chosen somewhere in the middle of the group when divvied into teams. But David, like most of his fellow agents, was of a higher order. He had always been picked first then ran roughshod over the rest of us.

David looked at me, turned his hand over and spoke into his wrist. Chubby is here, he said, using my code name.

Chubby, I thought for the thousandth time. What the fuck? Other White House staff had names like Patriot and Matrix yet I ended up with Chubby? What’s going on? I asked, but didn’t receive an answer.

David checked his watch again. If he had been friendly, he was now all business.

The two of us stood for several minutes until a door upstairs opened and broke the silence. This was followed by the murmur of a man’s voice then the door closed. Interested, I looked up as the tap tap tap of a woman’s shoes on a hardwood floor ricocheted off the walls and down to us. Seconds later, a woman strode from the right and into view.

She wore a red dress that clung to narrow hips and a thin waist. Lighted from behind, her features were hidden. She laid the fingers of her left hand on the railing and descended towards us with a silky ease that forced me to stare.

Immediately, the woman saw the two of us staring and stood taller. As intended, the move thrust out her full chest and set the hook. The woman’s face remained in the shadows but I didn’t need to see it.

I had seen other women like her many times at many events over the course of my time in the White House. Typically, they were draped over the arms of well-heeled suitors. They had much to offer, but expected much in return.

The woman in the red dress flipped a strand of auburn hair back and glided to a stop one riser above me. That’s when I noticed her mouth.

Her upper lip had started to swell and what would soon be a good bruise was now a welt on her cheek.

Up close, I could also see that she was much younger than I had originally guessed—no more than sixteen or seventeen. Under heavy makeup and the earlier battery, it was difficult to tell. But it was the teenager’s demeanor that struck me.

Confident and probably manipulative, she radiated the worldliness of a much older woman. Then because she could, the teenage girl reached out with delicate hands and straightened my tie.

Mesmerized, I couldn’t have pulled away had I wanted. My mind had gone blank and I could only stare into her green eyes.

Don’t look so scared, she whispered and gently tightened the knot. I softened him up if you know what I mean. The girl winked, blew me a kiss then floated past without acknowledging David. With her all fun and him all business, he was a waste of her time.

Agent and presidential aide, the two of us waited for the tap tap of heels to walk through the kitchen, enter the hall then turn into the mudroom. Five taps later, the backdoor opened and closed.

David turned to me and looked down several inches. You didn’t see anything or hear anything, Mr. Riggins. You got me?

Yes, I said quickly, eager to stay on the man’s good side. The threat was inherent. Shut the fuck up or you’ll wish you had, Chubby.

Now go upstairs and turn right, continued David. You will see another agent. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you first and don’t ask any questions. When you’re told to go into the room, go inside and stand quietly. Again, do not talk. It is very important that you follow my instructions, Mr. Riggins. Do you understand?

I do but−.

The big man squared up to me and stepped closer. What did I just tell you?

No questions, I said as fast as I could spit out the two words.

That’s right, answered David then gazed up the stairs. Now go up and keep your mouth shut. The tall man furrowed his brows and challenged me to speak, but I had taken a vow of silence.

At the top of the stairs, I turned right and looked across a wide landing. Two folding metal chairs stood next to each other on the landing’s right side. As promised, another agent stood next to a heavy wooden door across the landing from the chairs. I’ll call him Mark.

Mark was black, wore his hair almost to the skin and was thirty-five, plus or minus a year or two. Like my driver from earlier, I sort of knew Mark but not really.

He waved for me to come over and might have been disappointed when I didn’t make any sudden move.

Mouth shut and the key thrown away, I stopped short of the stocky agent and waited for further instructions. Mark leaned into me. You ready? he asked without emotion.

Yes, I whispered, suddenly in need of a bathroom to empty a very full bladder.

The black agent stared at me harder then spoke in a low voice. When I say go inside this door… Mark gestured towards the door in case I was confused. Go inside this door and stand there. Then in the international sign of just hold the fuck up there, partner, Mark raised his palms to me. Do not talk, he instructed in a low voice. Do not ask questions. Do not think about talking or asking questions. Just stand there until you are told to speak. Do you understand me, Mr. Riggins?

Yes, sir, I said and clamped my lips shut.

Alright then, replied Mark. He raised his right hand and tapped on the door with one knuckle.

Come in, said a gruff voice from inside the room.

Agent Mark opened the door and stepped aside.

Eeyore looked up from behind a large desk and gestured with one hand for me to step inside. Come in, Riggins, he grumbled.

Chapter 4

A week later, I walked up to a podium and checked in with the maitre d’. He was a short, bald man with one of those thin mustaches whose haughty demeanor changed from bored to almost polite when told of my dining companions.

The small man looked my department-store suit up and down, but managed to hold in what he was thinking. Like all good maitre des, he could tell at a glance the difference between the rich and everybody else. Follow me, please, he said and turned for me to follow.

Throughout the small dining-room of haves and have-mores, the clink of silverware on flatware canceled out discrete conversations while dim wall sconces and table-top candles shed a comfortable glow of anonymity.

I noticed several familiar faces along the way, but didn’t stop. The dapper maitre d’ strode up to a booth in the room’s back corner, stood aside and waved for me to have a seat.

Three men already sat around the table and away from prying eyes. In case darkness and isolation weren’t enough, two goons sat at a nearby table ready to shoo away nosy patrons and any reporter left of center-right.

I turned and slid onto the slippery bench as one of the men bothered to greet me. The other two were involved in a discreet but heated discussion.

Bill O’Reilly was one and on the attack. Fuck your hair, he snapped to the other man and waved an annoyed hand in the air.

At six-four and slender, O’Reilly had become soft and pasty on the wrong side of middle-age. But even in the low light, I could see that his face had gone a purplish-red and a vein pulsed on the left side of his forehead.

As usual, the Fox man looked ready to go off like a Roman candle. Not that any of us wanted to attract attention, least of all O’Reilly. With claims of sexual harassment and thuggish behavior, the Harvard-educated loud-mouth had garnered enough bad press over the years.

Across from me and to O’Reilly’s left, the final man ran a lotion-soft hand over his head. But my hair, Sean Hannity whined through a little anus of a mouth. They’ll cut it off.

For fuck’s sake, snarled O’Reilly under his breath. It’ll grow back.

But what if it’s dangerous? pleaded Hannity.

O’Reilly leaned forward and spoke in a restrained voice that threatened to become less so. He rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger then let the hand drop. Sean, he said and shook his head at the fellow wingnut. Are you listening to what the fuck I’m saying? This is your chance to shut up all of those commie fucks out there who question your patriotism.

During my most-recent meeting with the vice-president, Mr. Cheney ordered me to meet with various groups and report back. Unnecessarily, he said the topic was a secret. No more than ten people were aware of the plan and all were party faithful. This last bit was also unnecessary. As an unknown face, I was to be the go-between.

At five-eleven, a little out of shape and also pasty from working indoors, I was what’s now called an Average Joe. I wasn’t born into money or graduate from a prestigious university. But despite these shortcomings, I had done alright with my life. Few people can say that they rubbed elbows with the president, but as an aide to George W. Bush, I did just that for six years.

The circuitous journey started in the early nineties at my alma mater, the University of Oregon. Accounting was my first choice, but two years into the program, I realized that I didn’t like numbers or general ledgers or anything else to do with accounting. This caused me to toss the abacus in favor of political-science.

I never anticipated a change and only made the decision after a foolish bet with a roommate. What the bet was over didn’t matter, only that I lost and had to assume the role of a conservative for one year.

My first inclination was to renege on the bet. I knew little of corruption and even less about fear-mongering. But after some initial hesitation and soul-searching, I decided to run with my new persona. If I had to play an asshole for one year, I would pull out all the stops. Then quite unexpectedly, I began to enjoy the persona.

At the time, the Republican Party had started to coalesce around family values and find its shrill voice. Newt Gingrich’s Contract with America was only two years away.

To fit my role, I began wearing a suit to the parties, carried a briefcase and made it a point to offend as many liberals as possible. I came with my talking points down and was good at the deception. I knew that I had perfected the role when one night a group of vegans threatened to kick my ass.

It wasn’t long before I started a chapter of the College Republican National Committee and recruited a dozen members. The organization’s founder, Jack Abramoff, provided worthwhile tips and helped me get the program off the ground. It was under his tutelage that I organized campus canvases, ran mock elections and managed get-out-the-vote drives.

Later, I organized lobbying efforts and welcomed conservative speakers to the campus. The endeavor became a full-time job and I nearly didn’t graduate. But five years later, I earned that degree in poly-science