Opposite of Irish Exit

The sun peeked over the horizon as Kevin McCarthy took a sip of coffee in his D.C. rental.

“Wow. What a tumultuous world we’re in.” He thought. “Violence abroad, a foreboding presidential election, the busy season of holiday travel…” He took another sip. “Now is the time.”

He pulled out his iPhone 8 and texted the youngest member of his team whose only crime was believing that working for a house speaker would imply working for someone held in high regard.

“Erica, plz draft statement re: my exit from congress. The people must know. Thx. KM.”

Upon his arrival to Capitol Hill he found his staff weeping. Or at least he imagined them weeping, stifling their tears so the sad sounds couldn’t reach his office. The silence reassured him that they truly cared about him. He made his final edits.

He adjusted his tie as he sat down in the brightly lit meeting room, eyes pointed at the tiny red dot above the camera.

He took a big inhale. “This is going to be big,” he told himself.

As he read from the teleprompter, landscapers on the South Lawn were diligently tending to the shrubs. The toll booth attendant on the Beltway was approaching her seventh hour of work. Tax accountants in Bethesda were getting ahead on clients’ complicated returns, and a teacher in Virginia was starting a lesson on fractions. A recent graduate in Montana was soon to hear if he had landed an entry level sales position, a retiree in Seattle was getting settled in her new community, and a mother in Hawaii was holding her newborn baby.

A child on the other side of the world picked a flower and looked at it closely.

Kevin McCarthy announced his departure from Congress that day, and not a single living being on Earth gave a single shit.