We were on the 29th floor of City Hall, in the mayor's office, and I was all spiffy in my suit and tie, my standard uniform as the mayor's director of communications. The person on the other end of the line was my wife, and she was understandably mortified. I, on the other hand, was elated. After a week and a half on the first lady's shit list, I was finally back in her good graces and my job in the city's top office was once again secure.

The moment was charged with the sensation of victory, the fundamental addictive element of politics. Moments earlier the City Council had failed to pass a law that would have essentially banned the mayor's wife from the building because she had a tendency to do things like ordering a staffer's wife to have sex. For the time being, she could remain a fixture in the mayor's office, working as his de facto chief of staff, and I could continue working as her top lackey.

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