“I think you have the right sensitivity for the juveniles,” Jordan had said when she explained her decision. “You have the right touch. You’ll be great at it.”
Helping underprivileged kids get a fair shot, Patrick embraced his new role and never felt more relevant in his life. Walking down Park Avenue on that crisp November morning after casting his vote for the man he believed would make meaningful changes in the country, he smiled. Everything was falling into place and he considered himself pretty lucky.
By noon that day, Callie tabulated the voting intender data she had collected for George. Forty-seven percent of Republicans, fifty-two percent of Democrats and fifty-nine percent of Independents fully intended to vote that day. She compiled the statistics and brought the results to her boss, who had asked for hourly updates. When she returned to her desk, she overheard Jess in the cubicle next to her.
“I don’t think you’re clumsy, sir. No, I’m sure you don’t spill things very often, but if you do, what do you use to clean it up?”
Callie giggled and leaned around the wall. Jess was wearing a headband with long squiggly antennas topped off with little American flags at the tips. Callie whispered, “What are you working on?”
Jess crossed her eyes and mouthed, “Paper towel usage in Arizona.”
Callie stuck out her tongue and did a little mocking dance before she disappeared from Jess’s view.
A minute later, after finishing her paper towel survey, Jess leaned around the partition. “I’d so much rather work on the political stuff,” she said. “One of the other girls called in sick today and George dumped the paper goods study on me. Household cleaning products make my brain seize up.”
“At least with cleaning products you don’t get whackos standing on soapboxes spouting cray-cray smack talk,” said Callie, giggling.
“Oh really? When was the last time you did a survey on paper towels?” asked Jess. “Trust me, cray-zos are lurking everywhere. This morning, some old woman told me she cleaned up her spilled coffee and the stain left on the paper towel looked exactly like Elvis so she framed it. Then—and I swear she said this—she sold the freakin’ thing on eBay for $75.”
The two women burst out laughing until George shot them “the look.”
“Come with me tonight to the election results party,” whispered Callie. “Everyone is going down to watch the votes come in. It looks like Huston’s going to win. It’s going to be a great party.”
Jess nodded as she picked up her next call.
71
At a little after eight that night, Callie, Jess and several hundred Huston volunteers waited in the ballroom of the Marriott Hotel for the election results. The electricity in the room was palpable—a mix of excitement, exhaustion, hope and frayed nerves. The polls would close at nine and the first results weren’t expected until 9:30. Huston’s opponent was a four-term incumbent and from the beginning it had been an extremely close race. Luckily, Huston had one thing his opponent didn’t have—integrity. Huston’s team was banking on the notion that the voters of New York State were ready for a change in Washington. He had already proven himself to be a maverick in the House and people hoped he’d be the same catalyst for more change in the quagmire known as the U.S. Senate.
At 8:15, Patrick entered the Marriot ballroom with Lorenzo by his side and the two moved through the crowds towards a group of volunteers Patrick knew.
“There must already be 500 people in this room,” said Lorenzo, looking around. “You really think he’s going to win?”
“He’d better,” said Patrick, giving a smile and waving to a few people he had worked with. “We need him now more than ever.”
At nine o’clock sharp, the lights in the room flickered and Marilyn Bernstein ascended the steps to the stage. She tapped the microphone a few times to get everyone’s attention. Soon the excited crowd quieted down. “Can you all hear me?” she asked as everyone cheered. “As you probably know, it is a little after nine and the polls in New York State are officially closed.”
Applause rose from the crowd.
“In a little while, I hope to announce Ben Huston is the next senator from New York State.”
More cheers and applause.
“Elections are unpredictable, so before we go any further, I want to personally thank each and every one of you here for everything you’ve done. I’ve worked on a lot of campaigns over the years, and honest to God, I’ve never seen volunteers with your level of commitment and passion for a candidate. What you pulled off on behalf of Ben Huston was nothing short of a miracle. It’s so rare to find a candidate who’s imbued with honesty, integrity, humor and grace like Ben Huston. What I want you all to know, win or lose, you backed the right horse. I know Ben Huston personally, and let me tell you, he’s the real deal. Thank you, everyone, thank you very much.” The crowd whistled and applauded as Marilyn left the stage.
“Did you hear what she said?” said Callie, stunned and breathless.
“She said a lot of things,” said Jess.
“She said ‘Huston’s the real deal,’” said Callie. “Remember, that’s exactly how the Mystery Man described him to me. Jess, it’s another sign. Maybe the universe isn’t finished.”
Jess gave her friend a weary, incredulous look.
“Look,” said Callie as she pulled a small red, pink and white glass dish out of her bag, “I even brought my Chihuly/Chapski dish as a good luck charm. The MM is somewhere in this room. I feel it.”
Jess shook her head when she saw the glass dish in Callie’s hand. “There’s got to be seven or eight hundred people in here and you have the same problem you’ve always had,” said Jess. “You don’t know what he looks like. Even if he was here, how will you know it’s him?”
“I just will,” said Callie, clutching her dish while scanning the crowded ballroom.
By 10:15, some of the districts had made their projections. Only nine percent of the vote was in but Huston was leading by double digits over his opponent, Vincent Calvelli. When the next set of numbers were posted on the big screen above the stage, a roar came from the crowd.
“Look at that, Renzo. Huston’s way ahead!” said Patrick, slapping his friend on the back. “He’s going to win this.”
“This room is getting so crowded,” said Lorenzo. “There must be over a thousand people in here now.”
“A few months ago, I would have been hoping I’d run into her at this party.”
“You haven’t brought her up in long time.”
“I never told you this, because I was too embarrassed,” said Patrick, “but I heard from the Mystery Woman.”
Lorenzo blinked a few times without speaking. “Seriously? You heard from her and you never told me?”
“She messaged me through Craigslist back in August,” said Patrick, “right after that Huston rally in Central Park.”
“That makes me a genius then,” said Lorenzo, smiling. “Craigslist was my idea, remember? What did she say?”
“She was getting married. When I read that, it was all over for me. I realized I had been delusional and the whole thing was a giant fantasy. After I got her note, I put the whole thing behind me. That same day I decided to give it a real shot with Sunny.”
“Wow,” said Lorenzo, shaking his head. “Sorry, man, but at least you have some closure.”
New election numbers posted on the big screen. With twenty-nine percent of the precincts reporting, Huston was leading by thirty-five percent. The crowd went wild as Marilyn Bernstein went back up to the mic.
“How do you like the looks of that?” she shouted with a big smile. “Huston is killing it!” The crowd cheered and clapped. “It’s not over yet. There’s still seventy percent of the votes left to be tallied, but I’m not going to lie—it’s looking really good.” More applause exploded from Huston’s supporters and mass hugging began from one side of the room to the other.
“Isn’t this exciting?” said a male volunteer with glasses who had worked on some
election projects with Patrick. “All our work is paying off.”
“Huston’s going all the way,” said Patrick as he passed him.
On the opposite side of the ballroom, Callie and Jess stood with a group of volunteers Callie knew, waiting for the next set of results to appear.
“I’m so grateful to have been a part of this,” Callie said to her group.
Fifteen minutes later, with people growing impatient for more news, Marilyn Bernstein climbed the steps of the stage again and stood at the podium in front of the mic. She waved to a few people in the audience and then raised her hands in the air. “People, we’re about to post the new numbers and I think you’re all going to be extremely happy,” shouted Marilyn. “With over sixty-two percent of the precincts reporting in…”
A huge chart appeared on the massive screen behind her.
“…Huston has secured fifty-nine percent of the vote and Jim Bauer at CNN has declared Ben Huston the winner and new junior senator of the great state of New York!”
A loud cheer came from the crowd as people hugged anyone near them and jumped up and down. Several women started to cry and champagne corks could be heard popping in various corners of the room. After five solid minutes of cheering, the crowd began to chant.
“Huston, Huston, Huston…”
“I just got a call,” said Marilyn to the crowd. “Your new senator is already on his way down to the ballroom.” Another round of applause came from the supporters and reached a fever pitch when Ben Huston entered the room from a side door and ran up onto the stage followed by his wife, Kelly, and their three teenaged daughters. When that happened, the cheer volume went through the roof.
“Huston, Huston, Huston,” chanted the crowd. The senator-elect’s attempts to speak were drowned out by his joyous followers. Finally, after five or six minutes of unbridled joy, his loyal supporters quietened down to let their new senator speak.
“Wow,” said Huston, smiling broadly. “We did it!” More cheers. “Senator Calvelli called me a few minutes ago and graciously conceded the race.” More cheers.
With the television cameras on him and flashes going off all around the room, Huston thanked his volunteers, supporters and the people of New York State for having faith in him.
“Thank you all for putting your trust in me. I’d also like to publicly thank my beautiful wife, Kelly Huston and my three kids. Without their support, this would not have been possible.” Ben Huston blew his wife a kiss.
“Today, I will make a solemn promise to all of you—I won’t let you down,” said Huston. “I want you to look back on this moment four or five years from now and know you made the right decision at the ballot box today. I want you to be as thrilled about voting for me at the end of my term as you were at the beginning. You put me here to do a job, and I intend to do it.”
With that final comment, Ben Huston and his family were moved off the stage and out of the room by his handlers to meet with other groups of well-wishers and press.
As soon as the Senator Elect left the podium, Patrick turned to Lorenzo. “I’ve got an early meeting at the courthouse in the morning. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“But the party’s just getting started,” said Lorenzo, already searching in his pocket for quarters after eyeing an attractive redhead who had passed by and winked at him. “This fiesta looks like it will go on for hours. There’s a ton of cute girls here.”
“I wish I could stay but I can’t. I’ve got a huge day tomorrow. Finish your beer and let’s head out.”
Five minutes later, Patrick and a disappointed Lorenzo left the building.
Thirty feet from where the two men had just stood, Callie and Jess clinked champagne glasses. Nearby, another group of jubilant and slightly inebriated Huston volunteers were high-fiving and fooling around when a couple of them accidently bumped into Callie. The red, pink and white dish still clutched in her hand went flying, hit the floor and cracked into three pieces.
“My Chihuly,” shouted Callie as she stooped to pick up the broken dish.
“Sorry,” said Jess, “maybe we can glue it back together.”
“It was a sign,” said Callie with tears in her eyes, holding the pieces of glass. “I’m not ever going to find him, am I?”
“We should go,” said Jess, putting her arm around her best friend. “Remember the last thing George said to us, ‘be on time tomorrow morning, post-election surveys, ladies. Don’t be late, Jessic-aah.’”
With the hall three quarters empty, Callie and Jess slowly left the building.
72
The Fussy Virgin Guide:
“Knowing When to Call it Quits”
Sometimes we feel so sure of something that it clouds our judgement and blurs reality. Our mind produces facts and attributes that aren’t rooted in truth. We create detailed narratives that aren’t real and project a future that is never going to happen.
We’re all taught that perseverance separates the winners from the losers, but sometimes giving up is the best and sanest thing one can do.
You’ve always dreamed of becoming a ballerina with the Bolshoi Ballet but you were born in Des Moines, Iowa, and have the grace of an orangutan. Still, in your heart, you believe the Bolshoi is your destiny and are fully committed to this despite all the obvious signs that it wasn’t meant to be. Should you follow your deluded fantasy indefinitely and do whatever it takes no matter what? Of course not.
If we hold on to fantasies or unrealistic dreams at the expense of achievable ones, we may never find any happiness, constantly searching for something that will never be. Letting go of one dream may open the door to another. Sometimes being a quitter is the smartest thing you can do.
73
It was already dark when the Metro-North train chugged up the tracks to Fairfield County, Connecticut, the Friday night after the election. After a crazy and hectic few weeks, Callie needed some parental TLC, and headed home for the weekend. The train pulled into the tiny Wilton station, consisting of a platform and a boarded-up little red house where tickets had been sold before the automated ticket machines were installed outside. When Callie got off the train, Lavinia Swan flashed her headlights twice. Callie smiled and waved as she walked towards her mother. The crisp country air carried the scent of burning wood from fireplaces already being put to use as the fall temperatures dropped.
“I’m so glad to be home. You have no idea,” said Callie as she got into the car and gave her mother a kiss. “Sometimes, I need a break from New York, I love it there but it can be overwhelming.”
“I made turkey chili, like you asked,” said her mother as she pulled out of the parking lot. “We’ll have a nice relaxing family weekend. There’s a couple of yard sales going on in town tomorrow afternoon. Shall we get the band back together and see what diamonds in the rough we can uncover?”
“I’m on drums,” said Callie, smiling. Picking through other people’s leftovers at yard sales had been a favorite mother/daughter activity since Callie was a little girl. When she was small, her mother would let her choose one thing for herself, providing it cost less than five dollars. As Callie got older, she developed her mother’s same keen sense for finding buried treasures in old garages.
That evening, Callie and her parents sat around the big wooden kitchen table, catching up on recent adventures and mishaps while enjoying Lavinia’s excellent chili. Later that night, back in her old bedroom, Callie slept soundly. She always did whenever she was home in Wilton.
In the morning, before she and her mother went on their second-hand treasure hunting expedition, Callie borrowed her father’s car to go see Virginia Lovejoy. It was more than a social visit. She wanted to pick Virginia’s brains on some writing questions and other things. Though it was not yet Thanksgiving, going north on Route 7 she spotted her first pop-up Christmas tree roadside store already assembled and open for business. A quarter mile further up the road, right past the Wilton Sports Shop, she turned right driving past the century-old Can
nondale train station. The preserved area was comprised of a small red house that acted as a waiting room for the train. On the other side of the tracks several small antique buildings had been converted into retail curiosity shops and a tiny white schoolhouse had been turned into a restaurant. She turned onto Springbrook Lane and pulled into the driveway of Virginia Lovejoy’s gray-and-white clapboard colonial sporting freshly painted light-blue shutters.
Carrying a large plastic container of turkey chili sent over by Lavinia, Callie walked towards the side door. It was open, as usual. “Virginia?” Callie called out. “It’s Callie.”
“Come on in,” shouted Virginia from somewhere else in the house. “Your mother called and said you were coming.”
Callie pushed the door completely open and entered a mudroom that had a stone floor and an oversized slop sink. “Virginia?” she called out again.
“I’m in here,” yelled Virginia from another room.
Callie followed the sound of Virginia’s voice to a large living room. Eighty-something Virginia was positioned in a headstand against the wall, dressed in green tights and a purple leotard.
Callie grinned from ear to ear at the sight of the older woman. “You are amazing. I never know what to expect. That’s what I love about you.”
“Always keep ’em guessing, Callie. To what do I owe this visit?” said the upside-down Virginia.
“I was up here for the weekend and haven’t seen you in a while,” said Callie. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“Something romantic? I had a sneaking feeling you’d turn up here one of these weekends,” said Virginia. “Geoffrey’s gone for a few hours doing errands so we’ll have the house all to ourselves. But, my darling, if you want to talk to me, you’ll have to get yourself into the proper position.”
The Fussy Virgin Page 24
