by J D Wade
“Well, hopefully, you still vote?”
“Every chance I get.” He answered. “But I wish that for once I felt like I was voting for someone that I felt like I was really on the same page with. I mean, Obama was close.”
“You voted for Obama?”
“I’m not insane.”
“I was just confirming that you are, in fact, a Democrat.”
“I’m an independent, really,” Timothy said. “I’ll vote for the person who seems to be the best for the job.”
“Any Republican right now is not—”
“Don’t start that.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard enough of that tribalism.”
“Tribalism?”
“Yeah. Us against them. That’s old hat, Mr. Reed.” He shook his head. “All of you guys—and gals—love telling us how you’re better than this one or that one, yet you balk at telling us who you are. That way, we never really can tell if you’re all that different. Just a bunch of wolves in sheep’s clothing.”
“What do you know?” I snapped, angry all of a sudden. “You don’t have a single bit of political experience.”
“I’m not talking about politics.” He said. “I’m talking about what it’s like to be an American listening to one of you candidates talking. It’s exhausting. I mean, it’s mid-February, and it makes me cringe to think we’ve got nine more months before there’s even an election. By then, who will give a shit who wins? As long as we can all move on for another few years, right?”
“What do you mean?” As quickly as I had grown angry, I had become intrigued.
“I don’t need you to tell me why you hate Ledbetter or how you’re different. I don’t need you to do that for Trump, either.” Timothy explained, his back still to the vending machine. “It doesn’t take a genius to realize what’s wrong with Trump. Or Ledbetter, for that matter. What I need to know is why I’m getting out on election day to vote for you. Why should I be passionate enough about voting for you that I should do that? Because the odds are that anyone could lose to Trump.”
“A good solid candidate will defeat Trump,” I said. “The people of this country know that he’s the worst we’ve ever had.”
“You can convince yourself of that if you repeat it enough, I guess. But Election Day isn’t a federal holiday. Some people actually like Trump. Some people can’t be bothered to go to the polls if they feel it won’t make a difference. Russians. Disabled people, people of color, and socio-economically disadvantaged people find it hard to get to a polling place. Voter suppression. Trump isn’t the problem. He’s a symptom, Mr. Reed.”
“Just call me Nathan,” I grumbled. “Okay. So, you’re not completely ignorant about how things work or what it takes to win the presidency. You know a thing or two about what’s going on in this country. How the hell are you going to solve my crisis, Timothy?”
“Why don’t we start small?”
“Start small?”
“You can’t go to McDonald’s.” He smiled. “But I can.”
Chapter 7
Nathan
Burgers & Bipartisanship
Timothy was laying bags with a familiar red, white, and yellow motif on the tabletop in the meeting room of my suite as I sat there and watched, my mouth watering. After our talk at the vending machine, he had thrown on some clothes, telling me that he was going to get a cab and go to the nearest McDonald’s to “get some late-night munchage.” He refused to take my debit or credit card, telling me that anybody would recognize the name on it, and laugh at him trying to use it. They might even call the police. Instead, he said he’d just tell Marty to “add it to his bill.” That worked for me. While he attended to the procurement of “late-night munchage,” I talked to the agents outside of my room, letting them know that we were going to have a meeting, so would they please not give Timothy too much trouble when he arrived with the food?
Once Timothy arrived, a lot more quickly than I had expected—I’d barely had time to change into reasonable clothes and get set up in the meeting room before he burst in with bags—I was practically starving. It was nearing two o’clock in the morning, and it probably would have been best if we both had forgotten our empty stomachs and tried to get more rest instead, but I wanted food. Timothy wanted food and to talk about my crisis, apparently. Sleep wouldn’t help us achieve any of those goals. Besides, we only had two days left until the debate now that it was after midnight, so we couldn’t really waste any time with something trivial like sleep.
“They didn’t give you too much trouble?” I asked.
“Who?” He questioned as he dug boxes of fries, nuggets, and burgers out of the larger bags.
“The agents.”
“Nah.” Timothy looked up to smile at me. “I brought them each a burger, a box of nuggets, and some fries. I could be in here assassinating you right now, and they wouldn’t give a shit.”
“That makes me feel safe.” I chuckled.
You were annoyed by this guy’s presence less than twenty-four hours ago. Now you can’t stop joking and chuckling with him. Get it together, Nathan.
“They said you were expecting me.” He explained. “They did look inside the bags and check me for weapons.”
“Oh, good. Did they find any?”
“None that we are able to talk about.” He teased.
“Inappropriate.”
“You’re the boss.” He shrugged and slid into the chair across from me at the table. “Fire me.”
“What did you bring me?” I changed the subject, my mouth suddenly dry. I reached for the bottle of water I’d grabbed from my bedside table. “I’m starving.”
“Take your pick.” He waved his hand over the array of burgers, fries, and nuggets. “Most of the burgers are just McDoubles. I wasn’t sure what kind of burger guy you were, so I went with the most standard things.”
Instead of answering, I reached over and grabbed one of the white, red, and yellow wrapped burgers, my fingers tearing at the paper. My gut was telling me that I needed to eat something immediately, so my bantering skills were slowly degrading. Timothy reached for a box of nuggets and some fries, tearing into his food as ravenously as I did. Within moments, the room was silent, save for the sounds of our chewing and smacking and the rustling of fast-food wrappers. For the better part of twenty minutes, the two of us filled our faces with greasy, salty, fattening McDonald’s food and didn’t say a word.
As all things go, we both slowed down on the shoveling of food into our faces. Then we were just idling picking at fries or fiddling with the wrappers discarded before us on the table. Timothy had proven to be worthwhile in at least one way as a crisis manager. My stomach had been demanding that I stuff it full of food, even though I had no way to make that happen, and Timothy solved the problem. Maybe I needed to give him a shot at doing what Marty was overpaying him to do? I looked across the table to find him folding some type of origami out of a burger wrapper, focusing intently on the task. He seemed unbothered by being in my presence or the fact that I was studying him. Then again, he lived his life in the eye of the public. One set of eyes on him probably wasn’t that big of a deal.
He’s got the darkest chocolatey eyes I’ve ever seen.
“What happens when you win the debate?” He asked suddenly.
“No one really wins.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, there’s nobody to stand up at the end and declare a winner. And it’s yet to be seen if I’ll still even be in this race after Super Tuesday, so, I don’t know. I’m sure Marty already has a plan for where we’ll be the morning after the debate. Well, two plans. One for if I do well, and one for if I get eaten alive.”
“Why should it be different for each scenario?” Timothy dropped his origami and looked over at me.
“If we need to do more damage control, we’ll go to a specific place. If we come out on top, we’ll go to a different place.”
“I thought there’s no clear winner in the debate?”
“There isn’t.”
&
nbsp; “So,” He leaned in, “why should it be different for each scenario?”
“Fine.” I relented.
“So, you’re gay.”
“Yes.”
I’d had plenty of practice answering that one. No sputtering or confusion. I wasn’t blindsided by the question.
“But you used to be married to a woman?” He asked.
“Do we really need to jump into this right now?” I sat back in my seat.
“You can piss away seventy-five thousand bucks if you like,” He said. “It really doesn’t affect me personally either way. But if you want to get your money’s worth, you may as well fill me in on the exact crisis we’re trying to manage.”
“Do you even know what a Crisis Manager does?”
He smiled. “I’m wingin’ it, Mr.—Nathan.”
“I suspected.”
“I can leave.”
“Sorry.” I groaned and sat forward, folding my arms on the table. “Look, Timothy, I just need to know how to go into this debate and not look like the American public can’t trust me. I need you to help me understand how to look good across the board in the public eye.”
“Oh,” He snorted, “I can’t do that.”
“What?” I sputtered. “You’re supposed to manage a crisis here.”
“I can’t make you look good across the board.” He laughed. “No matter what you do, some people have hated you, hate you now, and will continue to hate you. They don’t even have to have a reason. It’s impossible to get everyone to like you. Especially in America. One of our favorite pastimes is judging and hating people without even having the full story.”
“What—”
“Of course, we usually move on quickly, so you won’t be that attractive as a target for long.”
“For God’s sake, speak English.” I found myself chuckling again.
“People love to hate people.” He said, leaning in. “They love to jump on bandwagons and cancel people. They don’t even need that significant of a reason. Obviously. I mean, you’re having a crisis with your campaign simply because you didn’t disclose every little piece of innocuous personal information about yourself. You didn’t’ necessarily do anything wrong.”
I just listened.
“Did you do something wrong?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No one ever does,” He said. “Every villain is the hero in his own story.”
“I’m not a villain.”
“Okay. Well, you’re not the person who decides that. The American people do. Right now, for an utterly dumb reason, they’ve decided you’re the villain. For now. We can manage the crisis and hopefully get back into ‘hero’ status. We can ignore it, and eventually, they’ll move on—though you probably won’t win the nomination or the election. Or you can double down.”
“Double down?”
“Tell everyone to go fuck themselves,” He said. “I don’t recommend that one.”
“Right.”
“If you ignore this crisis and redirect with statements like ‘why is this a big deal?’ or ‘don’t we have bigger fish to fry’ or ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone’ bullshit, you may win righteousness points, but you won’t win anything else. People don’t like to be reminded that they’re being ridiculous for their own righteousness.”
“Their own righteousness?”
“Why is it the American public’s business to know about your previous marriage?” Timothy asked. “Having a failed marriage isn’t a crime. It doesn’t affect your ability to be president. It doesn’t even make you an untrustworthy individual. So, who cares?”
“A lot of people.”
“I know that,” Timothy said. “I’m just explaining that people feel righteous and better than others if they can point out the perceived failings of others. Do any of those people really care that you were married before? Probably not. They just need something to make them feel better about themselves for a little bit. Because obviously, they would have disclosed that information immediately if they had been running for president, right?”
“I’m following.”
“The fact that you are a gay man who was married to a woman makes it trickier. For the most part, the LGBTQ-plus community will let it slide. We’ve all been in the closet, questioning, confused, or scared at one point or another. It happens. But it does make you look dishonest simply because people will wonder if you hid it for some sleazy reason that has nothing to do with your identity as a gay man. Or they’ll think you’re lying about being gay to get votes. You’re really gay?”
“Extremely.”
“Okay.” Timothy nodded. “So, the only way I see to solve this problem is to just tell the truth.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Timothy waited for a few moments, his chocolatey brown eyes staring back at me as I tried to formulate a response.
“Wanna see my crisis?” He asked.
“What?”
“Pull up Tuniverse.” He reached over to tap a finger at the closed laptop on the table. “Episode sixty-seven.”
“Why?”
“I’ll show you mine. Then maybe you will show me yours.”
I felt my cheeks getting warm. “How many inappropriate jokes do you plan to make in a work meeting?”
“Still waiting on that pink slip.” Timothy grinned and sat back in his chair. “Episode sixty-seven. If you want to know about my scandal so you can decide if I can handle yours.”
“I don’t have a scandal. Just a misunderstanding.”
“You don’t get to decide that either. The public already did that for you.”
With a groan, I pushed all of the discarded fast-food waste out from in front of me and reached for the laptop. Timothy was rubbing his belly and looking around the room as though he was unbothered by everything. He didn’t care that I was about to watch him on YouTube, he didn’t care that he was in a suite in a nice hotel talking to some guy who was running for president. He seemed at ease. Maybe food did that to him? He had seemed nervous the first time we’d met the day before when he and Marty had interrupted the morning meeting. Now, he seemed completely at home and not the least bit nervous.
When he’s not nervous, he doesn’t pay attention.
That means you can look at him without him noticing.
Good lord, his eyes were gorgeous.
I shook those thoughts out of my head and flipped the laptop open. The screen lit up, and I entered my password, then waited until I could click on the Chrome app. Within a few moments, I had the web browser open and was directing myself to YouTube. Timothy was no longer rubbing his stomach. His arms were resting on the sides of the chair, and he was leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He was slowly twirling in the chair. To the right. Stop. To the left. Stop. Back and forth lazily as he looked up at the ceiling. It was so juvenile, but it looked relaxing. Finally, I found Tuniverse on YouTube and found episode sixty-seven. One click later, a fifteen-second ad for a car company, and Timothy’s face popped up on the screen. A glance in the lower right-hand corner let me know that this was his shortest episode by far. It was less than two minutes.
How the hell do you create a scandal in less than two minutes?
As soon as the video started and I heard Timothy’s voice in the recording, everything started to make sense. He was obviously drunk.
Why is this still available for viewing on Tuniverse?
“You know what?” Timothy was staring directly into the camera with red eyes as he slurred. “I was sitting here, trying to enjoy a glass of wine—or ten—before bed, and I just realized that men ain’t shit. Oh, it’s ya’ boy Timmy, by the way. I forgot to say that. Pardon the fuck out of me, if you will. As you can see, I’ve decided tonight is a great night to have myself a cardboard kegger.”
Timothy was holding out a clear tumbler of a reddish liquid, presumably wine, so that his viewers on the other end of the camera could see
it. He may as well have been holding the bottle.
“Today has been a pretty hard day for ya’ boy Timmy. But I won’t go into all of the details for all of you amazing people out there.” He was slurring a fair amount and gesticulating with the tumbler in a way that said he might ruin his computer if he wasn’t careful. He tapped the screen as he mentioned the people ‘out there.’ “The thing is, I’ve come to realize that you’re all just a bunch of vapid and shallow assholes. No tea, no shade. But I’m just a dancing monkey, so you can’t really blame me for just speaking truth, right? Dancing monkeys don’t have couth or manners, so you shouldn’t expect anything more from me.”
I cringed and looked over at Timothy in his office chair. He was still lazily spinning in an arc and looking up at the ceiling and rubbing his stomach.
“Everything we do—Tuniverse—is just bullshit. I pull pranks and buy shit and go on vacations and review products. ‘Dance monkey, dance!’ That’s you guys.” He was tapping the screen with a smile once more. He was somehow not spilling his wine. “I don’t know what you people expect from me. I don’t know what anyone expects from me. I give, and I give, and I just get asked to dance some more. Dance harder. Dance faster. Dance more exciting…ish…like. Is that a word? I’m drunk. There’s got to be more to all of this besides telling some assholes out in the electronic universe what’s trendy and cool. Something I can do that will contribute something meaningful.”
Though I didn’t think it possible, I cringed even harder. Timothy wasn’t reacting in his office chair at all.
“But whatever, right? I’m just a Social Media Influencer. A YouTubber.” He actually added an extra ‘b’ to the word. “I don’t really have feelings. I’m not a normal person, so who gives a fuck? None of you guys, that’s for sure. Not my family. My friends. Not my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, as of today, I mean. So, you can all lick my butthole for all I care. I’m going to sit here and get so drunk I don’t remember this video—which I’ll surely regret in the morning. But right now, I sincerely don’t give a shit. Maybe I’ll be back later when I’ve blacked out and can really tell you what I think of all of you. Maybe I’ll just go to bed. Alone. See ya’ on the flip side, ya’ bunch of bitches.”
