Pretty Boy

by Tara Oakes

  “I knew it,” Chris takes a bite of his bacon.

  I’m curious. “Knew what?”

  “That you still don’t drink coffee. The other morning you tried to convince me that you’ve changed so much that now you drink it. I knew it was bullshit.”

  I roll my eyes. Damn him and his practically photographic memory. “I prefer to call it a little fib. But, I think I have changed … don’t you?”

  Chris reaches for a paper napkin from the shiny dispenser. “Some things have. Some things haven’t. You still make the same little noises when you come.”

  “Chris!” I admonish him with a hushed tone as I look around wildly to make sure none of the people nearby heard his comment. “There are people around!”

  He takes another bite of the bacon with a crispy crunch.

  “What?” He shrugs his shoulders, not one to be easily embarrassed. “You asked.”

  I shake my head. Well, I know one thing that definitely hasn’t changed — he still likes to make me squirm.

  “Try to refrain from pointing out any other things about me while we’re in public.” I keep my voice low.

  He sips his own coffee. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I glare hard at him. He’s gonna pay for that one.

  “So you really think no one will recognize you?” He asks a very innocent, non-embarassing question.

  I sit back and push my plate away, my stomach full from my meal. I’m not usually a big breakfast person, but we left the hotel before the crack of dawn this morning to catch the jet back to South Carolina. It needed to be sent to pick up dad for a quick trip to Washington D.C. later today. Four hours later, and I’m starved.

  I’ve thought about this. “I’m going to wear a short red wig and some glasses. I doubt anyone will recognize their opponent’s daughter, unless they’ve seen me first hand at any of the debates. We all usually avoid each other. I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”

  He mulls it over. “If you say so. What’s your name again?”

  Ugh! I’ve told him a million times!

  “I’m Beth and you’re Charlie.”

  Chris waves the waitress over, signaling we’re ready for our check. “You don’t look like a Beth. You look like …” He’s really putting some effort into this. “Brenda. You look like a Brenda.”

  I scrunch my eyebrows. “No, I don’t. Why would you say that?”

  He takes one last long sip of his coffee before abandoning it. “Because I’ve never fucked a Brenda. Always wanted to. I figure this way, we can kill two birds with one stone.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’m Brenda. But then I’m changing your name to Brad.”

  ~*~

  “So you say you’ve never worked with a campaign before?” Heather, the group leader we’ve been assigned to escorts us through the small room that’s serving as a call center for their operation.

  It’s a small group, compared to the volunteers dad usually draws, but they seem well organized.

  “Let me guess,” Heather’s rummaging through a box of bright blue t-shirts while eyeing me. “You’re a Medium right? Large?”

  Bitch.

  “Small,” I correct her.

  She smiles tightly and bats her eyes at Chris while feigning embarrassment. She’s been hot for him ever since we walked in and introduced ourselves as a couple of friends wanting to do our civic duty and support the candidate we believe in.

  The first thing Heather did when she took down our information was indiscreetly search both my finger and then Chris’s, er Brad’s, for wedding rings. Once she was satisfied that he was still somewhat available, she began to passive-aggressively do everything she could to either take cheap shots at me or wriggle her way closer to him.

  “Of course you are, dear. They run big, so I think you’ll be able to squeeze into a small,” she winks at me when handing over the cheap shirt as if she’s doing me a favor and playing along with a ruse.

  “But you!” She reaches forward to actually touch Chris’s arm, feeling the hardened bicep. “You must be a large with arms like this.”

  Watching her touch my man has hit a nerve. Once her back is turned to forage through the box once more, I take a step forward toward her, but Chris stops me, eyeing me silent messages to back the fuck down.

  “Here we are!” She holds up the shirt like a prize. “I think it’s a great color for you, Brad. Really does something for your eyes.”

  I choke on my breath.

  “You okay, Brenda?” Chris looks to be amused at the situation.

  I bite my tongue. We have a job to do, and getting thrown out of here from knocking this bitch flat on her scrawny ass isn’t going to help us do that.

  “I’m fine.” I mutter.

  Heather studies the clipboard in her overly manicured hands. “Well, it seems we’re a little light on cold-callers, and Brenda, I think you’ve got just the personality for that. You’re probably used to people being short with you. Most calls we make end up in dead ends, but we try to hit a target of a 10% donation rate.”

  Her heavily made-up face is plastered with the fake smile I’ve come to hate in the handful of moments I’ve known her. It just drips ’snotty bitch’ all over the place.

  “And Brad, if it’s all right with you, I’d love to have you assist me for the day? I could really use an extra pair of hands,” her voice takes on a saccharine-sweet pitch.

  I’m gonna hurl.

  “Bathroom?” I ask.

  Her long, hot-pink pointy fingernail silently shows me the direction. “Once you’re finished, you can go check in with Earl. He’s in charge of the call station and he’ll get you set up with a phone line and a desk.”

  “Fantastic,” I use the same faux-friendly tone that she expertly spews.

  “See ya at lunch, Brenda,” Chris winks as I turn away, feeling the corner of my eye twitch in anger.

  ~*~

  “Thank you for your time, sir.” I hang up the telephone receiver.

  That’s the eighth call in a row where I’ve been told off.

  “Maybe you should try pointing out some of Mr. Donaldson’s policies before you let them speak?” Earl recommends. He’s been sitting next to me, training me on the techniques of asking people for money.

  At this rate, not only am I never going to get anywhere finding out who sent the mysterious emails to Benny, but I’ll probably be known as the worst volunteer they’ve ever had.

  “I’m just not good at this, Earl,” I flash him a helpless little smile. “I’m more of a behind the scenes kind of person. Maybe I can contribute in another way? How about emailing? I’m a whiz at the computer. Is there a list of people I can reach that way instead of calling? I’m really getting discouraged.”

  I jut out my lower lip in a pout.

  He can’t help but feel sorry for me. I mean, the call before last actually screamed at me loud enough for Earl to hear through the receiver, two feet away.

  “That might not be a bad idea.” He agrees emphatically. “There’s a master list of local donors that have made previous contributions to the party. We like to think of them as repeat donors. Rather than send them an impersonal generic email, we like to add a little special touch. You know, make them feel appreciated. They tend to donate more that way. You can access the list, here.”

  Earl reaches past me to the computer keyboard at my station and quickly types in some password to give us access to the list he’s describing.

  “I can’t give you the password, so try not to let your screen go idle or you’ll be locked out, and then you’ll have to come and get me to fix it.” He moves his thumb along the mouse pad to bring up the group’s webpage.

  I seize the opportunity. “Hey, you know what? My parents got an email like that. You’re right! They did appreciate that it was personalized just for them. It was from some Banks person. Is he here? My dad would really think it was neat if I met that guy. He convinced my parents to double their donation. Dad said he was a born salesman.”r />
  Earl continues navigating through the browser, “Banks. Banks,” he repeats the name I’ve given him, the name that was part of the email address that was on the flash drive Chris had taken from Benny at the strip club.

  T. Banks.

  I’m very curious to meet this person, especially when he’s trying to ruin my life.

  “Wait,” Earl breaks my thoughts, “you talking about Natasha Banks?”

  My shoulders deflate as I exhale my disappointment at the dead end. “I don’t know…”

  “Tasha!” Earl calls out across the room.

  Wait! Tasha! Short for Natasha. Tasha Banks! T. Banks! That’s it! I shake my head enthusiastically.

  “S’up Earl? You got that statistic report for me?” A chubby, fair-skinned woman with very short hair and brightly-colored tattoos turns and calls over her shoulder to us.

  He clears his throat. “Not ‘till four, Tash. I got some time left. Someone wants to say hi.”

  Natasha comes our way, a stack of papers in hand. “Yeah? Who?”

  “This is Brenda,” he turns to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name?”

  Oh, fuck!

  “Carson. Brenda Carson.” I spit out a quick name, although, it honestly wasn’t the first one that came to mind. Brenda Walsh would be a dead giveaway.

  Tasha holds out her hand. “Brenda Carson? Nice to meet you.”

  I take her hand and give it a firm shake. Now that I’m closer, I see she’s got some kind of Greek designs worked into her arm tattoos.

  “Nice to meet you Miss Banks. Those are some great Tattoos. Is that Dionysus?” I point to the large image of the ancient God of wine, parties, drugs and basically everything crazy.

  She looks impressed. “Wow. I’ve never met anyone who’s known that before!”

  “I studied ancient mythology in college. That’s one deity that’s hard to forget.” I fondly remember my undergrad days.

  Natasha pulls up a chair and joins us.

  “Brenda was saying you had reached out to her parents for a donation and left an impression,” Earl passes along my lie.

  “Oh?” Tasha’s now intrigued. “Your last name is Carson? I don’t remember any Carson donors….”

  “And is that Hestia on the other arm?” I point to the Goddess of purity and chastity to distract her. “That’s quite a contradiction. One on one side, one on the other. Kind of balancing each other out.”

  Tasha sits back in awe. “Even my tattoo artist didn’t get that! Hey Earl, why don’t you go work on that statistic report and I’ll finish training Brenda.”

  My former supervisor looks relieved to be excused from our crazy conversation even if it means having to work on something as boring as stat reports. “See ya later ladies.”

  Perfect.

  Now I can find out more about my new BFF.

  ~*~

  “No way!” Tasha laughs heartily.

  I don’t get this chick. She seems genuine, pretty straightforward, and not at all like the typical backstabbing, self-serving campaign workers that usually volunteer to make some connections to bolster their own ambitions.

  “So how long have you been working on the campaign?” I ask her, eager to get more information. We’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes and have uncovered that we had much more in common than I would have ever thought.

  “About three months. I kind of fell into it. I feel really passionate about some of the issues and I didn’t think it would be right to sit on the side-lines and let someone else decide my rights.” She’s starting to get heated.

  “I hear you. It’s crazy how so much can be at stake, right? Kind of makes you want to step up and find other ways to help, to make sure that things turn out the way they’re supposed to.” I lay the bait.

  She nods, as If I actually get it.

  “That’s exactly it!” she exclaims. “This stuff is too important to leave to chance.”

  I nod, feigning agreement. “Makes me want to do more than just make calls or put together reports, you know. It makes me want to do what others aren’t willing to do.”

  She arches her eyebrow at my bold statement. “Let’s talk some more at lunch. Maybe we can come up with some ideas.”

  I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

  ~*~

  The morning’s been a long one, and my fingers hurt from typing.

  The lunch call couldn’t come at a better time, with everyone abandoning their desks and computers to raid the cart that’s rolling into the room, stocked with pre-packaged sandwiches and wraps along with small bags of chips and even bottles of water.

  “Don’t try the chicken salad,” I turn to face Chris.

  “Oh? And how’dya know that, hmm? Your little groupie tell you?” I roll my eyes.

  We both step aside for an older woman to access the lunch cart before us.

  “Actually, she did.” He discloses.

  I make a gagging motion with my finger. “What else did your pal tell you, hmm? You do remember we’re here to do a job, right?”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you get more with honey than you do with vinegar, Princess?” He unwraps the sandwich he’s chosen and takes a bite before we’ve even stepped away from the cart.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m curious. We walk to a far corner of the room where we can talk privately. “What did you find?”

  He smirks while chewing his food. “More than you.”

  “You sure about that?” I challenge him.

  Another bite before I get my answer. “Damn sure.”

  I carefully set out my napkins and lay out my lunch items. “Well, unless you’ve spent all morning with T. Banks and unless you’re having lunch with her today, I’d say you lost.”

  His chewing slows before halting altogether as he listens to the incredible amount of progress I’ve made in such a short time. “Damn, you work fast.”

  Taking the compliment, I straighten my shoulders and bask in the glory of small victories. “I do. It’s a gift. Now scat before she gets here.”

  Chris rolls his eyes, collects the remnants of his lunch and leaves, sulking.

  Good, now … if only Natasha would get here already. I dissect the soggy-looking veggie wrap before me with the cheap plastic fork in hand.

  “Sorry, I got held up in a meeting,” Tasha pulls out the chair that was recently occupied by Chris, before sitting in it. “You didn’t get the Chicken salad, did you?”

  She eyes my mutilated lunch plate wearily.

  I shake my head. “No, I’ve been warned about it. My friend was already debriefed on the risky lunch choices.”

  She laughs, “I don’t know why they keep ordering it. Some kid got real sick from it a couple of weeks back. Who’s your friend?”

  Tasha whips out a plastic container from home with what looks like a decent meal of leftovers. Can’t quite tell what it is, but it looks and smells a whole lot better than what I’ve chosen.

  “The cute guy sitting over at the square table in the corner. We volunteered together.” I point my now bent plastic fork over toward Chris, or Brad, as I remind myself to call him in case Tasha asks his name.

  She lazily looks up before breaking into an all-knowing grin. “The one near Heather?”

  I nod.

  “Hope he doesn’t fall for her little sorority-girl act. That woman’s been with every single man that walks through those doors. She’s our very own Monica Lewinsky.

  Hmm, interesting. I pry a little deeper.

  “Donaldson? Has she made her way that far up that ladder?” I’d heard some rumblings around that the candidate wasn’t exactly faithful to his wife, but he must be more than twenty-years older than Heather! That’s disgusting!

  My lunch companion and inside source grunts, “At least once. She gave him a private tour the last time he dropped by for a campaign stop. The next day, he held a private lunch for some of his biggest donors and she was invited. She’s done nothing for this campai
gn but hold a damn clipboard and smile and she get’s invited?”

  I let my eyes wander over to the woman we’re gossiping about. “Wow. Thank God it hasn’t gotten out, I mean if Senator Leary’s campaign ever found out about it, it would be a disaster.”

  A sudden choking draws my attention back to Tasha, who’s heaving in small spasms. I hand her the unopened bottle of water I’ve chosen for myself and proceed to cautiously pat her on the back.

  It takes a few seconds for her to clear her throat and compose herself. “Are you kidding me? Leary’s filthier than a pig in shit. We have enough dirt on him to make sure he doesn’t get re-elected.”

  Bingo.

  I try to act calm and not seem too over-enthusiastic. “Really? Then how come I haven’t heard about any of it in the news? I mean, if we have the ammunition, how come we’re not using it?”

  Tasha’s color is slightly better but she still talks as if her throat’s got a little something stuck. “Because if we release what we have, then he releases what he has. It won’t do us any favors if neither of us gets elected. It’s a stalemate.”

  I listen to her, but try to make sense of her words. “What do you mean?”

  She sips her water before answering. “There’s an agreement, an understanding. We don’t bring up certain things, and they don’t bring up certain things. Sure they attack each other on some other superficial shit, but they each have their finger on the button so to speak, enough to hold the other in check. It’s like our own little version of the cold war.”

  I’m doing my best to hide my skepticism. With my position in Dad’s campaign, I would know about an arrangement like this. She’s full of shit. I can’t show her this though, or it’ll be a huge red flag.

  “Wow. I mean, I’d heard of secret deals in politics, but that’s crazy. So, I guess we just have to find other ways to get around it, huh? What about going after someone else a little indirectly? What about his daughter maybe? Doesn’t she work for him? That could give his credibility a hit.”

  Tasha slowly chews her food, trying her best to avoid a repeat performance of her nearly suffocating. “Nah, we looked into it. She’s clean. She’s got some small little glitches on her background, but nothing remarkable. Nothing that we can use. She’s pretty boring actually.”