by Nic Tatano
“Just about anything meaning…”
“Very little is off the table in politics. Despite his reputation he can get down and dirty like anyone else. What makes Will Becker different is the way he does it. Or, in his case, how he has other people do it for him. He’s very well insulated.”
“What about his personal life now that he’s single?”
Her face tightens slightly and I can tell I’ve pushed a bit too far. She looks at her watch and turns to wave at the waiter. “I think it’s time for the check. Got some calls to make.”
CHAPTER FOUR
@TwitterGirl
Boarding Air Becker for the Iowa debates. Hope someone told the Prez they’re not in Ohio this year.
I wheel my suitcase toward the steps of the private jet that will carry Senator Becker and his staff to the wilds of Iowa, which is currently experiencing the effects of one of those dreaded polar vortexes. Or vortices. Or whatever the plural of vortex is. In other words, it’s friggin’ cold. The people in Iowa are freezing their asses off cause it’s ten below. Luckily I won’t be working outside as I would be if I were a reporter, so it’s no big deal. Still, I wish the primaries were in the Caribbean.
A middle-aged white haired gentleman in a suit walks toward me and smiles. “I’ll take that for you, Ms. Shea.”
“Wow,” I say, as I pass the handle over to him. “Beats flying commercial.”
“Have a nice trip,” he says, as he turns and takes my bag toward the rear of the plane.
“Thanks.” I’m filled with energy as I bound up the steps and am greeted at the top by the first really attractive flight attendant I’ve seen in years, since these days most are people deemed not cheerful enough to work at the Department of Motor Vehicles. And, she’s the first one I’ve seen smiling in years. “Good morning.”
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Shea. I’m Jessica. May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, and please call me Cassidy.” I take two steps into the cabin and my jaw drops as I start to remove my coat. It’s a private plane, all right, but it’s seriously decked out. A half dozen staffers on cell phones fill huge reclining tan leather chairs and I see Frank Delavan sitting in the back, reading a newspaper. “Guess I’m not in a middle seat in coach.”
“It’s the only way to fly,” she says, as she hangs my coat in a closet. The woman is an absolutely breathtaking brunette, early twenties if not younger, tall with a mound of gentle curls framing huge pale green eyes and a tight body wrapped in a short red dress. If I’m going to turn Becker’s head on this flight, my “A” game just got graded on a curve and marked down to a C-minus. “I think Frank is waiting for you in the back. Can I get you something to drink before we take off?”
“If you’ve got coffee made, I’ll take a cup. But don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“We have almond amaretto, raspberry chocolate, and creme brulee.”
“And this obviously isn’t the drive-thru at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ll take some of that amaretto concoction, cream and sugar.”
“Coming right up, and we’ll have eggs Benedict once we’re airborne,” she says, as she extends her hand toward the back like a game show hostess.
I want to tweet I have died and gone to airline heaven. But probably not a good idea to let the voters know we’re traveling like kings. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was stuck in a middle seat next to a crying baby. No parent, just a baby.
I head down the center aisle passing three incredibly attractive men who are all on cell phones and look up to smile at me. Frank Delavan has a laptop open and is looking serious while on the phone. Behind his seat is a wall with a door, so I assume there’s a meeting room or something since this part of the cabin only takes up half the plane. He wraps up the call as I arrive and plop into the soft leather seat next to him. “Morning, Frank.”
“Cassidy, great to have you along with us. I’m really looking forward to breaking new ground in this campaign.”
“Sarcasm is new ground? I thought that road got paved with the first television commercial.”
“Not Twitter sarcasm and not your brand of it.”
“So what’s on the agenda today?”
“Soon as we’re airborne we’ll have something to eat, then have a planning session.” He cocks his head toward the back wall.
“So the rest of the plane is a meeting room?”
“Just part of it. There’s also a TV room where we can monitor stuff and a few beds and couches in the back if you ever need to crash for a bit.”
“There are bedrooms on this plane?”
“It’s a long haul, Cassidy. Trust me, by August you’ll need a GPS to remind you what city we’re in. Anyway, we’ll do some brainstorming, then the Senator has a full agenda as soon as we land.”
“So I’ll be with him?”
“Not till tonight. I’ve got you down for lunch with our advance man, Andrew Shelton, before he heads out to our next stop. He’s the guy who has his finger on the pulse of the local voters. You’ll see him briefly each time we arrive at a new city.”
“You sound incredibly organized, Frank.”
“Trust me, one look at my desk and you wouldn’t want me to do logistics. We have a seriously anal retentive person for that.”
I hear the engines fire up as the flight attendant comes over the loudspeaker and tells everyone to buckle up.
“And buckle up is literal in a campaign,” says Frank. “You also need to hold on tight. This is the world’s wildest roller coaster.”
***
Two hours later Jessica walks toward us carrying a coffee pot and smiles. “We’ll be landing in about half an hour. Bundle up, Frank, it’s twelve below.”
“Whoever put the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries in the middle of the winter obviously flunked geography,” says Frank.
Jessica taps on the door to the meeting room and I hear the Senator tell her to come in.
I assume she’s bringing him a cup of java. But she doesn’t return.
Five minutes go by, no Jessica.
Ten minutes, no Jessica. Now I’m starting to worry about what’s going on behind that door between the probable next president and a seriously hot babe young enough to be his daughter. Sure, he’s single and entitled to have a relationship, but this doesn’t look good.
Twenty minutes later she comes out.
My eyes widen as I watch her move to the front of the plane, smooth her dress, grab her purse from a shelf and touch up her lipstick.
The Senator then emerges from the back room, buttoning his shirt and tying his necktie as he heads for his seat at the front of the plane.
No one says a word or even gives this a second look.
And now I’m wondering what’s really true about the guy I’m now working for.
Is Will Becker simply a product?
And is the race over before Ripley and I have even left the starting gate?
***
As I have lunch with advance man Andrew Shelton, I’m beginning to see a pattern.
This campaign, with the exception of Frank Delavan, is loaded with seriously cute guys.
And after what I saw on the airplane with our flight attendant, Becker may be off the table, so I may as well lay the groundwork for Plan B.
Andrew is probably in his early forties, maybe six-two and built like a male model. Broad shoulders, slim hips, and a chambray shirt which is no doubt covering a ripped torso. A pair of jeans has never looked better. He’s obviously dressed down for the locals, but I know he could seriously do justice to a tuxedo. Thick sandy hair and deep-set pale blue eyes give him a bit of a beach boy look, while huge dimples come into play when he smiles.
Which he does as he gives the waitress a soulful look with those eyes. He gives his order with a deep voice smooth as silk. She turns while staring at him and walks right into a table. Her face flushes as she scurries back to the kitchen.
“You’re a natural flirt, you know that?” I say.
He shrugs a
nd furrows his brow. “What did I do?”
“Oh, nothing, you just make a patty melt sound like phone sex. If the waitress was named Patty, she’d melt.”
“Well, Frank was certainly spot on about you.”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “What did I do?”
“You’re not shy about saying anything, even to people you just met.”
“Part of my charm. That’s why you guys hired me. I basically have no filter. Although, as you’re aware, the lack of said filter got me fired from the network.”
“Well, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen here. Anyway, in regard to your phone sex comment, I used to do commercial voice-overs before I got into politics. I was blessed with a good voice, which will come in handy when I’m too old to do anything else.”
“Hey, I know how you can lock up the election. Call up registered female voters and ask, What are you wearing?”
He leans back and laughs. “Twitter Girl, you are something else. I’ve run into some characters in politics, but you are definitely one of a kind.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Andrew. So, how does one become an advance man?”
“I was working in the Senator’s office and a few times he was late for a few events so I had to basically keep the crowd warm.”
I’m sure he could keep any girl warm…
“Anyway,” he continues, “Becker thought I’d be good at getting the locals primed before his arrival because I’m from a small town and can relate to Joe and Mabel Sixpack. He calls me the redneck whisperer.”
“Cute. Though you sure don’t look like one.”
“Well, for whatever reason, people open up to me. I grew up on a farm with a lot of blue collar folks. A lot of advance men show up in thousand dollar suits, and that screams New York carpetbagger. I try to blend in and get a sense of the mood so I can brief him before he gets here. I spend a lot of time in coffee shops and diners.”
“Interesting. So you’ll always be one day ahead of me?”
“Yep. Soon as we’re through with lunch I’m off to Cedar Rapids. So I’ll always have a little time to brief you when you arrive, but we’ll always be sleeping in different towns.”
So much for Plan B…
“Does that make you feel detached from the campaign?”
“In some ways, yes, but I do get back to the New York headquarters quite often, since I live in Manhattan.”
What the hell, take a shot. “So at some point when we’re both in town we might actually have dinner instead of lunch.”
“Or… breakfast.”
Talk about not being shy about saying anything to someone you just met. His last words are followed by a smile that makes my heart flutter. Until he follows it up with…
“I love having meetings over a good power breakfast. I get a lot of ideas late at night and need to get them out of my head right away. And I know every great pancake and Belgian waffle place in the city. The way to my heart is covered with pure maple syrup.”
Oh.
My phone chimes. “Excuse me,” I say, as I pull it from my purse and see it’s a text message from Ripley.
Not fair. You’re getting a head start on Becker.
I quickly tap the keys and write back.
Don’t worry, the runner-ups are spectacular.
I slide the phone back into my purse. “You getting all snarky already?” he asks.
“No. Quick note to my best friend. She, uh, wanted to make sure I’m keeping warm out here.”
“Stick with me, I’ll keep you warm.” Another sly smile.
Aha.
“I grew up in Minnesota, so I know everything you need to know about dealing with seriously cold weather.” He cocks his head at my coat. “You need something like a down coat from Eddie Bauer. It’ll make you toasty even when it’s twenty below. The one you’ve got isn’t gonna make it.”
Oh, again.
***
Frank and I are in a small room just off the auditorium stage, seated at a table in front of a monitor as the Iowa debate is about to begin. He has a yellow legal pad in front of him along with a laptop while I have fingers at the ready next to my own laptop, Twitter account already open and buzzing. My followers have been burning it up waiting for whatever darts I’m about to throw at the other candidates.
A digital clock shows there’s one minute to go till the ninety minute debate begins. “You ready?” asks Frank.
I crack my knuckles. “Absolutely.”
And then something happens that has never, ever happened to me on television.
My heart starts pounding.
Talking live in front of millions, I’ve never had a problem. Seated in a room with one guy ready to launch barbs at a bunch of sleazeballs with no souls, and for some reason I’m nervous as a virgin on prom night.
Probably because there’s more at stake here. Let’s face it, television news aint gonna cure cancer and if you screw up on the network no one is going to die. But what I’m doing could conceivably affect the future of the country. If you look back at previous presidential races, you’ll often find one sentence that defines a campaign. The famous headline in the New York tabloid (“Ford to City: Drop Dead”) during the race between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford is widely accepted as having had a huge influence on the outcome. “Read my lips” sank the first George Bush like a stone. A few words, history changed. Just like that. And if I end up providing what turns out to be the key words of the campaign, that’s a potentially large gorilla on my back.
Luckily Frank is here to act as a filter in the unlikely event that I need one. (Oh, stop laughing.)
The monitor fills with a red, white and blue graphic and Frank says, “Here we go.”
The music fades as the face of the moderator, public television anchor Jarvis Jones, greets the audience. Jones, who is probably in his mid sixties with a personality as dry as a rice cake, shows no emotion at all as he announces the names of the candidates.
“Hey, Frank, why do they always have these public TV bores as moderators?”
“Yeah, I hate it. Supposedly they’re unbiased, but that’s a bunch of bullshit. They’re liberal as hell.” He cocks his head at my laptop. “Go ahead. Fire away.”
“The debate hasn’t started yet.”
“I meant throw a zinger at the moderator.”
“Really?”
“Sure. His eleven fans probably won’t mind.”
I lick my lips as my eyebrows do a quick jump and I begin to type.
#IowaDebates
@TwitterGirl
Jarvis Jones died in 2011, but hasn’t gotten the memo yet.
I look at Frank for permission before I post it. “Do it,” he says, laughing. “It’s funny as hell. And probably true.”
I post the tweet and watch the LOL and ROFL responses fly by at blinding speed.
“See, they love that kind of stuff,” says Frank. “And regardless of who people are supporting, you’ve said something they all can appreciate.”
The moderator pulls an index card from a stack and says, “So, let’s begin the first debate on the road to the 2010 election.” Snickers fill the room and Jones doesn’t react, clueless that he hasn’t changed refrigerator calendars in awhile.
“Good God, he doesn’t even know what year it is,” says Frank. He points at the laptop. “Hit him again.”
#IowaDebates
@TwitterGirl
Re: Jarvis Jones death in 2011. I rest my case.
“Damn, you’re quick,” says Frank, wearing a big smile. Again, the responses fly by, and within seconds someone has created a new hashtag:
#RIPJarvisJones.
“Jump on it,” says Frank. I start typing again.
#RIPJarvisJones
@TwitterGirl
In lieu of flowers, mourners are asked to donate a personality to the Public Broadcasting System.
“You think he’ll be upset?” I ask.
“You really think he even knows what Twitter is?”
“Good point.”
***
The debate begins, with six other challengers flanking Becker, who, as the front-runner in the polls, is at the center podium. Nothing “tweet worthy” happens as the first four candidates answer a question about foreign aid. But then we come to Marvin Hensler, a sixty year old extreme whack job with an extreme following. The walking definition of “lunatic fringe.”
“Stand by,” says Frank. “He’s bound to say something stupid.”
Hensler, a wealthy private citizen who made his millions the old fashioned way (by inheriting it), has the classic look of a good ole boy politician; bloated, bulbous nose, grey hair styled in a helmet. He starts off rambling about cutting foreign aid completely. “If third world countries like England can’t get by without help, well, that’s not America’s problem.”
“Go!” says Frank.
@TwitterGirl #IowaDebates
Please give to the United Kingdom indoor plumbing fund, Hensler has designated the UK as a third world country.
“You’re on a roll tonight,” says Frank.
“Honey, I’m just gettin’ started.
***
The phone rings just as I hit my hotel room at midnight. I’m tired but exhilarated, and when I see it’s Ripley I take the call. “You’ve reached Twitter Girl. For sarcasm, press one—”
Beep. “Damn, Cassidy, you were hilarious tonight.”
“I guess a few days off from being snarky will pay dividends.”
“It must have built up while you were out of a job. God, that tweet about the moderator… I couldn’t stop laughing.”
“Well, the campaign people were very pleased.”
“Okay, enough about your new job. You turned Becker’s head yet?”
“It might already be spoken for.”
“You’re kidding me! Say it aint so! Who is it?”
“The drop dead gorgeous twenty year old flight attendant on our plane. She disappeared into his office for twenty minutes then came out needing lip gloss. Don’t think she was inflating his life jacket for use as a flotation device.”
