Twitter Girl

by Nic Tatano

  I can tell Governor Schilling, a former private school teacher, is chomping at the bit as she bounces on her toes waiting her turn. Two other candidates give stock answers, and then she’s up.

  “Look, I taught school for ten years,” she says. “And let’s be honest… sometimes kids need a shot in the rear end to keep them in line.”

  Now I know about half the parents in this country think their precious little snowflakes can do no wrong and would sue a teacher who looked cross-eyed at their little angels, sooooo…

  @TwitterGirl

  Governor Schilling to replace “No Child Left Behind” with “No Child’s Behind Left”

  “Ow, that one left a mark,” says Frank. “She’ll get the message.”

  “Aw, c’mon Frank, I didn’t hit her too hard.”

  Frank points at the screen. “Oooh, one of her plants is next.”

  “You know who the other candidates’ plants are?” He dips his head and gives me a seriously? look and I nod. “Sorry, I forgot about your connections.”

  A middle-aged blonde woman who obviously dyed her roots brown takes the microphone. “While we have only one woman running for President in this group, I wonder how the rest of you would include women in some non-traditional posts should you be elected. For instance, since there are plenty of females serving in the military, do you think a woman is qualified to be Secretary of Defense?”

  Governor Schilling smiles at this one, and of course says women are qualified to hold any position. The male candidates, knowing full well there is only one possible answer, follow suit.

  Until Marvin Hensler.

  “Well,” he says, giving a sideways glance at the lone woman on the stage, “while women are certainly qualified to hold certain positions in public office, I don’t think Secretary of Defense is one of them. I mean, if someone fires a nuke at us I can’t be waiting around if she trips running to the Oval Office in her high heels.”

  The crowd groans as Schilling stares daggers at Hensler, then looks down and smiles. “At least I wear shoes that match, Marvin. Maybe your campaign staff needs to tag your wardrobe with Garanimals.”

  “Ha! She’s almost as quick as you,” says Frank.

  “Damn good line.”

  The video cuts to a tight shot of Hensler’s shoes, clearly showing one is black and the other dark brown. Hensler turns beet red, the crowd roars and Governor Schilling licks her lips while wearing a huge grin. Senator Becker turns away because he’s laughing so hard.

  @TwitterGirl

  Marvin Hensler’s global warming policy: dress in the dark to save energy. Warning: he could show up in capri pants next time.

  Frank cracks up, then I see our young Hispanic plant is next. This could be it.

  “Good evening, candidates,” he says in a strong accent. “I grew up in Latin America and go to college here. I want to become a US citizen because of the opportunity. I have learned to speak English and consider the United States to be my home. I want to know how each of you plans to deal with the immigration issue because I do not want to return to Latin America.”

  Most of the candidates give a variety of the usual responses. Build a wall on the border, grant citizenship to immigrants serving in the military, create a path to citizenship.

  Hensler is shaking his head. “Well, it’s nice that some of my fellow candidates want to put out the welcome mat for illegal aliens. But I cannot support such a program. However, young man, I will say it’s very admirable that you came here speaking English tonight instead of Latin.”

  Frank nearly spits out his soda at Hensler’s comment as the crowd explodes in laughter. “That’s it! Finish him off!”

  I’m laughing my ass off but I have to focus. Thankfully, the stuff I learned in Catholic school pays off.

  @TwitterGirl

  Carpe idiota (that’s “seize the idiot” in Latin)

  ***

  It is just past eleven when I get back to my hotel room in a great mood. The Town Hall had gone well for the Senator, I’d zinged each candidate at least once, and the word in the lobby was that Marvin Hensler would announce he was dropping out of the race tomorrow morning after his incredible gaffe. While Frank had wanted me to push him from the race with snark, let’s face it, the guy did it to himself. But lawyers, doctors and priests, all of whom had been required to study Latin, joined my Twitter parade after Hensler’s screw-up.

  Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I kicked ass.

  But right now I’m fried as I pour a single serving glass of wine from the mini-bar which probably cost the campaign ten bucks, toss off my clothes and crawl into bed.

  And then the FaceTime ring tone on my iPad goes off.

  I’m hoping it’s not Frank needing me for something. I prop up two pillows, lean back, and when I flip open the cover I find it’s Tyler calling. I accept the call and see his smiling face peeping out from under a blanket.

  “Hey, T.G., I was hoping you were still up. Great job tonight!”

  “Thanks, Tyler, though I don’t think Hensler needed a push off the cliff.”

  “Hey, you still got in some serious barbs at the other candidates. One down, a bunch to go. Who does Frank want to target next?”

  “Hey, you’re the strategist, remember? Just pick someone and I’ll be up his ass like a thong.”

  “Interesting visual, T.G.”

  “Trust me, the real thing is as uncomfortable as it sounds.”

  “Huh. You don’t strike me as a thong girl.”

  “I’m not. Once was enough when it comes to butt floss.”

  “I can only imagine. Hey, did you get any of those great pancakes they serve up there?”

  “Oh my God, those are incredible! I had no idea! And the fresh real maple syrup!”

  “Can you get me a to-go box of those things before you leave? They actually re-heat very well.”

  “Done. Anything for you, Tyler.”

  The conversation moves from pancakes to the Giants to science fiction movies we both want to see to great books we’d read.

  And then my tablet beeps again.

  “You got another call?” he asks.

  I check and see that I don’t.

  It’s the device telling me my battery is about dead. I look at the clock. We’ve been talking for more than an hour.

  “Battery’s about to die, Tyler. I got two percent. Gotta go.”

  “Well, nice spending an hour in bed with Twitter Girl. Hope it was good for you.”

  “Tyler, you give good phone.”

  “And we were just getting into a good discussion on why Picard never fires his damn phasers. Kirk would seriously kick his bald ass.”

  Suddenly, I don’t need sleep. “I could call you on the phone if you’re not too tired.”

  “Operators are standing by, T.G.”

  My iPad goes dark. I plug it in to charge it up for tomorrow, grab my cell and call Tyler.

  When it dies, I finally turn out the lights.

  It’s one-thirty.

  And we weren’t done talking.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  @TwitterGirl

  #ByeByeHensler

  Hensler followers make Latin-English dictionaries number one on Amazon, send copies to Costa Rican missions

  After an all-you-can-eat pancake feeding frenzy before leaving New Hampshire (and yes, I did bring a big stack back for Tyler, along with a quart jug of real maple syrup) it was a quick flight home and a late afternoon strategy session. Frank told me to keep hammering Hensler and his followers this weekend since that’s one endorsement Becker doesn’t want. Welcoming those whack jobs into our tent does more harm than good, and besides, they’ll never vote for the President anyway.

  Anyway, now the weekend is here and we can get back to the important stuff.

  I’m on a date with Vinnie the consultant while Ripley is out across town with Andrew. (Now known as “Plan B”)

  If I thought Vinnie looked good after a football game, I’m blown away at how inc
redible he is in a suit. Seriously, the guy could model clothes for a catalog. And I don’t need to see him out of the suit to know he’s ripped, though the thought has already crossed my mind. Of course I cannot wait to hear my brother’s first impression from when he picked me up, but I pretty much know what he’s going to say.

  Vinnie is, as my mother used to say in her wicked Noo Yawk accent, a smooth operatuh.

  An hour and a half into dinner I can tell this is one of those first dates that’s more about physical attraction than anything else. (And you’re saying, “Uh… your point being?”) The conversation is decent, but not easy. He wants to talk about nothing but politics, I want to talk about anything but. I think he’s really more Ripley’s type than mine, but hey, he aint chopped liver. And of course you already know I’m a horrible judge of character and bad at first impressions, so I shouldn’t throw the guy back in the pond after ninety minutes. Besides, I have this huge slice of tiramisu to demolish and I’m a growing girl.

  He glances at his watch, and smiles. “We’re making good time,” he says.

  “Are we on a schedule?”

  “We are if we want to catch a movie.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small sheet of paper and hands it to me. I see that it is the local movie listings. “You pick, if you’re up for it.”

  Wow, a guy who plans. Interesting.

  I scan the sheet and see the usual multiplex offerings of a few action movies, the latest teenage girl dystopian angst festival, two sparkly vampire flicks, and a romantic comedy I’ve been dying to see. I’m sure a macho looking guy like Vinnie isn’t interested, so I throw the choice back at him. “I can go for the rom-com or the Liam Neeson shoot-em-up.”

  “Ladies choice. And I read some great reviews about the rom-com.”

  “You like romantic comedies? I didn’t figure you for a chick flick guy.”

  “I’m Italian. Romance is in my blood.”

  And with that my interest in Vinnie picks up.

  Three hours and a hilarious rom-com later, I’m seeing Vinnie in a different light.

  Probably because it’s the porch light from my house, and we’ve been making out in his car like a couple of teenagers.

  ***

  Sunday brunch has been a tradition at my house for years. Ripley picks up fresh fruit, bagels and croissants; Sam whips up these incredible Belgian waffles; and I play bartender making mimosas with freshly squeezed orange juice. When it warms up we sit outside on the patio but it’s way too cold for that in January. Besides, the Giants have another playoff game this afternoon and Ripley, amazingly, is going to stay and watch in the hopes of learning that a quarterback is not a twenty-five cent refund.

  She and I haven’t talked since Friday because she had a commercial shoot yesterday, so it’s time for the Friday night dating post-mortem as we sit down to this feast.

  “So,” says Ripley, slicing into her waffle, “how was your evening with Vinnie?”

  “Not bad. Dinner, movie, and uh…” I see Sam smiling at me. “And small talk.”

  “Right,” says Sam, turning to Ripley. “Ten degrees outside and they’re talking in his car till one.”

  “Little brother, are you spying on me?”

  “Just watching out for my sister.”

  “Did you meet him?” asks Ripley.

  “Briefly, when he picked her up.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a player.”

  “If he were a player he would have taken me back to his place,” I say.

  “Did he ask you to go to his place?” asks Sam.

  I feel a sheepish grin grow. “Uh…. yeah. But I told him to take me home.”

  “I rest my case,” he says.

  “Fine,” I say. “Ripley, I think he’s more your type. You both like to talk shop. The only common interest was physical.”

  “Your point being?” says Ripley.

  “He scratched an itch, but that’s about all.”

  “Well, if you’re gonna toss him aside,” she says.

  I take a sip of my mimosa. “Meanwhile, how was your date with Andrew?”

  “He’s okay. Nothing special. I mean, he’s cute as hell but we didn’t seem to have much in common either. He’s more your type.”

  “Well, if you’re gonna toss him aside.”

  “Meanwhile, anything new on the Becker front after your private dinner?”

  “I still can’t tell if he’s interested or not. Though he seemed disappointed that you weren’t in the office when we got back from New Hampshire.”

  She leans forward and rests her head on her hands, eyes wide with excitement. “Really? What did he say about me?”

  Sam rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you two late for Algebra class?”

  “Shut up, Sam,” we say in stereo.

  “By the way, dear brother, I seem to remember you had your third date with Stacy on Friday night as well. How’d it go?”

  He shrugs. “Men never kiss and tell.”

  “Bull,” says Ripley. “C’mon, we want details.”

  He suddenly gets a sad look. “If I’d gotten a kiss I’d be able to tell.”

  I stop eating and look at my brother, who I can see is a little down. “That bad, huh?”

  “She’s not interested in a romantic relationship.” He gives me a look I know so well, his eyes deep pools of permanent hurt, the look that tells me the wheelchair was a factor and the girl wants to be just friends. Despite Sam’s adaptability and independence, the one thing over which he has no control is a single woman’s view of a man who cannot walk. I’d like to bitch slap these girls and tell them they’re missing a guy who is an absolute gem.

  Ripley picks up on his body language, gets up, wraps one arm around his shoulder and kisses him on the top of the head. “Her loss, Sam. You’re such a great guy. Any girl would be lucky to have you. You’re the total package.”

  She hugs him hard as he locks eyes with me, his slightly misty, and our brother-sister non-verbal communication tells me exactly what he’s thinking.

  ***

  You have resources I do not. Use them.

  The text hits my phone at halftime and I realize that with all this stuff involving our wheel-of-bachelors I’ve forgotten about this mysterious number I’m supposed to be looking for. Probably because subconsciously I don’t really want to find anything.

  Ripley notices the puzzled look on my face. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why, what’s up?” asks Sam, as he enters the room carrying three beers.

  “You remember that mystery text? Whoever it is keeps contacting me.”

  Ripley furrows her brow. “What are you talking about?”

  I tell her about the first text, then grab my purse and show them both the note I found in my mailbox, then the latest text. I turn to Sam. “Still think it’s from someone at another campaign?”

  “Not sure. I would think campaigns can get just about anything as far as information is concerned. Not sure what resources you would have that government people wouldn’t.”

  “You’re a reporter,” says Ripley. “I’ll bet your contacts are your resources.”

  I nod slowly as that makes sense. “Which means it’s someone without great government or campaign connections. Meanwhile, where the hell do I start looking for this number? What could it be?”

  “Swiss bank account?” asks Ripley.

  “Possible,” I say, “but even the feds can’t get info on those.”

  “Guess we should start a list of things that have twelve numbers,” says Sam.

  “Is anyone at the campaign remotely suspicious?” asks Ripley.

  I think a moment and recall my dinner with Frank’s assistant. “Well, the deputy campaign manager, Roberta Willis. I had dinner with her and it ended abruptly when I asked about the Senator’s personal life.”

  “Then that’s where you should focus your attention,” says Sam.

  Ripley raises one finger. “But befor
e you start going all Brenda Starr on this guy, consider this: what will you do if you find something?”

  “How do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, suppose you stumble onto something sleazy that would kill the campaign. If you release it, you’re out of a job and maybe President sleazeball wins re-election. Maybe you should let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “I have to know, Ripley. I can make a decision if I find anything substantial. Besides, wouldn’t you want to know if the supposed perfect guy has skeletons in his closet before you sign on as First Lady?”

  “I guess if you put it that way.” Ripley loads up a chip with guacamole. “So where do you start with something like that?”

  “That part’s easy,” I say. “Find someone with a personal ax to grind. With a politician, that shouldn’t be too hard to dig up.”

  And when a reporter needs something like that, the best advice comes from none other than Richard Nixon.

  ***

  “So, does Senator Becker have an enemies list?”

  Tyler starts to laugh as he shakes his head. “Well, since you like All the President’s Men, that question doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Well? Isn’t there a little bit of Nixon in every politician?”

  He nods. “There is. Of course, you’re not really paranoid if they really are out to get you. And in politics, there’s always someone looking to stab you in the back.”

  “So, enemies list?”

  “While we don’t have a physical list per se, there are individuals who would do everything they can to see Top Dog fail. Why do you ask?”

  “Figured there might be some people to discredit along the way with a tweet or two. You know, on the rare days when one of the competitors doesn’t say something stupid. Call it pre-emptive snark.”

  “Hmmm. That’s out-of-the-box thinking, but I like it.”

  “So who’s public enemy number one?”

  “That’s easy. The Senator’s former best friend, David Gold.”

  “His former best friend? Really?”

  “You don’t know the story?”

  I shake my head. “Enlighten me, Tyler.”