by Nic Tatano
“Good point.” I slide the pizza box on the coffee table, pull a giant slice from the box, slide it onto one of the paper plates I brought, and hand it to him. “You’re in for a treat.”
He takes the plate and eagerly bites into the pizza. “Oh, my. That is wonderful. I had no idea there was such a thing as shrimp scampi pizza.”
“Not many places make it.”
“Well, it beats the hell out of Nyquil. I’d like to retract my comment about you not having to do this.” He takes another huge bite. “I may have to get sick more often.”
“Anyway, I remember what it was like to be single and live alone. Opening a can of soup is a chore.” I take a bite of the pizza and savor the garlic shrimp. “Besides, I missed your smiling face at the office today. It’s not the same without you.”
“You bring a lot to the party yourself, T.G. So how did things go today? I heard Top Dog coulda worked as a Central Park mime.”
“Yeah, blew out his voice in the Iowa cold. I shadowed Roberta most of the day.”
“Ah, a day with Number Six.”
“Huh?”
“Cylon on Battlestar Galactica. Roberta’s an android, though not nearly as hot as the actress who played Number Six.”
“Yeah, she is kinda robotic.” I pull a six-pack out of a bag and hold it up. “Beer? I wasn’t sure if you could handle alcohol.”
“Bring it on. Just so you know, I can do anything a normal person does. Just not two days in a row. Think of me as a cell phone that has to get charged up.”
“You got it.” I hand him a beer, open one for myself and take a sip. “I, uh, met David Gold today.”
He leans forward. “Really. Tell me more.”
“He cornered me at the golf club luncheon. In the ladies room of all places.”
“He probably needed a tampon.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Anyway, he told me I needed to investigate something that happened in the year 2005.”
His eyes widen. “Investigate what?”
“He didn’t know. He just said some strange things happened during that year.”
Tyler takes another bite and shakes his head. “That guy really needs to move on and get a life.”
“So how long have you known the Senator?”
“About nine years. Started working for him during his first Senate campaign.”
“Have you ever seen anything at all that made you question his honesty?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Decent guy. What you see is what you get. However…”
“Yeah?”
He grabs another slice of pizza and leans back on the couch. “There was one thing that struck me as odd.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“His wife. She always had this underlying sadness about her. I always suspected she hated politics, but was too supportive to ever say anything about it. She was the classic stay-at-home mom, really committed to raising her kids right, and when you meet them you’ll see she did a wonderful job. And the woman was beyond shy, practically a recluse. I know he really loved her, and was told she was head over heels for him, but they seemed like an odd match to me. Opposites attract, I guess.”
“Why would you marry a politician if you hated politics?”
Tyler takes another bite. “Heart wants what the heart wants, right?”
“Guess so.”
He turns serious for a moment. “Speaking of hearts wanting, you really like him, don’t you?”
I try to stop myself from smiling but am unsuccessful. “Yeah, I mean I wouldn’t be working for the guy if I didn’t.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant you like him. Like millions of other women.”
“Fine. I’m interested. And apparently he’s interested in me.”
“Well, that’s understandable as smart and beautiful as you are.”
“You’re sweet, Tyler. But the guy could have any woman he wanted.”
“Yeah, I guess when you add the fairytale First Lady thing into the mix, he could. But what a lot of women don’t realize is that being a political wife is a different kind of life. If you like spending your life in the shadows, fine. If you want to cast your own shadow, you need direct sunlight.”
We talk for a couple of hours, then I notice he’s yawning. “Hey, that’s my cue. You need rest,” I say, standing up.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“God, men are stubborn when they’re sick.”
“I won’t argue with that. Guess you’re right. But I am feeling better after the pizza.”
“See, a little butter, garlic and spices and you’ll be good to go tomorrow. But only after a good night’s sleep, young man. Off to bed you go.” I point and wave my hand around. “Wherever your bedroom is.”
“Yes, doctor. And it’s upstairs.” He gets up and we head toward the door. “Can’t thank you enough, T.G. That was really nice of you to bring dinner and I enjoyed the company.” I grab my coat from the rack and put it on. “We should do this when I’m not sick.”
“Love to, Tyler.”
“I’d give you a hug but I don’t want to infect you.”
“I’ll take a rain check on that, too. See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Thursday, remember?”
“Right. FaceTime?”
“Look forward to it.”
“Great. See you Friday then.”
“Okay. G’night.”
He opens the door for me and the cold air smacks me in the face as I head for my car. I carefully maneuver past the patches of ice on the brick walk, hit the street and open the door to my car. I look up and see Tyler standing there, door open, watching me. “What, you wanna heat the whole neighborhood?”
“Just wanted to make sure you got to your car safe.”
“I’m good, now go back inside before you get pneumonia!”
He smiles, waves, and closes the door.
Damn, he reminds me of Sam. It’s like having an extra brother looking out for me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
@TwitterGirl
The PC Police want me to change my handle to Twitter Woman. Seriously, get a life.
In the newsroom it is known as getting “two fingers.”
Nope, not having someone flip the bird at you using both hands. It’s when a manager uses his index and middle finger, glares at you, waits a beat, then gives you the “come here” signal with the two fingers. Sorta like a spider does to a fly.
And it never, ever means anything good.
So when I see Frank give me the two fingers, my heart gets hung up on my tonsils.
What the hell have I done? I thought they were happy with me.
I get up from my desk and walk on eggshells into his office, head down. He closes the door and gestures toward the chair opposite his desk. “Cassidy, have a seat.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, as I sit down. “This doesn’t sound good.”
“Relax, Cassidy, you haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, we’re all thrilled with your work.”
“Then why do you look like you just had a prostate exam with a paid of salad tongs?”
He chuckles a bit and shakes his head. “Honestly, you are the quickest wit I’ve ever met.”
“Why, thank you. Meanwhile, got a joke for ya. Frank walks into a bar. Bartender says, why the long face?”
“We’ve run into a serious situation, Cassidy. And it involves you.”
Oh, shit. They found out I talked to David Gold. Or did they? “You said I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You haven’t.” He shakes his head, reaches into his desk for a huge bottle of Tums, shakes out a few and pops them in his mouth. “I knew this would happen eventually, I just hoped it would be after the campaign.”
“For goodness sake, Frank, you’re like a newscast producer teasing the same story for an hour. What the hell is it?”
“Senator Becker wants to… date you.”
“Yeah, I kinda picked that up,” I say, trying to sound casual, but knowing my
widening eyes are betraying me.
“First, I want to know if this is okay with you. I mean, you are an employee and he is the boss. I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated because we don’t need to get into some sort of harassment thing here.”
“It’s fine, Frank, really. He’s a nice guy who just happens to be running for President. If he wasn’t my boss and asked me out, I’d accept.”
“I figured as much since you once said he was smoking hot.”
“My, we were taking notes.”
“You don’t forget a comment like that in politics.” Frank leans forward and folds his hands. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that whatever happens between you two has to be very discreet.”
“I’m not expecting him to take me dancing.”
“Good. I didn’t really think I needed to tell you to be quiet. But keep it under your hat.”
“Sure thing.” I do the zipper thing across my lips and toss away the imaginary key. “I’m a vault. Well, except that Ripley and my brother know, but they’d never say anything.”
“Good. If something like this got out… Cassidy, I hate to sound so crass, but… we need to keep the dream alive.”
I furrow my brow for a moment, then I get it. “You mean the shot every American woman has at being First Lady?”
“Twitter Girl, you’re too damn smart.”
“I’ll play ball, Frank. I know the fantasy needs to stay out there. Really, you don’t have to worry about us ending up on Page Six.”
***
Ripley smiles as she clinks my glass two nights later. “Congratulations. Can you get me a night in the Lincoln bedroom next year?”
“Oh, stop it.”
“Hey, he chose you. You got the brass ring.”
“I’ve had two dinners with the guy under a veil of secrecy and didn’t even get a goodnight kiss, so that doesn’t exactly constitute a brass ring. Right now the only ring I’ve got is the one around the bathtub.”
“This has got to be the weirdest romance ever,” says Sam. “You get the guy you wanted and you’re out on a Friday night with your brother and best friend eating fried cheese and nachos.”
“Yeah, something’s not quite right,” I say. “But it’s a unique situation. And you guys are the best company a girl could want.”
Sam turns toward Ripley. “So, which of the so-called runner-ups will you be setting your sights on?”
“Vinnie,” she says, then smiles at me. “Actually, we went out last night and I did get a goodnight kiss.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay,” she says. “I got several.”
“Careful,” says Sam. “He’s a—”
“I know, I know,” says Ripley, putting up her hand. “He’s a player. But he can play with me for awhile. One can always assume the savage beast can be tamed.”
Sam pops a chip dripping with cheese in his mouth. “You know, I don’t get that about women. What exactly is the appeal of changing a guy? I mean, why don’t you simply find a guy you can, you know, for lack of a better term, drive off the lot.”
We both crack up at his metaphor. “Because, dear brother, if we mold a guy the way we want, we’re in control.”
“Shoulda figured it was something like that.”
Ripley pats his hand. “You just haven’t been around the block as much as we have.”
“However,” I say, “our odometers are in danger of turning over to all zeroes, so we may soon be heading to the cat lady junkyard.”
“So, hypothetically,” says Sam, leaning back, “if you guys were to mold me, what exactly would you want to change?”
Ripley shakes her head. “Honestly, Sam, I could drive you off the lot right now. You’re the best thing on the showroom floor.”
“C’mon, I’m serious,” he says. “I haven’t had the greatest luck with women lately. What do I need to change? What’s wrong with me?”
Ripley looks at me and puts her palms up. “I got nothin’.”
“Me neither,” I say, leaning over and giving my brother a kiss on the side of the head.
“You’re biased, you’re my sister,” he says to me, then turns to Ripley. “And you’re too sweet to say anything negative.”
“My dear brother, the stars simply have to align.”
“Yeah,” says Ripley, “it’s smart to take advice from two thirty-five year old women who have never been down the aisle.”
I look up and see lots of couples in the bar, enjoying the evening out. It occurs to me that even if I do catch that brass ring, it won’t be until after the November election that I can be seen alone in public with Will Becker.
A waitress drops by and slides a drink with an umbrella in it in front of Ripley, which is a very common occurrence when we’re out. (I’ve always been her wing girl.) She points at a fortyish guy in a white shirt and tie who is locked onto her. “From the gentleman at the bar,” she says.
Ripley looks up at the man, who would qualify as classically tall, dark and handsome, and places the drink back on the serving tray. “Tell him thank you, but I’m not interested.”
“Sure thing,” says the waitress, who heads back to the guy.
“Didn’t wanna mold him?” asks Sam.
She shakes her head. “Phony smile. Looked like a car salesman. And you know I never go out with people I meet in a bar.”
“Now there’s a good piece of advice from your focus group of unmarried thirty-five year olds who have been around the block,” I say.
We share a laugh and all of a sudden the guy is standing next to our table between Sam and Ripley. “Looks like you’re short one guy at this table,” he says.
Ripley looks up at him. “Look, I’m not interested, okay? Thank you for the offer, but you can send your drink to someone else. There are plenty of unattached girls in the bar.”
“I was just wondering if you got hurt when you fell. From heaven.”
I roll my eyes at the lame pickup line as Ripley shakes her head. “I’m out with my friends here tonight. Not looking for anyone right now and I don’t go out with strange men I meet in bars.”
He stares right down her cleavage. “Aw c’mon, you didn’t dress like that ’cause you wanted to be with your friends.”
Ripley narrows her eyes. “Well I sure didn’t dress this way for you. Now please leave me alone.”
The guy shakes his head and starts to turn away. “Damn cock tease.”
In a flash Sam reaches up, grabs the guy’s necktie and yanks it, slamming his head into our table. The sound makes everyone in the bar look in our direction and everything goes quiet. Sam quickly uses his other hand to bend the guy’s arm behind his back in a hammerlock. The man winces in pain. “Apologize to the young lady.”
“Ow, you’re hurting me.”
“Apologize or I’m gonna hurt you a lot more.”
He’s barely able to turn his head toward Ripley but does so. “Sorry.”
“That didn’t sound very sincere.”
“I’m sorry… for what I called you. It was… very rude.”
“That’s better,” says Sam. “And for future reference, when a lady says she’s not interested, you leave her the hell alone. Got it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Got it???”
“Yeah, I got it, I got it.”
“Good. Now you’re gonna pay your bill, leave the waitress a huge tip, and never come to this bar again because this is our hangout and your kind aren’t welcome here. Agreed?”
“Yeah.”
Sam releases the guy who stands up and rubs his arm, then walks to the bar red-faced through a horde of women laughing at him. He tosses a bill on it, grabs his coat and heads out the door. The minute he’s gone the crowd starts applauding, and a few women come over to give Sam a pat on the back. A few others drop by and give him phone numbers.
Ripley and I are sitting there with our mouths hanging open, saying nothing. Sam looks at both of us. “What?”
“Damn, wh
ere the hell did that come from?” I ask.
He cocks his head at Ripley. “He insulted her. It pissed me off. No one talks to Ripley that way.”
She leans over, wraps one arm around his shoulders and kisses him on the cheek. “Guess we’ll have to add white knight to your résumé. And judging from the looks you’re now getting from the women in this bar, you’re definitely ready to drive off the lot.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
@TwitterGirl
Ah, so we have a challenger on the political Twitterverse. Okay, let’s rock. (My candidate can beat up your candidate.)
Monday morning is starting out well. Sam is in a good mood after having a great date on Saturday (a seriously cute waitress who gave him her number at the bar), the sun is out and it is unseasonably warm. I’ll be leaving for the New Hampshire debate tomorrow, the country’s most eligible bachelor wants to date me, Ripley seems happy with her runner-up and other than the fact that I am craving fried cheese and nachos for breakfast, all seems right with the universe.
And then my favorite New York tabloid swats my front door and greets me with this:
PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGN ALL ATWITTER
By Jim Harlin
Using social media in a political campaign is nothing new. Adding a snarky Twitter person to your staff is.
Eyebrows were raised a few weeks ago when former network reporter Cassidy Shea, a/k/a @TwitterGirl, was hired by Senator Will Becker’s campaign a few days after she was given the boot by her employer because of a controversial tweet. The snarky queen of 140 characters has been sending out often hilarious remarks, shooting pointed barbs at the President, other candidates and even the moderators at the debates. All designed to take the competition down a notch, lighten things up and attract young voters in the process. Her huge following must be considered an asset by the Becker campaign, as her sharp witty comments can go viral in a heartbeat. And have done so during her tenure.
Well, another candidate has obviously taken notice as Congressman Dwayne Rodgers has hired comedian Dan Carrington to man the Twitter desk in his campaign. Carrington, known for his satirical political show on cable, will work from his Hollywood home whereas Ms. Shea has been seen traveling with the Becker campaign.
