by Nic Tatano
Becker’s Campaign Manager Frank Delavan wasn’t surprised by the move. “It was only a matter of time before someone copied our strategy. Carrington’s a funny guy and I enjoy his show. But there’s only one Twitter Girl, and she’s on our team. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be on Cassidy Shea’s bad side so Mister Carrington needs to tread lightly if he has any intention of personally taking her on.”
Rodgers is currently running fifth in the polls and seen as a longshot for the nomination, so obviously has nothing to lose with this tactic and should at least see his name recognition increase.
In any event, seeing two of America’s wittiest people go toe-to-toe on Twitter should be more entertaining than the debates.
“Glad to read that you think I’m unique,” I say, as I enter Frank’s office.
“You are definitely one of a kind, and that wasn’t just a sound bite I handed out.”
“Well, I appreciate the compliment. So what do you make of this? Is everyone going to hire a snarky Twitter person now?”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think it’s likely. Though I was surprised Governor Schilling wasn’t the one to do it.”
“You think it will do Rodgers any good?”
“Look, Carrington is hilarious. He’s a professional comedian and he’s got a very quick wit, like you. Terrific ad-libber. But don’t let him suck you into a Twitter war. His guy is fifth, ours is first. Keep your interaction with him at a reasonable level. No name calling or anything like that. Remember, go after the candidate, not the staff.”
“That wasn’t the strategy with the Ex-Lax brownies.”
Frank laughs a bit. “That was a unique circumstance. Besides, they have no idea you were behind it. Wheeler the Dealer probably thinks he simply got food poisoning.” He gets up from behind his desk and closes the door. “I didn’t see you on Friday so I didn’t have the chance to ask how dinner went Thursday night.”
“Why Frank, you’re acting like a high school girl.”
“Just protecting the Senator.”
“Eh, I’m just yankin’ your chain. We had a nice dinner. That was it. I was home by nine, I’m sure I wasn’t followed and I’m not eating for two.”
“Well, I appreciate your discretion. I know this whole thing is pretty strange.”
Driving myself to a date, meeting a man under an assumed name in the back room of a restaurant, getting myself home, not telling anyone except Ripley and my brother about it. Hey, what could be strange about that?
***
“Unfortunately the one person who could help you is dead. His wife.”
Despite the enjoyable weekend, that line from David Gold is bugging me, and it is time to seriously start checking things out. If I am about to enter into a relationship with Will Becker, I need to know if there really is something underneath the political persona. I know most people might think it would be odd to actually vet someone before dating, but reporters are like that. If there are skeletons or red flags, may as well find out what they are so you know what to expect going in.
The campaign headquarters has a media library, with video, newspaper clips, political ads, brochures and just about everything you could imagine on the other candidates.
It also has everything you could possibly want to know about Will Becker.
And his wife.
I had a few hours to kill so I told Frank I was going to spend them in the media library, getting to know the players a little better. It’s a small room with a desk, large computer monitor, some DVD dubbing machines and a couple of file cabinets. And since Becker and his senior staff are going to be out all morning, I am reasonably sure I won’t be bothered.
I spend thirty minutes actually looking at stuff pertaining to the other candidates, just to cover my tracks if anyone asks. I don’t know if anyone will check the history on the computer, but want to be safe.
After a half hour of campaign commercials, various talk show clips and gaffes, I’m ready to put on my reporter’s hat.
There’s a folder off to the side on the computer’s desktop simply marked “Jennifer.”
His wife.
I click on it and see a relatively small amount of files. I start with the photos first, wanting to put a face to the name as I’d never seen her. Or if I had, I hadn’t paid attention. (Who would, when you’re looking at Will Becker?)
She was a petite blonde, surprisingly plain. Not what I expected. Straight hair, slender, little makeup to be seen in any of the photos. Typical Connecticut girl. The only bright smiles are found on the wedding pictures, the ones with their two daughters or on campaign brochures. The rest are a collection of pictures from various campaign victories or standing by Becker’s side as he took the oath of office. They all show a forced expression. Tyler was right. You didn’t have to meet her to know this woman didn’t like politics.
A bunch of video clips reveal the same thing. Jennifer Becker standing behind her husband as he campaigned or thanked a crowd. Holding hands with her two daughters instead of her husband.
Standing behind him.
In the shadows.
The standard political commercials show what seems to be a typical perfect American family. Jennifer smiling on cue, playing the supportive wife and mother.
The key is in the woman’s eyes, and you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it. Full of life when with her children, dead otherwise.
And then there is the picture from high school. He the star football player, she the bright cheerleader staring up at him with a look that was obviously love.
What had happened to the happy cheerleader and smiling bride?
Politics happened.
But the journalist sitting on my shoulder tells me there was something else.
***
@TwitterGirl
#NewHampshireDebate
Tonight’s moderator is CBR anchor Jon Hanley, who is unbiased. He hates everyone in our party equally.
The latest national poll shows Senator Will Becker defeating the President by four percentage points if the election were held today. All the other candidates in our party don’t fare very well against the Sleazeball-in-Chief.
Which means the President wants to see anyone but our guy on the top of the ticket.
Which means network anchor Jon Hanley, who is so far up the President’s ass he can’t get a cell phone signal, will do everything in his power tonight to make Becker look bad.
So Frank has me defending our turf on three fronts. I’ve got the other candidates to worry about, the comedian in Hollywood who will do doubt try to lure me into an Internet debate, and a news anchor who makes no attempt whatsoever to conceal his negative feelings about our party.
I ran into Hanley a few times when he was a reporter. He’s the classic square-jawed television news personality born with a silver spoon in his mouth who thinks his Ivy League education makes him better than anyone else, when in reality he needs Cliff Notes to do a story on foreign policy. And he paid no dues either, which really pisses me off, as he’s the son of a former network anchor. He actually got on my shit list several years ago when he walked through my live shot on purpose, and when it comes to revenge, I never forget. Tonight (with a lotta help from Tyler) I’ve got something in my bag of tricks to take him down a notch by shooting his credibility to hell, and I’ll be saving it for the perfect moment.
Once again Frank is at my side in a room off the stage as the debate is about to begin. I’ve got two laptops open as I’m using one to monitor whatever Dan Harrington does. Frank also has two, as he is monitoring Twitter and has another tied into a focus group back home.
And, right on cue, Carrington lobs the first shell in our direction.
@TheRealCarrington
#NewHampshireDebate
Polls show President trailing the Ken doll by four percentage points in a hypothetical election.
My eyes narrow as my hands head toward the keyboard, but Frank grabs my wrist. “Nope. Leave it alone.”
/> “He called our guy a plastic toy.”
“Let him do the name calling. That’s juvenile. You stick to the snark. Don’t stoop to his level, because that’s what he wants you to do.” Frank looks at the monitor as Jon Hanley welcomes the candidates. “Why don’t you fire a shot across the bow of the moderator to get the ball rolling?”
I crack my knuckles and start to type.
@TwitterGirl
#NewHampshireDebate
If President Turner came to an abrupt halt, Jon Hanley would break his nose.
Frank throws back his head and laughs. “Good one, Twitter Girl.”
“I’m just gettin’ started here,” I say, in a really bad Al Pacino impression.
The debate begins and we go through the first two questions with nothing earthshaking and no opportunities for me. Then all of a sudden Frank sits up straight and points at the monitor during a crowd shot of about a dozen people. “Look, half of ’em got their cell phones out. Have something ready the next time they show a reaction shot of the crowd. I wanna see if they’re logged in to you.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Give Hanley another shot.”
I quickly ready a digital blow dart, then await the next cutaway as my finger hovers over the “enter” key.
And about ninety seconds later, the network provides us with what we need. “Now!” yells Frank.
@TwitterGirl
#NewHampshireDebate
Please warn Jon Hanley the teleprompter is out in the men’s room, so he’ll have to hold it.
About half the people looking at their cell phones start chuckling.
“They’re paying more attention to you than the debate,” says Frank.
I shrug. “Once again, I’m more interesting.” I look at my other laptop. “Meanwhile, still nothing from my counterpart in California. They’re not getting their money’s worth.”
“You should add up all your tweets at the end of the campaign, and see how much we paid you per word.”
The topic turns to education, which, of course, affords our moderator the chance to beat his own drum.
“Let’s talk about astronomical tuition costs,” says Hanley. “I was fortunate to get an Ivy League degree, but these days few can afford even the substandard education offered by a community college.”
I quickly cut and paste the tweet I’ve had ready and send it on its way.
@TwitterGirl
#NewHampshireDebate
Jon Hanley’s “nolo cum laude” college transcript! (That means he wasn’t on the dean’s list). Link.
Said link was provided by Tyler who set up some untraceable website with all sorts of unflattering material about Jon Hanley, including his less than impressive grades in college, one of which was an “F” in political science. And the fact that Hanley’s wealthy dad made a million dollar contribution to the school right before he was accepted. Said link was also sent to each candidate’s campaign team an hour before the debate.
@TheRealCarrington
Hanley’s “F” in poly sci was due to the fact he thought Soviet Georgia was a suburb of Atlanta with Russian immigrants.
“Meh,” says Frank. “If that’s the best he can do, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
***
Another campaign stop, another party atmosphere in Becker’s hotel suite.
But what’s different this time is I’m in the room next to it. And there’s a connecting door.
As before the staff has a few drinks and filters out. I don’t want anyone to see a pattern here, so I’m one of the first to leave.
The minute I get back in my room I whip out my iPad and FaceTime Tyler.
The screen fills with his smiling face and I recognize the setting as his living room. “Hey, T.G, another great job!”
“You too, Tyler. That untraceable website was a stroke of genius.”
“Well, Jon Hanley’s transcript in the number one thing trending on the Internet. The debate isn’t even in the picture.”
“That ought to shoot his credibility to hell.”
“No kidding. Hey, off the topic, wanted to ask you if you wanted to go to the Giants game this weekend. I’ve only got one ticket this time. Frank is taking the commercial production team.”
“You going?”
“This time I don’t have a wedding, so yeah.”
“Then count me in.”
“Great.” I hear a female voice and see him turn around. “What? Talking to a friend with the campaign. I’ll be right there.” He turns back to me. “Hey, got company so I gotta run. But see you when you get back into town tomorrow.”
“Okay, Tyler. Bye.”
“Bye, T.G. Pleasant dreams.”
The screen goes dark and I wonder about the identity of the female voice I heard. Nice that Tyler has a woman in his life. He’s a great person and deserves someone good.
After all, he’s a guy you can drive off the lot.
***
An hour later there’s a gentle tap on the connecting door.
I haven’t changed clothes because I was hoping for this. I hop up, run to the door, open it, and find Will Becker standing there with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I figured you were up,” he says. “Saw the light on under the door.”
“Yeah, I was checking out the reaction to the debate on the Internet.”
“How’d we do?”
“Very well, nothing negative. Lotta cheap shots at Jon Hanley from the other networks, which he deserved.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll back off a bit now that you’ve taken him down several notches.” He sticks his head inside the room and looks toward the window. “Uh, you need to close the drapes.”
“Huh?”
“Never know who’s out there with a telephoto lens.”
Well, this is new as far as dating is concerned. “Oh, sure thing.” He stands in the doorway until I close the drapes, then moves into the room and hands me a glass. “Celebrate with me?”
“Absolutely. Hit me, barkeep.”
He pops the champagne and pours me a glass, then fills his own and raises it. “To the best addition to my campaign.”
I clink his glass. “Why thank you, Senator.”
“Are you ever gonna remember to call me Will when we’re alone?”
“Probably not. And next year I’ll be calling you Mister President. Besides, if this is going to be discreet, I don’t need to slip up in public and call you by your first name.”
“Very well, Ms. Shea.”
“I prefer Twitter Girl if you’re not gonna call me Cassidy.”
He smiles at me, drains his glass, puts the empty on an end table and moves closer. “You’re like no one I’ve ever met,” he says, as his hands slide up my arms and rest on my shoulders. Our eyes lock, our lips part to meet—
And his cell phone rings.
“Sorry,” he says, as he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at it. “Dammit, got a big opportunity. And this might take awhile. Rain check?”
“Not going anywhere,” I say.
“Thanks.” He turns and leaves my room, pulling the connecting door closed.
I’m left with a half empty bottle of champagne, wondering if “awhile” means I should get undressed and go to bed.
I’d call Tyler to kill some time, but he’s got some babe with him.
An hour later the champagne is gone, and Becker is a guest on a late night talk show at a TV station way across town.
I fall asleep in my clothes. Just in case.
Just in case never arrives.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
@TwitterGirl
Becker campaign finds proof of life after death! (Investigation shows thousands of dead people voted in last election.)
Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with this little bit of breaking news. Apparently a whole lot of people who had reached room temperature in a swing state carried by the President in the last election cast ballots long after lying down for a dirt nap.
>
@TwitterGirl
President Turner announces endorsements from Abe Lincoln, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. Considers Lincoln as running mate.
Of course the other party denies that any chicanery happened, and this is all due to a “clerical error.” Okay, maybe a few thousand clerical errors.
@TwitterGirl
President Turner hires medium to arrange focus group with deceased voters. New campaign slogan: “I see dead people.”
Anyway, Ripley’s working in the campaign headquarters today and we haven’t had a chance to chat about what almost happened in New Hampshire. Rather than take the chance of having someone overhear our conversation, I decide this is best discussed in a restaurant over lunch. She waits a moment after giving her order to the waiter, then turns toward me with a very eager look. “Sooooo?”
I shake my head. “Saved by the cell.”
“Huh?”
“The guy was about to kiss me and his phone went off. Then he ran off. Then I went off to bed fully clothed. Then—”
“Whoa.” She waves her hand to stop me. “Hang on a minute. Why did you sleep in your clothes?”
“In case he came back.”
“Sweetie, it’s generally accepted that taking one’s clothes off is the way to attract a man.”
“It wasn’t my intention to seduce him.”
“Obviously not if you’re sleeping in your dress. How long have been going to bed in the Amish overnight collection?”
“You don’t understand.” I explain the whole adjoining room thing, how I had to pull the curtains shut in case the paparazzi was in a tree with a night vision camera, how he ended up ditching an opportunity to play tonsil hockey with me for a male late night talk show host, how I thought he might come back shortly so I kept my clothes on because I want to take this slow.
“Did he call you when he was done with the talk show?”
“No. He told me on the plane that he figured I was asleep.”
“Oh. So where do you guys go from here?”
“I don’t know.”
“How far do you think he wanted to go before his phone rang?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“You are definitely in one weird relationship.”
“It’s not even a relationship yet. I don’t know what it is.”
