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“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.”
“Well, shit, Cassidy. So I’m out before I even get there.”
“I wouldn’t say that. There’s a huge age difference between her and the Senator. What could they have in common?”
“Duh-uh. You’re seriously asking what might attract a middle-aged guy to a hot younger woman? Earth to Cassidy…”
“Sorry, it’s late. But anyway—”
“You said something in your text about runner-ups?”
“No shortage of seriously attractive guys in this campaign. Between the adorable strategy guy in New York, the hunky advance man and the hotties on the plane, it’s like a cute guy buffet.”
“Okay, see you when you get back. At least now I know who the competition for Becker is. I’ll have to go to DEFCON 1.”
And where Ripley is concerned, that means seriously dressing up for her volunteer job. Her “A” game will turn mine into an “F”.
***
I’m already buckled in for the flight home and watching through the window as the Senator gives a last minute interview on the tarmac to a TV crew with Frank standing at his side. Becker wraps it up and shakes hands with the reporter and photographer before heading toward the plane. Frank enters first and walks toward the seat next to me.
But I’m laser locked on the front of the cabin. Senator Becker steps into the center aisle and hands Jessica his coat. She hangs it up, turns around and gives him a big hug.
He hugs her back with a big smile on his face, then kisses her on the cheek as Frank plops down next to me.
“They’re not terribly discreet, are they?” he says, shaking his head as he stares at them. “Someone should say something.”
“No kidding.” I’m still looking at the front of the plane where they’ve broken the embrace but Becker is now holding her hands. “Frank, I realize I’m new and this is probably not my place to say this, but don’t you think you should be the one to do something about it?”
