The Advisor

by J D Wade

I didn’t take a picture. My phone got locked and stuffed back into my pocket.

  “Occupational habit, okay?”

  “Don’t not take a picture on my account.” She said, swirling her fingers through the air. “All of the people on the Interwebs live to see what Timmy puts in his body.”

  “That’s what my Just Fans page is about.” I quipped.

  Cheri smiled and leaned in closer, her boob knocking against her own cup of tea.

  “Careful,” I said.

  “The girls have a mind of their own.” She shrugged, though she didn’t bother moving her tea. “Look, take a picture, don’t take a picture. But if you’re giving yourself a break from the Tuniverse, maybe don’t start by documenting something as inane as drinking an overpriced tea.”

  “You’re drinking tea, too. Don’t judge me.”

  “I’m not telling the whole world about it.”

  “Because no one cares what you do.”

  “I’d take offense if I gave a shit what other people care about.” She twirled those fingers in my face again, as though trying to magic my words away. “So?”

  “So what?” I shrugged, reaching for my tea.

  “You asked me to meet you here.” She answered. “Said you needed your oldest, dearest, and best friend. I took an early, long lunch. Talk, son.”

  Cheri, all bold colors and stylish clothes, perfect makeup, wild head of curly black hair, onyx skin, and eyes that seemed to sparkle with life didn’t have time for my existential crisis. She had the space of a lunch break to figure out what it was I had going on that made me beg her to use time away from work to meet me. Immediately, I wanted to apologize to her for asking her to bother, since I was probably just having a bad day, well, bad months, really, but she was my friend. Friends meet friends to talk when something is going on that can’t be dealt with alone.

  “Why am I so unhappy?” I spat.

  “Those skinny jeans are crushing your nuts?”

  “Seriously.”

  “I know.” She said. “You’re sporting massive VPL, friend.”

  “Am not.” I chuckled. “Stop. But I appreciate the use of ‘massive.’”

  “Fine.”

  “Nothing I come up with for Tuniverse makes me happy, Cheri,” I explained before taking a sip of the tea. “I keep coming up with idea after idea—maybe a vacation and I’ll document it, get some clothing and travel sponsors to partner with. I could do the music festival circuit—I mean, spring’s almost here and summer’s right around the corner—”

  “Barely.”

  “—but all of that is done all the time, ya’ know?”

  “Are you more worried about the fact that you’ll do something somebody else is doing or the fact that all of that shit is pointless? At least from an influencer standpoint?”

  “I heard that.”

  “What?”

  “The way you said ‘influencer.’” I said. “You don’t have to say my job title the same way some people say ‘gonorrhea,’ ya’ know.”

  Cheri cackled and sat back in her seat, her boobs finally no longer on the table. How did an average size girl have such big boobs? I mean, they were nice and all, but I was the wrong audience for such a show.

  “Your job is shallow.” She shrugged. “I ain’t hatin’ on it, but you’re not exactly saving the world, are you?”

  “No?”

  “I love that you have a job that pays well, let’s you be free, and is creative, but I’m not going to sit here and act like you’re solving world hunger, Timothy.” She said. “So, you’re just going to have to suck it up, all right?”

  “I guess.”

  “So, you asked me to come here to listen to you bitch about how hard your life is?”

  “My work. How hard my work is.”

  “Privileged ass.”

  I shrugged.

  “Look,” Cheri’s boobs were on the table again, “go on an island vacation, get drunk and take videos of you singing Rihanna songs in an infinity pool. Check into a haunted hotel and do an investigation while wearing designer clothes. Go to a music festival. Hell, Timothy, see if you can book a spot at The Apollo and document how hard you bomb. But your job ain’t hard.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “On the real?” Cheri sat up, the corner of her mouth drawn up. “Your job is stupid. But it pays your bills. My job is stupid. But it pays the bills. Let’s not take this shit so seriously, okay?”

  “But a job shouldn’t be work.”

  Cheri cackled again.

  “Boy,” she sighed, “you are crazy as hell. Most jobs suck. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be so many people dreaming of where they’re going to retire to.”

  “I don’t want to retire, Cheri.” I snapped. “I just want a job I’ll be happy doing until the day I die.”

  “Use that tone with me again, it won’t be far off.”

  Sipping my tea, I averted my gaze.

  “Look,” she suggested, “maybe you should use your influence for good, right? Maybe that’s why you’re so down? All you do is suggest new foods and drinks, the trendiest clothes, which celebrities are in and which are out. You talk about vapid shit that only vapid ass people care about.”

  “I’m not vapid.”

  “Your job is.” She stopped me. “I know you’re not vapid. But you fell into this talking about some asshole with baggy pants. It’s not like you had the most respectable start that would lead you on a path to curing cancer, right?”

  “No, but—”

  “Maybe do a hard left. Or right.” She suggested. “Just change the path, whatever you choose to do.”

  “You really think that my followers are going to give a shit if I start talking about the environment and stuff?”

  Cheri was laughing again.

  “You’re in so deep you don’t even know of a worthy cause to lend your influence to, Timothy.” She was snorting. “How many followers you got now?”

  “On which platform?”

  “Boy.”

  “About eleven-million on Instagram, a bit fewer on Twitter. YouTube is a couple million. I don’t know.”

  “Even after The Rant?”

  “Even after The Rant.” I smiled. “But, let’s not talk about that for God’s sake.”

  “Fine. I’m just surprised that any of your followers stuck around—let alone millions of them—after you read them all to filth for being substance-less assholes.”

  Slumping in my seat, my chin jutted out indignantly. I didn’t need to be reminded of my meltdown of epic proportions, which I had ignorantly posted after way too many glasses of wine one night. Cheri knew that I was still beating myself up over being such an asshole so publicly—even if it hadn’t really done any permanent damage. Sure, there had been some vitriolic comments left under the video, and I lost a few thousand followers, but it wasn’t too bad. After I explained that I was drunk and getting over a break-up—I really didn’t need to think about that—and then apologized, it was like water under the bridge. I even got some of my followers back immediately. It wasn’t hard for me to constantly worry if people weren’t still following me just to see when I might split at the seams again, though. Countdown to Timmy’s Next Meltdown. Three. Two. One.

  “That’s not quite what I said. And you know it. But let’s drop it. I mean, I just now stopped getting requests for interviews about my epic meltdown, all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Say ‘fine’ one more time, Cheri.”

  “Fine, bitch.” She cackled. “You think you’d know how to take some heat after all the death threats over the Brad debacle.”

  I groaned. “God-freaking-damnit, Cheri. Are you trying to ruin my whole dang day?”

  Those fingers were twirling in my face again.

  “Maybe use your creativity and infectious personality to get people talking about the real shit. Instead of telling them which two-hundred-dollar t-shirt they have to buy with money they ain
’t got.”

  I grimaced.

  “I am a little vapid, aren’t I?”

  “A bit.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “What do I do, damnit?” I begged.

  “What I just say?” Cheri was looping her bag handles over her forearm, and her fingers were reaching for her tea. “Do something worth doing. Something you could maybe believe in. Now walk my ass down the corner to the deli and buy me a pastrami because mama’s gotta eat before she goes back into work. Looks like you could use a bite yourself—if it won’t make the seams of those jeans burst.”

  “So funny,” I said. “I don’t know why you have never been on my Insta Live.”

  I rose from the uncomfortable chair, glad to give my ass meat relief. Cheri shimmied out of the booth and inched around the table.

  “Because no one would ever believe you could actually be friends with someone as hot as this bitch, that’s why.” She draped an arm over my shoulders and yanked me towards the door. “Face it, Timothy. You’re busted.”

  “I know.” I wailed as I opened the door for us, and the bell clanged once more. “You’re a raging bitch, but I’m glad you keep me grounded.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She dragged me through the door. “Pastrami first. Then you can kiss my ass some more, okay?”

  We strolled away from the tea shop, Cheri’s arm over my shoulders as we laughed and sipped our teas.

  Chapter 3

  Nathan

  A Dressing Down

  A pacing Campaign Manager is never a good sign. Especially when the Campaign Manager who is pacing is Marty Goldman, and she’s got a rolled-up stack of papers in her hand. She’s just as likely to swat you on the snout like a dog as she is to tell you what the papers actually say. Of course, Marty didn’t have to explain to me that the papers were all contained synopses from newspapers and online posts from journalists—and the not so journalistic—about what had happened in the last few days. My campaign was essentially on the edge of a knife while I danced a jig, my shoes were on fire, and I was juggling chainsaws. Any minute, I was going to go tumbling over one edge or the other, and I was going to drag the entire campaign with me. Marty Goldman was not the type of Campaign Manager who went down with the ship. If a ship sank, it was because she was the one firing the cannon. Losing was not an option for her.

  Marty paced, and I sat on the end of the bed in the hotel suite, my hands clasped in my lap, waiting anxiously for her to say something. Surely, if I waited long enough, sitting there looking presidential in my well-fitted suit, perfectly coifed hair, and calm expression, she would act just as professional. She wouldn’t bonk me over the head with the rolled-up papers or tell me what a moron I was for how I handled the journalist—if you wanted to call her that—in the coffee shop. Of course, I couldn’t exactly use the “I did the best I could” defense with Marty. We’d been deep into press training and debate prep for well over a year. I was supposed to be able to handle myself, no matter what was thrown at me. One question posed by a journalist at a coffee shop had unraveled all of our work over the last year.

  Maybe the Secret Service guy outside of the hotel door will hear Marty attack me and save me before she actually murdered me.

  “Justine Pearson.” Marty stopped directly in front of me and jabbed the tube of papers in my face, making me sit up straight. “Fucking Justine Pearson, Nathan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I told you this was going to bite us in the ass.” She growled, that tube of paper shaking violently in my face. “No, no, no. We don’t need a non-disclosure agreement, Marty. She won’t say anything to anyone. Well, like always, you were shitting in your hands and clapping, Nathan.”

  “Look—”

  “Super Tuesday is in eleven days. Ledbetter is going to slaughter you in the next debate with Justine-fucking-goddamn-Pearson. And he’s going to scoop up every delegate thereafter. Your impressive lead is going to disappear in a day.” Marty shook the tube of papers menacingly in my face. The threat was real. “What are you going to say, Nathan? Oopsy? Forgot to mention that I once had a wife?”

  “It was annulled.”

  “Well, that just makes it all better, doesn’t it?” Marty folded her arms over her chest, angrily. “A lie by omission isn’t really a lie, it is Donald?”

  “Fucking ouch.” I cringed.

  “You listen here, Nathan.” She unfolded her arms to jabbed me in the forehead with the papers. “You’ve got 4 days until the debate. One week after that, it’s Super Tuesday. Then you’re done. Our years of work are going to get flushed down the tube like the world’s most forgettable turd if we can’t get behind this.”

  I reached up to rub my forehead. Hopefully, next time I appeared on camera, there wouldn’t be a ring of papercuts right between my eyebrows.

  “Maybe you’re just blowing this out of proportion a bit?” I suggested. “That’s not entirely unthinkable for you, is it?”

  “Don’t test me, damnit.” Marty was coming at me with the rolled-up papers again. My hand latched around them and snatched them out of her grasp before she could jab me again. She growled. “Let’s not kid ourselves. You got this far because you’re likable, honest, and gay. I don’t like that being gay gave you a leg up with the Liberals and Progressives—no one likes it—but it is what it is. If they think you’re lying to them about your sexual orientation to get some type of tribal vote, or for fuck’s sake, sympathy, or to garner votes from marginalized groups, they’ll eat your lunch, Nathan. This isn’t a joke. And it’s not me overreacting to that little shit stain’s piece in the Des Moines Fucking Article. Journalist my ass. She’s a gossip columnist at best.”

  Marty flung herself into the armchair in the corner of the bedroom that was stuck between the window and a dresser that a T.V. was perched upon. The T.V. was on, and it was on mute, but I could still see the chyron trailing along the bottom of the screen, my name appearing frequently. The other words I tried to ignore.

  “We can’t get mad at her for asking a valid question.”

  “Fuck we can’t.” Marty sat up rigidly. “If she talked to Justine, then she knows all about your annulled marriage, doesn’t she? Why did she have to spring it on you like that? Why couldn’t she leave it out of the article?”

  “Well—”

  “Because you sputtered and spat and looked like a tea kettle about to explode.” Marty proclaimed, rising from the chair. “You couldn’t handle the one hardball question you should have been expecting for over a year. You threw all of your media training out the window like a fucking idiot and did your worst Lewis Black impersonation possible.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Like hell, Nathan.” Marty spat. “Like hell. Maybe we can salvage this. Somehow. With luck. But if there had been a camera, you’d be fucked.”

  “Okay, okay.” I held my hands up defensively after chunking the papers over my shoulder and onto the bed behind me. “We can handle this, Marty. It’s a blip.”

  Marty started to speak.

  “We just need more training. We need a plan. If we go into the next debate with a solid plan, then—”

  “Fuck the debate.” Marty threw her hands up. “We need to get you through your next interview without creating a big problem.”

  “When’s that?”

  Marty threw her hands up in the air, her icy blue eyes like daggers.

  “You’re not talking to anyone until you get your shit together, Nathan. We’re avoiding the press like The Plague for now.” She replied. “We’re going to fix this, goddamnit.”

  “Calm down, Marty. I just think—”

  Her finger was suddenly in my face.

  “I’ve never lost an election, Nathan. Never. I’m not going to lose one unless it’s my doing! And I’m not going to start a trend simply because you couldn’t take a beat, collect yourself, and follow what you’ve been trained to do for the last year. You might have gotten to where you are by being lovable, ap
proachable, forthright, and different—but it’s been my hard work that’s propelled you forward. It’s been my strategy that has kept you into this race to the point that all you have to do is take down an incompetent asshole like Ledbetter. You just had to stay the course. Keep doing what you’ve been doing. Meet Ledbetter in debate after debate, and prove what a sniveling little bootlicker he is for billionaires and corporations. It was that simple. This thing was in the bag. And with one damn question, you managed to make yourself look like a liar and a fool. Great job, Nathan. You stay in this goddamn room.”

  She marched towards the door, a drill sergeant in a pantsuit, heat and fury pouring off of her as I sat there like a whipped dog.

  “And,” She spun to jab a finger at me once more, “don’t take any calls, don’t make any calls, don’t text anyone, don’t get on social media—don’t do anything.”

  “That’s not a plan, Marty.” I managed.

  “It’s a plan to keep you quiet until I can get some things moving, Nathan.” She glowered. “I’ll have a fix for this tomorrow morning. Show you how the pros do it. Just sit there.”

  “Fine.” I snapped.

  “Fine.” She snapped back.

  Then she was gone, storming through the door of the suite and out into the hallway. Before the door had a chance to swing shut with a thundering slam, I was treated to the look on one of the Secret Service agents’ faces. Obviously, they’d heard my dressing down. Whereas I was humiliated, they were amused. Marty Goldman was a barracuda. They knew it, I knew it, and there was no point in acting like I hadn’t just had my ass handed to me verbally.

  The Secret Service had only been with us for a few weeks. Typically, candidates vying for a nomination with their party don’t get Secret Service unless there is a safety issue, or until they secure the nomination with their party. However, since a lot of religious whack-a-dos and a few generally unstable individuals had made death threats—mostly due to the fact that a gay man was running for president—the Secret Service was forced upon us. They didn’t like me—the agents. I was a less auspicious assignment for them. All of them would have preferred to have been in Washington, looking after President Trump or some other actual elected official. They weren’t so keen on playing babysitter. Maybe once I secured the Democratic nomination, things would be different.