Domestic Affairs

by Bridget Siegel

  Jacob and Sophie had met running around the reservoir in Central Park a few months earlier. Jacob and the governor were on what was quickly becoming a semi-monthly fundraising pilgrimage to New York City. The governor liked to schedule at least two hours of downtime to run and regroup every afternoon. Schedule-wise, Jacob was more than happy to oblige. He could use that time to work-out, make a dent in his seemingly endless voicemails and emails or, more often than not, just catch his breath from the craziness of what he deemed the PCIT: Presidential Campaign in Training.

  Looking back, he was exceptionally glad that that particular downtime du jour had him waiting in line post-run at the Central Park reservoir water fountain. Right in front of Ms. Sophie Moore. Known to his friends as a “starter,” not a “closer,” he was able to strike up a conversation as usual.

  Only a couple months had passed since that sweaty initial encounter, so he remembered the exact line of engagement, not one that he was necessarily proud of, but it had had the intended consequence: “You lucky enough to run around this reservoir every day?”

  Jacob was always looking for an opening to tell a stranger what he did, especially if it was a cute, fit, young lady. How many twenty-nine-year-olds got to travel with a presidential candidate? His parents definitely thought it was cool.

  Shoot—call Mom. She’s left like seven messages and wants to know I’m still alive, he remembered thinking.

  “You don’t live here?” Sophie had asked, almost with disappointment.

  Then her coolness transformed itself into the excitement he had anticipated after he said, “No, I’m on the Taylor campaign. But we get to town every couple of weeks.”

  He let her cut him in line for the fountain, and after they exchanged pleasantries, they agreed to meet for a drink that night at Becky’s, a bar on the Upper West Side, near Sophie’s apartment. Fortunately for Jacob, the place was not too far from the Brinmore, where he and the governor were staying. The drink went well enough and each was sufficiently intrigued and attracted to the other that they exchanged an awkward kiss—he was ten inches taller than she—and agreed to meet again the next time Jacob was in New York.

  “I know I’m going out on a limb here, but a bottle of Frog’s Leap for you and your lovely guest?” Marco said with a smile. Marco had been waiting on Jacob and the governor for years. In the lounge after a long day of politicking and fundraising, Marco would bring them a bottle of Frog’s Leap Sauvignon Blanc to take the edge off in front of whatever game was on the flat-screen TV. Jacob always thought they should be drinking something more manly than white wine, but it was the governor’s favorite, and Jacob obliged.

  “Absolutely,” Jacob replied, then quickly backpedaled, remembering he wasn’t sitting with Taylor. “Well, assuming you like sauvignon blanc, Sophie?”

  Frog’s Leap wasn’t the cheapest bottle on the menu, but it was close. It was expensive enough that you wouldn’t embarrass yourself for ordering it but cheap enough, by New York standards, not to warrant an internal audit by the chief of staff, Billy Wortherlin. Jacob found himself cross-examined by Billy after nearly every trip to New York. Although Billy was on the government staff, he watched the campaign finances like a hawk and always gave the governor and Jacob agita for what they spent on the road. Billy liked to sit down for hours, meticulously going through details, which drove the governor and Jacob, who liked to move at the quickest pace possible, mad. Given that Jacob wasn’t even with the governor on this particular night, he knew he’d get interrogated by Billy when he returned to Georgia. Small price to pay for not having to admit to Sophie he couldn’t even afford to take her to the two-for-one-margarita-night restaurant down the street.

  “Is it red or white?” Sophie asked sheepishly.

  Jacob was surprised by how off guard the comment caught him and found himself feeling a bit embarrassed in front of Marco. This was strange, given how her question was exactly the type of thing he had thought drew him to Sophie in the first place.

  And his bank account was bordering on the red, so who was he to judge? Not caring what other people thought was a trait he tried to embrace but never could quite live up to. And, unfortunately, the characteristic seemed to be getting worse. The more traveling he did with the governor, the more he wanted to look, speak, and act right. Even though his dad was a well-off doctor, at home growing up, they knew the difference between Sprite and 7Up, not sauvignon blanc and Riesling. A spicy Italian foot-long from Subway was a great night out.

  As if he were psychic, Marco replied, “Until I started working here, I had no idea either. I once served someone who said they wanted ‘a nice pinot’ a bottle of pinot grigio instead of pinot noir and almost got fired. Who knew that was grounds for firing? Sorry. That was a long-winded way of saying, it’s white, miss.”

  Sophie smiled at Marco, clearly appreciating his friendliness. “Yes, white sounds great.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll bring it right out. Are you ready to order before I go for the wine? The usual, Jacob?”

  I always order a cheeseburger and fries and I just got embarrassed that Sophie didn’t know if sauvignon blanc was white or red. What’s wrong with me?

  “You know what? I think tonight I’ll change it up. I’ll take the chicken with prosciutto and sage. Sophie, you can pick from one of your other two dishes and we’ll share.” Jacob winked and smiled. “Just as long as it’s not shrimp. I’m actually allergic to shrimp and my EpiPen is in Georgia. And, although they keep it immaculate, I’d rather not spend my night on the bathroom floor.”

  Shoot. Too much?

  “I’m allergic to shrimp too!” Sophie yelped, as if they had just found a winning lottery ticket.

  “Okay, so no shrimp. Miss, what can I get for you?” Marco attempted to finagle his way out of playing the role of Chuck Woolery on Love Connection.

  “I’ll have the cheeseburger, medium rare, with fries, please.”

  “Very well, miss.” Marco turned to walk away so only Jacob could see his face when he silently mouthed, “She’s a keeper.”

  “So to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” Sophie said, raising her shoulders. “I thought you were supposed to go back to Georgia this afternoon with your boss.”

  “Hmmmm . . . you want the truth or a lie?”

  “Oh, definitely a lie. I love it when guys lie to me.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Actually, I can give you both, all wrapped up into one.”

  “That’s what makes me nervous about you.”

  “So tomorrow morning I’m supposed to meet with David Dowling. He’s a BSD. Olivia, my friend who I mentioned to you, the one I just hired onto the campaign, she had a meeting with him scheduled tomorrow and invited me to come along.” Don’t lie. You like this girl, he reminded himself. “Okay, so I kind of invited myself so I could stay the night and see you,” he admitted.

  “BSD?”

  “Oh, sorry, campaign speak. Big Swinging Dick. The type of guy who does what he wants, when he wants. And can raise a lot of money for a politician, if so motivated. We’re hoping to get him going. I think he could be one of Taylor’s biggest fundraisers for the upcoming presidential, if he so chooses.”

  “Are you a BSD?”

  “I’d call myself more of an MSD . . . you know, Medium Swinging Dick.” If that man-parts thing came to fruition—and Jacob was thinking the potential had reemerged—he didn’t want there to be a letdown.

  “You guys sleep together?”

  “Me and the BSD? Look, I get impressed by that stuff, but not that impressed.”

  “Nope. You and Olivia.”

  “Ha! No.”

  “I saw The West Wing once and couldn’t understand a lick of any of the political crap they were talking about. All I took away was that everyone was either sleeping with each other, used to sleep with each other, or wanted to.”

  “No, Olivia is just a good friend. We haven’t laid a finger on each other, scout’s honor. We met back in the ’06 campaign.”

>   “It’s so funny how you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “You never speak in years, just campaigns. Like there you said you met her in the ’06 campaign and when I asked when you moved to Georgia you said during the ’08 campaign, and that cut on your arm you got at the start of the ’04 campaign.”

  Jacob laughed, impressed she had remembered all that, but also that she had caught something he never noticed about himself. It was true. His life, at least for the last decade, was divided into campaigns. “I do do that,” he said.

  “It’s kind of like parents who relate everything to their kids’ ages. You know, my mom always says things like, ‘Oh, the spaceship went up when Sophie was five.’”

  “Campaigns are kind of like kids.”

  “Okay, so which years does this one cover?”

  “This one really got started about three months ago, in February, although we did spend a year as a PCIT, ‘Presidential Campaign in Training.’ Technically—well, hopefully—it runs through next November, but actually the big test is coming up this February, just nine months away.”

  “February?”

  “Yeah. We’ve put all our eggs in one basket, so to speak, and the basket is the Iowa Caucus. It’s the first contest of the primary season and if we win that, we sail through to November.”

  “With just one primary?”

  “Yep. Iowa for us is like the first domino. If we win, we’ve been promised certain endorsements, a few political and, more importantly, some of the major unions. So all roads lead to the Iowa Caucus.”

  “Wow. So he could really be president, huh?”

  “He really could.” As many times as Jacob said it, he always found himself a bit surprised and excited by the statement. It was truly colossal.

  “So then you would go work in the White House?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Has that always been your plan?”

  Jacob sat back. He thought about it for a second.

  “Actually not at all. The plan was business school, corporate America, and early retirement. Pretty basic stuff, you know? Figured I’d have my corner office at Goldman by thirty-four and my plane by thirty-six. Working in politics was just a way to bide my time until I could cram enough GMAT information into my brain. But then I met the governor after he gave this amazing speech at the Democratic convention and, well, everything changed.”

  “Yeah, now you’re flying in private planes and sitting in corner offices at twenty-eight.”

  “I guess so.” Jacob smiled. He shook his head, thinking about how much his plans had been altered in the past few years. He had always thought of himself as much more of a realist than an idealist. No one who knew him would have ruled out politics as a career choice—he was, after all, always voted best personality or most sociable, and though not the class clown, he had an innate talent for lightening an awkward room with a joke. But if you asked his family, still holed up in the suburbs of Chicago, or his fraternity brothers at Michigan, any of them would have pegged him for running within the Republican Party, not the Democratic one. His turn from the captain of the wrestling team and all-around complacent but fun-loving kid to the maestro of liberal politics often surprised even him. “I know it sounds corny but those things just seem like such small potatoes now.”

  “From corporate America to world domination.”

  Jacob laughed. Logically he knew it sounded crazy, but actually it was what they were fighting for. Landon Taylor was going to change the world, and Jacob was going to be by his side the whole time. He ridiculed himself in his head and shook himself back to reality. “Don’t get me wrong, I still plan on getting my corner office and plane. Just may take a few extra years.”

  “Do you think he’ll win?”

  “Yeah. This guy, Sophie,” he said sincerely, “he’s not like the others.”

  By the time the food came, Jacob had given her a crash course in campaigning and had sounded, he thought, at least smart enough to get his man parts back in the running for the evening. Dinner after that was as smooth as one of his best-planned events. After a long meal with plenty of wine, Jacob walked Sophie home. He had tried to get her to stay at the Brinmore with him, but she said she wasn’t comfortable sleeping in a hotel in her own town, reminding him how weird it actually was that he lived most of his life in a hotel. “Sketchy” was the word she had used. As he kissed her good night and walked away he found himself not even bothered that she hadn’t seen his man parts. She was pretty and fun and reminded him what it felt like to be normal.

  THREE

  The email showed up like a mass email, but then Olivia noticed there wasn’t any subject.

  LET@LTaylor.com: Hey, Hoya, what’s your pin?

  Pin? What did that mean? Was it for her? Was it him? He couldn’t actually have that email address, could he? She felt a flurry of nervousness in her stomach.

  LivGreenley@gmail.com: My pin?

  That seemed like the only thing to write back. That way, if he didn’t mean to send it to her or if it wasn’t him she could figure it out. She stared around her office, a small room left over from the district attorney’s large campaign space, which, aside from her, had since been emptied. It was packed with boxes on their way to storage and remnant posters, as well as clothes she needed to take home. She waited impatiently for the blinking red light.

  LET@LTaylor.com: Press reply then type in “mypin” and then hit the space bar.

  She followed the instructions and when she pressed the space bar the “mypin” turned into the red letters and numbers that she assumed were “her pin.”

  Cool, she typed, still not understanding what the heck a pin was. As the little arrow in the corner started to send the message she flinched.

  I probably should’ve said, “Nice to meet you. So excited to work for you.” Or something. Jeez. Near leader of the free world and that’s the message I send? “Cool”? But before she could think another thought, her BlackBerry lit up. A red message stood waiting.

  PIN 317323: So you ready to raise me millions or what?

  Olivia smiled. She could almost feel his smile through the text.

  PIN 678018: Hmmm. Depends really. You ready to pay me millions?

  Her “pin” was sent back in red. She wasn’t supposed to be this casual. She knew that. But he did start with “Hey, Hoya,” right? She hated these mini nervous breakdowns between messages. You were supposed to be able to discuss and analyze these with at least three friends before replying.

  PIN 317323: If hope and inspiration are currency in your world then yes.

  Ahhh, I get it. A “pin” is how people who totally have you pinned send you a message. Before she could come up with something to write back, another reply came in.

  PIN 317323: I hear you officially start here in a month. How about we pull a test run a little early next week? You, me, and the NY donors.

  It was all starting.

  Olivia walked down the hall to the office of her current boss, newly elected district attorney Tom Adams. The whole floor looked, as most state government offices do, like a midlevel law firm designed and decorated in the eighties, with brownish carpeting and cream-colored wallpaper that was probably a little brighter, maybe even white, when it was put up. Each new occupant changed a picture here and there, the Democrats adding Clinton’s portrait, the Republicans Reagan’s. But all in all, it stayed exactly the same. Olivia peered into some of the offices, saying her hellos to those she knew from the campaign, all of whom seemed eager to get right back to work. Fundraisers were the most popular kids at the table up until the election, but the minute it was over—win or lose—they lost all worth.

  Olivia told her boss she was going to take the day to help Governor Taylor with meetings. When she originally let him know she would be leaving his office entirely to work for Taylor, Adams had flinched, but there wasn’t really any question of whether or not she should stay nor negotiations he could offer her. As expected, Adams was actua
lly glad to let her go. Even he was surprised that she had been offered the high-ranking job, and with Taylor on the brink of possibly being president, having a former staffer on the inside was a total coup. Also, it would connect the two of them in the donor base, and Adams, like any politician considering a future run, saw the upside to that. More specifically, Adams relished the possible access to Taylor’s lists.

  Lists. Campaign Lesson #12: Political fundraising lists are hot commodities. Olivia understood the idea of it: political donors who gave to one person were most likely to give to another of the same ilk. The weight that candidates put on those lists, though, seemed completely irrational to her. They would spend hours going through them, picking out names they knew or making connections to how they could get to them. The candidates’ view was, almost across the board, that the money raised directly corresponded to the number of people on a list. Statistically that made sense, but the truth was that cold-calling a list, no matter how good it was, would warrant only two or maybe three contributions you wouldn’t have gotten anyway.

  Adams was an extreme version of the politician who dreamed that every new list held a fortune just waiting for his campaign coffers. He was obsessed with other peoples’ lists. Olivia was constantly having to download other politicians’ filings and translate them into usable formats—a horribly laborious task. For their last event they’d mailed to twenty-two thousand people and got two hundred and fifty donors, none of whom came from anything other than Olivia’s core list anyway. Even the thought of it made her cringe.

  Plus, the truth was that Olivia had just about overstayed her welcome at Adams’s PAC, and given the continued failure of her resolutions for the past four New Year’s—to go teach skiing in Colorado—they both knew she would need a new job soon. PAC, political action committee—what a stupid name. It isn’t political, it rarely takes action, and there’s never any actual committee. In practice, a PAC was more of a holding company that allowed politicians to either keep paying the staffers they didn’t want to lose between campaigns or to offer those staffers a needed cushion between Election Day and a new administration job. Adams knew, with four years before his next serious election, that her time with him was about up and that Taylor would be a great new place for her to land.