Twenty-eight
November 6—Election Day
It still feels strange to write in the same book that was stolen. Every time I open it I wonder whose hands sullied its pages, how much of it they read, whether portions were scanned into some creep’s computer—where they still remain—or photocopied and stashed away in files marked “privileged information.”
It’s 5 A.M. The polls open in an hour. Jamie’s in the shower, and Brigid is drinking coffee beside me as we get ready to hit the campaign trail for the very last day, handing out literature to voters at subway stops and street corners.
Both the New York Times and the Daily News endorsed me last week. The Post, naturally, threw their support—lukewarm though it was—to Bob Dobson. The only thing they had to say about him was that he could never be accused of being a “Washington insider,” whereas I had years of Beltway experience under my belt.
According to local pollsters, I’ve now got a four-point lead—which means it’s anybody’s ball game—but you can never predict anything. Even weather is a factor. For instance, if it rains, the little old ladies tend to stay home, especially when they figure their candidate will win anyway.
It’s pouring its ass off this morning.
And my favorite local weatherman—the hunk who looks like a Ken doll—predicts all-day inclemency.
Unions are good for getting the last-minute word out and mobilizing units to take voters to the polls. However, the formidable teachers union, though pleased with many of my views on education reform, bristled at my call to remove the pedagogical deadwood from the classrooms. While they couldn’t bring themselves to endorse my opponent, they didn’t exactly throw a piñata party for me either. At least the cops and firefighters are behind me—and I seem to keep EMS very busy—so they’re in my corner, but unless those folks are off-duty today, they’re not in a position to do a door-to-door canvas to get out the vote for me.
Time to stay focused and think positive. Tomorrow at this time, my future will be sealed.
It’s a whirlwind (and very wet) day. A long, day, too. Jamie and Maureen spend it readying the Pot o’Gold. It’s where we’ll all gather to night with my campaign staff and volunteers to watch the returns come in over the TV. The polls don’t close until 9 P.M. so it could be a late night. I get a flutter in my chest and butterflies in my stomach when I enter the voting booth and pull the lever for myself. Whenever I vote, I feel a tinge of empowerment—that personal connection to one of the things that made a bunch of radical royalist refuseniks into American citizens. As it wasn’t in the founding fathers’ minds, thousands of crusading suffragettes fought like hell to correct the oversight. Funny…of an American’s two key civic duties one (voting) is as great a pleasure as the other ( jury duty) is a pain in the ass.
And this time, of course…Wow. The feeling, the event…it’s all so momentous, so huge. Even half a year ago I never could have imagined any of this. My life has taken so many big curves lately, I’ve just been trying to keep up without losing traction.
Our first stop of the day is the subway station at Seventy-ninth Street and Broadway, a block from Zabar’s and H&H Bagels, where I wish we had free samples to hand to the hungry masses headed to work. “Good morning! Don’t forget to vote today,” Imogen reminds them, as she hands them a flyer stating my key position points. It’s business as usual in New York for people to ignore such electioneering, but my crew has a better than average record of “takers” (those who accept the literature) and a low percentage of “dumpers” (those who take the paper but immediately toss it into the nearest receptacle). Common sense isn’t always common on the campaign trail, but Craig volunteers know to offer my flyers with a smile to everyone who looks over eighteen and has a free hand—in other words, they don’t foist the handout on a struggling mom juggling a baby and a bag of groceries, or the elderly man with a cane in one hand and a health care aide on the other.
“Step up and meet your next Congresswoman,” Jamie announces mid-morning in front of the giant bookstore near Lincoln Center. “Tessa Craig: a candidate with no skeletons in her closet!”
“Oh, that’s real cute, Jamie,” I sigh.
“I’m just makin’ lemonade, mo cushla! See, they’re laughing.”
“Oh, my God, you’re Jamie!” a young woman exclaims. “You know she was really on the fence about you in the beginning, but then again, I can’t say I blame her, since she’d just been dumped so bad. But I was really rooting for you two to get it together.”
“Thanks so much.” Jamie grins. “Now don’t be forgetting to vote for her today.”
And so it goes throughout the day. In the pounding rain my team fans out to snag the parents picking up their kids mid-afternoon at area schools, and to hit the se nior and community centers from Chelsea at one end of the district to the edge of Harlem at the other.
Of course we end up crisscrossing paths several times with Bob Dobson’s people, who are handing out plastic bags with the Pet-o-Philia logo, encouraging people to use them as rainhats. Once upon a time, dorky plastic rainhats that unfolded like a roadmap—the kind everyone’s grandmother used to wear—bearing the candidate’s name, were among the typical premiums handed out to voters. But gone are the days of the rainhats and refrigerator magnets, the emery boards and pink rubber erasers. Suddenly I feel a bit nostalgic for old-school politics.
We don’t stop until the polls close, and then, soggy and exhausted, we trudge into the Pot o’Gold, where television cameras record my entrance. The place is awash with red-white-and-blue buntings, punctuated by crepe paper garlands of bright kelly green, and silly leprechaun cutouts strung up over the bar. You can tell I didn’t engage a pricy party planner for the occasion.
And there’s Suki Glassman, all rouged and lip glossed, chirping into her mic, speaking evidently to the anchor desk. “You know, Bill, some people might think this is kind of a dingy spot for a victory celebration, but Tessa Craig is the hometown honey of this Upper West Side watering hole. In fact, she is the honey of the pub’s new owner, a handsome transplanted Irishman named Jamie Doyle. Oh, wait, here’s the candidate now!”
Gus Trumbo yanks me out of my yellow slicker so I don’t resemble the Gorton’s Fisherman on camera.
Suki shoves the mic into my face. “Tessa, how did you feel going into the last moments of the campaign?”
“I feel very good, very confident,” I beam. “It’s been a long road, but I’m looking forward to extending it several miles to the south after to night.”
“Do you expect the current holder of the Congressional seat, David Weyburn to arrive here later?”
I should have been prepared for this question, but I wasn’t. I glance at Gus who gives me a subtle nod in the affirmative.
“David has been very supportive of my candidacy, so I expect we’ll see him sometime to night. He’s always liked the fish and chips here,” I quip.
“I read that he even craved it after his heart surgery. Tell me, Tessa, how did you feel about your private diary being published in the daily papers?”
Is she kidding with this one? I look her straight in the eye and ask, “Did your mother ever snoop and find yours?” The young reporter’s face registers a sudden flashback of horror and embarrassment. No words are needed to describe her reply. “Exactly,” I say, and press into the crowd.
“Tess-a, Tess-a, Tess-a,” they chant, stomping as though they’re at a barn dance.
And suddenly I think we are at one, when a band, which must be tucked into a corner, because I can’t even see them in the crush, strikes up a traditional Irish melody. Leave it to Jamie to find some authentic musicians. More transplants, I imagine. These guys are as good as any group I heard in Dublin.
“Hot stuff coming through, and I don’t mean the cook!” shouts Maureen, barreling her way though the crowd, bearing aloft a corned beef. I’ve never before seen her jovial side. “And we’ve got homemade soda bread and cabbage for the Catholics and rye bread and mustard f
or the Jews!” she jokes. “Brigid, clear the tables; we’ve got hungry mouths to feed! Drinks are on my son, everyone,” she bellows. “Jamie Doyle, the new owner of the Pot o’Gold!”
Three rousing hip-hip-hurrahs for Jamie are sounded, and suddenly I feel a hand on my waist. “David!”
He gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Mazel tov, Tess. I knew you could do it.” He points toward the TV set mounted above the bar. The noise in the small pub is so loud that the sound is all but drowned out. “Early returns coming in. Look.” I glance at the crawl. Twenty-five percent of the precincts reporting and I’m up by three points. I want to shout, send up a whoop-whoop, but it feels a bit undignified for the candidate herself to do so. And it’s still way too premature to celebrate. The race really got down to the wire in the last few days of the campaign. “You’re going to be brilliant down there,” David assures me. “You’ve got the personality and the ability to bring people together and that’s what this country needs right now.”
“What are you going to be doing come January?”
“I’ve been invited to be a poli-sci lecturer at Columbia.”
I laugh. “You and Al Gore! You’re not going to grow a beard and gain a hundred pounds though, are you?”
David pats his stomach. “I might on Maureen Doyle’s cooking. Actually, Habitat for Humanity wants to talk to me, I’ve fielded a couple of calls from one of the Progressive think tanks…I’ve got a few options on the table. Maybe I’ll just sail around the world…I’ve always wanted to duplicate all of Nelson’s routes.”
“Well, that’ll take some time.” I realize that I’m going to miss him. Very much. “Well, get yourself one of those international cell phones because I may need to call you from time to time for some good advice.”
“Will do. But I’m betting you won’t need it.”
“Hey, pipe down, everyone!” Imogen yells. “Turn up the TV.”
“…And with ninety percent of the precincts reporting, we are projecting Tessa Craig as the winner of David Weyburn’s Upper West Side congressional seat, carrying fifty-six percent of the vote.”
A shout rises from the crowd, followed by “Tess-a, Tess-a, Tess-a!”
“…So it looks like Congressman Weyburn’s former head speechwriter—and former girlfriend, as we learned a couple of weeks ago—will be following in his much respected footsteps. Weyburn himself was the target of some scandal earlier this year, as you may recall, when rumors—erroneous ones, as it turned out—began circulating with respect to his sexual orientation. It was those rumors that tanked his re-election campaign and opened the door for Ms. Craig. Now, exit polls conducted throughout the day today showed that many of the voters were turned off by what they perceived to be dirty tricks employed by the Dobson campaign in the final days leading up to the election. In particular, the New York Post’s publication of portions of Ms. Craig’s personal diary was cited as giving people more than they’d bargained for in terms of each candidate’s character.”
But no one in the Pot o’Gold can hear those last remarks. The anchorman has been drowned out with the sound of cheering and popping corks, as bottles of champagne are passed through the crowd. Off-camera, I slug down a gulp and hoist the bottle aloft in a victory salute.
By the time Gus tells me I should make my acceptance speech, all precincts have reported and I have won the election with 58.9 percent of the vote. On the television, Bob Dobson, from his headquarters at one of the fancy midtown hotels, is giving his concession speech. “Well, the little lady had a lot of fight and bite in her and I wish her well,” he says.
“Carpetbagger!” Venus shouts at the screen. “Go back to your dog house!”
This may be the first acceptance speech in political history to be made from a barstool. Actually, I forgo the stool and stand before a phalanx of microphones, flanked by Gus Trumbo, Jamie and his family, Venus and Imogen, and the local politicians who’d endorsed me. David remains discreetly out of the picture until the crowd calls for him to step into view as well.
“Thank you, New York!” I say, as the crowd cheers. “And thank you to every person who heard my message and voted for me today. We’re going to take that message to Washington and hold them accountable for their promises to truly make America stronger and safer in every way. We won’t accept their merely giving lip ser vice to programs they won’t properly fund and things like color-coded charts instead of true solutions. We’re going to compel them to put their money—our money, in fact—where their mouth is. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to serving you. And just as I’ve done throughout the campaign, I’ll keep the lines of communication open. Anytime you’ve got a question or a concern, e-mail me and I’ll get right to work on it.
“I have a number of people to personally thank to night…” and I name them all as the rest of my acceptance speech goes by in a blur of jubilation. The next thing I know, Jamie is right by my side, saying, “Wait, wait! I’ve got something I want to add!” and after “Welcome all of yiz to my new home away from home,” he adds, “To night we’re here to honor Tessa Craig and to celebrate her grand and glorious victory, and I certainly rejoice in it—even if it’s gonna mean, I suppose, that I won’t get to see her as often come January, though from now on I’ll be here every night till closing time anyways. So, Tess, I’m wanting to give yiz a reason to come back to your district and spend as much time as ya can here. We have a bit of a saying back in Ireland—that a man won’t marry his sweetheart until his mother dies. Now me mum over there had a bit of a mishap with a fishbone this week—don’t worry, we double-checked all the filets tonight—and the paramedics told us she’d bought a ticket to the Pearly Gates. Lucky for us, she never got her boarding pass, so she’s still with us today. But the corse is lifted, and I am free to marry the beautiful princess who put me heart in a half-nelson the night I met her. Tess, remember that evening in Blackpools when I jotted something down on a paper napkin?”
Jaime takes a folded cocktail napkin from his inside jacket pocket. “Mo cushla, would ya read what it says?”
He hands me the napkin. I glance at it and my voice begins to tremble. “‘August ninth. I am going to marry Tessa Goldsmith Craig.’ I remember you stuffed this in the pocket of your jeans.”
He smiles: sheepishly, expectant, and tugs on his earlobe. “I don’t recall hearing yer answer just now.”
“It’s yes, Jamie.” I slip my arms around his neck and kiss him. “It’s yes.”
And the crowd cheers once more. Imogen hunts for a tissue as Venus wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and blows me a kiss. I hear Brigid send up a holler, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Maureen smiling. Well, her eyes are, anyway. And I can’t help smiling too, because the camera crews are already packing it in for the night. “Tsk-tsk. After all that, they missed the money shot.”
“Then let’s do a second take, just to see if they’re payin’ attention to us.” Our lips meet in a passionate kiss and when I close my eyes, the lights behind them flash red, white, blue, and green.
And the music swells just like in the movies, a joyful Irish tune, and Anto O’Reilly shyly extends his hand to Brigid and suddenly everyone starts dancing. Now this, I’m thinking, is a political party!
“I love ya, Tess,” Jamie murmurs into my mouth. “And if I don’t remember to say it to yiz every day for the rest of our lives, you can…”
“I can what?” I whisper, teasing his lower lip with the tip of my tongue.
“You can make me clean the apartment. Top to bottom, dishes to laundry. I’ll do yiz one better. If I don’t tell you I love ya every day from now on, I’ll even forsake all Star Trek episodes till death us to part.”
Now that’s big. “Well, then! You’ve got yourself a deal, partner.”
“Sealed with a kiss?” he asks impishly.
“Sealed with a dozen.”
A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS, & MORE…
FROM
LESLIE CARROLL
AND
AVON A
Sunday in New York Wedding of the Week
Tessa Craig and Jamie Doyle
You would think a congresswoman-elect from Manhattan would elect to have her wedding at one of New York’s poshest hotels, or perhaps get away from it all with a destination wedding in Cancun or Cabo San Lucas. But Tessa Goldsmith Craig, who takes her seat next month on Capitol Hill, representing the Upper West Side, celebrated her nuptials on December 23 in a local bar.
Of course, it wasn’t just any bar. For years the Pot o’Gold on Amsterdam Avenue was a rather dingy neighborhood fixture, a lone holdout against the gentrification that swept through the area over the past twenty years. Its clientele preferred their no-frills menu, their limited beverage selection—no cosmos or apple martinis here please!—and no one seemed to mind the sawdust on the floor, or the faded wallpaper. It was all part of the charm.
Ms. Craig, a longtime local resident, used to frequent the Pot o’Gold long before she met Jamie Doyle. Following the breakup of a romance that could have spelled the end of her job as a political speechwriter, her girlfriends had recommended she take a vacation to Ireland, and it was in Blackpools, the Dublin pub owned by Doyle’s family, where she met the man who would follow her all the way back to New York to woo her.
Jamie Doyle bought the Pot o’Gold in late October and proposed to his colleen on election night with the news of her victory flashing on the television screen above their heads. But after Tess said yes, the venue underwent a radical transformation. Now known as Jamie Doyle’s, the bar will offer traditional Irish music nearly every night and a menu based on Blackpools’s celebrated fare. Gone is the peeling wallpaper and the sawdust has been swept away. The floors are polished oak; the booths are upholstered in leather and separated by stained glass partitions. A brass foot-rail enhances the highly polished curving antique bar. The space was even reconfigured to include a snug, the classic cozy hideaway where a woman (or lovers, nowadays) might enjoy imbibing in relative anonymity. Doyle’s only concession to American kitsch would seem to be the occasional Star Trek marathons he plans on hosting on weekday nights.
Herself Page 26