by Paul Cwalina
This is where the people were, though, and I wanted to be born again as a functioning member of society. The place was filled with representatives from every sector of society. There were laptop-toting students trying to stretch the coffee special into an hour of free Wi-Fi, as well as business types pretending to discuss work and a handful of artists looking for inspiration. I didn’t really fit into any of those, but was happy for the distant company. I enjoyed the food and the noise as I scrolled through some online newspapers on my tablet.
I had just finished my chef’s salad and was concentrating on an article in one of the national papers. It was presidential primary season and reading each article was like breathing air for me. It was hard to distract me from doing so. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I noticed two women walking toward the exit and who would soon be passing my table. I didn’t see their faces, just their sleeveless dresses and exposed arms and purses. As they were passing, one of the women stopped. Her dress was pale yellow with a thin black stripe going up the side. Her stopping wasn’t enough to distract me from the article I was reading, though, and I kept my eyes on the tablet.
I felt a soft hand cup my chin with a thumb on my left cheek and four fingers curled onto my right jaw. The hand gently, but firmly, turned my face upward.
“Well, well, well...look who we have here,” the woman said.
The raven-haired woman staring down at me was classically beautiful, with intense blue eyes and somewhat pale skin punctuated by a handful of freckles on her nose. She looked awfully familiar. The look on her face, though, suggested she wasn’t planning to hug and kiss me and tell me that it was good to see me.
I know this woman. Who is she? How do I know her? Think. What is her name?
Without releasing her grip on my face, she looked toward her friend, who had stopped a few feet away and said, “I’ll see you back at the bank.” Then, turning her attention back to me, she said, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Uh-oh.
“So, remember me?” she continued, as she finally released my face from her grip.
I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that.
As I stalled, she put her purse on the table and made her way to the high pub-style chair across the table from me.
“Um...please join me,” I joked.
As she turned to get herself up onto the chair, I noticed a small bulge at her mid-section that suggested she either had a nasty beer-drinking habit or she was pregnant. She settled into the chair, slightly slouched, and folded her arms across her chest.
“I don’t believe this. You don’t even remember me, do you?” she said.
“I do. I know I do, but I’m sorry. I just can’t remember your name.”
“How’s that real estate business?” she asked sarcastically.
“Excuse me?” I replied, completely clueless as to why she would ask that.
“Last time I saw you, you told me you lived out of town and that you were a real estate developer.” She was clearly getting agitated that I was drawing a blank. She stared at me, thinking of a million ways to kill me and hide my body, I’m sure.
Nothing
“The Good Knight bar. You were with a bachelor party and I was celebrating my divorce...” she offered.
Bingo. Light-bulb-over-the-head.
“Jennifer!” I said proudly. Then I remembered our night together and I couldn’t prevent a smile from stretching across my face. “Hi. How have you been?”
“As if you cared how I am,” she replied coldly.
And my fan club just keeps getting bigger...
My face grew warm. It must have turned red with embarrassment. I sheepishly said, “I’m sorry. I...”
“Save it,” she said. She unfolded her arms and put her elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “Would you like to hear what I’ve been up to since our little rendezvous, Mayor?” she asked, adding the emphasis to seal my embarrassment. I turned my eyes down toward the table. Ouch.
In a somewhat stronger and more forceful voice, she said, “I’ve had three ob/gyn appointments since I last saw you.”
Uh-oh
The sound of the blood rushing through my body and brain seemed to drown out the ambient noise of the restaurant. My mouth felt dry and my heart was thundering in my chest. I can’t even imagine the look on my face.
“Are...” I started to inquire, but she stopped me right away with her hand.
“Let me answer the three questions you’re going ask, okay?” she said before continuing, “Yes, I’m pregnant. Yes, it’s yours. Yes, I’m sure.” She paused briefly. “Have I covered everything?”
I started to rub my face as a way to make sure I was awake and alive. This is actually happening
I was a stammering idiot trying to respond to what I had just heard. “So, I’m...so it’s...” I managed to say with my politician’s eloquence completely failing me.
“Yes, you are going to be a father,” she said, trying to save me. “Scratch that. You are a father,” she added.
I started to get my bearings a bit. The situation was becoming more defined for me. I wasn’t sure how to ask, so I just let it come out. “Have you considered getting…?”
She was infuriated at the coming question and, again, cut me off. She slammed her fist on the table. “I knew it! I knew it!” she declared, loudly, beginning to attract attention from the surrounding tables. “I knew when I finally found you, that would be the first thing to come out of your mouth, you selfish, little...” she said, before catching herself and glancing at the people at the next table. She turned her attention back to me and angrily said, “No. For your information, that is not an option. My womb isn’t a trash can to be emptied for your convenience...or mine, for that matter.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. It’s a legitimate question...” I said, not completely finished with what I was going to say.
“For a pathetic excuse for a man, it’s a legitimate question,” she fired back.
Ouch. What gives here? Was I wrong asking that? It felt normal to ask. What guy wouldn’t?
“All right,” I said. “I’m sorry if it was wrong to ask.”
She didn’t respond. She just shook her head in disgust. My eyes darted around the room, wondering how many people were eavesdropping on the conversation.
“Look, I’m not going to run away. I will support the kid. I’m not working right now, but I have some money,” I said.
Her body relaxed a little, but she continued to burn a hole right through my head with her eyes. She came for a fight and I seemed to be depriving her of that. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting me to be so forthcoming with monetary support.
She continued to stare at me for a few more intense moments and then slouched back into her chair and folded her arms across her chest. She drew a deep breath and looked around the room in seemingly angry movements of her head. She wanted to say something, but she either wasn’t sure what to say or if she should say it. Finally, she set her eyes back on me. “I don’t want your money. I want our child to have a father.”
“Well, I am the father, you said.”
“Right now, you qualify as a sperm donor. Not good enough,” she said. “I know what it’s like to grow up without a real father and that will not happen to my child. Do you hear me?” she said.
“Okay, but...”
“But nothing,” she said and reached across the table and into my shirt pocket. She pulled out my cell phone and asked, “What’s your phone number?”
I gave it to her and she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. While holding mine, she dialed the number on hers. My phone rang and she saw her number come up on the screen.
Smart woman. I always had a fake number ready to go when a woman asked for it. She took that away.
“I’m going to make you dinner on Wednesday night. I will call you with details. Answer your phone,” she said and handed my phone back to me. She stood up, placed her phone back into her purse and slung the purse o
ver her shoulder. I started to get up to see her off, but she put up her hand. “Just sit there. Don’t bother getting up. I will talk to you tomorrow.”
I watched her walk out and then looked around at the surrounding tables to see if anyone was wise to what just happened. I spent another five minutes at the table with my face buried in my hands trying to digest everything that just happened. When I finally got the feeling back in my jelly legs, I made my way to the door. I walked in a haze back to my motorcycle and took the long way home.
So glad I finally got out of the house.
Chapter Two
Sleepless, restless nights had become the norm since Chelsea’s death. Now, with the news that I was going to be a father, my streak was assured of continuing. I did whatever I could to fall asleep. I read for a while, but couldn’t concentrate. I watched some television, but couldn’t find anything worth watching. I’m not ready for this. This is not how I planned to become a father. I finally just went in for the kill and had two generous shots of whiskey. It was enough to relax me and I drifted off.
I woke up ten hours later. I’d never slept more than six hours in a single night for as long as I could remember. My mind must have had all it could take. I grabbed my phone and there was a text waiting for me from Greg, my former campaign manager and chief of staff. This was the first time I had heard from him since my resignation. I had sent him a text with an apology and a request for him to call me if he accepted it, but the call never came. I was nervous and hesitated before opening it.
‘Are you looking for work?’ the text read. I blinked and rubbed my eyes to make sure I was reading it correctly. If I really read it correctly, it would be the most welcome text I could have hoped for at that moment.
‘Yes! How are you doing?’ I replied.
‘I’m ok. I’m with the Roman presidential campaign.’
Whoa. Greg hit the big time.
‘How did you land that gig? Congrats!’
‘Friend of a friend...of a friend. You know how it works.’
‘Sure do. What r u doing there?’
‘Head of the ground game for twenty states. I don’t sleep anymore.’
‘That is great. Congrats, bud. Happy for you.’
‘Thanks. Anyway, we need a new speechwriter. The woman we have just isn’t getting it done. Nobody writes a better speech than you. I recommended your name. Interested?’
It took me about a millisecond to respond. ‘Yes!’
Greg called instead of texting back. After the usual small talk and catching up people do with friends that hadn’t seen in a while, we talked business.
“All right, let’s talk about the gig. They want to see something first before bringing you on board. Rick will be touring an auto parts manufacturing plant in Ohio on Friday. We’re looking for about ten minutes, fifteen minutes tops,” Greg said in a very businesslike manner. Hearing it slapped me in the face with the change in dynamic in our working relationship. He was the boss now, in a sense, and I was the underling —quite a change from being mayor and having him as chief of staff. “And it’s gotta be pro bono. Still interested?”
“Yes,” I responded enthusiastically. “No problem. I understand.”
“Okay, good. Check out the website to get a feel for his positions. Can you get a draft to us by noon tomorrow?”
“Sure. So, what makes you say that the current speechwriter isn’t getting it done?”
“Um...well...I would say she didn’t take the traditional approach to applying for the job and may not have had her qualifications checked as thoroughly as they should have been.”
“You mean...”
“Yes. Let’s just say that she and the senator know each other intimately.”
“Well, alrighty then. Enough said. Noon tomorrow?”
“Yes. Gotta run. Good talking to you. Don’t let me down.”
“Greg, you have no idea what a shot in the arm this is for me. I can’t thank you enough. And I’m truly sorry for everything that went down a few months ago,” I said sincerely.
“Water under the bridge, my friend. Get writing.”
With the exception of the night I won the election, I couldn’t recall a time in my life when I felt happier or more alive. That phone call was like a miracle cure for self-pity.
With the current president closing out his second term, it was an open primary campaign for both parties, with six candidates in each party in the running. Senator Rick Roman was the early odds-on favorite for his party’s nomination, but he stumbled badly in Iowa and New Hampshire. Losing Iowa was bad enough, but he came in third and shocked everyone, including his donors. He managed to take second in New Hampshire, but, again, he should have won and it wasn’t enough to curtail the panic going on inside the campaign. The media was all over it, with every press conference and interview being peppered with questions about his viability.
Roman had JFK’s looks and popularity. He was in his second term as a senator, where he was a middle-of-the-road consensus-builder. He wasn’t one to rock the boat or put himself out there as the leader of any movement. Rather, he was the steady, build-your-resume-and-get-to-the-White-House politician. With his looks and polished speech delivery, he should have been breezing through the primaries. Perhaps the electorate was looking for a firebrand, someone with something to say who wanted to lead for a reason other than just a chance to climb the political ladder.
I searched YouTube and his campaign website for videos of any speeches he had given, to get a feel for his delivery, inflections and mannerisms, in order to better match the words and sentence structure to them. Each video confirmed that he was extraordinarily polished and a gifted orator.
I certainly didn’t have time to, nor was I asked to, try to craft whole new messaging for the senator or try to reinvigorate the campaign. Right now, I was asked to concentrate just on this speech, and that I did. I wrote a standard, party-line economic policy speech with a nod to the union at the plant, but I still wanted to add some kind of spark. I sensed that there was an opportunity here and left a portion of the speech unfinished. I didn’t know what it was, but something was needed to get him the breakthrough he needed.
Early that evening, I called Greg and asked him for any and all polling data they had available. He was surprised at the request, but emailed everything they had right away. I spent the next two hours reading through all of it, every demographic and psychographic breakdown. After examining all of it from every possible angle, one thing surprised me. Roman wasn’t polling as well as he should have been with women. He was holding his own with those in the 18-25 segment, but the numbers dropped in each of the next three segments.
Roman was in his late 40’s and married to one of Washington DC’s top CPA’s. They had no children, but had been DC’s most prominent ‘power couple’ for a decade. What could possibly be holding him back? It was obvious from the polling data that this failure to connect with women was the reason he failed to win the first two contests.