Dropping Stones / Kingmaker SET

by Paul Cwalina

  How many lives can one man poison? Please tell me this wonderful woman died before I threw it all away.

  I sat back down at my desk and went through the motions of opening my email. There were only a handful, and the only important one was the email from Cindy with my call list for the day. I opened it up and she had written ‘I Miss You’ in a large font and red letters. Unbelievable. Give it a rest already. I printed the list and looked at my phone to see if it was fully charged.

  I couldn’t begin calling until nine o’clock, so I enjoyed my coffee and cruised all of the news and politics websites looking for any insight. Nothing. Another email came through. It was from Cindy again, and the subject read ‘Gallup numbers’. Again, she added a note in large red letters, ‘Can’t wait to see you again’. I ignored the text of the email and immediately opened the attachment. No changes; still one point down; no movement in the segments we needed. I exhaled hard. Not good. Not only was it not good, but I could just hear Valerie and Marcus calling into question my messaging strategy. They would advocate abandoning it for the next contests and in my bones I knew they’d be wrong. We wouldn’t have won South Carolina without it and we wouldn’t be this close in Florida. We were third in Florida before we shifted messaging and we were now contesting for first.

  I only took two breaks the entire day and finished my call list by five o’clock. More than a few times I checked in with Greg for any insights, but he could only say that the state was too big and he had no idea how it was going to go. I had the same outcome from my calls. There was no clear direction. Jennifer called and asked about dinner, but I blew her off. Not today. You don’t want to be around me today. It was a mistake to get done early. I had nothing to do until the returns came in and everyone knew it was going to be a late night. Florida always took a long time to settle.

  I passed some time taking a drive to a fast food place and stretched a glorious thick burger, fries and chocolate milk shake into an hour-long respite from the election. It didn’t take long, though, until I was completely preoccupied with the election as I drove back to the office. I spent the next five hours pacing the floor, calling anybody who wasn’t sick of my phone calls, and alternately praising and cursing my affiliation with the Roman campaign.

  At 11:30, Walter startled me by knocking on the office door. I opened it and he said, “Everything all right up here? It’s almost midnight.”

  “I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Come on in,” I said sincerely.

  “That’s fine, but what the heck are you working on at this hour?” he asked, stepping through the doorway.

  “My last nerve,” I said and then paused. “Sorry. I’m waiting for election results.”

  “At this hour? I’m sure the polls closed hours ago, wherever the election was today. They are what they are, aren’t they?” he said. “You being awake and away from your woman isn’t going to change that, is it?”

  I smiled. “No. I know, but there’s no way I can sleep without knowing,” I said. “This is my life right now.”

  “Son, you need to be with your woman. You can worry all you want, but do it with your woman,” he said seriously. Then he continued, “You, of all people, should know that all this stuff is just silliness.” I turned and looked him in the eye. That was the first time he acknowledged to my face that he knew who I was.

  “It’s my livelihood, Walter.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not your life,” he said, pointing his wrinkled, crooked finger into my chest. “A man has to enjoy his work, yes, of course, but at the end of the day, your work doesn’t give a damn about you. So why would you choose that over being with your woman?”

  “I know, Walter,” I responded disingenuously.

  “Does that nice young woman of yours paint?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Well, at least I have paintings now,” Walter said and turned to leave. “Keep it quiet on your way out. People on this street are already asleep. Some have work in the morning.” He left, slowly descended the stairs, and went back into his house.

  I went back to the computer and searched for any updates. It wasn’t until 12:30 in the morning that election was finally called. Roman came in second by the latest poll margin of just one percent. There would be a challenge and a recount, but like just about every other recount and challenge that happened before, it would prove fruitless. We’d have to simply lick our wounds and move forward. The nomination would most likely be decided within a month with four states at the end of February and eight more on the first Tuesday in March.

  The equally bad news was coming from the other party. Pennsylvania governor John Peters won his party’s primary in Florida, making it five straight victories for him. Three of their party’s candidates were expected to drop out the following day. The other party was consolidating quickly, which meant Peters would be able to save his campaign war chest for the general election in the fall.

  As if there weren’t enough to worry about.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The following day was predictable with the finger-pointing and arguments about why we lost Florida. Not surprisingly, Valerie and Marcus were leading the charge in advocating for an immediate cease and desist on the new messaging. Emotions ran high, especially in the marketing camp. They leapt at the opportunity to use Florida as an example of the weakness of the strategy. Others were quick to find a scapegoat elsewhere and when someone pointed the finger at Greg, I had enough. I spoke loudly and forcefully in his defense. Greg sent me a text as the arguments raged thanking me for the support.

  Ed had enough as well, and put a swift end to the discord and bickering. “That’s it,” he shouted. “Everybody just shut up right now. Florida’s a big state but it’s not the only state. Get a freakin’ grip, kids.” He paused, most likely for a drag on his cigarette and then continued with one brief, argument-ending statement. “The messaging stays. Period.”

  Again, in a very public way and in very strong terms, Ed validated my work and made known that he would back me up. He had given me another shot of confidence for the world—or at least the staff—to see. He was chronically disheveled and nicotine-addicted, but Ed was becoming a very powerful ally who would certainly get me onto the White House staff or a top position at HUD. He had his sights set on the director of communications position and as a key player in the West Wing, from which he would ride into the sunset of retirement after Roman’s first term.

  We spent the rest of February hammering the “women’s champion” message into the voters’ minds across all the upcoming states. The Gallup numbers throughout the month were clearly vindicating the strategy. Quickly, through the messaging and the fact that Rick hailed from a neighboring state, we built a high double-digit lead in Arizona. It was enough for us to cancel some appearances in the state and re-route the senator to more contentious states like Ohio, Michigan, and Virginia. Each of those races were tightening, with Roman in dead heats at the top with one or another of the other candidates.

  We were all trading in tension. It was how we started each day and it was the late night thief of our sleep. It also spilled over into our relationships and mine with Jennifer was not immune. Our fragile co-existence was being tested. When I wasn’t distant or cut off from her, I was cutting her off. She was understanding and gave me my space and accepted each of my thousand apologies. She was less forgiving, ironically, on Sundays, particularly with my distance during church services.

  We had an understanding that the children would be raised Christian, but it was only because I had no strong opinion either way. The agreement was sealed with a simple ‘whatever’ on my part. On those Sundays when I didn’t offer a flimsy excuse to avoid going to church and accompanied Jennifer to a service, I spent most of the time looking out the window, watching the traffic and thinking about the election or a speech I needed to write. One particular Sunday, Jennifer gently nudged me to bring my attention to the pastor and his sermon. I pulled a pen from my shirt p
ocket and tore off a scrap of paper from the program and wrote, ‘He’s been talking for over thirty minutes!’ and passed it to Jennifer. When she read it, she angrily crumpled the paper in her hand, turned toward me and with clenched teeth whispered, “Listen!” and point subtly toward the pastor.

  Jennifer was on another level in her faith. She didn’t just bring a Bible to church like everyone else. She brought a notebook, pen, and highlighter as well. Every Sunday seemed to be more of a Bible study than the infrequently attended church services I remembered from my youth. She was enthralled and hungry for every word, even staying long after service was over to talk to the pastor and fellow church-goers. I would nod and smile for as long as I could before excusing myself to sit in the car and listen to the radio, waiting for her to finally come out of the church.

  This Sunday, when she finally joined me in the car, she rested her elbow on the door and rested her chin in her hand. “It’s all there. It’s been there all along,” she said softly.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” she replied as tears welled up in her eyes. “It must be the hormones.” I knew she didn’t mean it.

  “Yeah, they are really wreaking havoc on you, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah,” she said and turned back toward the window.

  I couldn’t get her to speak much for the rest of the day. She was consumed by her renewed faith. That was fine with me because I was equally consumed by the election.

  By the end of February, Roman had notched three more victories --- Arizona, Missouri and Michigan. Arizona was expected and Missouri played into our strength. Winning Michigan, though, was huge. It bode well for the Ohio primary the following Tuesday. Roman was winning a variety of states and he’d shaken any last vestiges of being a regional candidate. More importantly, his polling numbers among women steadily improved and by Super Tuesday, he owned nearly all the segments.

  That Monday evening, we’d already had our call lists for the next day. Greg was focused on Virginia and Ohio and would split his day traveling between the two. I arrived at the office around eight, poured a coffee, and dialed into what would be a brief but intense conference call.

  Ed was, as always, eloquent in his plain-spoken way. “No excuses today. We are within reach of ending this nomination process. Remember Iowa and New Hampshire? They meant nothing. Florida that caused so much bickering? Nothing. Ten contests today. We win seven and this freaking thing is over. Over! The other party already has its candidate. They’ve had theirs from day one. We win seven today and we will have ours and this time next year, you’ll all be working for the President of the United States. The second your watch or clock or whatever turns to nine o’clock, you dial and you pitch and you don’t stop. Keep a list of the ground crew phone numbers and communicate any problems or notify them immediately if a voter needs a ride. Get off Facebook. Get off Twitter. Nobody has husbands or wives today. Nobody has boyfriends or girlfriends. Nobody has kids or family today. You’re dead to everyone except Rick Roman. That’s it. Get ready for nine o’clock.”

  That was probably the longest Ed had ever spoken without stopping for a drag of a cigarette and he was suffering no fools that day. Knowing his background and experience, it gave us all the necessary confidence and drive to complete our given tasks. Ed said win seven states and it’s over and we had reason to believe.

  Of the ten contests we were polling first in seven, including the delegate-rich Ohio, Virginia and Georgia. There continued to be a regional bias against Rick in the northeast and he was polling third in Massachusetts and Vermont. We ignored those states completely and spent our money everywhere but those states. We could afford to do that. We had double digit leads in Colorado and Oklahoma to offset the northeast states. If we could contain the losses to those two states, we could put away the nomination with only Texas, New York, California and Illinois big enough to be potential stumbling blocks. Even in such a scenario we still had little to worry about, having a five-point lead in Texas and an eight-point lead in California, plus all the momentum from the string of victories.

  We were smart enough to feel good about the day ahead but not stupid enough to be over-confident. At exactly nine o’clock, I began dialing and didn’t stop with the exception for a quick drink of water or an equally quick stretch. I saw each phone call as being one step closer to the promised land of DC. Around 11:30 in the morning, Jennifer sent me a text asking me to meet her for lunch. I sent a brief text back, ‘Not today’. She replied, but I ignored it and didn’t hear from her the rest of the day.

  Soon after, Walter knocked on the door. I answered while still talking on the phone and he waited patiently for me to finish. With my head down looking at my phone and dialing the next number I said, “What can I do for you, Walter?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just seeing, you know, if everything is alright...if you...you, know...need anything.

  “I’m fine, Walter. Very busy today,” I said curtly and without looking up. A woman answered the phone and I began pitching her as if Walter wasn’t even there. From the corner of my eye I could see that he hadn’t moved and certainly hadn’t taken the hint. As soon as the call ended, I began dialing the next number.

  “Something i can do for you, Walter?” I asked while waiting for someone in Virginia to pick up their phone. Leave Walter.

  “No, no...” he said before I cut him off with a raised index finger and the start of another phone pitch. Walter swept his finger through the air, pointing at the paintings. Again, he stood patiently with his hands in his pockets and waited.

  I ended the call and dialed the next number. “Walter, if you want to look at the paintings, be my guest for as long as you want, but I have work to do. I can’t talk and I can’t visit,” I said without looking up.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll come back another time,” Walter said, dejected. I heard the door open and then close behind him.

  The clock was still shy of five o’clock when I dialed my last number and left a voice mail for a final Virginia voter. I should have asked for another list, but I called Greg instead, and left a message for him. Then I went around him and called volunteers and committee people in Georgia, Tennessee and Oklahoma. They didn’t have Greg’s instincts or experience, but I had reason to believe they had a good read on their respective races, or, perhaps, I was just willing myself to believe that. Apart from those calls, I was a pacing, internet-searching, nail-biting mad man brimming with tension and anxiety waiting for any news on any race.

  Jennifer texted an invitation to dinner, but, again, I just responded with a simple ‘Not today’. Soon after, Greg called from Ohio, but it wasn’t to offer news. It was to scold me for bothering his people who needed to be on the phones or in the car delivering voters to the polls. “Relax, man,” he said. “Don’t get too excited about today. We have California and Texas locked up down the road. No other candidate can overcome that. Colorado and Oklahoma are in the bag today. I’m feeling good about Virginia and Georgia. I know Ed said we need to win seven today, but he’s just trying to push us. Honestly, if we just win Ohio today, we’re golden, man. Re-freakin’-lax.”

  “I like your confidence, man, but there’s so much riding on this. I don’t know. I can’t relax,” I said, without an interruption to my pacing.

  “Think, man. Look at the numbers. Colorado, Oklahoma, Ohio, and Georgia, today and California and Texas next month. Simple math. No other candidate can beat that, even if the same candidate takes both Illinois and New York. There’s not enough there.”

  “Yeah, I guess, but I won’t relax until I see it in print,” I said.

  “Relax,” he said, frustrated, and hung up.