JUST TELL ME WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE
ROCKY HAZE STAFFING UP: STAR STRATEGIST BRANDYWINE JOINS CAMPAIGN
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
A spokesman for Rocky Haze announced today that legendary political strategist Buck Brandywine has been acting as political director for the campaign for the past month.
“They wooed him,” an insider says. “Haze and Brandywine spent a couple of weeks off the grid, hammering out a plan, prepping her for upcoming debates, and formally nailing down her platform.” Sources say Brandywine had been unsure of Haze’s depth of knowledge on the issues but “was completely won over” during their vetting process. “He was impressed with her United Nations work and came away from their time beyond confident in her ability to lead and to formulate foreign and domestic policy. She’s no lightweight. He feels a Haze administration would bring the right kind of change to Washington.”
* * *
Early on a crisp September morning, Jay sent the story to Birdie to preview before posting it. His note read simply: “Mystery solved...”
The hottest summer on record had wound to a close, and Sky had returned to the trail, after the worst homecoming ever. They had barely seen each other at all, and having so little time together created even more tension as every minute ballooned in importance. Maybe Sky really had just been overworked and in need of rest. Jay kept going over it in his mind. Jay always had trouble bouncing back from even the slightest bump, so he could acknowledge that, yes, maybe he had acted a little awkward the rest of Sky’s time in DC.
Still, since he had left, Jay had become increasingly irritable, angry, and yet shockingly efficient at work. It was amazing how fast he could get things done now that he wasn’t concerned with others’ feelings. He had always prided himself on being that easygoing editor, ruling his section with a velvet glove, not an iron first. Now he was like an iron fist inside a very thin velvet glove. But his page-views were through the roof. Too bad he was miserable.
He finished his notes on the Jared Leto profile he was editing: “We’re getting the crazy passion but none of the fun—Jesus, why doesn’t it look like there’s any fun? I need more color from your bike ride around the city with him. I want this back in thirty minutes.”
* * *
Madison stretched her arms up, twisted her neck side to side, yawned and returned to her phone, flipping through emails as she attempted to tune out Hank’s red-faced histrionics at the podium. “More Syria? Can we talk about something else, for chrissakes?” he barked at his team.
“We can move on when you’ve got the position set, sir,” his new senior adviser said flatly.
“I don’t know, what am I supposed to say again? Just tell me what I’m supposed to believe.”
It was too painful to watch. So she focused on texting Henry. Soccer season (his second best sport) was just getting under way: Good luck at the game! Go Big Blue! And Gemma: Hi sweetie! Did you see any butterflies or squirrels on your walk today?
The first debate, from what Madison had gathered, had not gone well. Hank had insisted on winging it. He had tugged at his tie, grimaced and repeated, “I’m just gonna change it all, gimme a chance, you’re gonna love me!” enough that even she could tell it wasn’t the strongest showing. So now they were “doing this the old-fashioned way,” according to the Machine. Which meant spending hours sitting in this hotel ballroom in downtown St. Louis watching Hank roll his eyes while being fed answers to questions he didn’t bother to understand. Madison had attempted to leave St. Louis for New York the night before, but Hank had claimed he needed her; the debate had him jittery.
Mike burst up from his chair at the front of the ballroom, running to Madison like there was a fire in the building, “I NEED YOUR PHONE! NOW! MADISON!”
“Mike, what in God’s good name are you doin’?” Hank asked.
The weary Machine, seated at their long table, sighed at the interruption.
“Is everything okay, Mike?” she asked innocently.
Madison had been watching a video their nanny had taken of Gemma doing cartwheels across the rooftop of their town house while singing the new Justin Bieber song. It made her smile and long for home even more.
“You’ve been hacked!” Mike, perspiring in his suit, yanked the phone from her hand, as though she had been caught texting in class. “Your Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat. EVERYTHING!”
“What? How do you know? What do you mean?” she asked calmly, vacantly.
“Have you seen this?” He pulled up her Facebook page. “A post from early this morning reads, ‘Climate change advocates, protectors of our country’s vast natural resources and fellow naturists.’ NATURISTS!” Mike said, eyes bulging. “‘I urge you to join me on October 9 at the Presidential Debate in beautiful St. Louis to demand that our candidates address our growing environmental concerns. Global warming is an epidemic. Show your support in raising awareness of these key issues by shedding your clothes for the cause. #backtonature #goodfellow2016.’”
“Ohhh, naturist, is not a nature lover,” Madison said, smirking. “Wouldn’t that be funny to see?” Observing that Mike was not amused, she went on. “No, that’s not from me. My last post was the picture of that chubby cat near the big arch from yesterday. It got 55,000 likes. You know? This one isn’t from me.”
“Fuck me, now we’ve gotta give him a position on global warming too,” she heard one of the advisers say, more loudly than he should have.
“Where are you on global warming, Hank?” another one asked.
“I don’t know, where am I supposed to be?” Hank said, annoyed at the question. “Shut this down, Mike,” he called out. “We gotta get back to it up here.”
“Let’s get back to the Middle East,” one said.
“Nowhere I’d rather be,” said another sarcastically.
Hank and the Machine continued their discussion of foreign policy talking points while Mike typed furiously at Madison’s side, speaking aloud. “Hello Goodfellow supporters, my sincerest apologies. My Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat accounts have been hacked. Today’s posts have not come from me. We appreciate your support while we are investigating this breech. See you at the polls! Fondly, Madison Goodfellow.” He looked at Madison. “Hold off on social media until I give you the green light and some new passwords.”
Whiplash sidled up, pulling Mike away, and Madison returned to her home videos, trying not to smile. Then she opened her email—the secret account she had set up that Mike had yet to discover—and wrote to Birdie Brandywine: Hope you saw my pages before my warden took the posts down. I put out the call for disrupters. ;-) Love, Maddy PS: Going to try talking to him tonight.
She left her seat, pulled Mike’s assistant, Kimberly, aside. “Can you get me a coffee, please?”
But as soon as Kimberly left the room, Madison followed, catching her privately. “You have access to Hank’s schedule, right?” she asked. “Book him for thirty minutes at nine o’clock tonight.”
“That’s dangerously close to bedtime,” Kimberly said, protective.
“I know, I know, just do it. The location will be our hotel suite.”
* * *
The call came at 9:29 p.m. from Whiplash. “What is it?” Hank barked into the phone. “I hate it when you all plan these meetings right before my shut-eye. Where?”
Madison, listening in from the living room of their suite, put her glasses on and knocked on the open bedroom door. “It’s with me, your appointment,” she said.
“Never mind, Whiplash. Night, son,” he said and hung up. “Since when do you get on my schedule?” he asked, hands on his waist.
“Since never, which is why I had to make a formal appointment,” she said firmly. “Sit down, Hank,” she instructed.
To her shock, he did as he was told and folded his arms across his chest.
She leaned against the bureau, hoping to imply a sense of control over the proceedings. “You remember when you told me to tell you if you were getting carried away?” she asked, slow and cautious. “You’re past carried away. This hobby has gone on long enough. Let’s get back to what you’re good at and enjoy life again. I don’t think you really want the prize that you’re competing for.”
He looked at her and made his pitch. “But I can win.”
“It’s not supposed to be about that. Do you honestly want to do this job? Because I think it’ll destroy you. Doesn’t give me joy to say that, but I don’t see you wanting this. This feels like the hockey team. You could win and you could figure out how to do this, but you will be miserable. Leave this to someone who wants it. Bow out on your terms. Get back to your philanthropy, your company, your baseball team, your basketball team, the things that bring you happiness. You’ve already proven you can do this.”
He sighed, stared down at his feet, shook his head.
I have him, she thought. She knew it was all the thrill of the chase for him, and she didn’t want them to give up the next four years, risk doing actual harm to the country, just because he wanted to prove he could attain something.
“Madison,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “This is how you feel?”
“It is. You know that I’m right about this,” she said gently. “We can find an easy way out, blame it on the family, how you realized this would be disruptive to us all, to the kids.” She could have told him about Henry taking some heat at school, but she wanted to protect the boy.
“Well, all right,” he said. He picked up the hotel room landline, presumably to call the Machine: “Yes, hi there, this is Hank Goodfellow. I’m gonna need another room...”
She perked up, shocked, standing now as the rug was pulled out from under her.
“...no this one is fine, I mean an extra room—additional room—a suite, something nice, anything that’s not here on the top floor,” he continued.
“What are you doing?” she asked, taking a step forward.
He shot her the briefest, most lethal look. “And you can bring that key up to me?...Thank ya so much.” He hung up. “You’re not welcome at this thing tomorrow.”
“The debate?”
“Yep, that’s right.”
“I’m not leaving this room.”
“You don’t have to, I am. It would take ya too damn long to pack your shit up and I don’t have the time. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got an election to win. But you can take your pretty self back to New York tomorrow. We don’t need ya on the trail if you’re not on board with the mission here. Shoot, Maddy.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what your problem is. You’re getting all kinda attention, and they all sure seem to like you. None-a this should surprise me. We never did see tit for tat on things—”
“Eye to eye, you mean—”
“What?”
“And it’s not even true,” she said. “We usually do, but this whole thing has changed you, and I don’t think you’re giving the world your best Hank right now. I think you know this job isn’t for you.”
“That’s about enough outta you.” He raised his voice.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of the kids.” She swept her Chanel makeup bag into her Louis Vuitton tote as a knock rattled the door. “Simmer down, Hank,” she said. “Think about what I said. I’ll come back in the morning for the rest of my things.”
He liked to act like he was going to divorce her whenever they fought, but she considered this conversation just the start of negotiations. He should know that, businessman that he was. She opened the door to find a smiling concierge with a new room key on a silver platter. She swiped it and walked out without saying goodbye.