Twitter Girl

“Seriously, I’m the chief strategist here. I try to keep my finger on the pulse of the general public and play devil’s advocate. Top Dog likes me to point out things he might be doing wrong.”

“Top Dog would be Senator Becker?”

“You catch on quick. Anyway, I’m only here Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but you can always reach me at home on Skype or Face Time. Or if you’re old school like me, call me on the phone. But I warn you I never shut up and may talk your ear off.”

“Yeah, I kinda get that.”

“Or drop by if you’re in the neighborhood. I’ll take you for a ride in the time machine back to the seventies and we can hit a disco.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Frank probably told you that my body can’t handle work two days in a row, but thankfully God blessed me with a decent brain.” He looks at the clock, grabs a television remote and fires it at the wall of flat screens.

“Well, if you’d like a little help when you’re not here my best friend has her own ad agency and she’s incredibly clever. She mentioned she wanted to volunteer for the campaign.”

“I’d love someone to bounce ideas off. Bring her in.” He looked at the television. “You ready?”

“For what?”

“Showtime, T.G. Time to pop your political cherry.” I can’t help but laugh. Tyler is a free spirit unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and newsrooms are loaded with quirky personalities. He opens up his laptop and slides it in front of me. “President has a press conference. Watch, wait for the usual gaffe, and send a sarcastic tweet his way.”

“Right now?”

“No time like the present and you’re on the clock.”

He turns up the sound as I log into my Twitter account. I look up at the flat screen just as President Gavin Turner arrives at a podium. A graphic fills the bottom of the screen with Dubuque, Iowa while a diagonal red Live banner stretches across the upper left corner.

“Good face for radio,” I say as the high-def television brings the President into uncomfortable clarity.

Tyler leans back and laughs. “Never heard that one. A TV term?”

“Uh-huh. Suppose he doesn’t screw up?” I ask.

Tyler leans his head to the side as he gives me an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point.”

The President waits for applause to die down before he begins. “Thank you all for coming out on this very cold day.” He looks to the side at two men seated next to the podium. “Nice to see my good friends, Governor Lovegood and Senator Bracken… two great public servants.”

“Wait for it…” says Tyler.

The President goes through a laundry list of people to thank, then looks out at the crowd. “As always, it’s great to be in the Buckeye State!” The crowd groans.

“There it is!” says Tyler, pointing at the screen. “Ohio is the Buckeye State. Iowa is the Hawkeye State.” He points at the laptop. “Go!”

I pause for a few seconds, and then my snarky muse hits me with a gem.

@TwitterGirl The President got a GPS as a Christmas gift. Obviously he returned it.

“Ha! That’s terrific!”

“Thank you.”

He points at the screen. “Look at him. He knows he screwed up. But he may not be done yet, so stand by.”

***

Thirty minutes and two scathing tweets later, Tyler and I are whooping it up in the war room as the President wraps up a gaffe-filled speech.

“I’d say you had a great first day,” he says.

“Well, most of what the President said were hanging curve balls over the middle of the plate.”

“Ah, baseball fan. Mets or Yanks?”

“Long suffering Mets fan.”

“Me too. We should catch a game sometime. Nothing but obnoxious Yankee fans around this office and the majority aren’t even from the area. Damn bandwagoners.”

Frank enters the room wearing a big smile. “Great job, Twitter Girl.”

“Ah, you were monitoring.”

“I wasn’t the only one. Those little barbs of yours have already been re-tweeted hundreds of times. The one about the GPS will probably end up as a joke on a late night talk show.”

“Glad you liked ’em,” I say.

“Well, Tyler’s got a conference call.”

Tyler looks at his watch and nods as he gets up. “Yeah, need to hit the phone. Great working with you, T.G.”

“You too, Tyler. See you tomorrow.”

“Won’t be here, remember? Besides, you’ll be on your way to sunny Iowa. If you need me, I’ll be in cyberspace. Operators are standing by.”

***

Dinner is with Frank’s Deputy Campaign Manager, Roberta Willis, a mid-thirties sharp looking gray-eyed dishwater blonde I’ve seen on a few talk shows. While Frank Delavan is running the show, Roberta is the face of the campaign, being a lot more telegenic with a sharp wit. We are quickly bonding, as she also has a background in broadcasting, though she had bailed out of a dysfunctional newsroom (somewhat redundant) five years ago. In two hours she’s covered just about everything I need to know about the campaign.

Of course, I want to know about the candidate. Ripley has already texted me twice to remind me.

What’s the 411 on our objective?

“So, what’s he like?” I ask.

“What, you mean away from the campaign?”

“Yeah, you know. When he’s not the next President is he a regular guy? What’s he do when he lets his hair down?”

“You haven’t been around national politics a lot, have you?”

“I follow it closely, but that wasn’t my beat as a reporter. I’ve covered a bunch of state campaigns, but nothing like this. Ironically I was set to cover the President’s campaign before I got the boot.”

She nods slowly, then takes a sip of wine. “Well, I’ll give you the quick Cliff Notes version of Washington politics 101. There’s one thing that is the common denominator with Democrats and Republicans.”

“Getting re-elected?”

“Very perceptive, Cassidy. They all talk a good game about being public servants, but that term is an absolute joke. They have no more interest in serving the public than we have in washing these dishes after dinner. Most of them are incredible egomaniacs who are turned on more by power than everything else.”

“But Becker’s not like that, right?”

“In some ways he is, but in many ways he’s different, and losing his wife changed him. Humbled him in a way. Most politicians think they’re bulletproof and when his wife died that was a huge dose of reality. It softened him, but in a good way. Made him unsure of himself when before he was always dead certain he was in control. I mean, of course he has a huge political ego… you can’t be shy and modest on the national stage. He desperately wants to be President and he does honestly want to make things better for the country. But he’ll also do just about anything to get there.”

“Just about anything meaning…”

“Very little is off the table in politics. Despite his reputation he can get down and dirty like anyone else. What makes Will Becker different is the way he does it. Or, in his case, how he has other people do it for him. He’s very well insulated.”

“What about his personal life now that he’s single?”

Her face tightens slightly and I can tell I’ve pushed a bit too far. She looks at her watch and turns to wave at the waiter. “I think it’s time for the check. Got some calls to make.”

CHAPTER FOUR

@TwitterGirl

Boarding Air Becker for the Iowa debates. Hope someone told the Prez they’re not in Ohio this year.

I wheel my suitcase toward the steps of the private jet that will carry Senator Becker and his staff to the wilds of Iowa, which is currently experiencing the effects of one of those dreaded polar vortexes. Or vortices. Or whatever the plural of vortex is. In other words, it’s friggin’ cold. The people in Iowa are freezing their asses off cause it’s ten below. Luckily I won’t be working outside as I would be if I were a reporter, so it’s no big deal. Still, I wish the primaries were in the Caribbean.

A middle-aged white haired gentleman in a suit walks toward me and smiles. “I’ll take that for you, Ms. Shea.”

“Wow,” I say, as I pass the handle over to him. “Beats flying commercial.”

“Have a nice trip,” he says, as he turns and takes my bag toward the rear of the plane.

“Thanks.” I’m filled with energy as I bound up the steps and am greeted at the top by the first really attractive flight attendant I’ve seen in years, since these days most are people deemed not cheerful enough to work at the Department of Motor Vehicles. And, she’s the first one I’ve seen smiling in years. “Good morning.”

“Welcome aboard, Ms. Shea. I’m Jessica. May I take your coat?”

“Thank you, and please call me Cassidy.” I take two steps into the cabin and my jaw drops as I start to remove my coat. It’s a private plane, all right, but it’s seriously decked out. A half dozen staffers on cell phones fill huge reclining tan leather chairs and I see Frank Delavan sitting in the back, reading a newspaper. “Guess I’m not in a middle seat in coach.”

“It’s the only way to fly,” she says, as she hangs my coat in a closet. The woman is an absolutely breathtaking brunette, early twenties if not younger, tall with a mound of gentle curls framing huge pale green eyes and a tight body wrapped in a short red dress. If I’m going to turn Becker’s head on this flight, my “A” game just got graded on a curve and marked down to a C-minus. “I think Frank is waiting for you in the back. Can I get you something to drink before we take off?”

“If you’ve got coffee made, I’ll take a cup. But don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

“We have almond amaretto, raspberry chocolate, and creme brulee.”

“And this obviously isn’t the drive-thru at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ll take some of that amaretto concoction, cream and sugar.”

“Coming right up, and we’ll have eggs Benedict once we’re airborne,” she says, as she extends her hand toward the back like a game show hostess.

I want to tweet I have died and gone to airline heaven. But probably not a good idea to let the voters know we’re traveling like kings. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was stuck in a middle seat next to a crying baby. No parent, just a baby.

I head down the center aisle passing three incredibly attractive men who are all on cell phones and look up to smile at me. Frank Delavan has a laptop open and is looking serious while on the phone. Behind his seat is a wall with a door, so I assume there’s a meeting room or something since this part of the cabin only takes up half the plane. He wraps up the call as I arrive and plop into the soft leather seat next to him. “Morning, Frank.”

“Cassidy, great to have you along with us. I’m really looking forward to breaking new ground in this campaign.”

“Sarcasm is new ground? I thought that road got paved with the first television commercial.”

“Not Twitter sarcasm and not your brand of it.”

“So what’s on the agenda today?”

“Soon as we’re airborne we’ll have something to eat, then have a planning session.” He cocks his head toward the back wall.

“So the rest of the plane is a meeting room?”

“Just part of it. There’s also a TV room where we can monitor stuff and a few beds and couches in the back if you ever need to crash for a bit.”

“There are bedrooms on this plane?”

“It’s a long haul, Cassidy. Trust me, by August you’ll need a GPS to remind you what city we’re in. Anyway, we’ll do some brainstorming, then the Senator has a full agenda as soon as we land.”

“So I’ll be with him?”

“Not till tonight. I’ve got you down for lunch with our advance man, Andrew Shelton, before he heads out to our next stop. He’s the guy who has his finger on the pulse of the local voters. You’ll see him briefly each time we arrive at a new city.”

“You sound incredibly organized, Frank.”

“Trust me, one look at my desk and you wouldn’t want me to do logistics. We have a seriously anal retentive person for that.”

I hear the engines fire up as the flight attendant comes over the loudspeaker and tells everyone to buckle up.

“And buckle up is literal in a campaign,” says Frank. “You also need to hold on tight. This is the world’s wildest roller coaster.”

***

Two hours later Jessica walks toward us carrying a coffee pot and smiles. “We’ll be landing in about half an hour. Bundle up, Frank, it’s twelve below.”

“Whoever put the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries in the middle of the winter obviously flunked geography,” says Frank.

Jessica taps on the door to the meeting room and I hear the Senator tell her to come in.

I assume she’s bringing him a cup of java. But she doesn’t return.

Five minutes go by, no Jessica.

Ten minutes, no Jessica. Now I’m starting to worry about what’s going on behind that door between the probable next president and a seriously hot babe young enough to be his daughter. Sure, he’s single and entitled to have a relationship, but this doesn’t look good.

Twenty minutes later she comes out.

My eyes widen as I watch her move to the front of the plane, smooth her dress, grab her purse from a shelf and touch up her lipstick.

The Senator then emerges from the back room, buttoning his shirt and tying his necktie as he heads for his seat at the front of the plane.

No one says a word or even gives this a second look.

And now I’m wondering what’s really true about the guy I’m now working for.

Is Will Becker simply a product?

And is the race over before Ripley and I have even left the starting gate?

***

As I have lunch with advance man Andrew Shelton, I’m beginning to see a pattern.

This campaign, with the exception of Frank Delavan, is loaded with seriously cute guys.

And after what I saw on the airplane with our flight attendant, Becker may be off the table, so I may as well lay the groundwork for Plan B.

Andrew is probably in his early forties, maybe six-two and built like a male model. Broad shoulders, slim hips, and a chambray shirt which is no doubt covering a ripped torso. A pair of jeans has never looked better. He’s obviously dressed down for the locals, but I know he could seriously do justice to a tuxedo. Thick sandy hair and deep-set pale blue eyes give him a bit of a beach boy look, while huge dimples come into play when he smiles.

Which he does as he gives the waitress a soulful look with those eyes. He gives his order with a deep voice smooth as silk. She turns while staring at him and walks right into a table. Her face flushes as she scurries back to the kitchen.

“You’re a natural flirt, you know that?” I say.

He shrugs and furrows his brow. “What did I do?”

“Oh, nothing, you just make a patty melt sound like phone sex. If the waitress was named Patty, she’d melt.”

“Well, Frank was certainly spot on about you.”

Now it’s my turn to shrug. “What did I do?”

“You’re not shy about saying anything, even to people you just met.”

“Part of my charm. That’s why you guys hired me. I basically have no filter. Although, as you’re aware, the lack of said filter got me fired from the network.”

“Well, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen here. Anyway, in regard to your phone sex comment, I used to do commercial voice-overs before I got into politics. I was blessed with a good voice, which will come in handy when I’m too old to do anything else.”

“Hey, I know how you can lock up the election. Call up registered female voters and ask, What are you wearing?”

He leans back and laughs. “Twitter Girl, you are something else. I’ve run into some characters in politics, but you are definitely one of a kind.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Andrew. So, how does one become an advance man?”

“I was working in the Senator’s office and a few times he was late for a few events so I had to basically keep the crowd warm.”

I’m sure he could keep any girl warm…

“Anyway,” he continues, “Becker thought I’d be good at getting the locals primed before his arrival because I’m from a small town and can relate to Joe and Mabel Sixpack. He calls me the redneck whisperer.”

“Cute. Though you sure don’t look like one.”

“Well, for whatever reason, people open up to me. I grew up on a farm with a lot of blue collar folks. A lot of advance men show up in thousand dollar suits, and that screams New York carpetbagger. I try to blend in and get a sense of the mood so I can brief him before he gets here. I spend a lot of time in coffee shops and diners.”

“Interesting. So you’ll always be one day ahead of me?”

“Yep. Soon as we’re through with lunch I’m off to Cedar Rapids. So I’ll always have a little time to brief you when you arrive, but we’ll always be sleeping in different towns.”

So much for Plan B…

“Does that make you feel detached from the campaign?”

“In some ways, yes, but I do get back to the New York headquarters quite often, since I live in Manhattan.”

What the hell, take a shot. “So at some point when we’re both in town we might actually have dinner instead of lunch.”

“Or… breakfast.”

Talk about not being shy about saying anything to someone you just met. His last words are followed by a smile that makes my heart flutter. Until he follows it up with…

“I love having meetings over a good power breakfast. I get a lot of ideas late at night and need to get them out of my head right away. And I know every great pancake and Belgian waffle place in the city. The way to my heart is covered with pure maple syrup.”

Oh.

My phone chimes. “Excuse me,” I say, as I pull it from my purse and see it’s a text message from Ripley.

Not fair. You’re getting a head start on Becker.

I quickly tap the keys and write back.

Don’t worry, the runner-ups are spectacular.

I slide the phone back into my purse. “You getting all snarky already?” he asks.

“No. Quick note to my best friend. She, uh, wanted to make sure I’m keeping warm out here.”

“Stick with me, I’ll keep you warm.” Another sly smile.

Aha.

“I grew up in Minnesota, so I know everything you need to know about dealing with seriously cold weather.” He cocks his head at my coat. “You need something like a down coat from Eddie Bauer. It’ll make you toasty even when it’s twenty below. The one you’ve got isn’t gonna make it.”

Oh, again.

***

Frank and I are in a small room just off the auditorium stage, seated at a table in front of a monitor as the Iowa debate is about to begin. He has a yellow legal pad in front of him along with a laptop while I have fingers at the ready next to my own laptop, Twitter account already open and buzzing. My followers have been burning it up waiting for whatever darts I’m about to throw at the other candidates.

A digital clock shows there’s one minute to go till the ninety minute debate begins. “You ready?” asks Frank.

I crack my knuckles. “Absolutely.”

And then something happens that has never, ever happened to me on television.

My heart starts pounding.

Talking live in front of millions, I’ve never had a problem. Seated in a room with one guy ready to launch barbs at a bunch of sleazeballs with no souls, and for some reason I’m nervous as a virgin on prom night.

Probably because there’s more at stake here. Let’s face it, television news aint gonna cure cancer and if you screw up on the network no one is going to die. But what I’m doing could conceivably affect the future of the country. If you look back at previous presidential races, you’ll often find one sentence that defines a campaign. The famous headline in the New York tabloid (“Ford to City: Drop Dead”) during the race between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford is widely accepted as having had a huge influence on the outcome. “Read my lips” sank the first George Bush like a stone. A few words, history changed. Just like that. And if I end up providing what turns out to be the key words of the campaign, that’s a potentially large gorilla on my back.

Luckily Frank is here to act as a filter in the unlikely event that I need one. (Oh, stop laughing.)

The monitor fills with a red, white and blue graphic and Frank says, “Here we go.”

The music fades as the face of the moderator, public television anchor Jarvis Jones, greets the audience. Jones, who is probably in his mid sixties with a personality as dry as a rice cake, shows no emotion at all as he announces the names of the candidates.

“Hey, Frank, why do they always have these public TV bores as moderators?”

“Yeah, I hate it. Supposedly they’re unbiased, but that’s a bunch of bullshit. They’re liberal as hell.” He cocks his head at my laptop. “Go ahead. Fire away.”

“The debate hasn’t started yet.”

“I meant throw a zinger at the moderator.”

“Really?”

“Sure. His eleven fans probably won’t mind.”

I lick my lips as my eyebrows do a quick jump and I begin to type.

#IowaDebates

@TwitterGirl

Jarvis Jones died in 2011, but hasn’t gotten the memo yet.

I look at Frank for permission before I post it. “Do it,” he says, laughing. “It’s funny as hell. And probably true.”

I post the tweet and watch the LOL and ROFL responses fly by at blinding speed.

“See, they love that kind of stuff,” says Frank. “And regardless of who people are supporting, you’ve said something they all can appreciate.”

The moderator pulls an index card from a stack and says, “So, let’s begin the first debate on the road to the 2010 election.” Snickers fill the room and Jones doesn’t react, clueless that he hasn’t changed refrigerator calendars in awhile.

“Good God, he doesn’t even know what year it is,” says Frank. He points at the laptop. “Hit him again.”

#IowaDebates

@TwitterGirl

Re: Jarvis Jones death in 2011. I rest my case.

“Damn, you’re quick,” says Frank, wearing a big smile. Again, the responses fly by, and within seconds someone has created a new hashtag:

#RIPJarvisJones.

“Jump on it,” says Frank. I start typing again.

#RIPJarvisJones

@TwitterGirl

In lieu of flowers, mourners are asked to donate a personality to the Public Broadcasting System.

“You think he’ll be upset?” I ask.

“You really think he even knows what Twitter is?”

“Good point.”

***

The debate begins, with six other challengers flanking Becker, who, as the front-runner in the polls, is at the center podium. Nothing “tweet worthy” happens as the first four candidates answer a question about foreign aid. But then we come to Marvin Hensler, a sixty year old extreme whack job with an extreme following. The walking definition of “lunatic fringe.”

“Stand by,” says Frank. “He’s bound to say something stupid.”

Hensler, a wealthy private citizen who made his millions the old fashioned way (by inheriting it), has the classic look of a good ole boy politician; bloated, bulbous nose, grey hair styled in a helmet. He starts off rambling about cutting foreign aid completely. “If third world countries like England can’t get by without help, well, that’s not America’s problem.”

“Go!” says Frank.

@TwitterGirl #IowaDebates

Please give to the United Kingdom indoor plumbing fund, Hensler has designated the UK as a third world country.

“You’re on a roll tonight,” says Frank.