The Means (18 page)

ON THE ROAD

41

Dan Cullen walks up the steps at the corner of Twelfth and I Street into Bobby Van's Grill in Washington, DC. Cullen is chief of advance for the Pauley campaign which means he has some responsibility for deciding which cities the campaign should visit and all the responsibility for making sure there is a team set up in those cities to see that the visit comes off without any problems.

The election is in fifty days. For campaign teams and the press on the road with them, this is like studying through the night for a life-altering final exam the next day, then repeating this for the next fifty consecutive days. Campaigns will visit three or four cities each day during this period. In the morning, Dan has a flight to Columbus, Ohio, and he won't be back to his DC home until after election day.

Dan is blond and handsome. If he were merely chief of advance, he'd sleep with most of the interns. The interns need to sleep with someone of power in the campaign but don't want to admit to themselves that power is the only reason for going to bed, so they race to the only man, aside from Pauley, who is also handsome. Dan has slept with every decent-looking intern without having to make a false promise or make any effort at all. It's understood that no strings are attached and they're fortunate for a night with him rather than the fat and sweaty communications director.

Dan steps into Bobby Van's past the host desk to the bar and lounge with navel-high cocktail tables and tall bar stools. There are a dozen people in the bar, all men, all in dark suits, all DC lobbyists or consultants.

A few heads turn to see Dan, then there's a backhand to their buddy's triceps and a moment of shame that they weren't more cool about spotting Dan Cullen. Dan is respected in political circles and unknown outside them. He does TV appearances on political shows and being in a room with someone normally seen on TV can do funny things to the person doing the looking.

Now most heads are turned to Dan and there are a few nods from people he may have met before. Anyone he really knew would have come right over. He's at the peak of his political career today. He smiles back and everyone sees that his teeth look even more white in person.

He walks down the middle of the narrow lounge to the stairs that lead down to the private dining rooms. He likes knowing eyes are on him. At forty-six, this is likely to be the last presidential campaign he plays a major role in. The schedule is too demanding. Most people are in their twenties and even senior people are only in their thirties. Dan enjoys his role as the veteran, which he can establish by referencing campaigns he worked in two decades ago when his listeners were just learning to read. He can imply that they have no real frame of reference, that everything they're seeing today is just a prop in the background of a grand painting and until they can step back to see the painting with twenty years' experience, they can't even know what the painting is of.

The downstairs level seems empty. At the base of the stairs are double doors to a private dining room with a round table that seats twelve. Around the bend is a small bar that is closed. Across from the bar is a windowless door. Dan opens the door and steps into a small conference room with a table in the middle and a bottle of Dewar's scotch on it. On the other side of the bottle is Jack Boothe, strategist for the campaign to reelect Mitchell Mason.

“Dan the Man.”

“That's right. You remember that.”

“Ha. Nobody will remember that after your guy loses.”

Dan knows plenty of people will remember him, whether Pauley wins or loses. The difference will be a few hundred thousand dollars in a signing bonus from a lobbying firm. If he's deeply connected to the administration in power, he'll be worth more. Or he could take a job in the administration. “My guy's not going to lose.”

“Bullshit.”

Dan pours half a rocks glass with scotch and no ice and drinks a mouthful at room temperature. “This guy's riding the wave, Jack. This guy could do it. The campaign just has the energy winning campaigns have.”

Jack is Dan's age, trim with dark hair and also handsome. Appearances matter at their level. They're trying to close the world's greatest sale, which happens only twenty-five times in a century. Their expensive suits are pressed, shirt collars are flawless, and the tie knots are fat and right down the middle. “It's not the year for the GOP. Mason is too strong.”

“I don't know. Remember us trying to get Romney through the primary in 'twelve. We had to push like hell. It was like getting a handful of Play-Doh through a keyhole. We barely had to push Pauley. He got pulled through the primary like a magnet. If anyone can take Mason, it's Pauley.”

“That's just it. No one can. Not this year.”

“We'll see. You're up four points and that's all convention bounce. The debates are what matter.”

Jack has an early morning flight to Tampa, so tonight is the last time the two will be able to meet before the election. The irony is that as partisan as the nation is, it is the people who work in the business of politics who are the most friendly across party lines. They recognize that it is a job and they need to live and to send their kids to schools. They're like players who shake hands and get a drink after a sporting event even though they're on rival teams. “Dan, you're a true believer. And you're not objective at all.”

“And you are?” Dan sits at the table now. He refills his glass to the halfway point and pours some in Jack's glass. “Pauley's for real. I think he came up so fast he hasn't had the time to become a jaded prick like Mason. And he hasn't had to make any soul-selling compromises either.”

“Mason may be a prick on the outside but you can't argue that he has a vision for making this country better. And the man is a genius,” says Jack.

“A genius or an insane person?”

“Both. Not all insane people are geniuses, but all geniuses are a little insane. It's lightning in a bottle.”

“That's the last defense of an asshole.”

“You'd be surprised at what a deep thinker he is. His inner circle has dubbed him the Asshole Philosopher. Both parts of that are true, and whether you like him or not, at least he's real.”

“He's an asshole. That's real. And his vision for the country sucks.”

“You GOP guys crack me up.” Jack makes a high-pitched voice. “Don't tax the millionaires more, it'll shrink the economy and we'll lose jobs.” His voice returns to normal. “You think if taxes on millionaires go up two points they're all going to fire the maid?”

“Not tonight, Jack. I don't want to get into platforms. You believe yours, I believe mine, let's just drink scotch.”

“Yeah, fine.” Jack sips. “You getting laid?”

“Plenty. Too much.” Dan is divorced with a seventeen-year-old daughter who lives with her mom while she finishes her senior year. “I need less sex and more sleep if I'm going to survive the next fifty days.”

“Tell me about it.” Jack is also divorced but no kids. “Couple nights ago we're in Scranton and there's this forty-three-year-old gal who's a staffer in communications. She's been around campaigns forever and this is her last go unless someone makes her a mistress and gives her a spot. She's always turning up around me because she thinks we have a connection being the same age around all these kids. So at two in the morning I run into her in the lobby of the hotel. She says the last fifty days are about to start. ‘If you're ever going to fuck me, tonight might be your last chance.'”

“Attagirl. What'd you say?”

“I said I'm sorry but I am just not going to be able to fuck you tonight.”

“You're a dick. You should've fucked her. A gentleman would have.”

“She's good-looking for forty-three but I was so tired. If either one of us had been twenty years younger, I would have done it.”

Dan laughs but feels depression behind it. He has to laugh because it's been his whole life and he's chosen a sick profession. “What's the word in your campaign?”

Jack takes another sip. He and Dan have exchanged information for years. Nothing big or illegal. Like Cold War–era intelligence agents who develop a secret friendship, they share little bits that are interesting and can make each other look good. “The team from four years ago is pretty much intact, only now you're looking at the chief strategist.”

“Bully for you.”

“That's Mr. Bully, thank you.”

“What else?”

“Distant wife, rumors of wandering eye. Stuff you've heard.”

“Any ideas where it's wandering to?”

“Nothing for you there, pal. Suffice to say it's not in the league of Kennedy or Clinton.”

“Nothing else?”

“Look, Mason's the real deal.” Jack takes a drink of scotch, pulling in two swallows the way a young person drinks milk. “Twelve years ago I was running a campaign and we're flying to Reagan National. I'm sitting in the seat next to the principal. As we're about to touch down, it hits the news wire that there's a rumor of a coup in Venezuela. So I turn to my guy who shall remain nameless—”

“I know who you were working for twelve years ago.”

Jack winks. “And I say, the press is going to mob you on this the moment your toes are out of this plane.” Jack sips again. “He turns to me like a scared teenager. He says to me, What do I say?”

“Yeah, that wasn't your best campaign.”

“Right then, I knew I was backing the wrong horse.”

“Yeah.”

“Mason's not like that. He knows what the fuck he's talking about, on almost everything. And when you think he's being aloof or not listening in a briefing, he actually is paying attention. He retains it and he does something with it.”

Dan grunts. “No doubt he's a smart guy.” There'll be no convincing Dan that Mason isn't an asshole.

“What about you guys? You're the fresh new story in town.”

Dan takes another mouthful of scotch. “Some of the clichéd stuff is playing out. Repeating shit he hears from the body guy.” A candidate has an assistant who tends to all the personal needs and is constantly at his side. It's not a political position and is usually a young scrapper. The role is informally titled body guy, and for candidates who are otherwise surrounded by political professionals, it can be his only conduit to normal. “This kid's about twenty-four and a couple weeks ago he's bringing coffee and papers to Pauley and he starts talking about how the price of a gallon of milk and some magazine he reads just went up. So Pauley goes on this three-day obsession with the Consumer Price Index and every morning we have to wrestle him back into the daily message.”

This is the perfect thing for Dan to share. It gives Jack an inner circle story to retell but doesn't give away the cause. “I heard the body guy is gay.”

“I don't think so. I haven't heard anything about that.” Jack probably hasn't either, thinks Dan. He's just feeling around for something better. “And we have the usual old buddies showing up and riding on the planes, whispering nonsense in his ear.”

“Oh, that's the worst. Thank God Mason's over that.” Candidates often travel with an old and trusted friend because that can make them feel calm and centered. These friends are usually not political professionals but will opine as though they are.

Dan wants something to take back. “Who's playing Pauley in your debate prep?”

“Probably David Larson,” says Jack. Larson is the Democratic governor from Massachusetts.

“I can see that. He'll be good. You guys started mock debates yet?”

“Last week. Mason's a little paranoid of the curse of the incumbent's first debate.” Jack doesn't need to add the word confidentially. He knows how the information will be used. It's for Pauley's inner circle and not the media. “You guys?”

“Senator Bale to start. I'm pushing the team to find a real Democrat though. Bale can play the part but I think it would be more effective to have a true believer.”

“Where are you going to find a true believer to help you out? Doesn't sound like he could be so true.”

“Enough money might solve it. Or maybe just someone Mason has personally pissed off bad enough.”

“That's political suicide. Anyway, if he's a true believer he won't betray us over personal reasons.” Jack finishes his drink.

“It's worth a shot.”

“How's Pauley's prep so far?”

“You know how it goes. You just have to help them operate inside the lane they're comfortable in. But I'll tell you, Pauley's good. He studies hard and he's got his facts and stats, but he's also got style and a sense of timing. Sometimes you get just one or the other, but he has both.”

“I've seen him. He's good, but it's different getting out there for the big show. Mason's like a middleweight boxer and he knows how to get to his lines naturally. It's jab, jab, jab, then bam, he lands the big one. Mason's one of those guys who does it better without too much coaching.”

Dan and Jack almost finish the bottle and complain about each other's super PAC. After the last sip Jack says, “Let's meet up here for dinner in mid-November. Loser buys.”

“You're on.”

42

The room has no light. It's silent. At 4:08 a.m., Randy Newhope's iPhone alarm chimes. His head is to the side of the pillow and he's open-mouthed with face down against the mattress, which pushes his jaw out of alignment. Just his left arm moves, as though it's the only part of his body that hears the noise. His hand wraps the phone and his thumb sweeps the screen to make silence. At 4:10 a.m. the hotel phone rings. Randy opens his eyes. Each day the hotel room is different, so he needs to find the landline and get into the shower. He lifts the phone from its cradle and drops it. It's not a person calling, just a machine to wake him.

He stands and drops his chin to his chest to think and to try to remain standing. Conshohocken, Pennsylvania, he thinks. We're at a Marriott. Bag call time is 4:30 a.m. He remembers more from last night.

“Time to get up,” Randy says.

The sheets behind him move and are noisy. He remembers how rough they were, like brown wrapping paper. “What?” Twenty-three-year-old vocal cords strained by liquor, sex, and lack of sleep. She sounds gravelly and sexy.

He doesn't repeat the remark. He walks into the bathroom and into the shower without turning on the lights. His breathing is heavy, not from physical exertion but from the exertion to stay awake. He puts the ridge of his eyebrows into the blast of the showerhead, slaps the liquid hotel soap around his neck and his armpits, and he pees into the drain without the aid of his hands, the way a horse does.

Randy is thirty-five and a columnist for
Newsweek
magazine, and he has promised himself and his wife that this will be the last time he travels with a campaign. In four years he wants to be covering things from a bureau, maybe running it.

He's about average size and average-looking and is now a veteran reporter with
Newsweek
and that status is currency he can trade for youth and hotness when choosing someone to sleep with. He's been sleeping with Tara Altman every night for the last week.

Randy comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth and no towel. The room is still dark except for the glow of the TV Tara turned on and she is standing by the bed in a white spaghetti-strap tank top and a black thong. Her face is in her hands and she looks unsteady.

“Gotta have your bag in the hall in fifteen minutes.”

She nods and says through her palms, “I know. When is pool call time?”

“Five fifteen.”

“Okay,” she says, and drops her hands. She looks amazing, he thinks. Lack of sleep can make people under thirty look sexier. People over thirty just look like crap. Her young body is immune to the road lifestyle. He can still pinch only skin on her waist and her ass is hard. “I'm going.” She pulls on the sweatpants that she had worn over the night before. No one dresses up for anyone at night on the campaign. A girl like her looks just as good in sweatpants and a tank top anyway. She walks to leave and pushes down the handle of the heavy door. “See you at pool call.” There's no touch or eye contact. It's all anyone can do to stay awake.

“Okay.” With a few more hours' sleep he'd feel aroused by her, but not now. Tara is a blogger for a conservative website with a mandate of getting out the youth vote. Young conservatives are far better sex partners than young liberals. One of life's ironies, and a generalization that holds.

Randy uses an army-green duffel bag. Most people use a hard rectangular bag with wheels but he likes the feel of throwing a bag over his shoulder. It makes him feel younger. He drops the bag on the floor outside his hotel room and walks the hall to the elevator. It won't be light outside for a couple hours. There aren't windows but it somehow feels like nighttime in the hall.

He steps into the lobby that looks like every other goddamn lobby he's been in. False light with hard floors and walls that are too white with the kind of odd lobby art that happens when someone tries to be fancy on too small a budget. He gets a banana, a muffin, coffee, and water, which is what he has every morning.

The campaign takes care of everything. They divvy it all up and send a monthly bill back to the media companies that have embedded reporters, but Randy never has to plan his hotel or food or anything. He just needs to work his ass off and get his stories in.

The lobby elevator door starts to open and close with a rhythm now and the buffet table of breakfast food and coffee gets crowded. He sees Tara come in and now he wants to find a way to sleep with her somewhere today. Maybe she'll be up for something in the bathroom on the plane ride to Palm Beach.

Randy always wears khaki pants, button-down shirt, and a blazer. Most of the journalists dress business casual and the campaign staff does too. The cameramen, sound guys, and other techs wear jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers. As people pour into the lobby, it's easy to tell who does what.

He's not feeling ready for more conversation until he's had more coffee but he circulates the group to nod hellos and he comes around to squeeze Tara's ass. He should keep it more private since he's married but he doubts anyone notices or cares much. Other people do it too. She lifts one side of her butt to give him a better angle for a squeeze. It's as close to real affection as can happen this close to election day and on this little sleep.

The group starts to move outside in a listless way like zombies that received an unspoken command. A caravan is waiting for them. In front are three black Suburbans. Governor Pauley will go in one of them, along with senior staff and some Secret Service. Behind the Suburbans are four vans for the rest of the staff and the press pool and behind the vans are three tour buses that look like Greyhounds but are covered in Pauley logos. Every vehicle will have at least one Secret Service agent and everyone will be frisked before getting in.

The press pool in the van stays close to the candidate. They go everywhere when the rest of the media cannot, and they have to share all their coverage with the rest of the group. The journalists and techs in the pool rotate each day. Randy does pool again tomorrow. Today he's back in one of the tour buses.

A few of the media stand around the outside of the tour buses and vans waiting to see Pauley come from the hotel. Maybe they'll get a decent photo or he'll say a few words in his stride that are worthy of print. Probably not. Randy's been at it too many days to loiter hoping for that. He carries his coffee with him to be frisked then gets on the bus.

The Secret Service guys look different from regular military. Military guys have a spine like a spike and their back muscles have formed to hold it straight whether sitting or standing. Their ears line up in a plane over their shoulder blades and their hair is so short you can't tell what color it is. Secret Service guys have to blend in. They wear business suits, their hair is neat but normal and there's no surface tension in their stance. But you come to notice after a moment that their eyes are always moving and they never face the candidate. They always look out and around him.

The bus is a quarter full and Randy takes a seat by a window facing the hotel entrance. Dan Cullen walks out with an aide just behind his left elbow who's walking in steps that are quicker and shorter than those of his boss. Dan's hair is perfect at 5:45 a.m. It must know where to go all by itself. Everyone knows he's slept with all the girls, except Tara as far as Randy knows.

Twenty minutes later the point man of Pauley's detail comes through the door. Tom has six agents around him and he emerges like a kickoff returner behind the wedge. The body guy comes out last, just outside the human perimeter of security. Pauley smiles and waves to everyone. He says a few things that Randy can't hear through the glass but it's probably about what a great day they're all going to have. He likes to say what a great day it is for the human race and he says it in his Southern accent. The guy can't help being friendly.

Pauley gets into the second Suburban. The lead car is the dummy today. The caravan is flanked by a squad car in front and four motorcycle cops, then two more motorcycle cops in back. They hit the sirens and the campaign moves out.

Heads turn and civilian cars clear off the roads and the massive convoy speeds on, bringing the sound of a terrible fire alarm. The local cops love it. They gun their bikes up the sides of the buses, then fall back again, circling the campaign like small fighter planes defending the Death Star. Randy has done this a hundred times and it's still fucking cool.

Pauley has a sunrise rally scheduled at the gym of the Haverford School which is a ten-minute drive from the hotel.

They pull into the campus of the all-boys' school. The sirens stop and Randy's shoulders drop an inch, no longer resisting the weight of the sound.

An advance team of campaign workers and Secret Service is already in the gym setting the podium and getting the area prepared. Randy sees a paper sign taped to a tree and the sign says Press File and has an arrow. He follows the direction of the arrow to another sign with another arrow, and again and again until he gets to the school cafeteria where the press file is set up.

The cafeteria tables are covered with white plastic sheets. Power cords trace the tables and are taped to the floor. A whiteboard rests on an easel. It says “Sunday, October 1, Haverford, Pennsylvania.” By the end of the day, with fatigue and a third or fourth city, these posts are useful when filing stories.

Randy keeps a soft leather briefcase with a laptop, a notebook, chargers for all his devices, and a power strip. He needs to get his story filed before the eight a.m. rally. He swings the bag onto the table and takes out his laptop. Only a few other press people have come into the cafeteria.

Randy powers up. The story is mostly written but he wants it as perfect as it can be to stave off his editor's paw prints. He's reading and polishing and notices his battery power indicator move to low. It's an old battery and when this light comes on he has about five minutes more. “Fuck.”

He reaches in his bag but the power strip is gone. “Fuck.”

He looks around. There are about twenty people in the room, either on their laptops or fumbling for another coffee and bagel. “Anyone have a Dell power strip I can borrow for ten minutes?” He says this loud enough to carry but not to startle.

Nobody moves to react. He can tell that some move deeper into whatever else they were doing. This is a combination of sleepiness, not giving a shit about a fellow reporter, and the fact that power strips are gold on the road.

Randy has about four minutes left. Theatrics might get him to a yes so he steps on the bench seat then to the top of the table so his head is about nine feet off the ground. He raises his hands to make a trumpet and yells, “I fucking need a fucking power strip for ten fucking minutes! Who's going to fucking give me one?
Fuck!
”

He lowers his hands expecting someone to laugh and toss him one and he sees Tom Pauley standing at the cafeteria entrance staring at him.

“Governor,” says Randy, trying to strike a balance that is funny but not smart-ass.

“Too much coffee, Randy?”

Son of a bitch, he remembers my name. Randy had been press pool for a bowling event the week before and that was the only time they formally met. “No, sir. I think maybe not enough.”

“Well, I don't have a power strip for you, but allow me. Black?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pauley pours a cup and walks it to Randy, who is still standing on the table top and not composed enough to step down.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You folks are all working hard. Just wanted to step in and see that you're all doing okay.”

Randy gets down and bows but only from the neck up. “Doing great, thank you, sir.” Randy clears his throat. Love this guy, he thinks. I may just vote for him.