Letters From The Trail
I remember when no one showed up to these things. I kind of miss it, really. Now there are always so many people, so many heads across a sea of heads and bodies. Most times there are so many people I can’t even see the doors. It’s like I’m sealed in and stuck with these people forever. I’ll tell you this, thousand-dollar plates will make even the mealiest-mouthed donors eat you alive.
Keep it together. Smile, dumbass. No, not like that. Show more teeth. No, that’s too much teeth. Try and make that dimple pop out, the one you’ve been wincing in private for months to try and create out of thin air. Keep—it—together.
Fluorescent lighting works wonders in terms of energy efficiency but does jack shit for my spray tan. The buzz of it makes it too much like a doctor’s office in here. It’s too sterile for my brand of bullshit. I wonder if the kid who served the veal spit in my side salad. I wonder if the girl at check-in would fuck me.
Time for QA. I wish these people would ask me better questions. It’s always, “Can you expand on your ten-point plan to address income inequality and provide support for the homeless?” It’s never, “How are you?” Just once I’d like to tell someone about my day. I’d tell them thirteen stops in one day is too many. I’d tell them this bus is too small. I’d tell them I can’t eat any more fucking ice cream.
Dumb kid in the back of the question line keeps eyeing me weird. Is he a homo? Does he think I’m a homo? No, I’ve got a sterling stance on that particular issue. Everybody knows I’m a traditionalist. Everyone sees me as manly. Is he going to try and corner me on that flub from the Iowa State Fair about the death tax? Note to self: look up what the death tax is.
I hate these shoes. These shoes are bullshit. They don’t look good. I don’t know why I have to wear them. It’s really only Steven who says I have to wear them, and he’s only been with the campaign a few weeks. We could shit-can Steven.
They say it’s time for the last question. Have I been answering questions all this time? The smiling faces in the front row of tables say I have. They’ve not yet peeled the American Flag stickers from their chests in favor of any communist-looking ones. They’ve not come for me with the prop pitchforks they brought. Are there prop pitchforks? Probably.
They’re playing the song now so I know I can get up and smile one last time. Wave to the people. The cramp in my jaw from trying to get the dimple to pop is making my teeth chatter. If I hold a smile longer than thirty seconds I start to spasm. It doesn’t look pretty in photos. We’ve worked out a system for avoiding this. I start tapping the toe of my weird shoes and Steven comes and whisks me off the stage and out the back door, puts me in a limo. I never get a chance to try and fuck check-in girl. Steven is definitely shit-canned now if he wasn’t before.
The next seven stops are a death loop. I stand on the same marks, watch the same homo weird guys eye me from the back of the question lines, lust after the same plain check-in girls and sniff plate after plate of conflict-enriched dinners for signs of tampering. When we make it to Guernsey County, I make Steven take a Greyhound back home to wherever he’s from and promote Stephanie to Steven’s old job. Stephanie would probably fuck me.
***
I don’t know if I even want this job anymore. I liked the one I had before just fine. Nobody cared then. Everybody cares now.
I have a televised presser today. I’m supposed to sit for makeup soon. Not the faggy kind. Stephanie tells me after we fuck this morning that if I sit for makeup and get through the presser we can fuck again tonight. Girl’s got an eye for career advancement. I probably won’t be bored of Stephanie for at least a few weeks. I agree to get through the presser.
It’s five to airtime and Mr. Interviewer Woman is already getting on my nerves. She’s making small talk like she’s not out to destroy me. She’s asking how the wife is, how the kids are. I know she pals around with Oprah and Kelly Clarkson and that bitch from the View. I know she voted for George McGovern, and I know she voted for Carter—twice. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t have a job. When it’s up to me, she won’t.
The interview goes well. I remember all of my talking points without pausing to ‘go to the restroom’ or adjust my face. I smile with the correct amount of teeth. I kiss several hands and shake several babies out in the parking lot of Big News Media.
Back on the bus, I pull my dogs out from the horrendous leather enclosures Steven calls ‘shoes’ and listen to them bark. This is how I know the everyman. It’s why I’m the favorite of the little guy. I know what it’s like to put in seven, even eight hours straight in cheap Italian heels, and I know what it’s like to be hassled. At least they get paid overtime.
I lie on the oversized bunk in back of the bus and thumb through Thai lady-boy porn on my encrypted iPhone. It’s not homo. It’s a kink. If anyone breaks the story, I’ll sue them out of existence but it’s not homo. I’m not ashamed, but don’t tell anyone. I fall asleep with a hard-on and dream about Michael Dukakis in a purple polka-dot print dress and spiked collar, with Kitty holding the leash and smoking a cigar.
***
Today there’s a big meeting to go over opposition research. I don’t attend, but they fill me in after. They say my opponents are clean. Like, angel’s asshole, eat off the floor, Mr. Clean clean. Well, every one of them except for Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I’m a smarter, more capable man than him, and everyone knows it. I tell them to keep digging until they get dirt on every candidate who isn’t me and make sure that it sticks. I tell them plant a few baggies of cocaine or some dead hookers or forge some passenger flight logs if they have to, because we all know they’re guilty of it. I tell them, “Wait, no—that’s me.” I laugh. No one else laughs. I laugh again, louder. Everyone laughs.
Intern Brad says he’s got photos of Senator Whoever in full blackface. I tell him no good, we’ve all got photos in blackface. Intern Chad says the up-and-coming Representative from New York was busted two years ago with illegal firearms, two of which were linked to various crimes. I tell him try again; it won’t play well with the NRA crowd. Stephanie offers to visit a few known liberal queer bars in DC, as if there are any other kind of queer bar in DC, and I tell her break a leg. I’m getting tired of Stephanie anyway.
***
I’m scheduled to appear on a late-night talk show with Trevor Clarkson tonight. He’s a Poindexter dickhead and no one likes him, but the voters eat him up like day old pizza. I tell the network I’ll give them ten minutes. They haggle for fifteen. I respond with five. They say ten. I tell them seven minutes, and I don’t want any hardball bullshit. I tell them don’t focus on my shoes, keep the shot high. They agree.
Trevor is sitting at the desk when I walk out. He’s shuffling papers and straightening his stupid tie. He offers his hand and I offer mine but pull away when his slippery fingers wrap around my own. His hands are bigger than mine. I make a mental note to never shake his hand again.
The segment goes fine until Trevor brings up Iowa. Reminds the viewers that a poor showing could lead to an early exit. Mentions Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I forget how much teeth to show and start nervously tapping my foot. Trevor smiles at me and folds his arms, his fingers like snakes protruding from his hands. Steven is gone and can’t rescue me now. I stutter through a half-hearted line about paths to victory and strong support in the Midwest and funnel cakes. I laugh for some reason.
Trevor brings up a map of the country, zooms in on Florida. Points to several counties I’ve never heard of. Starts in on some nerd bullshit about demographic changes and favorability ratings. He asks me if I think I’m the kind of candidate the people would like to have a beer with. Asks me what my beer of choice is. I start to say Coors, but Trevor stops me and says I don’t have to play favorites. My face is on fire. The arches of my feet scream in crampy agony. I show my teeth and close my mouth and show them again. Be normal. Act normal. Make the dimple pop. Where the fuck is Stephanie?
I tell Trevor it was a pleasure. I wave to the camera and say God bless our troops and flee from the set. Intern Gary is all smiles when he comes up to tell me how great I looked on camera. I stomp on Gary’s foot and we both cry out because the force of it probably hurt me more than it hurt Gary. I take off the shoes and hurl them at the crew and feel myself sink to the floor by several inches.
***
On the bus I flip through five-hundred channels of satellite TV and throw the remote at the screen when I see my face a tenth time. I try looking at porn on my encrypted iPhone, but a message keeps showing on the browser. Something about parental locks. I try and jerk off and go to sleep but I can’t keep it up long enough to even beginto feel tired. Stephanie slides into the bunk next to me and tells me nobody watches Trevor Clarkson anyway. I tell her there are literally millions of nobodies that watch Trevor Clarkson. She tells me if it doesn’t work out, she’ll come intern for me back home. Says she can sneak in and out of the mansion when the wife is asleep. Tells me it’ll be fun, like a game of Clue or something. I tell her she doesn’t know shit about Clue, that’s not how it works. She jerks me off and tells me she fucking hates Disney movies and that she doesn’t like tall guys anyway and that she thinks I always show the exact right amount of teeth. I fall asleep in her arms and don’t dream about anything.
Horror Sleaze Trash 