“Ms. Townsend, you aren’t going to graduate and run a campaign for a presidential candidate in the same year. Enjoy the journey.”Professor Zimbra could afford to enjoy his journey now that he was at the end of the trail and looking at a pot of retirement gold as a consultant and seminar host.
Even my standoffish boss at Dunlop Bennett & Associates always told me to be patient.
“You’ll get your chance, Lex,” John Bennett had said kindly just last week.“We all see what a hard worker you are.”
And there was the problem. Who cared if I was a hard worker? Everyone at DB&A was hard-working. They were so hard-working; they couldn’t put the last syllable on my first name. From the day I’d walked through the glass doors at DB&A, I’d beenLex, a nickname I resented. I suppose if my dyed black hair ever fell out, I’d make a great Lex Luther, super villain.
It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and the cubicle dweller across from me, Darcy Lipowitz, my arch rival for assignments and promotions, was eating a slice of pumpkin pie. I should have been thinking about something new for Junior Senator Paul Radner to say to his constituents at a Town Hall in Cleveland next week. Instead, I was shading in a scribble on a notepad half tucked in a folder on my desk and humming along to the chorus ofWhite Christmasas it drifted back from the lobby.
Lexi Townsend, Senior Vice President, Soon to Be Partner.
I considered making all the dots over the i’s hearts, but rejected the idea as too immature. Senior Vice Presidents might not take the time to dot the i’s at all.
“Lex.” John appeared at the corner of my gray, waist-high cubical wall. He wasn’t quite average height, wasn’t quite average in the looks department, and had been shorted on the easy-going personality, as well.
I slapped my folder closed and smiled like Lexi Townsend, loyal drone to DB&A. “What’s up?”
My boss handed me a small stack of mail without quite meeting my gaze. “Are you up for a challenge?”
“Of course!” I nearly leapt out of my seat to hug him. I’d been selected to move up in the world. I cast Darcy the friendliest of glances, with only a hint of a triumphant smile.
Behind our boss’ back, Darcy rolled her fake eyelash trimmed eyes and finished off her pie.
John gave a little chuckle. Emphasis on little. “You know how Cyrus is always on the look-out for up-and-comers.” Not a question. Along with John, Cyrus Dunlop was a founder of DB&A and our A-list scout. Scouting was our bread and butter, funded by national parties. We caught the little fish (small town politicians) and hooked them on their swim upstream (to more powerful offices). “He found you one.”
I nodded, wanting to stand like an equal, but in my high-heeled boots (Saint Laurent, a Goodwill score), I’d be taller than John. A definite no-no when your boss was height-challenged. I remained seated.
“I know it’s the holidays, but this guy has deep pockets and he’s running for office on the lowest rung in your old stomping ground.” John smiled as if he’d taught every politician we represented how to turn on the juice. “Of course, I thought of you.”
Old stomping grounds? My breath caught. “You need me to go to New York? I’m there.” I spoke so fast, a little of my Tennessee twang leaked out, giving my words extra syllables, such thatI’m therecame out asI’m there-er.I was too excited to care that I’d slipped. I began a mental flip through my contacts file, searching for anyone I could mooch couch space from. If I could land a little fish and guide his career, mine would be made as well.
“No-no. Not New York.” John chuckled again. “Not New York. Your hometown.”
“Tullahoma?”Tennessee?
“No. Christmas Mountain.”
My chair bucked like a bronco coming out of a rodeo shoot. I gripped the handles and steadied myself.
John didn’t seem to notice my distress. “This guy has everything going for him. Well-educated. Good looking. Clean record. His great-grandparents were immigrants and made their fortune in the newspaper business.”
No. Not him. Not him-not him.
I made a silent vow to volunteer to ring the Salvation Army bell for donations outside my local grocery store every night for a week–in the snow, in a blizzard, barefoot–if only John wouldn’t say…
“Kevin O’Malley.” John grinned broadly. His middle-aged lines emanated from his eyes like the face-framing fans of those little carnivorous dinosaurs in the Jurassic Park movies. “He’s perfect, right?”
My mouth went dry and I had to swallow twice just to lie and say, “Right.”
Kevin O’Malley wasn’t perfect.
Oh, everyone thought he was. But he was the boy in high school who’d ruined my reputation freshman year. One dance with him and I’d gone from a Nobody to an Easy Body in the eyes of the Student Body.
Hatred for Kevin collected in the back of my throat like the bitter crest of vomit. “It might take a miracle to get him elected.”
“I don’t believe in miracles. I believe in you.” He did the whole finger gun thing, aiming at me. “This guy’s gonna take you places,” John predicted, walking away. “We set up a meeting with his team for Friday.”
Darcy took inventory of my expression, smiled like the Cheshire cat and disappeared after John, looking for cream.