Tried a new format this time. It's a longer story. Wrote it while waiting for the results of this election! Enjoy-and please leave comments. It's fun to know what you all think!
The Campaign
Ross Stevens stood in the lobby of the hotel and stared blankly as the doors of the ambulance slammed shut. He shuddered as the sirens blared as the vehicle drove away with his boss aboard.
It was December 4th, it was bitterly cold outside, and the snow was falling. He was in Iowa, where he'd basically been living for the past several weeks. He was 23 years old and upon graduating with a master's degree in political communications last spring, he'd been hired as a low-level communications staff member for the presidential campaign of Elizabeth Whitefeather Thompson. Governor Thompson of the great state of Montana was a no-nonsense farmer who had no political experience or desires eight years ago. She was also a member of the Chippewa tribe. She was the least likely person to run for office—at the time, she was 31 years old, she had a husband who was a pastor, she had four children under the age of six, and she ran the small dairy farm that had been in her family for five generations.
However, a rightwing Republican governor was destroying family farms and she'd had enough. She confronted him at the statehouse over a bill that would have foreclosed on most of the small farms in Montana. The speech of her confrontation went viral. His response was dismissive and sexist. "Little lady," he said snidely, "Why don't you go back to your husband and your family and come back when you've learned a thing or two about how we run things here." He dismissed her with a chuckle and a wave of his hand.
"Little Lady," became her campaign slogan and rallied the women of Montana—Democrats, Republicans, and independents—who'd had enough. Two years later, she was elected the youngest governor in America in a landslide against the "old coot" as she called him, on a platform that included raising the minimum wage, protecting farms, investing in solar and clean energy, and making child care more affordable. Four years later, after a series of impressive wins—which included breaking up a violent cell of white nationalists—there was minimal opposition in her re-election. She won as a progressive Democrat in a ruby red state by more than 40 points. That launched her improbable campaign for the presidency.
Ross had been hired by Thompson's Communication's Director Angela Waterstone, a large woman who cussed a lot, drank the men on the campaign under the table, was ferociously brilliant and loyal, and was considered one of the greatest political communicators and speech writers in American. Ross was politically astute and while he had little experience, he and Waterstone formed a close professional bond. Ross was confident without being cocky, admired Waterstone's intellect and experience, and she enjoyed mentoring him. Throughout the campaign, she gave him more and more responsibility to the point where he was now acting as a Deputy Campaign Secretary.
Ross and Angela spoke every morning at 6:30am about the day's events and the comms plan. So on this Thursday morning, when Waterstone hadn't called by 6:45am, Ross grew concerned. He texted and called several times to no avail. By 7am, the young man got hotel security to open the door of her suite, to find her slumped over in bed, barely breathing. The 54 year old woman had a heart attack sometime during the night. As a cool breeze hit Ross in the face, he couldn't get the paramedic's words out of his mind. "Good thing you called when you did, kid. Another 20 minutes and we would have called the morgue."
Ross went back inside the hotel where the candidate herself and the lead campaign staff were waiting. The mood was somber but focused.
Thompson spoke first. "I trust everyone is saying their prayers for Angela—whatever and however you believe." Her words were succinct and measured.
"Ross," she said. "I've never been the most orthodox of public leaders," as the dozen or so people in the non-descript hotel conference room chuckled in bemusement. "But I know talent when I see it. You're a smart guy and I like what you're doing with our social media and communications."
Ross smiled and found himself turning slightly red. Thank God he had dark black hair and dark olive skin; otherwise, they would have all seen him blushing.
Thompson continued. "Waterstone thinks highly of you. And while I'm confident she'll recover, she'll need some time off the campaign trail. It is 36 days till the Iowa caucuses. I'm in a dead heat with the Senator from Florida and the dumbass former Governor of Michigan. We don't have time to do a big hire. Stevens, you're our new Press Secretary. Dean Andrews is an old friend of Angela's. He's worked for a firm in DC for the past few years after he won the presidential race 10 years ago. I just got off the phone with him. He'll come on as an advisor to the campaign and help you out." She smiled, she was no-nonsense, and she wasn't waiting for a response.
Ross was stunned. He was just named Press Secretary for the Presidential Campaign of Elizabeth Thompson—who had a strong chance of becoming the Democratic nominee and President of the United States! He had turned 23 but two weeks ago and had never so much as run a campaign for Mayor.
As the principals in the room began to talk, Ross raised his hand. Michael Davis, a focused and kind African American man who served as campaign manager, paused. "Yes Ross?"
"Mr. Davis. Governor Thompson. I'm honored and I'll do my best to get you elected. But I don't want to cause any trouble for the campaign and you should know..." his voice caught in his throat. "I'm gay and if that's a problem, I'll step aside. I don't want to do anything to hurt your chances. America needs you." He looked as he might cry.
Governor Thompson looked at him and smiled. "So?" She asked.
"Let's get something straight everyone. And yes—I made that pun intentionally." Davis chuckled but the rest were quiet, including Thompson's husband Daniel, a Lutheran pastor who rarely spoke during meetings, but always observed what was happening.
The Governor continued, "We're working hard for the folks who this asshole in Washington has left behind and treated like they don't matter. This campaign is about making sure everyone gets a fair shot. That includes gay people. My husband's sister is a Lesbian. She and her wife have two kids. They're our family. So Ross, this is personal. Anyone who gives you shit about being gay, send them my way. I spent my life on a farm. Bullshit stinks, but it doesn't scare me."
Ross smiled, nodded his head, and said a very simple, "Thank you ma'am. I'll make you proud."
The meeting continued for another 30 minutes, they broke for the rest of the day, and soon Ross found himself live on several local new stations and national cable networks. More than 12 hours had passed before he had a second to catch his breath. He made his way to the hotel bar—this was a hotel in Des Moines they were staying at for the week—and ordered himself a Jack and Coke.
Ross was average height—just over 5'10, skinny from years of running track—and one drink would definitely give him a nice buzz. As he sat at the bar nursing the drink and scrolling through texts and email, he was delighted to get one from Waterstone. "Thanks for saving my life, kid," the text message read. "Don't kill the campaign while I'm gone."
He smiled. Several campaign staff entered the bar, include Michael Davis, the campaign manager. Next to him was the hottest man Ross had ever laid eyes on! He was 6 feet tall with wavy blond-brown hair that had hints of grey at the temples, a full beard that was shaped nicely, and broad shoulders. He wasn't fat by any means; but the man was solid. He was dressed in tweet blazer, white dress shirt, dark blue jeans, and cowboy boots. A bit of his chest hair poked out from his dress shirt. Fuck! Ross had a thing for hairy men and had to keep from drooling.
Davis made his way over to Ross with the stud. "Ross Stevens," Davis said as he put his arm on Ross's shoulder, "This is Dean Andrews. He's here to help with communications." Dean and Ross caught each other's eyes as they shook hands. Ross noted how firm Dean's handshake was. Dean, for his part, was quite taken with the younger, handsome man.
Ross stood up and spoke first, "I've heard so much about you, Mr. Andrews. I'm honored to be able to work with you!" He was enthusiastic and without guile. Dean was smitten.
"It's nice to meet you as well, Ross. And if you call me Mr. Andrews again, I'm gonna make you buy my dinner!" Ross's mouth dropped for a second and they both laughed.
As Ross and Dean started to chat, Michael took a call on his mobile phone and walked away.
The chemistry between Ross and Dean was undeniable. Ross had come out at 18, dated a few guys in college, and had a healthy sexual life for a 23 year old. He was enjoying the conversation with Dean and trying to keep it professional with a new colleague who he would have to work with intensely for least the next seven weeks, if not longer. And besides, he knew nothing about Dean, other than he was a communication's genius and had won two campaigns for the White House.
Dean, despite his professional expertise and experience, was not nearly as comfortable in social settings. He generally kept his cards close to his chest. But after they ate their dinners—a burger for Dean, a salad with chicken for Ross—and a few beers in, he was starting to relax. So when Ross asked him if it was hard to leave DC on such short notice, Dean paused for a second and looked down.
"I'm sorry," Ross said quietly over the din of the bar. "I didn't mean to pry."
Dean was taken by Ross's sincerity and realized that he was jaded and guarded because of his own experience; it had nothing to do with Ross.
"Naw, it's ok," he said taking a sip of his beer. "I was planning on sitting this campaign out. I've done two presidential campaigns and the last six years worked on 10 different Senate campaigns. It's been a lot. And, I turn 40 next year."
Ross was incredulous, "No way!" He said a bit more energetically than he'd intended.
Dean raised an eyebrow. "What? I look older?" He said with a slight smirk.
"No! No!" Ross assured him. "I thought you were like 30. I mean you don't look 40. Not that 40 looks bad. It's just... Oh fuck, I'm gonna shut up now," Ross babbled and took a large gulp of his drink.
