The Means (19 page)

43

Tom hangs up his phone. “Asshole,” he says to himself. Peter Brand is seated next to him in the car.

“Okay, Governor. The plane's loaded up,” says Peter. The day had started with a sunrise rally at the Haverford School outside Philadelphia, then a short flight to Pittsburgh for a one p.m. lunchtime rally. Now they're at a small private airfield outside Pittsburgh to get a flight to Palm Beach for an evening fund-raiser at the Breakers, after which they'll drive in a similar-looking convoy of vehicles across the state to Tampa, where they'll spend the night and be ready at eight a.m. for a sunrise rally on the Gulf side of Florida. The schedule takes a toll, but like drinking, a person can build a tolerance. Also like drinking, if a person does it too long, the body breaks. “What did he want?”

“The son of a bitch wanted to offer me a job at Google. If I lose. I'm in the middle of working my ass off to win. I'm not interested in discussing consolation prizes.”

“Shit, I should have vetted that better before letting them in. They've been good to the campaign and they've been asking for a short call for weeks.”

“In the future, tell them to pound sand.”

“What's the job?”

“They're launching a cable news network. They've actually got the resources and the brand appeal. Probably one of the only companies out there that can pull it off. They want me to join up as a founding partner with equity because they think I'll add gravitas and connections and all that crap. Not expressing much confidence in me winning this election though.”

“Put it out of your mind. We have other things to focus on. Like the White House.”

“He said my deal would be worth two hundred million in year one.”

“You'll be needing an assistant, I assume.” They laugh. “Flight plan is booked. We have a few hours in the air.”

“Good,” says Tom. “I want to close my eyes for an hour or so. Try to keep people off me.”

Peter nods. In the Suburban with them are Dan Cullen, chief of advance, Darren Slater, a law school friend of Tom's who has taken a leave of absence from his firm to travel with Tom, and two Secret Service agents.

The last of the press are at the top of the mobile staircase stepping into the Boeing 757 that has “Pauley” painted down the sides of the fuselage.

Pauley pulls his trench coat tight. It's a cold day for early October in Pittsburgh. The trench coat was given to him that morning by his body guy who had looked up the weather. Tom has no idea where the coat came from. He never has to think about clothes, meals, or cars. At airports he never touches a bag or sees a TSA agent. Nor do any of the journalists or techs traveling with the campaign. They move in a government-­sponsored bubble. The vehicles pull up to within yards of a gassed-up 757. Everyone steps out and climbs stairs to the plane and they're cleared for takeoff. Pauley is the last on the plane. They can be in the air five minutes from stepping out of the Suburban. When he lands in the new weather of Palm Beach, the body guy will give him a new set of clothes.

It's a tiny, private field. Pauley doesn't know the name but it must have a runway long enough for the 757. He takes the steps and tries to look full of energy. He's watched and photographed at all times, but at the top stair he stops and takes a moment just for himself. Only a Secret Service agent is behind Tom and the agent stops three steps back while Tom looks across the strips of concrete that divide the grass and a backdrop of deciduous trees turning color. He pays attention to his breath because that always relaxes him. He counts five deep inhales which is about thirty seconds and he feels the muscles of his chest unclench and his posture returns to something sustainable.

Tom steps inside thinking he can never get any sleep inside this madhouse. These flights aren't like anything he'd seen before. The plane is refitted for the campaign. There is an extended amount of first-class seating in the two-by-two configuration where twenty-five campaign staffers sit then about a dozen Secret Service who act as a buffer between the campaign and the media. Backing up to the Secret Service is a stocked wet bar. The reporters feel it's part of the tradition to be a little drunk in the daylight and the techs are just happy to be drunk anytime. Also there's something in the human spirit that compels the ingestion of free things.

Behind the bar the configuration changes to coach class with three-by-three seating for about forty reporters and forty techs.

Tom scans the back of the plane and sees Randy Newhope with a cute young girl sitting in his lap. He's sure they'll sit like that all through the takeoff without a lap belt. It's part of traveling in the government bubble that no rules apply, and people like to flaunt their new liberties. Nobody will bother to power down their cell phones either. That safety request is actually just a lot of bullshit.

Tom sits in the first row starboard side by the window and his law school friend Darren Slater takes the aisle seat next to him. Normally Tom would sit back a row so more people can circle in front of him for a conversation but he doesn't want to talk much now and this helps to prevent it. The seat next to him is the one people want and Darren had to cut off Peter Brand to get it. That will hold until Brand gets frustrated enough to tell Darren to move, like cutting in on a dance partner.

“You're doing great, buddy, you're doing great.” Darren slaps Tom's knee. Tom could overrule any of the seating arrangements, but now he just wants a rest. Short of sleeping he chooses a conversation with Darren over others. It's relaxing to talk about sports teams and their old law school professors.

“Thanks, Darren.”

“You tired?”

“I'm okay. The hard part is having to be up, then come down, then be up again. It's hard to fire up the adrenaline more than once in a day.”

“I want to talk to you about that, Tom.” The jet engines strain and send vibrations through everyone as the plane accelerates down the runway and pushes the passengers into their chairs. Tom reclines his all the way. A few people are still standing by the bar pouring drinks and they widen their stance for balance. “These events shouldn't take up energy, they should give you energy. If you're being yourself. The only reason you would even have to build up to something is if you're putting on something that you're not. Don't get overcoached.”

Tom would much rather talk about the Tar Heel basketball recruiting class. “I don't know, Darren.”

“I do. I saw you speak in law school. That wasn't exhausting, it was fun.”

“This is a lot different.”

“It doesn't have to be. You're making points and persuading people. It's just more people.”

“I appreciate what you're trying to do, Darren, but I'd like to see you do this for a few days and tell me it's the same thing.”

“Look, I know it's a lot more and it's more intense, but it will be easier when you get out there if you let you be you.”

“I don't get it. How am I not being me?” This is getting annoying. Tom would rather be talking Arab-Israeli relations with a policy wonk. He's not interested in Darren's psychology revelations.

“You're all guts and fire. Normally. Like the way you reacted to that glitter bomb. Get out there and do that, be that guy. If you do that, these events will feed you energy rather than sap it from you. You'll be hungry for more of them. Besides, we're a few points behind. We need some Pauley fire to shake things up.” An in-flight crew member hands them each a bottle of water and a glass of red wine which is what Tom has on almost every flight. “What do you think, Tom?”

“I think you're spending too much time on the toilet.”

“Oh, please.”

“Try more fiber.”

Darren laughs. “Fuck you.” He drinks the wine. “Sir,” he adds. Darren knows he's there to be a comfortable place for Tom but he also thinks he knows best in certain matters, as do most people around politics and cable TV.

“I'm sure there's something to it. Let me think about it.” Tom extends his legs, pressing his shoulders hard into the seat back, and he closes his eyes.

Peter Brand had been listening to the conversation and decides this is a good time. He comes from the seat behind Darren. “Governor, we need to do a bit of debate review.” The first debate with Mitchell Mason is in four days. They'll spend the next three days in Tampa so Tom can prepare with no travel. It'll give the staff and reporters time to do laundry. “Darren, do you mind switching?”

“For Christ's sake, Peter,” says Tom. “Would you give me an hour?”

Darren smiles and doesn't move. He's actually not such a jerk but people can't help but jockey for Tom's wing.

“Okay, get some rest, sir.” Peter sits down and closes his eyes. Both he and Tom sleep for almost two hours while Darren plays Pac-Man on his iPhone.

The announcement of the plane's descent wakes them both. There's only twenty minutes left in the flight and Peter curses for having slept so much. “Darren, hop up, please.”

Tom is still asleep and Darren moves without argument. Peter nudges Tom awake then doesn't speak for a few minutes while Tom gets ready to engage. Tom presses his palms to his face then runs his fingers through his hair and drinks half the bottle of water. Someone will be by to fix his hair again before he gets off the plane. “Okay, Peter. I'm yours.”

“Okay. We have three solid days in Tampa to prepare. There's a morning rally tomorrow, then you go off-line. There are eight policy areas and we're going to do forty-five-minute review sessions on each. Every day. That's six hours of review and we're going to have a different team assigned to each policy area. We're also going to do two full ninety-minute mock debates each day. We'll break them up, one at noon and one at nine p.m., which is the time of the actual debate on Thursday. We'll fill in the time around the mock debates with the policy review modules. We'll also block out time for exercise and casual reading.”

“Good. And how about a siesta?”

“You have one scheduled for November seventh.”

“Right.”

“The key to the next few days is two things. One, to know the information cold so you never have to worry about searching your brain for it, and two, to role-play all scenarios Mason will throw at you so you're ready and relaxed. You know I think Darren's full of shit”—he turns his head to the side and says this louder so Darren knows he's at least half kidding—“but he's onto something in that you need to be as relaxed as you can be. It's a big night and no one can think on his feet when he's stressed.”

“Okay.”

“Chuck Knoll said it best. Pressure is something that you feel only when you don't know what you're doing.”

“Alright. I feel good. I'm pretty far up the curve on the issues already. We'll put the work in and get there.”

“Good.” Peter holds up eight manila envelopes. “This is the review material for tomorrow's policy sessions. I'll get this to you for the drive from Palm Beach to Tampa tonight.”

“Wonderful.”

There's about two minutes before landing. Peter stands and turns around. “Darren, you want to switch back?” Peter looks up to the back of the plane and sees a bearded kid standing against the lavatory door holding a plastic serving tray and facing forward. He's the sort of young person who grows a beard because his features are too round and boyish for people to see him the way he wants to be seen. Aisle surfing has gotten popular on this campaign. When the landing gear touches and the plane rapidly decelerates the kid will run a few steps then drop the tray in the aisle and jump on as though skimboarding the slick sand at the edge of an ocean wave.

“Sure,” says Darren.

“Hang on. I want to see this.”

Darren stands too and they hold the same seat back while watching the bearded kid at the back of the plane. Tom twists in his seat to look.

The gear hits and the plane lurches then rises into the air again. The kid starts his run to time the next contact of wheel to ground. He takes four long steps then crouches and flips the tray in front of him. He makes an unafraid hop and sticks both feet to the tray while looking forward but with shoulders squared to the port windows and toes pointed in the same direction. Everyone is watching, including Secret Service.

His feet touch the tray a micro second after the wheels touch the ground which is perfect. In two seconds the plane has decelerated by forty miles per hour and there's a near-complete lack of friction between the tray and the short carpet in the aisle. The look on the kid's face shows that his precision was more than he'd hoped for. He stays true to the middle of the aisle, clearing the coach seating a second later.

Rather than bailing out to one side, he decides to brace for frontal impact with the wet bar. He rises a few inches from his crouch with open hands in front. His palms catch the countertop of the bar and vault his body up and forward over the fulcrum of his wrists so that he leads with his chin and chest, like a sprinter crossing the finish tape, and passes toward the rows of the Secret Service.

An agent made of muscle and bone stands to prevent the incoming. The agent's body has had a lifetime of contact and knows by instinct how to gauge a physical action and prepare the reaction. He braces his feet and leans all his body weight behind his raised forearm that catches the kid in the sternum. There is a sickening reversal to the movement of the kid's torso and his head snaps forward and back like a crash test dummy's. The agent's body is unmoving and unforgiving.

The boy's body collapses on the coach side of the wet bar. The landing gear maintains contact with the ground and the plane slows to taxi speed. The engines ease and stop drowning out the smaller noises in time for people nearby to hear the plastic tray rattle and come to rest on a metal beam of the floor, reminding everyone that this violence started with a little horsing around.