The World: According to Rachael (3 page)

There’s no need for me to find a mirror. I know my face is bright red.

The infamous Rachael is being fawned over by Steve. He’s offering to give her a tour of the office. Then Lucas inserts himself in the conversation, shoving some report he wrote under her upturned nose that I wanted to kiss moments ago. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the bastard hand her his plastic-covered report. His red, glistening palm touches the exposed white skin of her wrist that her jacket has revealed. I long to nibble on that wrist and feel her pulse against my tongue.

Then, I rage. How dare the snail-trail Lucas touch her skin? Shoving his head in the toilet and flushing it for touching my Tink sounds like a brilliant idea.

What’s wrong with me? Jealous? That’s not my style.

I walk to the window, watching the cars pass along the street. Thousands of people are rushing to their small jobs. Each one is a cog in the system that keeps this democracy running.

I’ve got to get myself under control.

“Graham Jackson does not fawn over girls,” I whisper to myself.
He’s the one who has his pick of the girls at the end of the night.
There is a little voice in the back of my head that says, “That was the Graham Jackson, star lacrosse-player, president of his frat, and college big man. Maybe this Graham Jackson, out in the real world, has to chase girls.”

A yellow taxicab aims for a red SUV inserting itself into traffic. For a second, I hope against hope for a T-bone accident. Maybe it would cancel this meeting, and I could just go home. No luck. The SUV lets the cab safely into the next lane.

This is ridiculous. She’s a world-class ball-buster. Everyone knows that. She’s not Tinker Bell. In fact, she’s more like Captain Hook. Makes staffers cry. Fuck. Now, I’m an adult man thinking about Peter Fucking Pan.

Steve asks everyone to take a seat, shaking me out of my own head, which is probably a very good thing. I plop down in a chair at the end of the table and fiddle with the yellow legal tablet and pen in front of me. It must have been placed there by one of the staffers so we can take “notes” on all the important things Rachael has to regale us with.

The guy to my left suggests I make a plate. It actually takes me a few second to figure out how in the hell one makes a plate. My face must betray my confusion, because he motions toward the food. My stomach is in knots, and it isn’t from the beer last night. I finally have the moment I’ve heard about when you have lust at first sight, and it has to be her.

I’m confused, and my head and body are at war with each other.
She was nice. Nothing like what the rumors said about her. Would she be interested in a guy like me?
Does she care I’m probably seven years younger than she is?

She travels the country being the future President Jones’ right-hand woman. The last thing she wants is to date a much younger college graduate who doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up. Hell! If I asked her on a date, my dad’s credit card would pay. Pathetic.

No. I need to forget Tinker Bell/Attila the Hun ever existed.
She doesn’t have facial hair. In fact, she has the sexist green eyes …

Stop it!

Once everyone settles with their heaping plates of food, Steve stands up and makes the obvious introduction. “Room of pathetic individuals, this is the fairy, Rachael. Rachael, meet the scabs of the earth.”

Rachael stands and takes a sip of the Diet Coke she ordered in the deli. “Hello everyone. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Steve talks so highly of the efforts you’re putting forth to share future President Jones’ message. I’ve come today to meet you in person, and thank you for your on-the-street efforts, and to make sure that this campaign is a positive experience for everyone.”

She might as well have been speaking Spanish. I didn’t hear a word she said, only listened to how her voice sounded like a song.
Is that her fuck-voice? When her petite legs are wrapped around my waist, that’s the voice she’ll use to scream out “Graham!”

I’ve resolved myself to the fact my dick will stand firmly at attention until she leaves. Let’s hope I don’t have to write on the dry-erase board, or war board, as Steve calls it.

The next thing I know, Lucas is talking. I usually just tune him out until I hear my name exit his nasty mouth. “Graham really doesn’t seem to have his heart in the campaign. It’s like he’s just here to collect a paycheck.” His voice sounds like he’s my niece, tattling on me for something horrible I said, like “shut up.”

Did that bastard just say that?
I’m in shock. Are we an office of seven-year-olds? Okay. It’s partially true. But, I mean, seriously. Why call me out in front of everyone? My weeks are numbered here … twelve weeks, to be exact.

Rachael’s voice cuts through the fog of immaturity. “I’m not here to play referee, Lucas. That is your name, correct?” She drips honey, and I love it. She’s cutting and authoritative without being snippy. “Let me tell you why I believe Langford Jones should be the next President of the United States of America.”

She’s so confident, and her presence alone commands our attention. Maybe the rumors about her are wrong …

I lean back in my chair and prepare to listen. I’ve read the talking points of the campaign hundreds of times while I stapled them together. Frankly, if there were a pop quiz, I’d make a one hundred. Maybe if I can record Rachael reading them to me, the job will be less mentally numbing.

“Langford is my friend,” she begins as she stands up straight at the head of the conference room table. “I was hired to work in his office when he first earned his senate seat. I was fresh out of graduate school, and didn’t know what I didn’t know.” Jesus, I can relate to that. “I interviewed with him, not one of his assistants. He told me his goals; his dreams for the future of our country. I was captivated by him, and his vision. And after that meeting, I was inspired enough to turn down a job offer from Trump International, making a lot more money. Ready to take on the world, he hired me. I was prepared to campaign and march into battle with him.”

Her mouth twists into a little smile, and I push my plate of food away and lean back in my chair to listen. “Then, I was handed a ream of paper and told to go make copies. When I was done, I sorted and stapled everything I’d copied. Not a glamorous job.”

Is this lady speaking my language, or what? That’s me right now. I’m half tempted to raise my hand and ask how she got herself out of copy-room hell.

Rachael pauses and places a fork full of mayo potato salad into her mouth. Potato salad has never looked so damn appetizing.

“I put a smile on my face, and made copies every single day. Two months later, I received a promotion to errand girl. You get the idea. My idealized job was far beneath what I thought a Wharton School of Business graduate should be doing. Every day, I wished that I’d accepted the offer of working for Donald Trump. I reasoned that he wouldn’t have made me make copies.” She pauses while she licks some stray mayo off her burgundy lips. Her tongue darting out and swiping over the offending glob of whiteness.

“Oh God!” I groan as my eyes drop to my cock.

“One day, I’d had enough. I put on my power suit, newest heels, and marched into the Senator’s personal office without an appointment.”

She smirks. “Apparently, no one did that.” Her musical laugh fills our dreary conference room making it feel more cheerful. “Like I said. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.”

Her face lights up at the memory, and she’s the most mesmerizing thing I’ve ever seen. “I told him that I believed in everything he stood for, and I was being underutilized, stuck as messenger girl in his office. I reiterated for him my schooling, GPA, and I threw in the turned-down Trump job offer. Then, because I wanted to really hammer my point home, I repeated my accomplishments in all the different languages I speak.”

The room chuckles, and I notice Rachael has everyone’s attention. Pens are resting on the yellow legal pads, and all eyes are captivated by my own little fairy.

“Instead of responding and telling me I was a snot-nosed brat, he stood up, and grabbed his suit jacket. Then, he spun on his heels and invited me to his home for dinner. I was dumbfounded, and muttered something like a thanks.

“When we arrived at his townhome, dinner was on the table. The boys, who were very young at the time, minded their table manners. His wife, Shelby, was lovely to me. She asked about my childhood and college. This was the most normal family meal I’d been a part of.

“After dinner, we all went into the backyard and played catch. Shelby put the kids to bed, while Langford sat me down for a fatherly chat. He said we all have to start at the bottom and pay our dues. All a college degree does is prove you can complete something. He told me to keep working hard, and eventually I’d get to be on the battle lines, fighting alongside him for our country. He thanked me for taking the job, and reassured me he appreciated all the things that I thought were small I did every day. He reminded me I was the face of his office. I was the staffer who interfaced with the other senator’s offices. I was the one who the other employees based their assumptions upon.”

Her lips wrap around the Diet Coke straw, and I barely notice. Rachael is speaking to me. My dad has essentially given me the same lecture probably one thousand times about paying my dues. For some reason, coming from Tink’s mouth, the words penetrate my thick skull so I actually hear the meaning.

“That day, I learned that future President Jones was still paying off his student loans. He’d married Shelby, who was the only person to ever beat him in the school spelling bee. He fathered a baby with her when they were only sixteen. They gave the baby up for adoption and consider it the hardest, but best decision they’ve made. I saw Senator Jones as a human being for the first time, and not this political force to be reckoned with.”

Oh my God, he’s a real guy. Made mistakes in his past and still got elected to the senate? Is that even possible? I’m liking the guy Rachael spoke about more and more with each passing second.

She looks at us conspiratorially, and then does this exaggerated move where she looks over both shoulders. In a fake whisper, she says, “Most importantly, he shared with me that he hates that the political system holds words you spoke or views you expressed at a younger time against you. He said, ‘Rachael, I didn’t know I wanted to be president when I was kid, so I’ve certainly not lived my life like someone who’s running for office. I think being impulsive and fearless is a sign of youthful exuberance. I’ll forgive you bursting into my office this afternoon if you promise to work your tail off to earn the right to demand to be listened to.”’

Rachael spends the next hour driving home future President Jones’ speaking points. She reviews the pillars of his campaign with us. No-nonsense is a good and appropriate description of her personality.

Her charisma and enthusiasm are contagious, and by the end of the war meeting, I don’t even want to pour salt on the snail, Lucas. Instead of counting down the days until I can bid farewell to this tedious job, I actually find myself wondering if I can still volunteer for future President Jones’ campaign while attending law school.

Also, I realize at some point while Rachael is speaking, I forget that she is gorgeous and sexy. I quit thinking about her being my pixie. Names like Attila the Hun and Ball Buster fly out the window. Instead, I see her for who she really is: a smart woman who, in her early thirties, has earned the trust of future President Jones, and become his right-hand woman. She believes in him, and she inspires me. She’s tough, because she’s proud of what they’ve built together and wants to protect it. Rachael is a force to be reckoned with. I want to be a force also.

Clarity. They say when you get it it’s better than sex. I’m not so sure about that, but for the first time since graduation I don’t feel as lost. It’s like the haze clinging to my brain has been burned off. I know I don’t want to be a Junior CPA in Dad’s firm.

No, that’s not quite what I mean. I will not SETTLE for being a Junior CPA in Dad’s firm. I want to get my law degree, and work for the good legislators who are making the country a better place, like future President Jones. The ones who, like me, haven’t spent their childhoods planning their futures.

My eyes have been opened. Drape peace beads around my neck and call me a hippie, I think I just found my calling. I want to be the next Rachael Early when I grow up.

This Kelly-green binder, open in front of me, is showing the years of wear. It houses the definitive collection of articles that chronicle the career of Rachael Early.

JONES WINS IN A LANDSIDE
one of the headlines screams. It discusses the highly successful campaign run by Rachael. It even goes as far as to call her the President’s secret weapon.

I turn past the next group of articles and skip to the one that announces that she will be the first female White House Chief of Staff. This article, taken from
Time Magazine,
shows scars from the many times I’ve read it through the years. The once white paper is now a worn shade of yellow and the edges are a bit dog-eared. I slip it out of the plastic and give it one more read as I sink into one of the black rolling chairs that surround the small table.

The historic decision for President Jones to choose Early for the position was one he made easily, he said.
He’s quoted throughout the article singing her praises. It discusses her uncanny ability to navigate the male-dominated political world with tact and without losing her grace. It’s one of the few articles written about her during this time that doesn’t mention her petite size. The writer goes on to applaud the new President’s decision to appoint a female in such an important White House roll.

Skimming the words of this story that I could recite by heart still makes me feel the same way that it did the first time I read it almost seven years ago. My reaction makes no sense at all. I know that I really don’t know this woman. Our encounter was brief. But I am so proud of her accomplishments. I cheer for her, and applaud all of her successes.