The Means (6 page)

6

Tom is unopposed in the Republican primary. He imagines Benson Hill and some of his old sons of bitches had something to do with that. His eight-million-dollar war chest helped. North Carolina still has an element of the early-twentieth-century political boss machine, and the machine is either with you or against you. That's not the way in national politics, but local politics is different.

“Jesus, you could hang meat in here.” Tom has gotten irritable with the grind of the campaign. He's on his plush campaign bus that is skimmed on the outside with “Pauley for Governor.”

Tom is seated next to Peter Brand, who yells to the front of the bus, “Lighten up on the AC. We can't move from ninety degrees outside to forty in here.”

Over the last week, Brand has taken over as the chief of staff for Pauley. Brand was always involved but was splitting time, also trying to help win North Carolina support for the GOP presidential candidate, who is now hopelessly behind in the polls to the Democratic candidate, former New York governor Mitchell Mason.

“How you doing, Tom?”

“I'm fine.” They're leaving a campaign event on the UNC campus at the Dean Dome and traveling Route 15-501 to the Duke campus for an event at Cameron Indoor Stadium. “Doing Duke and Carolina back to back, there'll be plenty of fodder for jokes about being able to work across the aisle.”

Brand is on his BlackBerry. “Just got new polls in.” His thumb sweeps over the face of the BlackBerry to scroll through the data. “Mason is killing Wilson. Real Clear Politics average has Mason up nine points in the national polls. The latest poll on North Carolina has Mason up ten.”

“Damn.”

“Mason is creating an obstacle for us. It could be a problem. It's the blessing and the curse of the gubernatorial races that sync up with the presidential campaign. Many people just vote party down the line, so there's a lot of drafting the state candidates can do behind the top of the ticket. If they have a winner. Mason's going to be the winner, so it's an uphill battle for us.”

“I thought we're up in the latest polls.”

“That's the amazing thing. You're up five points.”

“Good.” Tom nods and looks away from Brand and out the window. Brand is in the aisle seat and flags an aide for a couple bottles of water. There are eight members of the press on the bus which is twice what they had three weeks ago and they're all in the back of the bus and out of earshot. “How do you explain that?”

“It's all guesswork but I'd say it's a few things. Republicans are motivated now, so you have that locked up. The Whiskers endorsement and all the TV footage of you with him during the trial have added some independents and Democrats.”

“I'm amazed he endorsed me.”

“He likes friends in high places. Maybe he decided a Republican in a high place would give him some credibility. Or maybe he's getting moderate in his old age.”

“That wasn't my experience.”

“I guess not. I couldn't believe the endorsement myself. Nobody could, so those headlines were effective.” Whiskers made the announcement three weeks ago, which was exactly when the number of press people on the bus doubled. Whiskers said Pauley was a champion of good causes. “That would have killed you in a primary but it's great for a general.” Peter hands him a bottle of water. “The other reason is you're putting in the hard work. You have to get out and see as many people as you can. Especially a person like you who has charisma. If a person shakes your hand and has a word with you, they'll vote for you. It's not that way with every candidate. It's not that way with Derek Wilson.” The GOP candidate for president has a reputation for being stiff.

Peter has been in DC the last few days meeting with the Wilson campaign. He's now back with Tom full-time for the next six weeks until the November election.

“Thanks. It started out as real fun, but it's so damned exhausting. November can't get here fast enough.”

“Now's the time to pour it on. The benefit of Wilson getting his ass kicked so badly is you can expect more help from national. If the poll numbers hold like this for another couple weeks, support for Wilson will start to fall away and move to the state elections where we have a shot. Like yours. You'll get more money, more staff. Talented guys. Starting today you already have me for the duration.” He sips his water. “Sorry I missed the Maiden Creek event.” Tom had visited a retirement community in Charlotte two days earlier for a campaign event.

“I started the speech saying I wouldn't leave until I spoke with everyone who wanted to speak with me. They all did. Every single one.”

“Did it take long?”

“In geological time? No.”

The bus takes 751 to Cameron Boulevard to the campus. It's a beautiful day and typically hot for late September in North Carolina. So far the bus has been a campaign prop. Tom meets the bus at various events around the state. He might stay in a hotel for a night here and there but usually gets a short flight home. From the end of September on, it's not just a prop anymore. He'll be on the goddamn bus and in crap hotels for weeks straight at a time. The bus takes Wannamaker to Towerview Road then pulls into the lot next to where the Duke students camp out for days and weeks to get into the basketball games. “My God,” says Tom.

Brand is also a Carolina fan. “I know. Sickening. Try not to think about it.”

Cheers go up as the bus pulls to a stop. About a thousand people have turned out for the event which was well publicized in advance and gave an opportunity for citizens to have a seat inside Cameron. Most have signs or campaign swag in support of Pauley and the crowd looks to be a mix of half students and half Durham residents.

“Let's do it,” says Tom.

“Kick ass.” Peter stands and steps back to let Tom pass into the aisle and walk forward ahead of him. They can both walk at their full height in the bus. The junior staff has gotten off the bus already to clear a path for Tom. To the left of the bus are the Duke tennis courts and nobody's on that side. To the right, the side the bus door is on, is the lot and the stadium behind it and the crowd which has synchronized in a rhythmic chant yelling “Pauley, Pauley, Pauley.”

Before Tom is off the bus he turns over his shoulder to Peter. “Nice greeting though I thought these Duke kids were more creative than that.” When he turns back he sees a throng that is more Durham than Duke and at the center of it, making a determined push for the bus door, is an enormous transvestite. A fiftyish man turned woman with puffy, unhealthy-looking skin under heavy powder. The shoulders are broad though the belly is broader and the legs are thick. The wig isn't exactly crooked, it's just too small for the bloated head and the hair of it somehow has qualities that are both greasy and straw-like. In heels, she's taller than Tom and is getting closer.

Tom is two steps from the pavement. “Jesus, Brand, would you get a load of that?”

“Wow. What's happening there?”

“Ugly as a man. Outrageous as a woman.”

Tom steps to the ground and starts shaking the hands that are thrust toward him. Young, eager faces with big smiles that say they are big supporters and have been following the campaign. Several volunteer their services and Tom makes sure his aides follow up. He has a burst of energy in response to this and is enjoying himself though without looking he can feel the transvestite's presence closing the distance from the right. He keeps his gaze away but like the shark music in
Jaws,
knowing and not seeing is scarier. He keeps pushing left, hoping he can outrun her. He has a bad feeling.

He's no longer responding to people with words but only shaking hands and moving to the next hand to the left so he can take a step with each one. He wonders if Brand is sensing anything at all, but doesn't stop to look for him.

He takes another hand from the left and another step but it's no use. He looks into the broad chest covered in a pink dress that looks like it was sewn at home. “Hello,” says Tom with a smile and he extends his hand, seeing now that the transvestite has not put a hand out to him.

Their eyes meet, then in a flash her hand comes around from behind her back. Tom sees but can't react. She's holding a plastic cup and the contents shower Tom. It's glitter. The densest part of it hits Tom in the chest and creates a powdery cloudburst around him. Glitter is in his hair, his ears, his mouth. It has a static cling quality and his suit is decorated.

Tom tries to spit the glitter from his tongue and looks up at his assailant. “What the hell was that for? I'm pro gay marriage, you moron.”

“Is that right, honey? Good for you. Taste the rainbow!” The voice is deep and terrifying.

Peter Brand gets between them and with a hand on Tom's shoulder pushes him up to the sidewalk toward Cameron, away from the crowd and the television cameras which have caught the whole thing.

As they step into the Cameron lobby, Peter points to an aide. “Get Mr. Pauley a new suit off the bus.” He turns to Tom. “I'm sorry, Tom. Damn.”

“Jesus Christ. Is that just because I'm Republican? Doesn't anybody read anything about my positions?”

Peter helps Tom off with the jacket which is raining glitter on the floor. “Tom, try not to say words like
moron
when you could be on camera.”

“Well, what the fuck!”

“Try not to say that either.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter, I'm not going to say
fuck
on camera.”

“Good. Right. Look, politicians get glittered all the time. It's some sort of weird movement. It doesn't even mean they don't like you, they just do it to get on TV. Let's just get you in a new suit and put this behind us. No more close-up stuff today. Just the podium.”

Tom looks up to see a life-sized cardboard cutout of Christian ­Laettner and a Duke National Championship trophy. “This fucking campaign.”

7

The glitter incident puts Tom's campaign in the national news for the second time in three weeks. Every cable outlet has the video teed up for their prime-time audience. As is the way when things are rolling in a person's direction, the pundits, left and right, take Tom's side. They're fed up with the disrespect of glittering, but more than that, they love that Tom got a little pissed off. They love how human that is. The following day, Chris Stirewalt writes in an op-ed:

Yes, folks are all a little tired of the glittering of the good people who make the personal sacrifices to run for public office and serve our country. It's immature, disrespectful and distracting. But yesterday showed that it may be a small part of our political vetting process along with debates and campaign speeches.

Glittering strips a candidate of his produced and rehearsed behavior. For a brief moment we see instinct, not automation.

Rick Santorum met glitter with a plastic smile. His instinct was to cover up, not to reveal. To say, “You can't get to me,” even though we all know that horse has left the barn. He's pissed off! Everyone watching wants to tell him to show that a little. Don't show a temper, but show something real! Nobody actually thinks he found it amusing and something to smile about. He's not fooling any of us watching, he's just making himself look more ridiculed in our eyes. And it makes us wonder, what else does he cover up on instinct, and possibly do a better job of covering up?

But Tom Pauley showed us something different. He showed us a little fire. Not only did he get angry, but he defended his position to his assailant. He called her a moron.

That's human! The folks applaud him, and more than that, they find him to be someone they can believe in.

8

Tom's Democratic opponent is Terry Mills, who stepped down as state attorney general to get into the race. Attorney general is an appointed position and Mills has never run for elected office either. His campaign managed to raise only four million dollars, which is bare bones for a gubernatorial or Senate race in a state the size of North Carolina. Mills is outspent four to one through mid-October.

They have two debates, which are notable only for extreme boredom. Both candidates are intelligent and well prepared as good lawyers are, but they both get deep in technical aspects of issues that viewers don't understand and so don't care about. Neither lands a kill shot and both carry themselves well. By October twentieth, Tom is up two points in the polls.

Tom's staff has finished the briefing on fund-raising and polling data so he adjourns the meeting. He leans into his chair and closes his eyes. He never naps but he needs thirty minutes a day to think in quiet and to let his mind wander.

With closed lids Tom visits his childhood as though he's an adult come back, peering through a window at the boy he was. But even as a boy he felt outside himself, watching the scenes in his family happen to them.

The young Tom blows out all ten candles on his birthday cake with enough air left over to shout “I got 'em.” He looks up at his mother who has her palms pressed together under her chin and tears in her eyes. Tom knows these are not tears of happiness but of sadness and that they are not for him but for his uncle, her brother in a jail cell.

Tom's mouth stays in the shape of a smile but the vibrations it had been sending through his face stop. The room sees Tom's face go plastic and the birthday party goes lifeless. No one can find the enthusiasm to fool the rest into being happy.

Tom doesn't feel wronged or cheated of this moment by his family. He stands with his family against this outrage and he feels more of a grown-up to be also sober about it with them. He is angry, and more than that, he is scared.

It is one thing to know as a child that there are ogres and trolls and bad guys but that good guys help us and that our parents, our heroes, are always there and unafraid. It is another to learn the good guys can't be trusted, that the biggest danger on the streets is from those whose job it is to protect and who have the authority to do whatever they want. The cops and the lawyers speak a language we don't understand and we watch our parents, our first heroes, cower powerless and afraid.

Two days after the party is visiting day at the prison and Tom goes to sit in front of soundproof glass with his mother and across from his uncle. He's come many times the last two years to say hello.

His mother holds the kind of heavy black phone that is in public phone booths and she gives a factual update of the appeals process and conversations with lawyers. There isn't much to report. Then they sit for a while with no noise, touch the glass a few times, look at each other then look away, look at Tom. The phone drifts down from her ear to rest on her shoulder like a cradle and her fingers rest on top.

Uncle Neil motions to speak with Tom. Tom's mother hands over the phone and Tom presses it hard against his ear.

“Jeez, buddy, you're getting big.”

“Hi, Uncle Neil.” His uncle's eyes are always wet and he wonders whether or not he just has wet eyes.

“You're filling out too. I see the muscles popping out from under your shirt.”

“I'm playing football. We're working out pretty hard now.” Tom feels neither brave nor afraid. He is too confused to know how to feel and that insulates him from acute emotion at the time. He just wants his family to be happy and his uncle to be free.

“Good for you, Tom.”

“How are you?”

Neil takes a long breath. “I'm doing okay.” He nods and looks pensive as though this is a real and thoughtful conclusion.

Tom is unconvinced but knows it's just conversation.

Neil says, “You know, Tom. When each of us is born we're all given a big shit pie. And every once in a while we have to cut off a slice and eat it.”

A tear falls from Neil's left eye and he pretends to scratch an itch on the side of his nose. Tom sees his uncle trying to be brave which makes Tom less confused and so less protected and Tom starts to cry too.

“I'm just having a slice now, buddy. That's all.” Neil's voice breaks up over the words. He lowers his phone, presses a palm to the glass then stands and walks away and Tom watches the drab green smock disappear behind a prison guard.

“Time to go, honey.” His mother's face is a disaster.

They stand from metal folding chairs that scrape the cement floor when the backs of their knees push against the seat.

They walk along the visitor's bay to a heavy metal door where a uniformed guard is standing with thumbs in his belt.

To Tom's ten-year-old body the prison is huge and cold. The walls are cinder blocks covered pale yellow and haven't been painted in years. The floor is cement with throw rugs and the lighting is the hanging fluorescent kind that is in school cafeterias.

The guard is unmoved by Tom's mother's face, like a numb Manhattan pedestrian passing the innumerable homeless.

The admissions room is just as cold. More metal chairs and people behind thick glass, though these people are showered and uniformed, armed and with combed hair.

They walk faster now, both in a silent cry, knowing that sunshine and an end to claustrophobia are one set of doors away.

The doors open out. Tom puts his back into it and leads the way for his mother. In the sunshine Tom stops crying. The sidewalks are all at right angles so Tom and his mother zigzag the beige walkways to the blacktop of the parking lot.

“Goddamn lawyer.” It's rare for his mother to swear but she does it again. “Hasn't moved things a damn bit.”

She's still crying but Tom is done and not close to tears anymore. He's thinking about something else. Something hopeful. “Mom, I'm going to be a lawyer.”

She pats his shoulder and smiles a real smile.

“I'll start some reading up on it today. I'll help Uncle Neil.”

“That would be nice, honey.”