ONE
MY HEART BEATS double time as I slam on the brakes of my 1998 Chevy Blazer, swerving into the lane next to me on the I-114, barely missing the Volvo that cut me off without warning. One hundred and fifteen people die in traffic accidents every day in the United States, and I have no intention of becoming a member of that statistic. Glaring at the woman in the car who apparently isn’t concerned about her or anyone else’s safety, I slow my speed.
I’m going to be late. I hadn’t planned on the Detroit-through-Toledo-morning-rush-hour traffic as I traveled en route to Indiana and the University of Notre Dame. To be fair, I didn’t have much time to plan the trip in the first place.
A late call last evening from Sonja Bates, an editor I work with occasionally, convinced me to travel the three hundred plus miles to the university. Today I'll witness Senator Colin McKenna formally announce his bid on the Republican nomination for the upcoming presidential election. Senator McKenna is interested in hiring a journalist to begin a social media campaign to engage the younger voting population in the election and him. Sonja is connected in some way to Evan Daugherty, McKenna’s campaign manager, and she referred him to me. Why he’s interested in discussing this assignment with me is a mystery given my limited qualifications. However, she was very adamant, in fact downright insistent, so here I am.
Politics is not my strong suit; in fact, I hold a high level of disdain for it, and maybe more so for politicians. My simple philosophy categorizes the whole system just above the criminal clientele inhabiting the State penitentiary. Politicians are pompous asses in three-piece very-expensive suits. They may hold the appearance of kindness and concern, yet behind the façade they plunder the pockets of Americans, spending taxpayer money as if it grows on the trees surrounding their manicured, million-dollar mansions.
The irony that I’ve been asked to meet McKenna and Evan Daugherty about this assignment is not lost on me. I know very little about him or any of the other presidential hopefuls. The lateness of the assignment didn’t allow for any investigation, and given my belief in the American political system, I have very little knowledge of the platforms on which he professes support. My parents have spoken about him, but not in great detail, only mentioning that he’s a popular Indiana Senator whom many have high hopes for in the upcoming presidential race. That’s the limited amount of information I know about McKenna. Oh, and he graduated from Notre Dame, hence his use of their conference center to deliver his speech.
The late call has left me feeling unprepared for the interview, although, I’m not sure of my interest in the opportunity anyway. The thought of following the progress of the campaign and a boring candidate for months is rather depressing, but desperation outweighs all of these concerns. I'm here because my freelance work dried up and I'm living off of my savings.
The University of Notre Dame campus is awe-inspiring; unfortunately I don’t have time to appreciate the history or the architecture, given the late hour. Sliding from the Blazer at just past two in the afternoon, I hurry through the parking lot with only a few minutes left to freshen up after the long ride. The sun peaks through the darkening clouds on this mid-winter day and I burrow down into my scarf. The wind is bitter and inescapable, an instant chill creeping to the bone. Quickening my pace, I run into the building to flee from the blast of cold air, gripping my impractical black velvet pea coat around my neck.
Once inside, I deposit my things at the coat check, searching the lobby for a restroom. An assessment in the mirror confirms my wild auburn waves survived the long ride in the loose bun piled on top of my head, with a few escaped tendrils floating around my face. Running the tip of a mascara wand over my lashes to frame my almond-shaped green eyes, I finish with a sweep of lip-gloss to brighten my pale winter-washed face. I’m relieved the fitted white button-up shirt and black pencil skirt I chose this morning are relatively unwrinkled.
It’s not hard to figure out which direction the conference center is located within the confines of the Morris Inn. I’m herded with a throng of people to the entrance. Obvious excitement peppers the air. Men and women of all ages and races flock together, heads bobbing above the crowd to peek in the conference room. A steady thrum of intermingled voices set the tone, some louder than others. I wait in line at the auditorium doors with an overly gregarious, plump man who eyes me up from head to toe. I'm definitely not interested, so I turn away from his shining eyes and grab my media credentials from my purse.
It’s my turn at the front. An attendant with beautiful light brown skin grins and flashes his eyes along my shirt before asking, “Name?”
“Charlise Carter,” I say, ignoring his wink and handing him my I.D.
After a quick look at my card and cross-checking the list, I’m motioned into the large room. At the far end is an elevated stage, an unusual U-shaped configuration of tables for members of the media just in front of it. Behind this area are rows of seats for the general public which are filling quickly to capacity. With two levels, the conference center must hold almost four hundred people.
Reaching the media section, I stand aside for others to take a seat, choosing a chair in the third row on the very edge of the assembly, relatively hidden by the excited reporters vying for the best position. A pretty brunette woman sits next to me, preparing a portable mini recorder on the table in front of her, along with a binder for written notes. I watch, fascinated, as she meticulously reapplies her make-up and ensures every strand of hair is perfectly in place.
I’ve set up my iPad to record the press conference, angling it toward the stage. It can’t hurt to tape the event, just in case I’m offered the position and agree to chronicle the campaign.
The crowd calms when a short, balding man appears, walking to stand behind a podium. Holding up his right hand to bring the last bit of conversation to a close, he begins to speak when the room falls to silence.
“Ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming today. It's with great pleasure I introduce you to a gentleman I had the good fortune to teach not long ago at this very university. His goals and ambitions were clear even then; his drive to succeed unwavering. It's with that same passion he pursues his next endeavor. He is a man of great moral and ethical principles. Embodying honesty and sincere candor, he will lead this country into the next decade with a direct connection to the needs and desires of the people. Senator Colin McKenna.”
The applause is thunderous, anticipation rolling off of the crowd in waves. Who is so awe-inspiring he creates this type of electricity in the room?
Clapping politely I watch a man walk onto the platform, shrouded at first by the shadows at the edge of the stage. The rest of the crowd erupts into louder, riotous applause at his appearance. Hoots and whistles follow him as he makes his way to the forefront. This is the reception of a popular musician, not a politician.
My hands still midair, breathing forgotten. I’m struck by the visage appearing before me. Colin McKenna is a mirror of the man from my implausible dream. Heat flushes my cheeks at the flashback of his lips on mine. I’m in a trance, a moth caught in a spider’s web without the ability to escape. He's absolutely gorgeous. Tall and solidly built, confident and assured with a strong gait. A large screen hangs behind him, projecting his elegant face large enough for those in the very back to see every brilliant nuance.
My heart skips a beat, suspended in time, and then it begins to thrum faster than normal. He is in a three-piece expensive suit; however, he doesn’t look like any politician I’ve ever seen before. He's young, really young for a presidential candidate. Aren’t they supposed to be at least sixty? Isn’t that a pre-requisite for the job? His face is sculpted with a squared chin, holding the slightest indent to soften the center. When he smiles, dimples appear next to his glorious stretch of perfect, white teeth. The corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly when he grins, bringing together rows of dark lashes that coat and highlight his bright blue eyes. Thick dark-brown hair with hints of caramel running through the gentle waves are perfectly placed at the crown of his head, smoothed back into a short and neat cut. For a moment I imagine running my hands through his hair, gripping it between my fingers, causing it to fall in disarray on his brow. Heat flairs into flames as the unbidden image flourishes, a clear picture illustrated perfectly in my mind’s eye. Desperate to refocus I stare at the podium, staring at the university’s symbol embellished on the front—staring anywhere but at Colin McKenna.