Every word he says is like an indecent proposal.
The women around me look a bit like perspiring.
I wonder if they’re all thinking of sleeping with him as their first wish and marrying him their last, like I am.
A woman raises her hand. “Jobs, health, and education. What every person wants. To feel validated, busy, like they’ve got something to offer. Love is impossible to grant, but if you make us busy, feel useful and validated, you give us self-love.”
“I’ll be your genie. You’re right; love is not something in my power to grant. But for those first three wishes, I’ll be your genie for everyone who knocks on my lamp.” He knocks on the table, and then he leaves us with all the things to do. Twittering with inspiration.
We all want to impress him. We all want to feel like we did something for this campaign. If Matt Hamilton is elected president, we’ll be making history.
I watch people putting together the slogans.
Hamilton is change
A new vision
Predestined to lead
The change we need. The voice we deserve
For the future
Slogans to capture what he represents.
Leadership for the people
The right man for the job
My favorite: Born for this
I settle in during the morning, and I’m happy to report that I’m settling in just fine.
The phone starts to ring more viciously from noon onward, and it doesn’t stop ringing from then on.
I answer so frantically I almost drop it. “Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters.”
“Matt, please,” a male voice demands.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“His father, Law.”
I was warned of this by the other aides, of course. It’s still hard to remain unfazed after a statement like that. “I’m sorry, state your name please.”
“This is George Afterlife, and I’m a psychic medium and his father is using me to communicate a message. It is imperative I talk to him now.”
It’s hard to ignore the sound of impending doom on the other side of the line.
“Mr. Afterlife, if you’d like to leave a message I will be sure he gets it.”
“Matt, it’s your father!” the man starts yelling, changing his voice.
“Matt is unavailable, but if you’d leave a message . . .”
“I must talk to Matt—I know the conspiracy behind my murder.”
For the next ten minutes I try to get the man to leave a message, and all he leaves is a number. I jot it down.
The phone rings again, and I have a mini heart attack.
“Yes? Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters?”
A breathy voice says, “Matt. I need to speak to Matt.”
“Who’s calling?” I take my notepad out to jot down her info.
“His girlfriend.”
I hesitate. Girlfriend? My heart sinks a bit, but I ignore it.
“Your name, please.”
“Look. He knows my name—I’m his girlfriend.” At this point, I’m feeling suspicious. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Does he?
“And this is in relation to . . .?”
“God, fuck you!” She hangs up.
Wow. I hang up too.
I stay until midnight, alternating between taking phone calls and working down the pile of letters.
It’s been less than a week, and I’ve already started getting silent phone calls and weird notes on my email from his “sister” and “wife” and his father from the “dead.” How does Matt sleep at all?
Am I really cut out for this?
Two days later, Carlisle calls a meeting.
It’s dog-eat-dog in this political race, and the competition is already taking a nip out of Matt.
It turns out President Jacobs is already taking stabs at him.
“He’s threatened?” Matt smiles and covers his expression with his hand when Carlisle summons us all to the TV room and rewinds a recording of the same day.
We watch a popular news channel interview the president about Matt’s candidacy.
I watch his body language, and it’s hard to tell anything with him looking so lifeless and stoic. “How can he effectively run the country without a First Lady?” He signals to his elegant First Lady, who’s smiling demurely.
The next day Matt Hamilton appears, on the same channel, looking even more presidential than the president did.
“I find it laughable that President Jacobs believes a single, independent man cannot effectively run the country.” He looks at the camera soberly, with a light smile on his lips and those strong but playful dark brown eyes lasering in on the camera lens. “The term and official role as First Lady wasn’t even properly coined when Lady Washington served in Mount Vernon during George Washington’s office. I have a wife”—his lips curl higher—“and her name is the United States of America.”
The flood of calls is unprecedented. Carlisle the campaign manager is hectically getting new slogans to be produced.
Committed to you
Made in America
All American