Chapter Eleven

Bijal settled into the cushy corner of Janet’s campaign office sofa. She clutched her latte and tried to blink the fatigue out of her eyes. A glance at her watch showed she was exactly on time for the meeting with Charles Hammond, yet even though she’d been out late, she was still the only one here.

Why was punctuality such an uncommon quality? For some reason, she’d assumed that since a candidate’s success was based on how he or she chose to present himself, people might actually try to be on time.

She took another sip of coffee. She should have gotten an extra shot of espresso.

Donna halted dramatically in the doorway, as though seeing Bijal waiting there made her question if she was in the wrong room. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked abruptly as she shuffled in. “Get out, we have a meeting scheduled.”

Bijal was simply too tired for Donna’s bullshit and didn’t bother to feign politeness or even respect. “I know. I was asked to attend.”

“Is that so?” Donna sat on the edge of Janet’s desk—presumably to be higher than Bijal, a typical alpha-dog trait. “Then I’ll take a decaf with two sugars and a doughnut—a jelly one—if any are left.”

“Well, perhaps if any volunteers are left who you haven’t been shitty to yet, they’d be willing to get that for you. What do you think the odds are?”

Donna’s gaze narrowed in obvious irritation. “Did I miss the e-mail that went out saying you suddenly matter, Roo?”

“It’s Rao, and considering that you don’t bother reading your e-mail, I imagine you’ve missed a lot of things.”

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but here’s the deal.” Donna’s voice had dropped an octave and made the journey from smarmy and oily to sinister. “You’re going to shut up and leave—” Janet entered the room in time to hear the end of Donna’s directive. “Or you’re fired.”

“No, she’s not, Donna,” Janet said dismissively. “Bijal is here because I value her knowledge and instincts. I want her involved in our strategy sessions from now on.”

Donna seemed incredulous. “You what? Why don’t we invite the homeless guy that picks through our Dumpster too?”

“Good idea,” Bijal said. “Maybe he’d be willing to get you your coffee.”

Janet put her hands up. “Ladies, please. Let’s try to be constructive. We have quite a steep climb ahead of us, and sadly it seems to be getting steeper every day. Bijal, have you had a chance to see what the blowback of yesterday’s little microphone gaffe is?”

“The video is all over the Internet, and it certainly didn’t help that CNN and every show in MSNBC’s evening lineup ran and openly mocked it. So I still support the game plan of calling the guy in red to apologize to him, then you making a separate statement to the press personally.”

Donna sucked air through her teeth, making a sound Bijal decided was perhaps more annoying than a car alarm set off by the loud pealing of a pod of whales as they ran their barnacle-encrusted fins down a blackboard. “Oh, please, people don’t care about silly shit like this. They care about the issues—why they can’t get a job, inflation, taxes, homeland security.”

“You’re joking, right?” Bijal asked. “Have you not been paying attention for the last couple of decades?”

“What do you mean, Bijal?” Janet asked, taking a seat at her desk.

“I mean that the people in this room are politically minded. But most Americans aren’t. Do you think C-SPAN is pulling in a bigger share of viewers than VH-1 or MTV? Sure, people have concerns about the economy and terrorism. But most would rather watch someone get drunk on a reality show and vomit off a balcony, or see who gets voted off the bus, the island, or the house full of tequila and stripper poles.”

Donna crossed her arms. “That’s simply not true.”

“No?” Bijal asked in amazement. “The average voter spends nearly fifteen times the amount of time that they spend watching or reading the news, on social networking sites. Nearly one-third of high-school graduates won’t read a single book after receiving their diploma.”

Janet’s jaw sagged. “Holy shit. Is that true?”

Bijal nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. Statistics can be very depressing. For example, in the last dozen years, only one in three registered Virginia voters has bothered to vote in mid-term elections.”

“So first you say the American people are stupid,” Donna said with a sneer. “And now you’re calling them lazy as well.”

“No, I’m giving you facts, and you’re attributing your personal biases to them.”

Janet leaned back in her chair. “So you’re saying we need to be energizing Virginia Republicans more.”

“Exactly,” Bijal replied. “We should be showing them why it’s important to get out to the polls and vote for you.”

“Well, there’s a shock.” Donna snorted. “I can see why you’re here now, Roo. We never would have recognized that we need to appeal to voters in our party. That’s genius.”

Bijal turned her attention directly to Janet. “Do you see now why Donna should never be the public face of this campaign?”

Donna’s eyes flashed with anger. “Now look here, Ms. Diversity Hire—”

Whatever the insulting end to that sentence was going to be, Bijal wouldn’t hear it, as in strolled NRCC Chairman Charles Hammond with another gentleman, both wearing crisp suits and grim expressions.

Hammond closed the door behind him and surveyed everyone morosely. “Hello, Mayor Denton.”

“You can call me Janet.”

He eyed Bijal and Donna suspiciously. “And who are these ladies?”

Janet sprang up suddenly. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is Bijal Rao, my researcher and recently promoted strategist. And this is my campaign manager, Donna Shoemaker.”

Hammond pursed his lips for a moment and looked at his associate. “Ah, then I suppose you both should stay. Ladies, this is Eliot Jenkins. I imagine you all may have some idea why we made the trip out here to meet with you in person.”

“Things haven’t been going well,” Janet offered.

Hammond scowled. “What a huge understatement.”

Donna clearly shifted into defensive mode. “Excuse me?”

He looked at her as though she smelled of rancid cabbage. “Do you disagree, Ms. Shoemaker? After all, as the campaign manager, you’ve been steering this sinking ship, have you not?”

Donna stood. “It’s not a dictatorship, Mr. Hammond. There’s plenty of blame to go around.”

Hammond obviously disagreed. “While that may be true, that doesn’t diminish your role in this fuck parade.”

Janet blinked twice. “Fuck parade?”

“Would you prefer ‘shit sandwich’?” Hammond asked.

“So you’re making me the scapegoat,” Donna hissed. “Is that it?”

“In addition to replacing you, yes. That’s where Eliot comes in. He’ll be your new campaign manager, effective immediately.”

Donna’s face no longer registered rage, as it was instantly replaced with shock. “What?”

Janet’s eyes flashed in concern. “Chairman, I think you may be overstepping your bounds.”

“Oh?” Hammond seemed unfazed. “Mind if I use your dry-erase board to illustrate my point?”

“Go right ahead,” Janet replied.

Hammond removed his suit jacket, folded it neatly, and draped it over the back of a chair. He uncapped a blue marker and drew a large grid with three columns. “Okay, three candidates are in this race—you, the Democrat, and a conservative Independent.” He wrote the names in the top row. “Now, please tell me if I get anything wrong. Let’s look at the issues. The Republican Party is against abortion. Of our three candidates here, which one agrees with the party platform? Certainly not the Democrat and, remarkably, not you. Just the Independent.” He put a check in the Independent’s column. “Interesting, right? Gay marriage or civil unions?” He again put a check in the Independent’s column. “Oh, look—same thing. You and the Democrat have the same opinion. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell? The same. Climate change? The same. Cap and Trade? The same.” He added three more checks. “Do you see a trend here?”

“In that handful of issues, yes,” Janet said.

Hammond spun around to face Bijal. “Me too. Ms. Rao, do you have the latest polling data?”

Bijal cleared her throat nervously. “Yes. As of this morning, O’Bannon is up with thirty-eight percent, we’re second with twenty-three percent, seven percent goes to Phillip Taylor, the Independent, and thirty-two percent are still undecided.”

Above the candidate names, Hammond wrote the polling numbers. “This is still statistically a red district, right?”

“Yes,” Bijal replied.

“So if voters were considering no factors other than party affiliation, we’d expect to win, right?” he asked.

Bijal shifted uncomfortably. “Well…”

“I mean no other factors. Not name recognition for the incumbent, not advertising, not stated political opinions, not announcing that you have to take a dump on local television. If all the voters knew of the three people running was their party, would we win?”

“Yes,” Bijal replied softly.

“Thank you,” Hammond said with an air of superiority. “So let’s look at what you’ve done, Ms. Shoemaker. You took an inherent lead and pissed it away. You’ve positioned yourself as just as moderate as your opponent. You’ve snubbed the NRA, insulted your constituents, and wasted your time sucking up to the eleven centrists that live in this district. What the hell kind of strategy is that?”

“I’ve been trying to convince her that we need to move to the right,” Donna whined.

“You’ve been trying?” Hammond asked. “Let me tell you what I see, Ms. Shoemaker. This campaign has been a bag of flaming horseshit for months. And if we weren’t working so hard to gain the majority in the House, or if you’d managed to fuck this up just a little less spectacularly—perhaps fewer embarrassing YouTube videos, no televised protests in your parking lot—then I might not be here now. But in addition to becoming a regional laughingstock, you’ve been catapulted into the national spotlight, so now the stakes are raised.”

Donna stared at Janet imploringly. “Are you going to let him come in here and insult us all and…and fire me?”

Hammond put the cap back on his marker. “Yes, she is. And let me tell you why. Let’s go back to our whiteboard.” He pointed to each column again. “So as the chairman of the NRCC, who here looks like the candidate I should be supporting? And which one do you think has the better chance of energizing the conservative base and increasing voter turnout? You may have won the primary—”

“We ran unopposed,” Bijal said without thinking.

“That explains quite a bit,” Hammond replied. “However, I have real doubts that, if you were elected, you’d work with us to support the party’s agenda.”

Janet was clearly unnerved. “What happened to conservative fiscal policy being a plus? I thought the economy was our priority.”

“It is,” Hammond replied calmly. “But I’ll be honest with you, Mayor. You may just not be far enough to the right for us. If this were Massachusetts, having a centrist candidate would be more acceptable. But you’re in Virginia, losing by double digits to an avowed liberal lesbian. That can’t continue.”

“So, what you’re saying—” Janet said.

“I mean, it would be a real shame for your party to drop you. Because not only would you lose this congressional race, but I can’t imagine you’d win reelection as mayor here in rural Ravensdale. You know?”

“Yes,” Janet said slowly.

“So I’m understood, then?” Hammond asked, putting his jacket back on and adjusting his cuffs.

Janet conceded. “You are.”

Donna was rabidly livid again. “I suppose you don’t think I’ll go to the press with this? You’ll all come off like a pack of incompetent liars.”

Hammond looked nonplussed. “I anticipated that. We’ll keep you on the payroll through Election Day, but we don’t require your services here any longer. Lay low, and we’ll find a place for you at the beginning of the year. Go to the press, and I’ll guarantee that you’re so savagely discredited that you never work another day in politics.”

“Oh,” Donna said flatly.

“Do we have an agreement?”

Donna swallowed loudly. “Yes.”

“I’m glad. You may go now.”

Bijal watched in astonishment as Donna rose and left the office, clearly defeated in posture and pace.

Hammond handed the marker to Eliot. “Now, Eliot will step you through your new strategy paradigm. And once I’m confident that you both grasp the direction, you’ll need to call your press secretary in so we can address yesterday’s amateurish bungle, as well as your staff restructuring. Any questions before I give Eliot the floor?”

“No,” Janet and Bijal said in unison.

“Good.” Hammond flashed his first smile of the morning. “We’re making real progress.”

Bijal opened the apartment door with her shoulder, awkwardly closing it behind her with her foot as she balanced the many take-out bags she was holding.

Fran was sprawled on the sofa, watching a reality show of some kind. “Holy shit,” she said, without loosening her grip on the remote. “You still live here?”

“Yup,” Bijal replied, heading for the kitchen.

“When I hadn’t seen you in a couple of weeks, I assumed you’d either moved out or been arrested for trespassing.”

“Sweet of you to think of me. I guess you’re not interested in the Szechwan chicken I have, then, since you’ve already written me off as a part of the local penitentiary chain gang.” She deposited the goods and began hungrily sorting through them.

Fran’s face lit up like a bonfire. “Ooh…Did you go to Happy Panda Pagoda?”

“I did.”

“Did you get spring rolls?”

Bijal held a greasy paper bag aloft. “Little fat-soaked firecrackers of death, yes.”

Fran leapt up and nearly flew into the kitchen to snatch the oily hors d’œuvres from her. “These are awesome!”

Bijal continued to unpack the food. “Yeah, they gave me a spring-roll punch card too. After two dozen, you get a free referral to a cardiologist.”

“Don’t worry, once I gorge myself I’ll drink some juice. That undoes all the damage.” Fran inspected a black plastic bag mixed in with the others, but clearly not from the restaurant. “What do we have here?” she asked as she pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “Bij, did you get fired? Is that why you’re home tonight? ’Cause as a little FYI, you can drink yourself to death with cheaper shit than this.”

“No, I wasn’t fired, but Donna Shoemaker was.”

“The Nazi dentist?”

“Uh-huh,” Bijal answered with a nod.

“Got shit-canned?”

“I prefer ‘flushed away.’”

Fran bit her lower lip. “Very poetic. So what does that mean for you?”

Bijal fished out the plastic utensils. “It means I have a new boss with a totally different campaign strategy, new job functions, and now I only work eleven hours a day instead of eighteen.”

“Um…congratulations?”

“Thanks, I don’t know what I’ll do with all my new free time. Maybe sleep…or wash myself.”

“Such a luxurious life of leisure,” Fran said before biting the end off a spring roll and scrutinizing the whiskey label. “Hey, this is made by Arc of Orion.”

“Yeah, I tried it a couple weeks ago and it’s really good.”

“The night you couldn’t drive yourself home, perhaps?”

“Um…I don’t recall, Senator.”

Fran stabbed a piece of sweet-and-sour pork with her fork. “Of course you don’t, Drunky McHotpants. So is the booze to celebrate the termination of your evil sea wasp of a campaign manager?”

“What the hell is a sea wasp?”

“It’s a kind of jellyfish—one of the most venomous animals in the world. Sweet! Shrimp toast.”

Bijal dumped some Szechwan chicken onto a paper plate. “You know, that’s a perfect description of her. Because Donna has no brain, and she does nothing but float along full of poison, stinging anyone in her path. But no, it’s not a celebration.”

“Why not? Did another aggressive invertebrate replace her?”

“He’s a damn sight smarter. I’ll give him that.”

“But?”

“But the NRCC placed him there solely to move Janet further to the right.”

Fran glowered. “How far to the right? Like ‘women should be subservient’ and ‘gays should be jailed’ kind of right?”

“Well, they didn’t mention repealing the Nineteenth Amendment, but they did say that if Janet doesn’t begin to appear more conservative, the party will publicly endorse Phillip Taylor instead.”

“What?” Fran coughed. “That man’s crazy. ”

“I know.”

“Isn’t he the lunatic who wants to bomb China?”

Bijal skewered a bite of food. “That’s him. He also thinks all welfare and entitlement programs should be done away with and is running on the platform of laying off everyone who works for the government except for the military…oh, and the politicians.”

“Naturally.”

“He’s suggested more than once that all private citizens should be armed.”

“I’m guessing he really means only the white ones,” Fran said.

“And he’s openly declared his hostility toward most countries in Asia and the Middle East.”

“Come on. The NRCC wouldn’t endorse that guy. I don’t buy it. It sounds like a bluff.”

Bijal swallowed. “I think so too. And I told Janet as much when we were alone.”

“What did she say?”

“Hammond scared her too much. Before today, she was just worried she’d have to stay mayor of Ravensdale if she lost, but she figured that at least it would get her name out there for next time. Now she’s worried that the Republicans will drop her completely and put someone to run against her in her reelection campaign.”

“That sounds a little paranoid.”

“Normally, I’d agree. But they were nice enough to go ahead and imply that’s what they plan to do.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, so now I have to go to work every morning for a woman who’s pretending to support some issues that I abhor. So again, no, not really a celebration.”

Fran walked back over to the couch and sat with her Chinese food. “Maybe it’s a sign that you need to get the hell out.”

“I don’t know,” Bijal said, following her. “Part of me wants to stick with it. How will it look on my résumé if I quit the first real political position I get as soon as I take on a bigger role?”

“I’m assuming that while you’re revising it you won’t put ‘once I got promoted, I gave my boss the finger.’”

“Well, no. But even if prospective employers don’t know that I quit, I’ll know.” She stared at the television, fixating on the two buxom blondes doing shots of liquor from each other’s belly buttons. “What the hell are you watching?”

“ The Love Jungle,” Fran replied eagerly. “They put a bunch of women with fake boobs out in the rain forest with nothing but a thatched hut, a stripper pole, and an open bar.”

“What’s the point?”

“They’re all competing for this hunky Tarzan guy. Every week they have physical challenges. You missed the redhead who was wearing an outfit so tight she looked like a busted-open can of biscuits. She was way too drunk to do the vine-swinging shit she was supposed to, and she puked all over the platform and some big chick who punched her dead in the face. It was beautiful.”

Bijal glanced at her watch. “Oh, crap, it’s later than I thought. Hey, O’Bannon’s supposed to be on The Tank Guzman Show in a couple minutes. Can we change over real quick if I promise to immediately come back to the drunken women with low self-esteem?”

Fran shrugged. “I suppose. But if I miss somebody crying or peeing themselves, I’m gonna be mad at you.”

“As well you should be,” Bijal said, taking the remote and changing the channel. “Though you never know—someone might pee themselves on this show too.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Fran replied, waggling a forkful of pork.

Within a couple of minutes, Tank Guzman was introducing the guests in his typical nasal manner.

“Tonight, joining us from the Alabama State House, is State Senator Caleb Prescott, cosponsor of a bill that would make the adoption of children by gay and lesbian parents illegal in his state. On the other side of the debate, we’ve got U.S. Congresswoman Colleen O’Bannon, Democratic representative from Virginia and co-chair of the Congressional LGBT Equality Caucus. Thanks to both of you for joining us this evening.”

“Oh,” Fran said, settling back into the cushions. “You weren’t kidding about somebody possibly peeing.”

“Senator Prescott, let’s start with you. You’ve proposed a bill that many people say legalizes discrimination based on sexual orientation. How do you respond to that?”

Prescott, a man with greasy hair, a small neck, and barely visible lips, cleared his throat and began to speak in a thick Southern accent.

“Tank, I have to say that those kinds of irrational accusations are made by people who simply don’t have all the facts. I don’t support discrimination, but it’s been proven in scientific studies that children of gay and lesbian parents tend to have more psychological problems, are more likely to develop drug dependencies, and are more prone to suicide.”

Fran snorted. “That man is a dick.”

“ Congresswoman O’Bannon, I’m going to let you address the senator’s comments and the allegation that you, as an out lesbian, don’t know all the facts. What do you think about that?”

“Is it me, or is Guzman being purposely antagonistic?” Bijal asked.

“I don’t know, but your girl looks good.”

“She’s not my girl.”

“Well, Tank, I have to say that Senator Prescott is both remarkably prejudiced and misinformed, and I’m not sure which I find more offensive. It’s well-known that a religious fundamentalist group paid for those so-called ‘studies’ he referenced for the sole purpose of producing the results they wanted. No impartial member of the scientific community believes those findings to be true. They are deeply flawed and, quite honestly, motivated by hatred.”

“Ha!” Fran spat as Guzman began speaking again.

“Senator Prescott, the congresswoman brings up a good point. Who funded those studies you were quoting?”

“Uh, Tank, I don’t have that information in front of me, but I can tell you that the congresswoman is wrong. They aren’t flawed. They aren’t bias—”

Colleen jumped in, and not a moment too soon.

“Tank, I have that information right here. The Fundamentalist Alliance for Christ—a group that has for years espoused the practice of ‘curing’ gays and lesbians and making them heterosexual—performed the studies in question. So we can assume they may not be the most impartial folks in the world.”

Tank looked as though he smelled blood in the water.

“Senator Prescott, assuming that particular data may be flawed, what other rationale do you have for this bill? Have there been some specific concerns with adoption by gays in your home state? I mean, what prompted this?”

“Not to my knowledge, Tank. But based on the recent wildfire of gay-advocacy bills over the last couple of years, we hope this will be signed into law as a proactive measure, and that Alabama can be a beacon for the rest of the states on this issue.”

“Oh, my God,” Bijal said. “Look at Colleen’s face. Here it comes.”

“Senator, just for my own edification, you honestly feel that what someone does in the privacy of their bedroom with another consenting adult is reasonable criteria to determine if he or she is a competent parent?”

Prescott squared his shoulders and grinned smugly.

“Yes, Congresswoman. As a matter of fact, I do. As does anyone who reveres the scripture.”

“Aren’t you a parent?”

“I am.”

“Then by your logic, Senator, you need to tell us what kind of sex you’re having, as well as any kind of sex you think you might have in the future.”

Prescott’s lipless face turned red and he began to sputter. It soon became clear that Guzman intended to uncharacteristically sit by quietly and let the two of them face off.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Is it ridiculous because I’m imposing my morality onto you without your permission? Or is it because I’m defining you solely by your sexuality?”

“You’re being obscene!”

“Because I’m implying that you have sex, sir? Hardly. I would argue that you and the others who insist on vilifying the LGBT community based on what you assume we’re doing in private are far more obscene.”

“I refuse to stand for this type of talk. Tank?”

Tank made no attempt to intervene and merely grinned as the back-and-forth continued.

“You don’t like being judged on your sexual activities, do you, Senator? It doesn’t seem like it’s anyone’s business, does it?”

“Tank, do you plan to regain control of this interview?”

“And if I told you, Senator, that I intend to assume that you’re engaging in some consensual sexual act that I think makes you an unfit parent, and let’s say also ill-suited to keep your job, I’d imagine in the spirit of fairness to your own argument, you’d support that, right?”

“I’m leaving if this continues.”

“Senator, I think we’re all in agreement here. If you’re willing to prove to all of us that you’re only having the kind of sex that we, as interested strangers, approve of, then I think we can all assent to that kind of a…well, let’s call it a purity test.”

Prescott began to fumble with the microphone fastened to his lapel as Colleen continued.

“And everyone out there who thinks that LGBT people are depraved or somehow less than others should be willing to take the same kind of purity test. I mean, if we’re judging people on what they do in their bedroom, that should hold true for everyone, right?”

Prescott stood up, his mic still affixed to his jacket, and stormed out of frame. There was a large hum of feedback as the small square he had occupied on the screen became empty, before it was hastily removed, leaving only a split screen between Colleen and Guzman.

“Wow, I guess the senator wasn’t prepared for your argument, Congresswoman. I can’t remember the last time someone actually walked off the set in the middle of an interview.”

“Sorry, Tank. That certainly wasn’t my intent. I just wanted him to consider what it’s like to be viewed exclusively through the prism of sexuality. No other quality—not race or gender or ethnicity—supposes so much about a person’s intimate moments and relationships. And it’s so grossly unfair. To use such suppositions to determine if someone gets to keep their job, legally marry someone, or adopt a child is the height of prejudice and discrimination.”

“Well said, Congresswoman. And don’t worry, you have an open invitation to come on this show anytime. I don’t care how many guests you drive away.”

“I appreciate that, Tank.”

“Coming up next, who’s paying more taxes, the rich or the middle class? We just might surprise you when we return from this break.”

As a commercial began, Bijal was only vaguely aware of the man describing his recent concern over the size of his prostate. She hit the Mute button, and she and Fran sat for some time, neither eating nor speaking. “Wow,” Bijal said finally.

“That was amazing,” Fran said softly, as though she was in shock. “I’ve never seen anyone…I mean… shit. Dude, that kind of ass-whooping beats brass poles covered with stripper butter any day.”

“She was masterful.”

“She sure was.”

“We are so screwed.”

Fran’s brow furrowed. “Who is?”

“My campaign. Colleen obviously doesn’t operate by the standard political rulebook, the one that says remain above the fray and stick to your talking points.”

“You can say that again. She owned that little bastard.”

Bijal got up and ventured back to the kitchen to pour herself some whiskey. “Just as I imagine she’ll own Janet in our debate on Friday.”

“Oh, hmm,” Fran said as she chewed.

“Especially on the issues where Janet is being forcibly pushed to the right. Nothing like having your stance inexplicably change and then having to defend it. We’re gonna have our asses handed to us.”

“Well, if someone has to put their hand on your ass, you picked a damn fine woman to do it. You know, I’m thinking of marrying these spring rolls.”

Bijal poured two fingers of alcohol into a glass, paused, then made it three. “This debate is our last stand, Fran. Our poll numbers and our fund-raising have both been steadily declining. I was really hoping Colleen would come off as too liberal or erudite…or wishy-washy. Something we could use, you know?”

“Hang on a second. You yourself have described O’Bannon as smart, charming, and principled.”

“Yeah,” Bijal said, rejoining Fran on the sofa.

“So why would you even dare to hope she’d come off as some dry, scholarly waffler?”

Bijal sipped her drink, letting the vapor fill her mouth. “I don’t know. I guess because she was putting herself out there for such a progressive cause.”

“A cause that you support too,” Fran reminded her.

“Well, sure, but I still saw it as a risky move. Of course, I had no idea that the guy she’d be up against would be so spineless and inarticulate.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you wanted that ignorant ballsack to shut O’Bannon down and be persuasive in his argument to subjugate you.”

Bijal felt a sudden pang of guilt. “No.”

“That’s how you’re sounding. Maybe you need to stop for a moment and decide exactly what you’re ready to commit to. Are you really prepared to fight against your own principles…or your own best interests?”

“Christ, Fran. Can we not have this conversation again?”

Fran nibbled her sweet-and-sour. “Sure. Right after you explain to me how you can sit right here and root for some shifty-ass bastard who’s trying to take away your rights.”

“I wasn’t rooting for him, per se. I obviously disagree with his obtuse draconian position. I just wanted—”

“O’Bannon to screw up?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe announce some pending diarrhea? An STD?”

Bijal stole one of Fran’s spring rolls. “Look, I’d just like the ground leveled a little.”

“Then maybe you should talk to your candidate and tell her to stop fucking up so much.”

“It’s that kind of tact and diplomacy that keeps you out of politics, Fran.”

“Well, if the massive compromises you’re making are any kind of a sign, that’s a job I don’t want in the first place.”

“So instead of trying to make a broken system better, or make a real difference, you’d just give up because at times you have to make concessions?”

Fran picked up the remote and changed the channel back to The Love Jungle, but left it muted. “Don’t you think you can make too many concessions and compromise your cause?”

“Of course,” Bijal replied. “But that hasn’t happened here. Janet’s still a moderate at heart.”

“Have you guys started your debate prep yet?”

“All day long,” Bijal said. “It’s challenging, but she’s improving. She’s got a down-to-earth quality that’ll help her connect with voters.”

“Likability’s important, I guess. But you know what trumps it?”

“What?”

“A good old-fashioned ass-kicking. Kablam!”

“Okay, now you’re just gloating.”

Fran cast a sideways glance. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me you didn’t get even the teensiest bit aroused at how your sexy congresswoman put her pro-gay foot on that asshole’s spindly little homophobic neck and snapped him like a green bean?”

“Perhaps some small nonpartisan part of me found it…exciting.”

Fran laughed and turned the volume back up. “Yeah, I’ll bet I know just which small nonpartisan part you’re talking about too.”

Bijal shook her head. “If they ever figure out a way to combine spring rolls and vaginas, you’re done for, you filthy woman.”

“I’d never leave the house.”

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