Jennifer Close - The Hopefuls

—

I’d hoped that going on the campaign trips would make Matt happy, that it would settle his restlessness just a little. But it didn’t. He returned from these trips tired and cranky, annoyed that he had to go back to the DOE.

He wasn’t happy with the White House liaison job, and I tried to be sympathetic, but I started to think that no job was going to live up to what he wanted. The things he complained about sounded childish: “I’m so far away from the White House,” he’d say. “I can’t walk in there anymore, someone has to meet me at the gate. I have to wear a visitor’s badge.”

What was I supposed to say to this? I’m sorry that you have to take a cab to the White House now? I’m sorry that you have to wear a different color badge so that everyone knows you’re not as important as they are?

I always tried to stay positive. “You said this is good experience,” I reminded him. “That working for the DOE would help you if you ran for office. That it could be part of your platform.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s just not what I thought it would be.”

“Don’t you kind of think everyone feels that way about their job?” I asked.

Matt looked up at me for a moment and then said, “No. I don’t.”

—

The last couple of months before the election were brutal. It was like we were all just waiting, killing time, hoping for the best. My insomnia and night terrors got worse, which was sort of embarrassing. Of everyone in DC, I probably cared the least about politics — so why was I plagued with nightmares? Was this what living here did to you? What was wrong with me?

“You’re just stressed,” Matt said. “So are you,” I said, “but you don’t wake up screaming. You’re not having nightmares about Paul Ryan’s widow’s peak.”

Matt was always willing to talk to me until I calmed down those nights, partly I think because he wasn’t sleeping all that well himself. But most of it, I knew, was that he was worried about me and was just being nice. We’d chat into the darkness until my eyes were heavy. Sometimes we came up with fake stories that I could write for DCLOVE. My favorite was “The 10 Biggest Douche Bags to Date in DC.”

The night of the widow’s peak nightmare, we discussed theme songs of old sitcoms, challenging the other to sing the theme of whatever show we named: Growing Pains, Family Ties, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. We were both weirdly talented at this game and we couldn’t stop laughing as it just went on and on.

“Can we monetize this somehow?” Matt asked. “This might be our greatest gift.”

Finally, we were both stumped at Mr. Belvedere, and after twenty minutes of trying to figure it out, we googled it and played the opening credits about five times, singing along after we remembered the words. Eventually we just started watching a full episode on my phone, propping it up between us. “I thought Wesley was the funniest kid ever,” Matt said. “I wanted to be him when I was little.” His eyes were half closed, but he was still watching the tiny screen.

“Really?” I said. “You never told me that before.”

“We’ve never talked about Mr. Belvedere before.”

“True.” It was almost 4:00 a.m. by that point, and I knew we’d both be useless the next day, but I didn’t really care. I moved a tiny bit closer, resting my head against his shoulder, my mind quiet for the first time that night.

—

By October, Matt had used up all of his vacation time and wasn’t able to do any more advance trips for the campaign. He’d so badly wanted to help with the second debate, and instead was watching it at home with me.

I’d made popcorn and opened a bottle of red wine. Neither of us was all that hungry, and I thought maybe the popcorn would make the night feel more festive. Ash came over to watch with us, bringing a plate of brownies.

“I baked,” she said, holding out the plate to me. “I was so nervous, I couldn’t sit still.”

“Perfect,” I said. “It will round out our well-balanced meal.”

Ash set the plate down and unwrapped it, then plucked a brownie off the top of the pile and ate it. She was due in February, and her stomach was already swollen against her clothes; her face was rounder, which had the strange effect of making her look younger. She didn’t seem to care about what she ate or how much weight she was gaining — not that she was being a pig, more that she accepted that her body was going to change and wasn’t going to obsess about it.

She picked up another brownie and took a bite. “I thought the last election was crazy,” she said. “But this feels bigger, somehow. Doesn’t it?”

“This election is almost more important,” Matt said. “I mean, if he loses, then what? All we worked for is gone. He’s basically just Jimmy Carter.”

“Jimmy Carter does amazing things,” I said. I felt like I should defend that peanut farmer. Poor Jimmy Carter, always brushed to the side. Did no one think about Habitat for Humanity?

“You know what I mean,” he said.

The last debate had been less than stellar, and we all felt how much was riding on this, knew that Obama needed to be great. (Or at least that’s what every pundit had been saying on repeat for the past week.) The three of us sat down on the couch, and fidgeted as we waited for it to start. Matt looked at his phone, texting his friends and obsessively reading Twitter. “I wish I could have some wine,” Ash said softly, and for once I wasn’t annoyed at her bringing up her pregnancy restrictions. Wine was the only reason I wasn’t jumping out of my skin.

“Jimmy texted that there’s going to be a great line about the Navy,” Matt said, already texting him back.

“How does he know that?” I asked.

“He sat in on debate prep,” Matt said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. How awesome is that?”

I almost pointed out that even if Matt had gone on the trip, he probably wouldn’t have been able to be in the room while the President was getting ready, but I knew that wouldn’t make him feel better. So, I just said, “Cool.”

When the line about the Navy came, we all laughed and clapped. Ash shook her head like she was reacting to a sassy friend and said, “Whooooo!” Matt pumped his fist and screamed, “Fuck, yeah!”

When we settled down a little, Matt’s phone dinged with another text from Jimmy and he read it to us. “Yeah, Jimmy said the line was originally supposed to just stop with the aircraft carriers, but during rehearsal POTUS kept going with comparisons and Axe and Plouffe were cracking up,” Matt said. His phone dinged again. “Plouffe told him to go for it.”

I watched the air go out of Matt, watched his elation disappear as he realized he wasn’t the one with the inside knowledge of debate zingers, that he wasn’t referring to one of Obama’s top aide’s as Axe. Matt’s change of mood was so slight that Ash didn’t notice, but I did. When Romney talked about “binders full of women,” Matt did clap his hands a couple of times and say, “That’s it, you moron. Keep them coming,” but it was more subdued.

Before we went to sleep that night, I kissed Matt and said, “It went well, right? We should be happy.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I know.”

—

Just days before the election, Hurricane Sandy hit the East Coast. Jimmy was out of town and so Ash came to stay with us, because we didn’t know how bad it would be. Matt suggested it first (but I would have eventually), and when I agreed, he said, “I mean, I just don’t think she should be by herself in her condition.”

We were prepared with candles and food and extra batteries, but in DC the storm was just a lot of rain and some strong wind. Our power never even flickered. Ash ended up staying with us for two nights, because Jimmy went to help with the President’s visit to the Jersey Shore, which was hit hard.