Winning His Vote

Joe

Nobody thought we could win.
I’d only given us a one-in-ten shot when the campaign began—but there we were, marching toward a historic victory.
Election Day had finally arrived, and our team was a beehive, buzzing with nervous anticipation. One local news station ran a poll over the weekend showing us ahead by more than twelve points, but anyone with campaign experience knew the only poll that mattered was the one conducted at the ballot box.
On cue, Marcus and his wife, Maria, held up their folded papers, waited for the cameras to snap, then dropped them into the thin slots on top of the boxes colored red and blue. They waved and flashed bright smiles. Few people knew the scene was a made-for-the-cameras sham. Voting in the state had been electronic for more than twenty years. Literally no one dropped a ballot in a box—except candidates who wanted to look good on TV or in the papers.
Marcus and Maria looked better than good.
They looked like winners.
“You two are doing great, really. We only have two more stops before the polls close.”
Maria gave me a sidelong glance. “How are you so calm, Joe? I thought I was going to pass out before those cameras stopped clicking.”
I squeezed her arm. “That’s my job, ma’am. The cameras may be on you two, but the reporters are watching me for a reaction. If I show nerves, they start digging, wondering what’s wrong within our camp.”
She nodded weakly. We’d had this same conversation dozens of times, but I didn’t think she ever fully bought it.
I leaned in and whispered, “If it helps, I’ve felt like I was about to pee all over myself for ten months.”
Her full-throated laugh startled Marcus and seemed to release some of her tension. She gave me a quick hug. “You’re too much, Joe. You know that?”
Marcus had been shaking voters’ hands leaving the polling station, but never missed anything. He turned and gave me a warm smile. “She’s got a point, but we’re glad for it. In case I forget to say it later tonight, thank you for all you’ve done for us. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone work so hard.”
“Mayor, you’ve worked harder—”
He held up a palm. “I’m not mayor yet…but thanks.”
Marcus smiled before returning his attention to the voters flowing into line from the parking lot. It was a heavy turnout. Was that good for us—or for them? Either way, there was nothing to be done now. We were only a few hours from the finish line.
For those of us in the campaigning profession, Election Day was strange. It felt eternal, like it’d never end. There were always more hands to shake, more voters to drive to the polls, more signs to post or ads to run. The list was endless—and somehow, as exhausted and relieved as we were when Election Day finally came to a close, we always wished we’d had more time.
We said our goodbyes to two older couples waving Sanchez for Mayor signs just outside the hundred-foot boundary, then drove to the next polling place.
***
Back at the hotel, Marcus and Maria sat on the couch, arms wrapped around each other. The adrenaline of the day had worn off and they were running on fumes. We all were.
I sat across from them, slumped into an overstuffed chair.
The polls had just closed.
“What do you think?” Marcus finally asked. Maria’s gaze held apprehension—and hope.
The silence of the room was deafening.
“I think we did our best.” That was such a terrible answer, but it was the truth.
Marcus snorted. This was his first race, and he’d punched above his weight, vying to become the first Latino mayor the city had ever elected. The incumbent mayor was wildly popular and had ruled with an iron fist for two terms. If he won, he would be the first mayor to win a third term. There was a lot on the line for everyone.
I still remember a couple reporters in the back of the gaggle snickering as Marcus announced his candidacy. It had to be a joke, they said. No one could beat the don, especially not Marcus Sanchez. They mocked his ethnicity with insolent accents, egging each other on with sharp elbows and sharper laughs. I was sure they thought no one could hear them.
But I did—though I never told Marcus.
He’d faced worse jabs throughout his life, and I couldn’t shelter him from what promised to be a brutal campaign, but I shielded him from those on that day.
Raised in the northeastern quarter of the city, where crime was still winning its undeclared war, Marcus rose as a beacon of hope for a community bereft of such luxury. His parents were murdered when he was a teenager, victims of a robbery that netted forty-two dollars from his father’s wallet, and a pair of worthless cubic zirconia earrings his mother wore. The murders were never solved, and Marcus ended up living with his ancient grandmother. She loved him fiercely, but was on the brink of needing care herself. The rudderless boy raised himself.
At fifteen, he started working in the local grocery mart as a bag clerk. The job didn’t pay much, but it likely saved his life. Boys at school with their afternoons free found themselves in gangs, then graveyards. Working every day after school insulated Marcus from the city’s worst elements and taught him the ethics of service and sweat.
By seventeen, the mart’s owner relied on him to run the store when he was away.
Maria stumbled into Marcus—literally—as he was stocking a display of boxed pasta. He lost his balance and hundreds of boxes of ziti flew across the mart’s polished floors. They were married fourteen months later. She insisted they serve baked ziti at their rehearsal dinner.
The mart’s owner died when Marcus was twenty-two. A single man without family or heirs, he left everything to the boy who’d become like a son. Between Maria’s mind for numbers and Marcus’s work ethic, the pair were unstoppable. By thirty, the Sanchez Grocery chain boasted three stores. Five more would follow before public service called.
He was a good man intent on doing good things.
When he offered me the job as his campaign manager, I was stunned. We’d talked about me doing opposition research or strategy work, but never taking the top spot.
I demanded brutal honesty with candidates, so I owed him my own. “Marcus, it’s one thing to have gays supporting your campaign, but to have one running it will reflect on you. I guarantee the don will use it as a slur to gin up his base. This race is going to get ugly, and you shouldn’t hand the other side ammo.”
He didn’t flinch. His eyes never wavered. “Joe, nobody thinks we can win anyway. Why do we care what they say? Besides, you’re willing to support me, a guy who doesn’t look like any mayor this city’s ever had. How could I not support you?”
I could still feel the lump that had risen in my throat as I searched his eyes for doubts that day. There were none. We shook hands and never looked back.
***
An hour later, we stood bunched up in a hallway outside the campaign’s election night party ballroom. Hundreds of supporters ate, drank, and watched televisions scattered throughout the hall for updates on the vote count. The crowd’s tension slammed against the door like a battering ram.
My hand rested on the doorknob. I couldn’t stop my fingers from playing trumpet notes across its brass. I wanted to throw up.
“Are we still ahead? What’s happening?” Maria danced beside me.
“Hon, he doesn’t know any more than we do. Take a breath.” Marcus pecked her cheek and grinned.
“Actually, sir, ninety-four percent have reported in. We’re up by nine percent. Given the precincts left, the result is likely to be called any minute.”
“Seriously?” Maria hopped several times, unable to contain herself.
I grinned. “Yes, ma’am—or should I say, Madam First Lady of Nashville?”
“Elect,” Marcus interjected.
We both turned to him.
“Madam First Lady of Nashville elect. We haven’t been sworn in yet.” His mouth quirked, and his eyes glittered.
Maria slapped his arm and laughed. “Oh, Marcus. You’re impossible.”
Before I could say anything, an announcement quieted the crowd. “Everybody, quiet. Channel Four is calling it.”
Televisions were all tuned to Channel Four and cranked up to maximum volume: “Our decision desk is officially calling the mayoral race for Marcus Sanchez, the first Latino mayor in Nashville’s history.”
The crowd erupted, and pre-selected patriotic music blasted. Marcus and Maria embraced, and I had to fight back tears. My cell vibrated, and a text gave me the countdown.
“Marcus, Maria, two minutes,” I said, sucking down my own excitement. “Mr. Mayor-elect, are you ready? It’s the good speech. Please don’t do your concession by accident.”
Maria barked a giddy laugh. Marcus gripped my shoulders with both hands and pulled me into a tight hug. He was liberal with his praise, but the man never touched anyone who wasn’t named Maria. His gesture destroyed the last of my defense, and an ugly-cry of epic proportions flowed faster than the drinks in the ballroom.
Maria’s hand was on my face with a tissue in a flash. “What am I going to do with you two? Come here, Joe. You look a wreck.” Her voice was filled with affection that had the opposite effect she’d sought. Before I knew it, I was wrapped in a three-way hug with the city’s next mayor and his indomitable wife.
My phone buzzed again.
“It’s time,” I said as I wiped my face and gripped the door handle. “Give ’em hell, Mr. Mayor.”
I pulled the door open and a familiar voice whipped the crowd into a frenzy. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce the next mayor of Music City, USA, Marcus Sanchez!”
My heart leapt as Marcus and Maria stepped into the spotlight and waved to their supporters. The crowd roared louder, and again, I fought back tears. I couldn’t rip my eyes away.
“Holy shit, we did it.”
My head snapped around to find Pete Cabrea, one of our senior campaign staff and my best friend. He was all teeth and wide eyes as he pulled me into a jittery, over-caffeinated hug.
“Fuck yeah, we did! The good guys finally won one.”
He laughed and pulled back, keeping his arm around my shoulders as we watched the Sanchez victory unfurl on stage. A moment later, as Marcus launched into his acceptance speech, Pete leaned over and whispered, “Who the fuck’s that on stage with them?”
“Huh? Who?”
“The hot guy in the light blue shirt with his sleeves rolled up. Look at those forearms…and that ass. Damn.”
I snorted. Pete was like a fritzed-out submarine periscope, stuck in the raised position and constantly swiveling when anything male ventured nearby. Any man with pecs, arms, or dimples—basically any man breathing—loaded his torpedo bays (or whatever the naval equivalent to an overheated sailor should be).
I knew who he was ogling, but glanced up anyway. The man standing a step behind and to the left of the podium towered over the Sanchezes at nearly six-foot-four. His sandy blond hair that looked like it wanted to curl was cropped short. His bright gray eyes never settled in one place as they danced from one cheering spectator to the next. I’d lost track of the number of times I’d heard people say they felt like the only person in the world when those eyes settled on theirs. Pete hadn’t been wrong. The light blue dress shirt clinging to the man’s chest left little question about his athleticism.
“You mean Congressman David Reese?”
“No shit. Really?”
I nodded.
“Damn. I didn’t know we had a hot congressman. Does he need campaign staff? I’ve got a hard one—”
“Pete! Can we listen to Marcus?” I feigned annoyance, but couldn’t stop a grin from forming. Nothing could dampen my mood, and Pete had a way of always making me laugh.
After an all-too-brief moment of silence, Pete asked, “What’s a congressman doing introducing a newly elected mayor? Isn’t that below his pay grade?”
I leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “Not if said congressman plans to run for governor.”
Pete’s brows rose, and his eyes drank in Reese with new appreciation.
Marcus transitioned his speech from thank-yous to first steps he planned to take once sworn in. We’d heard these points at every rally and rubber-chicken dinner for ten months. Somehow, they never got old.
“How many times have you heard this speech? Come on, look at Representative Rumpalicious.”
I hadn’t expected that, and any composure I had left vanished. I had to step away from the door to keep my laughter from being heard onstage. When I gathered myself and turned back, the good congressman’s eyes were locked onto us.
“Stare all you want. He might’ve been Mr. May in the Congressional Hottie Calendar last year, but I heard Congressman Reese is a real asshole. I worked with his staff to get him here tonight, so I can neither confirm nor deny any of that.”
Pete was undeterred and blurted a little too loudly, “Asshole or not, he’s delicious.”
“Shit. I think he heard you.” I winced and turned away from the stage again, giggling like a kid hearing a fart joke.
Pete stepped back and gave me a mocking bow. “I’m here to serve. Have fun tonight. I’m going to get smashing drunk.”
As quickly as he’d snuck up on me, Pete vanished down the hallway. He reappeared a moment later in the back of the ballroom, weaving his way toward the open bar. I shook my head as he walked away with a glass of something in both hands. Lord help the hotel staff when this night was over.
When I turned back to watch the rest of the speech, Marcus and Maria stood a step behind the podium, hands clasped and raised toward the ceiling. The crowd was a writhing mass of excitement, drunk on victory and alcohol. Everyone I could see laughed and cheered, elated at the prospect of a brighter future. Balloons fell on cue, turning the ballroom into a dance floor of motion, color, and light.
That’s when I noticed Congressman Reese. He remained a step behind my candidate, but his face held none of the enthusiasm of those before him. His head moved slowly as he surveyed the crowd, his chin turned slightly upward. He couldn’t look like more of an ass than he did in that moment.
Disgusted by his snobbish demeanor in Marcus’s moment of triumph, my eyes chose to look elsewhere. They roamed his chest, now clearly visible under his dress shirt—more so for the lack of an undershirt—then traveled down his arms to the light hair of his forearms. The stage lighting hit his backside at just the right angle to make his tight dress pants practically glow.
What are you doing, idiot? He’s a congressman—and a pompous ass. I laughed at myself, then turned to join the crowd’s celebration, but I couldn’t stop myself from giving Reese’s butt one last glance before rounding the corner.