January 2015, Washington, D.C.
Stefan sat staring at the door, drumming the table with his fingers. He glimpsed at his Patek Phillipe watch. Liz was coming straight to Sonoma Restaurant and Wine Bar from the meeting with Podesta. She was already ten minutes late. It was another five before she arrived.
Her skinny legs, clad in fitted black pants, stuck out from under a boxy jacket that made her already broad shoulders even broader. He thought, not for the first time, just how much she resembled SpongeBob. He stood as she approached.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she slumped into her chair. “John was in rare form.”
“Ah. Skippy the evil twin?” Stefan asked sympathetically, straightening his Zegna suit jacket as he resumed his seat.
“He’s worried about the Republican field.” She picked up the menu and continued to talk while she glanced at it. “They’re looking at such an unbelievable deep bench. He wants us to figure out how to throw a wrench in things, and stat.”
Stefan took a breadstick from the basket at the center of the table and examined it carefully.
“You think this is gluten free?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try one.” Liz grabbed a breadstick, took a huge bite and shook her head. “Tastes good, so probably not.”
“Damn,” Stefan sighed, returning his uneaten breadstick to the basket. “What exactly does Podesta expect us to do?”
“I don’t know,” Liz said with a resigned sigh. “Something big. We have to get people talking about something, anything, other than Hillary. I did have one thought—maybe we get someone outrageous to run as a Republican. Someone who would take all the oxygen out of the room, like a movie star or something.”
“You can’t find anyone in Hollywood who’ll pretend to be a Republican. It’s too dangerous for them.”
“What about Clint Eastwood?” Liz said, as the waitress approached the table.
“Bad idea. He might actually win.”
“Do you all know what you want?” The waitress asked, casting a wary eye at Stefan, who was peering at the menu as if trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone.
“The Oma cheese…cruelty free?” Stefan asked, looking up at her over the rim of his Mykita glasses.
“Of course.”
“And the watermelon salad? Locally sourced?”
“Yes,” the waitress said, unable to contain a sigh.
“What about the mushroom burger. Gluten free?”
“Jesus, Ben,” Liz cut in, rolling her eyes. “Only Democrats eat here. You’re safe,”
“Okay, mushroom burger,” Stefan said.
“What do you recommend?” Liz asked the waitress.
“The real burger. Rare.” The waitress said, her mutinous tone flying over both Stefan and Liz’s heads.
“I’ll have the spinach omelet.”
“Wait, what about Trump?” Stefan asked after the waitress walked away.
“He’s not even a Republican,” Liz said. “He gave Hillary money, for crying out loud.”
“True…” Stefan admitted, though his tone and knitted brow suggested he hadn’t completely abandoned the notion. After a moment, he added, “But you know he’d love to help Hillary. The guy could get away with it, too. He’ll say absolutely anything. He is completely lacking in healthy shame.”
He watched as Liz’s skeptical expression was slowly replaced by a sly smile, and a glint appeared in her eye.
“You know what else he is completely lacking?” She leaned forward conspiratorially.
“What?”
“Money. I hear he’s almost broke again.”
“Yeah, but can’t he just slap his name on some greasy steaks or another vitamin pyramid scheme?”
“Nope,” Liz shook her head, her grin now triumphant. “Not now. He’s got a problem with that Trump University con. Stefan, I seriously think we might have our guy.”
“What would be in it for him?” Stefan asked.
“Well, besides the obvious—his ego—he can pay himself out of campaign funds, do stuff at Mar-a-Lago, dole out in salaries to himself and his kids,” Liz said, waving her hand dismissively. “But the main thing is, he’s dying to start a television network. This would be great publicity.”
“Good point,” Stefan said. “So we just need to figure out some segment of the electorate for him to target.”
“Yep. Then he’ll do his crowd hypnosis-y thing. He’s genius at it. Ivana said he used to read Hitler’s speeches. The other candidates won’t know what’s hit them until it’s too late.”
Liz and Stefan continued plotting while they waited for their food, talking through the segments of the electorate where Romney had underperformed. Hispanics were out, because of the likelihood of Cruz and Rubio running. Stefan’s joking suggestion of evangelicals elicited an unladylike snort from Liz.
“I think he’d probably do well with the Reagan Democrats,” Liz said, finally.
“What, man of the people? Please.”
“No, I’m serious,” Liz insisted. “He can pull it off. You know Trump. They’ll love all his bombast, and he looks like the definition of success. Plus, he can make it all about immigration, which is a great fault line to exploit.”
Stefan began to nod slowly.
“He’ll say so much outrageous stuff, they won’t know what to do. He’ll own the media in the primary,” Stefan said. “No other candidate will get any coverage.”
“And then in the general…” Liz paused and let Stefan finish the thought.
“And in the general, the media will ‘learn how to cover him,'” Stefan smiled and lifted his fingers in air quotes. “And what’s even better, the guy won’t be able to raise any money.”
“And by the time the GOP figures it out, it will be too late,” Liz said. She began to cackle gleefully. Stefan joined in, so by the time the waitress arrived with their food, they were both doubled over, tears streaming from their eyes.
“No one will even talk about Hillary!” Liz finally managed, and they both dissolved in laughter again.
