The Reporter p1

The Reporter

Part 1


Following a candidate for President of the United States for the thirteen months as a freelance writer had proven to be a roller coaster ride of fast ups, fast downs, curves when you were not quite ready and, mostly, a renewed belief in the motto, Expect the unexpected.

Sometime a single woman focused the media mindset on sex almost from the start, and my being from the same area of the country caused my own prominence at hushed meetings with journalists at restaurant.

Of course, I was there to get a story like everyone else so anything I said was off-the-record; all I needed was to see my name in print just once, and I'd never get another interview with the candidate.

Thursday, was one of those Indian Summer. The sky was blue with a temperature in the mid-eighties when the governor walked onto the platform at the Old State House.

Thirteen minutes into his speech he announced his candidacy to the mostly loyal 4,500 gathered under the shade trees. I had opted not to join the media on their platform, preferring to stand with the crowd and record this historic moment from the John Doe
perspective.

Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow, the Fleetwood Mac hit song,
began blaring from the loudspeakers just as the speech ended. Thirteen months later the entire nation would see the newly elected First and Second Couples dancing to the same music when they claimed victory.

Later on during the campaign the music was still blaring as hundreds of people walked the hundred yards to a fund-raising reception. I smiled when members of the national media were told they would have to contribute at least ten bucks for admittance
to the reception. It was, after all, a fund raiser.

To me, however, it was a classic political move on the candidate's part. As each ten dollar bill was pulled from pockets, wallets and purses belonging to reporters, the campaign was beginning to exercise control over those who would become crucial in he’s
attempt to unseat an incumbent president.

Rachel was trying to borrow money from her cameraman since she didn’t have her purse with her being stuck on crutches, when I moved up beside her.

"Here, darling,".

"Allow me to introduce you to the next president," I said.

Every time I reflect on the primary, I think of Rachel because that lovely Network Blond was truly, in all aspects, a fox. She had the bluest eyes; I cannot tell you how many times following that initial meeting that I lost all grasp of reality while staring deeply into those clear, Caribbean-blue windows to her soul.

But more importantly I remember a great reporter who despite a badly broken leg in a motorcycle accident, stuck in a plaster cast covering her leg from the toes to her way up her long and sexy leg and spending months on crutches. Non weight bearing cast bent at the knee because of the 4 broken bones in her right leg.

Of course I did not have to make any introduction; he knew who she was. A few minutes passed while we moved through the throng of people to a less crowded area to help her on her crutches.

"He called you Eric," Rachel said. "How well do you know him."

"I met him back in '98 when he began the successful part of his political career, and I've talked to him at dozens of functions since then. I've visited with him out at the capitol a few times and even attended a party at the mansion once."

"What sort of party," the reporter asked.

"Nothing really special. You see, once a year he had a little
punch-and-cookies party for retiring state workers, and I just happened to get invited one year," I answered.

She smiled. "You know, Eric. I think you're someone I need to keep in close touch with."

"The closer and touchier, the better," I drawled. "After all, you can count on me if you need help with your broken leg"

The cameraman caught up with us and told Rachel they needed to get some shots of her in the crowd. She excused herself, reposition her underarm crutches and moved sideways, but called back,

"Are you going on Saturday?"

"No, I plan to stay till things get going hot and heavy," I answered.

A broad smile revealed her perfect white teeth and made her even prettier.

"Okay, I'll see you later" she said. She took two steps on her crutches with her cast floating off the floor, then turned back
to find my eyes still following her.

"If not before," she added with a wink.

Rachel followed her cameraman into the crowd; I turned my attention to working the crowd: listening intently, interrupting when necessary to clarify the notes gleaned from eavesdropping. I was talking to a well-known TV producer when Rachel made her way towards me on her crutches with a smile.

Part 2 to come