“I remember,” he said. “You should go out. Have a good night. Have some fun.”
“No, don’t you get it? I can’t dress up as a Starbucks worker on the day I got fired. I’ll probably be working there for real in a couple of weeks.”
“Beth, that won’t happen. I promise.”
“Well, I’m not dressing up.”
“I think that’s fair,” Matt said. “I’m sure none of the other girls will either.” But he was wrong. When I showed up at the bar, I was the only one in regular clothes. I spent my night getting drunk with three Starbucks workers and woke up the next morning on the couch, sharing a pillow with a half-eaten piece of pizza.
—
On election day, I flew to Chicago to be with Matt. Grant Park was swarmed that night — waves of people just kept coming. The weather was unseasonably warm (we didn’t even need jackets), which somehow made it all feel a little eerie, a little surreal.
Matt was working at a cocktail party for the major donors, and he snuck me into the tent. I stood with a vodka and soda in a corner and watched everyone around me. I tried to concentrate on what I was experiencing — this is history, I kept thinking, this is important. But I was also feeling slightly sorry for my unemployed self, sipping my drink, wondering what I was going to do next.
When the election was called, all of the donors were rushed out of the tent to a roped-off area right in front of the stage to watch the speech. I was right in front, so close to the next president that it was disconcerting. But I was also aware that Oprah was standing a couple of rows behind me, and part of me wanted to move and wave her forward to take my spot, because it was clearly a huge mistake for me to be closer to the stage than she was.
During the speech, Matt and I both cried — everyone did. “This is it, Beth,” Matt said. “This is it.” I wanted to ask him what was it, but instead just held his hand. Back in the finance tent, all of the workers started drinking, tossing back vodkas and beer, and hugging, hard, throwing their arms around each other and burying their faces in necks. “We did it, man,” Matt said, whenever he hugged anyone. He kept gripping my shoulders and squeezing them like he couldn’t contain himself.
Obama came back to the tent to thank the donors for their help, and also took the time to thank all of the workers. He shook Matt’s hand and called him by name, which impressed me and made Matt start crying again. “Thank you, sir,” he said, about five times.
We went with a huge group of campaign staff to a bar, then another, and then another. I kept waiting for everyone to calm down, but if anything they got more energy as the night went on. Everyone was still screaming and crying and hugging and laughing when we finally left. At some point in the night, Matt turned to me. “I know you’re upset about your job,” he said. “But maybe this is for the best. Imagine I got a job in the administration — we could move to DC, start a whole new adventure.”
I didn’t get a chance to answer him because he was swept into a new conversation, a new round of hugs with other campaign people, and I stood there as they celebrated, just slightly off to the side. I had the feeling that you get when you find yourself at home after a day at work, but have no memory of the commute, no real idea how you arrived there.
When we stumbled back to our hotel room sometime in the early morning, I was too drunk and tired to be offended when I heard Matt say as he fell into bed, “This is the best night of my life.”
—
So, yeah, Matt told me about his aspirations right after we met. But my high school boyfriend wanted to be a rapper, and turned out to be an accountant, so I don’t think I can be blamed for not taking it all too seriously.
Chapter 5
When Matt asked if I wanted to go to Alan Chu’s birthday party, my first instinct was to say no. After a month or so of constant socializing with White House people, I felt like I needed a break. Could I really spend another night at a bar listening as Alan told me how many almonds the President had eaten that day?
“I don’t know,” I said. “I might not be up for it.”
“Are you sure?” Matt asked. “It’s just at that bar, Bobby Lew’s on Eighteenth. It’s really close to us. It’ll be fun, I think.”
It was Friday night, and Matt was still in his suit and I was wearing the yoga pants I’d had on all day. (No yoga had been done.) I may as well have been in pajamas. I didn’t especially feel like celebrating Alan, but I could see that Matt wanted me to go and thought it would be good to put on real clothes for at least a little while. So I agreed, telling myself that if the party was really awful I could just have one drink and be home within the hour.
—
Bobby Lew’s was about as divey as you can get and already fairly crowded. Matt and I made our way to the bar to get a couple of beers and then Matt turned around and surveyed the crowd, which was a new habit of his that sort of disturbed me. It looked like he was searching for the most appealing person to talk to, like he was rating everyone.
“I’m glad you came,” Matt said, leaning down to kiss me.
“Me too,” I said.
Alan came over to us then, and I said happy birthday to him, and he gave me a look like I was familiar but he couldn’t quite place me.
“Is Brett here?” I asked.
Alan blinked several times and then said stiffly, “Brett and I are no longer together.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, but really I was happy for Brett. He was free. He’d never again have to listen to Alan talk about the President before they fell asleep at night.
“Let’s get you a birthday drink,” Matt said to Alan, turning to signal the bartender. I squeezed his arm, thankful for the change of subject, and he winked at me, quickly.
—
I heard Ashleigh Dillon before I met her. She was standing in the middle of a group of guys, and her voice carried across the bar as she laughed and said, “Y’all are so bad.” Even if she hadn’t been so loud, I would’ve noticed her because of how she was dressed — in a belted red and white polka-dot dress with a full skirt. Her blond hair was curled and pinned back on the sides and she was wearing bright red lipstick and heels so high it made my feet ache just to look at them. Her whole look was a little old-fashioned, like she was trying to mimic an old-time movie star.
The guy standing next to her was tall with shaggy brown hair that curled at the ends, like he was in need of a haircut. He was wearing a suit like most of the other guys there (they’d all come right from work), but he’d taken off his tie and shoved it in one of his pockets, and it was hanging out in a careless way like it was going to be on the floor pretty soon. I noticed then that although Ashleigh was standing in the middle of the group, everyone was turned toward the guy with the shaggy hair, like they were orbiting around him. Matt saw me looking over at them, and leaned down to whisper to me, “That’s Jimmy Dillon, he works in the White House travel office. He’s from Texas. I’ll introduce you.”
I blushed because I’d been caught staring at Jimmy, who was unquestionably handsome, but Matt didn’t seem to think anything of it. He started over toward them and I followed, and when we got close, I saw Jimmy reach down and lightly pat Ashleigh’s butt with his hand and then squeeze it. It surprised me so much that I said, “Oh!” and the two of them turned to look at us. I blushed again, like I was the one caught groping in public.
“Jimmy, this is my wife, Beth,” Matt said. I had my hand out ready to shake his, when he leaned down to hug me.
“Hey,” he said. He smiled like he’d been waiting to meet me all night, and instead of releasing me from the hug, he shifted me to his side and kept his arm around my shoulder. “Kelly,” he said to Matt. “This pretty young thing can’t really be your wife.” He turned to me. “What are you doing with this guy?”