AS RAY SAT in his car with the engine running, ready to leave the parking lot of Mitch's townhouse, he contemplated and understood his complex friendship with Dr. Mitchell Bradley. He understood what Mitch meant about teaching. Mitch taught him so much. Three years ago when Mitch walked into his office and suggested this crazy idea, he never thought it would have manifested into this. As he sat in his driver's seat, revving his engine, warming his heater as it still blew moderately cool air from the vents of his Mercedes from the previous model year, he humbly understood that he owed his victory to the mind and efforts of his lifelong friend.
He reminisced about the day Mitch convinced him to run for office.
He reminisced about his political campaign.
He reminisced about winning a campaign with his friend.
* * * * * * *
"Lunch?" Mitch said cheerfully as he crooked his head around a half-open door and into the office of civil rights attorney Ray Doyle.
"Seriously?" Ray said as he looked up from the endless stacks of briefs he was studying. He hated this part of the job, but being one of the most well-known civil rights attorneys in the Midwest was, as Ray felt, well-worth the hours of reading through paperwork.
"Let's go; we need to talk," Mitch uttered quickly. "Your clients can wait."
"My clients?" Ray shot back. "What about your students? Don't you have class?"
"Eh, I canceled class," Mitch said casually. "I can do that. I have tenure." The amount of mischievousness in Mitch's smile was only matched by his tone-of-voice.
"Fine, just let me finish this," Ray said, pleasantly annoyed by his friend. "What's this 'Idea' you have?"
Mitch stepped all the way into the office and closed the door behind him, tip-toeing toward Ray's desk like Odysseus, afraid to awaken the Cyclopes. Ray glanced up and gave Mitch an odd look.
"Remember," Mitch whispered, "that time in college when we got hammered with those two girls from Georgetown during Spring Break in Panama City?
"Why are we whispering?" Ray asked in a mocking whisper of his own.
"Shhh!" Do you remember what we talked about?" Mitch became comically insistent.
"Um, no," Ray replied. "I remember talking to two very hot girls from Georgetown, I was wasted, you were wasted, you scored, I didn't." Ray was talking normal now, back to sifting through documents.
"Come on, man," Mitch said, sounding a bit deflated. "One of them asked us what it would take for us to visit D.C. and I said that the only way we'd set foot in D.C. was if one of us had been elected to Congress." Mitch paused. "Remember now?"
"Oh, yeah," Ray said with a half-reminiscent grin, "vaguely." Then, Ray froze. He knew Mitch well enough to know this line of questioning had to be going somewhere. A sudden smile appeared on Ray's face. "Wait, are you going to run for office?" Ray asked Mitch, waiting for the response he expected, but not getting it.
"Nope," Mitch said with cheerful staccato. "You are."
"D.C.?" Ray said, an octave higher than his normal speaking voice. "I think not, bro."
"No, Jeff City, then D.C." Mitch stood up. "You will grow up to be Congressman Doyle!"
Ray was not mirroring Mitch's enthusiasm. "Why don't you run for office, Mr. PolySci PhD?" He did not look up from his stack of papers as he spoke.
"Because I'm not electable," Mitch replied. "You are!" Mitch paused. "I'm just another liberal academic know-it-all, but you're a well-respected civil rights attorney. People will think I'm just an over-educated elitist, but they'll see you as a grassroots man of the people!"
"You're insane," Ray replied, trying not to sound dismissive, but failing.
"That very well may be," Mitch said with mocking contemplation, "but we shall see. Now — us — lunch — now."
Ray looked up from the career on his desk and smiled at his lifelong best friend. "You're not talking me into this," Ray said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"You've been saying that for over thirty years." Mitch replied with confidence.
Three weeks later, Ray found himself sitting in their first meeting with campaign volunteers.
The room began to fill up as Mitch and Ray stood at the back of the conference room in Ray's law firm office. What was anticipated to be a cozy group of fifteen or twenty ended up being a crowded group of forty. Campaign volunteers trickled in rather consistently around 6:45 leading up to the 7PM meeting. This, however, worked in Mitch's favor; he could stand unnoticed in the back of the room as Ray welcomed and thanked the volunteers who would help Ray campaign for the Missouri State House of Representatives.
"Welcome," Ray said, using his courtroom voice for the meeting. "Thank you all for showing up; this turnout is incredible." Ray smiled through the crowd at Mitch, who responded with an impish grin. "You know," Ray continued as he spoke to the crowded room full of people, "when I decided to undertake this endeavor, I wasn't sure how much I — a Democrat — would be supported, seeing as how we're in the conservative Republican Midwest. But seeing all of you here tonight is very encouraging."
An impromptu round of applause broke out; Mitch and Ray couldn't help but smile.
"I'll try to make this quick," Ray continued, seeing some of the discomfort in the room full of people, crowded around the long conference room table; surely the fire code was being violated. "Let me introduce you to my campaign manager." Ray took a breath.
Mitch looked away.
"Leading the charge for the next year," Ray said, "is my good friend, Mark O'Brien."
A tall, youthful, dark-haired fit man to Ray's right took a step forward and waved his hand.
"Mark will be heading-up the campaign, so if you have any questions, ask him." Ray again looked at Mitch and Mitch nodded. All three men — Mitch, Ray, and Mark — knew who the real campaign manager was, but for the sake of optics, it was officially Mark. Mark agreed to this and was fine with it. He was a high school social studies teacher who jumped at the chance to dip into real politics. Although his official title was "Campaign Manager," he was essentially Mitch's assistant and had once been Mitch's student at Merriam University. Those three men were the only people who knew the true and tricky dynamic of the campaign.
As Mitch stood quietly in the back-left corner of the room, Ray and Mark spent the next hour speaking discussing and assigning responsibilities and duties to the group of volunteers — a noticeably diverse group, encompassing the spectrums of race, gender, and economic class. The people were grouped in different offices around the building, discussing advertising, phone campaigning, door-to-door campaigning, get-out-the-vote efforts, fund raising, and more. And at after about an hour, the full group reassembled for a brief discussion Ray wanted to have with all his volunteers.
"Okay," he said to the reassembled group, bringing them to a casual sense of order, "there's one issue I want to specifically address before you go."
The group grew quiet, interested in this topic of discussion.
"I am a Liberal," Ray said proudly, just as Mitch had advised him to say it. "Part of this campaign will be my effort to take-back the word Liberal."
The group's collective facial expressions displayed slight confusion.
"Throughout our campaign," Ray continued, "people are going to be calling me — and by connection, you — a Liberal, as though Liberal is a bad thing." He paused, searching the faces in the crowd for comprehension. "I am a Liberal, not a leftist."
Further confusion filled the faces in the room; except for Mitch and Mark, who knew where this dialogue was going.
"As a resident of Missouri," Ray said, beginning his soliloquy, "it's dangerous for me to make that statement, but I'm going to say it anyway. I'm a Liberal. And in addition, I am a very passive Liberal. The 'Christian-Right' has tried to demonize the word Liberal, but the truth is, Liberal simply means accepting, giving, and charitable — even if Ann Coulter wants the world to believe that Liberal means pro-abortion, anti-gun, pro-LGBTQ, etc. But the truth is, true Liberals aren't pro-anything in that context. The true Liberal attitude is, 'You do your thing, I'll do mine, and all is well.' That's one of the messages of our campaign."
As he spoke, nods of understanding began to bob throughout the room. So, now that Ray had some comprehension, he decided to expand his point.
Mitch gave him a nod of approval.
"The Christian-Right," Ray continued, "has confused Liberalism with the leftist ideology. But since Liberal has become such a Fox News buzzword in recent years, it has become a misused moniker, and often an insult." More nods in the room commenced. "And," Ray said, taking a breath of confidence, "most people who label themselves as Liberals aren't Liberals at all; they're leftists — people who are deliberately and outwardly pro-choice, anti-gun, pro-gay, etc. And being a leftist is neither right nor wrong – it's merely a differing perspective from the Christian-Right; but it isn't Liberalism."
Nods from the group turned into smiles, and smiles turned into words of affirmation. "Yep," could be heard; "Exactly," was said a few times.
"In essence," Ray said, bringing his monologue to a close, "we Liberals have our own personal beliefs, which vary greatly and cover all aspects of the moral and political spectrum; but we're fine with everyone else believing whatever they want. There are Liberal Christians, Liberal Muslims, Liberal Atheists, and Liberal Agnostics. There are Liberals who would consider an abortion and there are Liberals who would never consider an abortion. There are Liberals who own guns and Liberals who don't. There are straight Liberals and gay Liberals. It all depends on the individual." Ray smiled as he realized he sounded like he was making a campaign speech. "Liberals believe what we believe, and we really don't care what others believe; we accept it as their own individual perspective, and it's really no big deal. But the Right and the Left seem to thrive on their opposing rivalries, building a seemingly-endless sense of hate, fighting, and occasional violence. They think one side is correct and valid; and the other side is wrong, ignorant, misled and full of hate. Both sides believe the other side should think exactly as they do, otherwise they are wrong." Ray paused, ready to make his final point. "True Liberals don't think that way; true Liberals believe in the individualism of the mind, none being more valid or "correct" than anyone else. And that, my friends, is how to respond when someone calls me or you a Liberal, especially if they mean it as an insult. And if it happens, give them a short description as to why I'm a Liberal, not a Leftist."
A solitary hand raised. "Well," a woman said, "what do we say to people who ask about your opinions? Abortion or guns or stuff like that?"
"Here," Mark said, standing up with a stack of tri-folded pieces of paper, "this is our campaign brochure. It lines-out all of Ray's stances on major issues."
"But," Ray said, interjecting a quick point, "for the record, since those are probably the two issues you'll be asked about the most, I'm pro-life and I support the second amendment with the exception of assault rifles."
"Any questions?" Mark asked the group; with no further inquiries, he handed each volunteer a stack of brochures, Ray and Mark thanked them, and they made their way out.
About half-an-hour later, as the crowd had finally emptied the conference room, only Mitch, Ray, and Mark remained.
"Good job," Mitch said to Ray, putting a chummy hand on his shoulder. "Your Liberal/Leftist speech was perfect; just as we rehearsed."
"Where do you come up with this stuff," Mark asked Mitch, "because I hadn't even considered there being a difference between Liberal and Leftist."
"It's in his book," Ray said, answering for Mitch.
"That's good stuff," Mark said. "I'll have to use some of that in my senior government class. Where can I get a copy?"
"Well," Mitch said, raising his eyebrows, "I think you can get it somewhere online maybe, but I've got boxes of them in my basement."
Mark nodded.
"Well," Ray said, "are we ready to do this?"
"Yep," Mitch said, "let's make you a politician."
The next eleven months seemed to pass too quickly. The whirlwind of campaign events, volunteer functions, parades, debates, speeches, and public appearances filled nearly every day of Ray's calendar. And Mitch, playing the part of the interested friend rather than his actual function, pulled every string behind-the-scenes, making vital strategic campaign decisions as he, Mark, and Ray drove toward the end-goal of getting Ray elected to office. Mitch's brilliant (yet unseen) campaign strategizing was far-beyond anything Ray's opponent had in his corner. Until that election, the same Republican politician had been elected to that district's house seat every two years for over a decade, and in many of his elections, he ran unopposed. So having to compete with a Democrat who had a top-level political strategist (unbeknownst to anyone, of course) was more than the Republican was ready for, more than he could afford, and ended up being more than he could handle.
The grassroots movement in that small district ended up making national news in the week leading up to the election as it looked like a rookie Democrat was about to unseat a shoe-in republican who held the same seat for twelve years.
The late afternoon of election day was quite eventful for the campaign volunteers, making calls to registered voters and even volunteering to give them rides to polling stations. There was so much to do for everyone, except Ray. All the campaigning was done, all the speeches were done, all the debates were done, all the hand shaking was done — all he could do was wait, so wait he did. He tried to get some work done in his office, but his mind was nowhere near his job at the moment. He was hopeful, but unsure of his chances. The race wasn't big enough to necessitate any polling data, so he had no idea where he stood. All he could do was gauge his chances by the feedback he received during the campaign and the attention he'd gotten from the national media in recent weeks.
"Shit," he said to himself, for lack of anything better to say to his empty office.
He pulled his iPhone from his desk drawer scrolled to Mitch's phone number. Mitch answered, knowing exactly how Ray was feeling.
"Restless as hell, aren't you," Mitch said matter-of-factly.
"Very," Ray replied.
"I know, bro," Mitch said to him with confidence.
"The last ten months is a blur," Ray said, gazing through his mind's retrospectiscope.
"Win or lose," Mitch said, "you've really done something here. You gave a state-level republican in a Midwest city a run for his money."
"Yeah," Ray said, "I guess."
"Don't guess," Mitch said, "know.
"What happens next?" Ray asked.
"Let's see the results before we start thinking about the future," Mitch told him in a tone of reaffirmation. "Anything is possible."
Ray hung up his phone and placed it carefully and perpendicularly on his desk. He watched the hands on his office clock tick-tock slowly.
It was After 3PM.
In a few hours, he would learn his fate: He would win.
* * * * * * *
"Son of a bitch," Ray whispered to himself under his breath. The heater in his Mercedes was finally warm as he sat in the parking lot of Mitch's townhome complex. Ray grinned. "I'm glad I let him talk me into this — and damn that campaign was a wild ride — but damn, I'm scared."
There was no reply from the empty car or the newly-heated air, so Ray shifted his car into gear and drove toward the driveway of his friend's townhouse parking lot. He clicked on his left-hand turn signal and waited. The black Ford Explorer in front of him was turning right.