My Fellow Americans

I arrive in Manchester and it’s almost over. We were delayed from San Francisco, and my luggage is late. I chew out Hank, my old body man—enough incompetence. No wonder the campaign is ending here. His eyes get watery and red, and he thinks I can’t tell he’s about to cry. Just find the bags, I need them today, I say, letting him walk away, while the press flutters over and I put on a smile. 

Hank finds our New Hampshire political director’s car and they come drag me from the gaggle. I say, that’s all for now, you’ll hear more this afternoon. 

Any comment about the debate in Kansas City? Would you consider a vice presidential offer? Is the Politico report accurate, that you’ll be dropping out? 

Hank’s grip on my arm tightens. Still I turn back to the cornfield of cell phones and faces. 

Movements don’t die, they just slumber, I say. 

Who knows what that means. I walk through the revolving door into the cold and snow. 

I never liked New Hampshire. I don’t like the people who live there. They are fattened with attention for their early primary, engorged on bullshit praise from me and my unfortunate class. I watch the highway signs roll by en route to some overfunded community college. Guns for gold…Are you a problem gambler? It’s no different from across America. It’s all the same. 

Sir—Hank is talking—Anise wants you to review the talking points, she said, lemme just read you her text, she said this is a very important speech that you have to pull off carefully to keep your standing in the party, your future…  

Hank’s voice angled from the front seat.