opponents. And not just believing. He had the gift to turn followers into leaders of opinion and beguiled voters into fanatic disciples. He was Johnson’s only shot.
He opened the main entrance door to Johnson’s campaign HQ. The lively chatter ceased for a few seconds; that’s all it took the staff and volunteers to recognize him and resume their activities. He walked straight to Johnson’s office door and entered without knocking.
There he was . . . plastered again. Slouched on a two-seater couch, his tie knot loosened and top shirt button undone, a half-emptied bottle of single malt Scotch on the table in front of him. He was shitfaced this time, tears running freely on his fallen apart face. Fischer swallowed his anger and prepared himself for yet another session of babysitting, of handholding one of the lamest politicians in the history of the United States presidential runs.
“What’s the matter, Bobby?” Fischer almost sounded like he cared. He did care, deeply, for his payday. He was in this loser’s boat, and the loser had to win for him to get his millions.
“What if they don’ like me?” Johnson whimpered and slurred, reaching out with trembling hands for the single malt bottle. “Did ya hear what they said about me, the assholes? The fuckin’ assholes?”
“What did they say, Bobby?”
“That I would be a . . . a dangerous President for the American foreign policy, ‘cause I don’t know the difference b’tween South Korea and North Korea.” He sniffled. “Who does, huh? Who fuckin’ does? Aren’t they all the same?”
Fischer swallowed a bitter response to Johnson’s geopolitical dilemma.
“Bobby, Bobby, look at me. Who are you, Bobby?”
“Huh?” Bobby poured another two inches of Scotch into his glass, spilling some on the table.
“Yeah, you heard me, who are you?”
Bobby squirmed a little, then attempted an answer.
“I am Bobby Johnson, and I am running for President.”
“Damn right you are!” Fischer stood up, grabbed the glass of liquor from Johnson’s hand, and emptied it in the fireplace. The fire responded with an angry burst of flames. “So why the fuck would you care what they like and dislike? Huh?”
Johnson was not answering. Still confused and very much drunk, he needed another shock.
“Answer me, God damn you!” Fischer yelled, grabbing Johnson by his loosened tie and lifting him onto his unstable feet. “Are you a pushover? Are you a pussy?” With each question, Fischer shook Johnson a bit, enough to rattle him and dissipate some of the liquor fumes in his head. “Pussies don’t belong in the White House, you hear me?”
“Yes,” Johnson muttered.
“What did you say?” Fischer pressed on.
“Yes, pussies do not belong in the White House. You’re right.”
“So what are you gonna do, then? Huh?”
“Umm . . . Not be a pussy anymore . . . ?” Johnson’s hesitant reply came half-affirmation, half-question.
“Exactly right,” Fischer said, dropping the force in his voice to an almost normal conversation level. “So here’s what you’re gonna do.” He let go of Johnson’s collar, went straight to the whiteboard, and started scribbling.
“One,” he said, then wrote the number on the whiteboard. “Stop drinking like this. One a day and a couple before bed, but that’s all. You exceed that, I catch you drunk again, and I am out of here, got it?”
“Yes, understood,” Johnson said, swallowing hard.
“Two,” he said, writing the number under the first one, “stop acting stupid. Think before you speak. Deter questions you don’t know the answer to, and prepare for God’s sake, prepare before those interviews. You have PR support, use it! They’ll write your stuff; you make sure you understand it and memorize it. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Bobby Johnson confirmed.
“Three, start acting like the future President. Watch how you dress, how you speak, how you act. Make the people like you, trust you, and believe you. I’ll do the rest.”
“Got it,” Johnson confirmed again, subdued.
“One more question for you, but think hard before you answer.” Fischer held silent for a while, for emphasis. “What are you willing to do to become President?”
“Anything, absolutely anything.” Johnson’s alcohol-powered confidence took over, eliminating all hesitation.
“OK. Remember what you just said, because the time will come when I will ask you to do some out-of-the-ordinary things to get you there. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely clear, I will do anything you ask me to.”
Fischer scrutinized him, top to bottom, but found little reassurance. Disheveled and wobbly, a man of weak resolve and wavering commitment, demonstrating very limited practical sense, Johnson could prove real tricky to put in the White House. Maybe