I love the campaign trail. Especially when we hit three or four places in one day. It is exhausting, but it's fun, in an odd sort of way.
Donna claims it's a manifestation of my ego's need for public adulation.
Anyway, today is a three-stop day. Starting in the happening town of Sioux City, Iowa moving north to Fargo, North Dakota and finishing the day back in Iowa at the Iowa State Fair in Des Moines.
CJ is far too excited about the last stop. Something about a butter statue. Honestly? I didn't care enough to listen; I just got her wound up about it and left her with Sam.
I'm going over polling numbers for the places we're stopping when Donna plops herself into the seat next to me.
"Here."
She takes the printouts from my hands and replaces them with a cream cheese muffin and a bottle of chocolate milk. She wants something. The only time she brings me food on Air Force One is when she wants something from me.
"Now, explain this thing to me again."
See? I swallow a mouthful of muffin. "Which thing?"
"The first thing."
"We're stopping in Sioux City to announce the FAA is changing the city's airport code."
"But why do we have to do this?"
Donna is very whiny, and slightly snarky, this morning. It's a combination of exhaustion, this is the ninth one-day campaign trip in the past 15 days, and PMS. What? I sleep with her; I know when it's that time of the month. I am the chocolate fudge brownie ice cream king.
"The city has been petitioning for this change for almost twenty years. We're making the announcement to show their concerns matter to us."
"This was your last cheese day assignment, wasn't it?" she accuses.
"Actually, it was mine," Sam admits, landing in the seat across from Donna, having finally escaped from CJ and her tales of butter sculptures. "I left her with Toby and Ginger," he says, answering my look.
"It's an airport code, Sam," Donna whines.
I answer for him. "Yes, Donna. It's an airport code. It's also a big deal to the people of the mighty metropolis of Sioux City, Iowa."
She smacks me on the shoulder. "Stop mocking me, Joshua."
"If the airport code for your city was sucks, it'd be a big deal to you, too," I reply.
She looks at me in confusion. "Sucks?"
Sam sits there smirking. He told me about this over drinks a couple of weeks ago; bourbon actually came out of my nose.
"S-U-X."
"It is not." Donna looks at Sam for confirmation. He nods his head and she busts out laughing. "Wasn't there a huge plane crash here a few years ago?"
"Sucks to land in Sioux City?" I quip.
Toby groans, taking the seat next to Sam. "United Flight 232 crash-landed at Sioux City Gateway Airport in July of 1989, killing 111 of 296 on board. The official cause was catastrophic engine failure. The pilot was hailed as a hero for managing to crash it without killing everyone."
Even Donna, queen of the inane factoids, turns to gape at him.
"Why do you know that?" Sam asks.
"It's in the press packet we're releasing. Since someone, who shall remain nameless, left me with CJ, it was either read that or pay attention to a recitation of the merits of Duffy Lyons, Butter Cow Lady."
***
The change in the airport code goes over better than anyone could have hoped for. A large woman, wearing a floral print shirt, actually kissed Sam when the President said the new code would be S-X-Y. Hell of an improvement, isn't it? From sucks to sexy?
Yeah.
I'm going to remember two things about Sioux City. The woman in the floral print shirt and the stench. Sioux City smells like the Hudson River in July. One of the airport people tried to explain it, but all I understood was something about the humidity, a livestock market and a slaughterhouse.
An hour after we land, we're airborne again. This time we're heading for Hector International Airport in Fargo, North Dakota. If, by chance you care, its airport code is FAR.
We did some shuffling of the National Parks funding, taking about $12 million dollars from Mount Rushmore's operating budget and establishing a sort of mini-National Park around the geographical center of North America. Normally, we would do something like this in the state capital, which is Bismarck, or at the new park, which is literally in the middle of nowhere.
Leo picked Fargo because, and I'm quoting here, "the President really liked the movie." Me? I tried to watch it three times, fell asleep every time.
The park goes over better than the S-U-X change. I was evidently in a coma when the blood feud between North and South Dakota was declared. There's cheering, sign-waving, even a wood chipper. I'm hoping whatever it's for happens after we get back on the airplane.
Sam got kissed again by yet another large woman in a floral shirt. He still looks slightly green. Settling into our seats for the brief flight to Des Moines, he glares at me.
"I am so going to get you for that."
I feign innocence. It doesn't work because Sam continues to stare at me.
"What?"
"You paid that woman $20 to kiss me in front of that photographer," he accuses.
"I paid that woman $100 to kiss you in front to that photographer," I correct.
"I'm getting you for that."
He stalks away after take-off and I don't see him again until after we land. Des Moines is actually our main stop today. We've got lunch at some local diner, a campaign rally in downtown and then a meet and greet thing at the State Fair, that part is freaking out the Secret Service.
The local diner, decorated with a corny 50s atmosphere, is this place that's evidently renowned for the pouring of milkshakes into glasses that are perched on top of one's head and for its hamburgers. This is one of those things we do for the local media, they get to send in a pool still photographer, TV photographer, a print reporter and a TV reporter; we get lunch.
Donna, Ginger, Sam and I grab a table, waiting for CJ to finish her little pep talk to the press pool and join us. She and the waitress show up together. Sam, after discussing the milkshake pouring tradition with the waitress, orders a caramel chocolate fudge one with his burger; I'm trying to figure out what the hell Maytag blue cheese is and if I want to eat it.
The food is good; whatever the cheese is, it is edible and the meat wasn't mooing. We're almost done when our waitress comes back with Sam's milkshake and an expectant look on her face. Sam nods in my direction and I'm handed the glass.
"Just hold it over your head, honey," she tells me, getting up on a chair.
I am a dead man, but I'm also the center of attention. "I have to know two things before you do this," I look up at her.
"Sure thing."
"Have you ever missed?"
"No, but there's a first time for everything."
Sam is smirking at me, the bastard.
"Tell me this cost him more than $100."
"I never kiss and tell," she informs me before proceeding to dump the entire shake on my head.
The diner erupts in laughter. All I can really do is sit there, caramel chocolate fudge ice cream dripping off my nose. Donna leans over and scoops a finger-full off my neck, tasting it.
"Not bad," she giggles.
When the ruckus subsides, the waitress is kind enough to bring me a towel.
"You owe me for the dry cleaning, asshole." I inform Sam, who probably peed his pants; he's been laughing so hard.
Bartlet and Leo pick that moment to wander over and survey the scene. Shaking his head at me, the President starts to laugh.
"Did you bring an overnight bag?" Leo asks.
"No, I didn't anticipate wearing a milkshake."
"We've got a suite at the hotel across the street. Go shower. Donna, I think there's a department store down here somewhere. Find him some clothes. It can be casual, we're going to the Fair next anyway."
"What about the rally?"
"I think we can cover it without you," Bartlet states, finally catching his breath.
The diner manager decides he needs to apologize as we head out the door.
"Don't worry about it," I tell the guy, pointing at Sam. "His wallet is considerable lighter for it, I'm sure."
Walking out the door, I realize I'm going to need new everything: pants, boxers, shoes. Donna looks me up and down before heading to the store. I fear what I'll be wearing for the rest of the day.
Donna isn't back when I get out of the shower, so I sprawl out on the bed naked and flip the TV on. It's only been twenty minutes since I had a milkshake dumped on my head and the video is already on CNN. Along with a comment from the Ritchie campaign about the "sophomoric, frat boy practical jokes" being displayed by the Bartlet staffers.
I quickly dig my cellphone out of my ruined pants to let CJ know, so we don't get blindsided by some overeager local reporter.
I'm hanging up with Leo, who told me he had it covered, as Donna walks in carrying two bags.
"What did you get me?" I flop back onto the bed.
She tosses me one bag, then heads into the bathroom with the other. I dig through it: khaki cargo shorts, a white, short-sleeved polo shirt, a new pair of Birkenstocks and
"DONNA!"
It's a couple of moments before she comes out of the bathroom wearing a pair of those just-above-the-ankle pants and a light blue halter-top.
"What?"
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Not that I don't appreciate that outfit, but"
"Josh!" She interrupts me by holding up a short-sleeved, white, cotton blouse. I should have known she'd have gotten something to put over that rather revealing halter-top.
"Okay. So why are there little pink pigs all over these boxers?"
Donna's digging through a closet, looking for an iron. "Because I thought they were cute," she slams the ironing board down. "Obviously, I was wrong."
Oh shit. I slip the boxers on, tags and all, before crossing the room to her. There's a little vanity outside the bathroom, with a mirror and an outlet where she is trying to plug the iron in. Her back is to me, her posture radiating tension and the mirror shows me how near tears she is. I wrap my arms around her waist and hug her close, trying to ease some of her anxiety away.
"What's the matter?" I whisper in her ear.
She drops the iron, turning around in my arms. "I'm tired, Josh. I've got cramps and I'm bloating," Donna sobs, resting her head on my chest and suddenly bursting into tears. It's PMS mood-swing day to go with the cramps. The cramps I have a surefire cure for. Granted, I'm kind of promised Leo that Donna and I wouldn't fool around on the campaign trail, but this is a medical emergency.
Right?
Raising her chin, I give her a deep kiss. "The speech Sam wrote is like an hour long."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Is anyone coming back to the room?" She leans around me to look at the bed.
"Wanna do it against the wall, just in case?" I raise my eyebrows at her, causing her laugh.
She runs her hands over my bare chest. "You are absolutely incorrigible."
"I thought I was insatiable."
After breaking our kiss to take her pants off, Donna hops up on the ledge. We've become accomplished in the art of the mutually satisfying quickie and taking it where we can get it.
I'm taking it where I can get it.
***
"Damn it!" Donna catches a glimpse of the clock over my shoulder. "We've got to get dressed."
She irons her shirt quickly and gets dressed again. It takes me two minutes to get dressed and shove my suit into one of the bags. To keep out of her way, I sit back down on the bed and watch the rest of Bartlet's speech. He's getting a great reception. Finishing up, he mentions how much fun the staff is having in Des Moines and he hopes they'll understand if even politicians occasionally stoop to sophomoric, frat boy practical jokes for a laugh every now and then.
"Ready?" Donna asks. I stand up and we head downstairs to meet everyone else in the lobby.
***
"Wow."
"Josh!" Donna's exasperated with me already. We've only been here ten minutes.
Leo told us on the ride over that we had to tour the hog barn with the President, but then he was cutting us all loose for the rest of the day. We have six hours free, once we're done here. In the hog barn. Where Toby and I are staring, open-mouthed, at the largest set of potential Rocky Mountain Oysters we have ever seen.
They are attached to the winner of the "Biggest Boar" competition. The thing is huge.
Donna finally pries us away from the boar and we head out into the sweltering heat and humidity. She and I are the only ones who are remotely comfortable. Looking at Sam, who's wearing a blue, sweat-soaked, dress shirt, I drape my arm around Donna's shoulders. "Hey, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for the milkshake earlier."
Toby stops our banter before it can start. "Can we get away from the stench, please?"
Wandering the Fairgrounds, we encounter a wide variety of human beings, a wider variety of entertainment and an absolutely astounding array of food. Most of which seems to be on a stick. There are corn dogs, cotton candy, bratwursts, ice cream, chocolate dipped bananas and, my personal favorite, deep-fried cheese. Donna had to have one of those.
Never mind, we just found pork chops on sticks. That takes the cake.
Two hours of walking around, sucking down $4 lemonades to ward off dehydration and we still haven't found CJ's butter cow. We've been recruited by the Iowa National Guard, the Iowa State Patrol, the FBI, INS and DEA, but no butter cow. I finally grab one of the state troopers patrolling the Fair and ask for directions.
***
"It's a cow," Toby continues to insist. We're currently standing in front of a glass display case, looking at a life-sized cow made from chicken wire and, well, butter.
"It's a Guernsey," Donna chimes in. At my disbelieving look, she points at a sign that explains what type of cow it is.
"Toby, it's hand-sculpted out of butter," CJ gushes.
Sam wandered off a few minutes ago, looking bored. He comes back looking excited. "There's something called a Bud Tent' on this map I got."
He and I look at each other. "One would assume they serve Bud there," he continues.
I've got a huge grin on my face. "Let's get drunk and tour the midway."
CJ moans at the thought. "Oh my God."
Beer at the Bud Tent is $5 for one of those 16 ounce plastic cups. $40 later, Donna and I are hell bent to tour the midway. Sam, CJ and Toby seem content to stay where they're at.
I'm half-wasted and not thinking clearly when I agree to go on the double Ferris Wheel. I hate Ferris wheels. It's that whole vertigo/heights thing. Donna has to pry my hands off the bar by making out with me at the top. I then proceed to blow twenty bucks at one of those stupid carney games winning a giant, stuffed pig for my fiancée.
We haven't been too careful about public displays of affection this afternoon, but Leo specifically told us we were off the clock. Which is the only reason why we have our arms around each other's waists, her head resting on my shoulder, when we approach the President's group at 8 o'clock. He seems like he's in a good mood, so neither of us lets go.
"Ah, Josh and Donna!" Bartlet greets us. "Have a good time?"
"Yes, sir," we answer together.
"That's a very nice pig, Donna. How long did it take him to win that?" The grin on his face can't get any wider. When I blush, he inexplicably lets it go. Thank God, because Toby, Sam and CJ reappear, looking the worse for wear.
Toby speaks up, glaring at Sam, before anyone can ask a question. "Never, ever do the bungee swing with a man who's been drinking."
***
Sadly, Stella's Blue Sky Diner has poured its last malt. The restaurant went out of business shortly after this story was written. The owner is looking for a buyer. Stella's Blue Sky Diner poured milkshakes & malts onto to the heads of all kinds of people (they hardly ever miss) including former President Bill Clinton during the 1996 Iowa Caucuses.