The Advisor Read online

  This answer seemed to satisfy Cady, as it proved that I was at least proficient in civics and how the U.S. government actually worked. It also confirmed my loyalty to the Constitution of the United States of America. Middle America ate that stuff up, regardless of the candidate. So things went for nearly a half-hour. A dance. Back and forth between a potential presidential candidate and a journalist hoping to find a weak spot in the armor. Anything to make a nice, eye-grabbing, clickable headline for the Des Moines Article. As I’d been training my whole life—and especially since announcing my candidacy for the Democratic nominee, I parried and feinted, answering questions, proposing solutions, side-stepping grenades, making myself likable, approachable, and knowledgeable. All of the things that American citizens loved in their presidential candidates—especially the ones that they voted for in election cycles.

  “Just a few more questions, Nathan,” Cady announced after our half-hour dance was coming to an end. “President Trump is known for his debate style, and—”

  “Petulant child denied a toy at the store?” I suggested.

  She chuckled.

  “—and I was wondering how you will handle that? He is not afraid to go low.”

  “I’m not afraid of President Trump.” I smiled. “I don’t like resorting to name-calling and low-blows. If I’m fortunate enough to meet President Trump on a debate stage—and I relish the thought—I will give back as good as I get. I would hope he’d expect that. I will be civil. Until it’s no longer time to be civil. He can start a fight, but I can finish one.”

  Cady continued jotting, a smile on her face.

  “I’m not the type of person who can be backed into a corner,” I added, reaching for my coffee cup, which was, unsurprisingly, still full.

  “Last question,” Cady announced with finality. “I need to ask you about Justine Pearson.”

  Unintentionally, I faltered, nearly knocking over my coffee cup.

  So, a third-rate journalist from Podunk, Iowa, found that I could, indeed, be backed into a corner.

  Chapter 2

  Timothy

  Hello, Tuniverse!

  Sorting through the clips I’d selected for the video was getting old. Throughout the early morning, I’d viewed, reviewed, edited, and clipped together a thirty-minute video out of hours upon hours of footage I had taken over the previous week. Getting into the home stretch of finishing the video left me feeling both elated and exhausted. People think that being a Social Media Influencer and running your own highly successful YouTube channel is a dream come true. Millions of social media followers and subscribers comprising a loyal and fanatical fanbase, willing to jump to action like the laziest army ever seems desirable. Mostly, it’s just a lot of work. Creating unique and engaging content for YouTube, Snapchat, Instagram—even Facebook and Twitter, though only Boomers still use those platforms—is downright exhausting at times. The funny aspect? Part of my job is to make it seem like I’m never working. An influencer works all day long to put forth the appearance that all they do is shop, travel, eat Instagrammable food, and have all of the best clothes and gadgets before everyone else does. It’s the most exhausting thing in the world—keeping up the appearance.

  Don’t get me wrong, my job is great compared to most people’s. I don’t answer to anyone but my followers. I don’t punch a time clock to begin my day or end it. No one tells me how and when to do my job. It’s creative. I get to meet tons of interesting people. I’ve had dinner and drinks with celebrities. I’ve been in the same room with Beyoncé, for fuck’s sake. Sure, I mean, she was in the VIP section of the club we were both in, many, many yards away—and I never would have been allowed to speak with her, but we were both in the same room. Of course, anybody that’s ever been to one of her concerts could claim the same thing, so I guess it’s really not that special.

  It’s really not that special.

  With a sigh, I minimized the editing software on my laptop and brought up the camera, waiting until I could see my face in the box on the screen. My hair and face got scrutinized in the box, as I made sure that my hair looked well-styled, and there weren’t any visible blemishes on my face or any hairs or snot globs visible in my nose. That sounds kind of gross and a bit like too much information, but that’s something you have to worry about when you have hundreds of videos online that get watched over and over and dissected until every pixel has been examined. One time I had posted a video where a poppy seed was stuck between my teeth. The message sections on YouTube for that video still get new comments about that little black speck. It’s been about a year since it was posted.

  Finally, after convincing myself that I looked superb—though I never honestly believe that—I clicked the record button on the camera software.

  “Hello, Tuniverse! It’s ya’ boy Timmy! I’ve missed all of you weirdos. Did you miss me? I hope y’all have enjoyed the last few weeks of blooper clips from me making all of your favorite videos, the Q&As I’ve done, and all of the Best Of clips I’ve posted here on the Tuniverse Channel. I’ve dropped some pics and vids on Instagram and Snapchat, too, so don’t forget to check those out. You don’t want to miss anything, do you?

  I know this is where I’d usually tell you not to forget to click the little bell below the video here on Tuniverse, but I’m going to skip that today.

  For a few weeks, I’ve been hinting that some changes were coming to Tuniverse. Ya’ boy Timmy has been doing a lot of soul-searching and trying to figure out what the next stage of Tuniverse is going to be. I’d like to say that I’ve figured that out—what the next phase is for Timmy and the Tuniverse, but I still don’t know. I know that’s not what any of you want to hear—and that you were hoping for something solid from me—but I’m still thinking some things over, y’all. Maybe in a few more weeks, I’ll know what the heck I’m going to be doing with the channel. Cross your fingers, say some prayers, send positive energy—just help me out! Ya’ boy Timmy is grasping at straws here. I just know we need to go on a new, different, and exciting adventure with each other. Soon!

  So, in the meantime, while I’m figuring out what things are going to look like for all of us, I won’t be uploading any new videos here to YouTube. Today will be the last one for at least a bit. Not to worry, though! I’ll still post some pics and short vids on Insta and Snapchat—and, of course, you can check out my daily tweets and Facebook posts. In the meantime, I’ll keep tossing around ideas in the ole bean and try to figure out where we’re all headed next. I’ll be doing my best to figure out something meaningful—that will help me create the best content—and to make you all proud to be on this journey with me. So, for now, this isn’t ‘goodbye,’ obviously, but it’s a pause on Tuniverse Channel here on YouTube.

  Keep watching for some Best Of clips…and keep your eyes and ears open in the future for news from me. For now, I’m signing off. Love y’all. Stay weird. Normal is overrated!”

  With a few clicks, I ended the video, clipped the dead air off at the beginning and end, then pasted the video I’d just shot with my laptop to the front of the Best Of video I’d created with the clips I’d slapped together. A few moments later, I was compressing and then uploading the video to the Tuniverse Channel on YouTube. Twitter was open in a window to the side, and I could see the likes and comments rolling in on a tweet I’d sent out about whether or not Nutella was still a thing. It didn’t take much to make my followers happy. They just wanted simple, unoffensive content to interact with each day. Nutella was not without its haters, but it rarely caused controversy, so it was a great way to get my fans to engage on Twitter.

  Once the video was uploaded to the Tuniverse Channel, I pasted the link to all of my social media. Then I clicked a bunch of X’s, closing all of the windows on my screen.

  Goodbye, Twitter.

  Goodbye, YouTube.

  Goodbye, editing software.

  Goodbye, camera software.

  Goodbye, Windows.

  Then I shut the lid of my laptop and p
ushed it further back on the desk and away from me. Sun was shining in broken fractals through the crown glass light catcher I had hanging in the window that was in front of my desk. When I had first started out on my influencer journey, I had done a video where I visited old antique shops in the city. One I had visited, but hadn’t been able to film, was in the process of shuttering its doors. The owner had been present and was moving out the merchandise he wanted to keep. He wouldn’t allow me to go inside of the soon to be abandoned shop, but he let me look at the merchandise he was salvaging from his failed venture. A small pane filled with crown glass had caught my eye. I knew that if I attached a short chain and hung it in one of my windows, it would make a beautiful conversation piece. About sixteen inches square, so it was small, and with a tiny hairline crack, he let me have it for twenty bucks.

  Theft is essentially what I committed that day. However, unlike other people who scavenged in old shops looking for treasure they could get for pennies and sell for a considerable profit, I wanted to keep the crown glass. For five years, that small pane of antique glass hung in my window over my workstation, casting its unique fractals of light into my apartment living room. The antique dealer probably could have made an easy hundred bucks off of a serious shopper. Still, that person would have resold it for a profit. They never would have loved and appreciated it like I did. Watching the golden light shine through the glass, I realized that my morning was going to move on without me.

  Before I could push away from my desk, my phone dinged, signaling an incoming DM on Twitter. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes when I saw the banner on my phone screen. Apparently, a certain someone had created yet another Twitter account to get in touch with me. The banner, as it briefly appeared on the screen, let me know the messages weren’t getting any wittier than before. It was the same sad “I miss you” message that I had gotten a million other times over the previous three months. There was nothing I could do to completely block my ex-boyfriend from my life since I was so active on so many social media platforms. Blocking him each time he reached out confused and disoriented him for a few days, though. So, I stuck to that method of dealing with his constant search for attention.

  I really need to take a phone vacation.

  Pushing away from my desk, I stood up and stretched my arms toward the ceiling, something between a squeal and a moan escaping my throat. My neck got rolled, working out the cricks, then I grabbed my phone and opened Twitter. A few swipes and clicks later and the account my ex had messaged me from had been blocked. My phone got stuffed into the pocket of my jeans—which was fairly difficult due to the tight fit of the jeans, the small pockets, and the ever-expanding size of cellphones. There had been many times as an influencer that I considered using my powers for evil and try to bring back cargo pants. Maybe if I took a few shots in trendy coffee shops or at brunch, sporting the baggy, comfortable, and splendidly utilitarian trousers, I could bring them back into style? Between my Instagram and Twitter followers, there was a good chance that I could at least make them passable.

  Whether or not I liked it, as I looked down at my lower half, I had to admit that well-fitted skinny jeans always looked better on the male body than cargo pants. Fashion is pain anyway, so I was just going to have to suck it up and wait until the next big thing came along. Hopefully, the next big thing came with big pockets and let the legs breathe. I did my best to stuff my wallet into my back pocket, hoping it wouldn’t shimmy out as I walked, then hooked my finger through my keyring as I headed for the door. My goldfish, Larry, was in his bowl on the bookcase next to the door—as he usually was, unless he’d been drinking—making “blub-blub” faces at me as I gazed into his bowl.

  “Don’t let any strange men into the house while I’m gone.” I winked at him. “Wait until I get home and can decide if I’m in the mood for a strange man, first.”

  Blub-blub.

  Larry was good people.

  Outside of my apartment building, the early spring sun shone down on the mostly empty street. It was Tuesday, so no kids were running along the sidewalk, getting in the way, disrupting the calm and serenity. All of the people who had traditional jobs were gone for the day, and those who worked nights were asleep in their beds, not bothering anyone. The rest of the people—those like me, who had non-traditional jobs—were in their apartments and brownstones working, not out on the street making nuisances of themselves. The first four days of the workweek, and especially in the morning hours, I really loved my neighborhood. The weekends weren’t so bad, but people were home, making noise, or out on the street talking too loudly. For a person whose livelihood thrived on being social, I really couldn’t stand the concept.

  Social media, and the nature of my job requiring that I use it, forced me to be social. If it weren’t for my job, I probably would have gone back to school and studied to be an accountant or something similar. Just so I could do some job where I sat in an office by myself and avoided people all day long. Lost in the thought of the euphoria I felt when I could avoid people, I nearly ran into the fire hydrant on the corner as I made my way to the next block. The corner store’s large, banner-like LED clock let me know that I would have to hustle. I was running a few minutes later.

  Unfortunately, my job prohibited me from chasing my true dream of being a recluse.

  Social Media Influencer was a profession I had accidentally fallen into when I was bored one night at home. That night, a few years back, after a few glasses of wine (read: six), I got on Instagram Live to my two thousand followers. I riffed about how Justin Bieber’s diaper pants meant that his nuts had finally descended or he had finally become so full of shit it was leaking out. It was all in jest, obviously. Regardless of my intent, I woke up the next morning with a wine hangover, thirty thousand new followers, and numerous comments of “YAS, QUEEN!” in my feed. It wasn’t the most auspicious start, but it made me realize that maybe leaving the drudgery of a nine-to-five might be just what I needed.

  Six blocks away, and I was out of my neighborhood and into a more lively and well-traveled area. Dodging cars as I dipped across the street, stepping around pedestrians that felt stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to check their phones was an acceptable activity, and avoiding other obstacles, forced me to pay closer attention to what I was doing. When I finally found myself outside of the tea shop, I sighed with relief, glad to finally step inside four walls once more and avoid people as best I could. The front door of the shop had a large pane of glass, allowing potential customers to peek inside, and the remaining wooden part of the door was painted a vibrant blue. Almost the color of the South Pacific waters that surrounded Tahiti. It made me smile as memories of my one and only trip to the island flashed through my mind. I could almost hear the pounding of a pahu as grass skirts rustled, and the smell of roasted pork wafted through the night air. For a split second, I was transported to the island and immersed in the sights, sounds, and smells of a Tamaaraa.

  If only.

  Cheri was seated in a booth-style seat along an exposed brick wall on the right side of the shop, having left me a rickety-looking wooden chair with bamboo slats across from her. Being first to a meeting place—or at least on time—has its advantages. She smiled when she heard the clanging of the brass bell over the door. Her eyes met mine, and I smiled back, holding up a finger to let her know I’d be over as soon as I grabbed a tea.

  At the wood and glass counter—the wood parts painted the same color as the door—a college-aged guy with dreadlocks and a beanie, a polo shirt, leggings, sandals, and too many bracelets asked to take my order. Doing my best to not roll my eyes at the guy’s drip, I ordered an Iced Pomegranate Rooibos, which was delivered to me just as I was pulling my credit card out of the chip reader. I thanked the misguided fashion victim behind the counter—he was probably still trying to figure out who he was—and accepted the clear disposable cup of iced tea. I didn’t want to tell the dude behind the counter that shoving a plastic cup with a plastic lid and a plastic straw
at me was antithetical to his entire created persona.

  Cheri looked up from her phone as I slid into the seat across from her, gave me a smile, and stuffed the device into the giant bag on the booth seat next to her.

  “How’s the Tuniverse, Timmy?”

  “Stop it.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Timothy.” She said. “Or is it Tim this week?”

  “It’s always been Timothy, and you know it.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh, though I knew she was amused by my job. She folded her arms on the tabletop and leaned in as I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

  “Did you decide to give yourself a break from the Tuniverse?” She asked as I opened the camera on my phone and tried to figure out the best angle to snap a picture of the ruby-red tea. “I noticed this morning that there was nothing new on Insta or Twitter. Not even a single Snapchat.”

  “Yeah,” I said, not taking my eyes off of my phone screen. “I uploaded a video right before I came here to let people know I’ll be incommunicado a bit longer. Shit’s getting old, ya’ know? I need to find a new angle.”

  “And yet you’re taking a picture of what looks like UTI piss in a plastic cup.”

  “Ew. Bitch.”