Medium Rare, page 15
Bennett’s style, the inherent risk he always ran against far lesser teams, just wasn’t conducive to this sort of dominance. Yet wasn’t it also what had made their triumph so exciting? That basically every opponent had had a chance against them; that they’d won again and again on a razor’s edge; that they weren’t over-optimized? Randomness—luck—had not only played a role, but an outsized one. Even if they repeated, it wasn’t repeatable. Not because they’d won. Because they’d lost. Because no one, not even Virginia, could win another national championship the year after becoming the first to fall to a sixteen-seed.
There was actually a greater magic in this, I thought. In letting go, in unrepeatability, even after reaching the height of the parabola. More basketballic. More black swan. I wouldn’t have traded its arc for ten championships. Even if it meant a negative slope now, that we were on our way down.
* * *
Phil had to use Raleigh’s phone to get through to Sally Yu on Monday morning; she was clearly screening his calls. But when he blurted out his change of plan, she didn’t hang up—and after he walked her through its merits in detail, which he’d now had plenty of practice articulating (and Sally calculated the financial benefit to her firm), she agreed to take him on. Her team filed the requisite paperwork the next day and began scrambling in the backcourt to dial up a last-second splashy announcement: The game wasn’t over. And Phil would be ready for overtime.
NOVEMBER
—Hey Maria, said Will van der Wende into the phone. Do you remember Phil Fayeton?
—The basketball guy?
—Yeah. You’re gonna want to turn on CNN.
Though he stood behind a podium, his blue shirt seemed to fill the screen, the crowd behind him a sea of smiling faces holding placards. “Phil for US Senate,” they read, with a heavy graphic emphasis on Phil. The i dotted with a little star.
—Motherfucker, said Maria.
—I know, said Will. I’m getting calls for comment. What do you want me to say?
* * *
—
Maria Muñoz was born in Compton in 1989, the only child of Guatemalan immigrants new to Sunny Cove. Her early years were defined less by realized hardship than the looming, back-seat sort of threat of it, a persistent, low-grade mental anguish that is too often discounted. Her father, a doctor, had a reliable, salaried job as a medical assistant, but her mother’s equally essential income from cleaning middle-class houses in Lakewood was subject to greater precarity, and while no ruinous setback ever befell them—illness, rumor, a linoleum slip in well-worn shoes—this was largely a matter of fortune.
As was Maria’s own beauty and intellect, of course. But she was diligent, too, excelling in school, and almost more impressively at the sort of complex, fatally boring administrative rigamarole that allowed her to cobble together a patchwork of need-based financial aid and merit scholarships collectively amounting to a full ride to UCLA. Maria graduated in 2011, cum laude with a double major in economics and public affairs, but skipped the commencement exercises. She was already in Chicago, working on Barack Obama’s reelection campaign.
It was during this period that Maria’s parents traded in their old car, on its last leg, for a more reliable one. The problem was the loan—Buy Now Pay Here financing. No interest, short-term, the dealer had emphasized. What got lost in the fine print? Twenty-four percent thereafter. The skyrocketing car payments started pushing them into credit-card debt—at twenty-six percent APR. (Of all the luxuries few can afford, there is none more expensive than being poor.) Maria didn’t realize it until she visited after the election, wrote down all the numbers. Her parents owed nearly twenty thousand dollars on a 2007 Honda Civic. A nine-thousand-dollar car.
She stayed in Compton with them, spending her days on hold, filling out paperwork to consolidate the debt, slowly, painstakingly navigating layers of recursive bureaucracy. Waitressing, then bartending at night because it paid better. She stayed active in liberal and, increasingly, democratic socialist community organizing and campaigning, first meeting Senator Bernie Sanders (no relation to Sunny) in 2015. Enthralled by Maria’s charisma, Bernie purportedly hired her on the spot—and later helped jump-start her own congressional run. They had, Maria and Bernie, a charming, Lady Gaga–Tony Bennett (no relation to Coach) type vibe, with far greater collective demographic potential than either could achieve solo. When she unseated her primary opponent in 2018 with less than a tenth of the funding, a star was born.
* * *
—
—What do I want you to say? Maria echoed scornfully. That Republicans are so utterly without an ethos they will literally become Democrats.
* * *
I was picking up the twins from Montessori when Phil called from California, a few days after the kickoff rally, a few days before the House began Donald’s impeachment hearings. Right around the start of basketball season.
It was the sort of sunny, late fall day in Washington that reveals the stark differences in individual internal temperature; little kids still running around in T-shirts while their svelte parents swathed themselves in topcoats and fleece performance wear. A couple such mothers glared at me in incredulous horror when I waved off my underdressed children to answer, letting them run amok in the courtyard while we talked on the phone.
—So. How’s it going?
—Why are you being weird? I said.
—I’m not being weird, said Phil. How’s Raleigh?
—It should seriously disturb you that you’re asking me that, but as far as I know she’s well. I’m about to head over there with the boys.
—Oh, cool.
Percy tackled Tate to the ground, and another mother wearing a puffy, bejeweled headband gasped. (They were fine.)
—I heard Maria called you a motherfucker, I said with pointed enunciation, giving Headband a dainty wave.
—Ha. Who told you that?
—Will van der Wende.
—Are they trying to hire you? Phil asked.
—I already told you no, I said.
—Because that’s actually why I called.
—Yeah, I thought so.
* * *
—
Phil had spent four million dollars standing up his campaign in the past three weeks, and while, he assured me, he considered it all money well spent, if he could recoup it with the corporate donations Maria refused, why shouldn’t he? He launched into a paean to my talent, my character, my fit, my résumé. How “every” event of mine he’d been to (I recalled only a couple) had been second to none. I was “brilliant,” “innovative,” “luminous,” and “promising.” And he’d make it very well worth my while to help him—monetarily, yes, but also in terms of “advancing my career.” A “tremendous opportunity.” “Once in a lifetime.”
—Seriously Cassandra, please. I know you’re the best fundraiser out there. It’s time everyone else on the Hill did, too.
He wouldn’t be the first male Boss I’d had who looked favorably on his own favorable opinion of me and my work as a flattering mark of his own progressivism, as if the existence of my singular mind was his own personal discovery. What I knew? That my appraised superiority was invariably contingent on his sense of control over it. My formal subservience. That the second he felt the esteem he’d encouraged in the minds of others reflected more positively on me, myself, than it did on him, he’d find an excuse to “take a step back” or “talk about it next cycle” or outright cut ties on the soft, pliable ground of style. It was easy to argue I had too much of it. I “needed to understand how far to press.” In pressing for parity, I pressed too far. And so, while I was always “brilliant,” “innovative,” “luminous,” and “promising,”—I never quite arrived. It was part of the price I’d paid for the freedom of fundraising, that Boss with a capital B was categorically foreclosed, and that was fine. But I would have liked partnership. Respect for my realized abilities as opposed to my “potential.” There is an exhaustion to still being seen as an ingenue in your midthirties, especially by a man in his.
—Besides, said Phil. You’re a friend. I value your advice.
—Ah, but would you ever take it?
—That would depend on the advice. I’d be retaining you for the advice, Cassandra—and the parties—not to make decisions.
—I’ll think about it, I said.
—You wanna to talk to Miles?
—No. I want to talk to Raleigh.
* * *
—
It wasn’t that I didn’t value Miles’s opinion—I almost always talked through the decision to take on a new client with him. I hadn’t married him on a whim or something: Miles was thoughtful, intelligent, and socially adept. Plus, in a directly proximate yet tangential professional position, he was able to offer well-informed guidance from another perspective without the slightest risk of competitive envy or ploy. Our material fortunes were directly aligned (the idea that marriage is no longer an economic decision is frankly preposterous), my trust in him bolstered by his sundry incentives to be trustworthy; by our relationship’s structural, biological, and legal long-termism; because we did have a prenup. I knew my unusual capacity to parse paradox and cognitive dissonance hardly absolved me from the latter (prophesies rarely suffer from a backup plan); that for all my truth-telling, there was a great deal—always more—I didn’t know.
No, I simply had no need to consult him with regard to Phil’s offer, because I already knew his opinion. Miles was still left of Phil politically, but sat closer to him now than to Maria, whose ambition had emphatically not compromised her authenticity, and continued to passionately argue lobbyists should not exist. (Theoretically, I agreed with her. See? Cognitive dissonance.) Phil would immediately become my most profitable client, and the friendship angle—our personal and familial relationships—Miles would deem purely a benefit. Lobbyists are not, in general, particularly concerned with mixing business and pleasure, let alone conflicts of interest.
Considering the narrative proximity the position would provide to Phil, my own instincts likewise lurched toward acceptance. My reservations were two. First, the ideological compromise I’d be making to get it. Not out of some sense of my own purity, but because the sacrifices made for a privileged view can sometimes make it hard to see. I was willing to compromise my ideology, but not my narrative. My politics, but not my art. The facts, but not the truth. I worried that so directly writing myself into the story would imperil my ability to tell it. Who’s ever heard of an omniscient first-person narrator?
But this I could quell. I thought of all the blind seers; of Tiresias, of Milton, of Joyce. If my subordination to Phil posed a narrative conflict of interest, a blind spot, it was merely the formalization of a preexisting one. I was already tied. Conflicts of interest are largely a problem of perception for honest people, anyway—and I would be deemed unreliable regardless. As to the related concern, that I might use my professional capacity to alter the course of events itself—to shoot the albatross, so to speak (though the actual risk here would be in propping it up)—well, that was less likely still. It would have meant Phil believing a damn thing I said. And that didn’t seem likely, now did it?
My second reservation was trickier. Raleigh. I’d started seeing her more again in the past few weeks, since Phil had started campaigning, but vexingly little over the course of the fall overall. Because they’d been in Los Angeles, Charlottesville, yes, but not only that. Raleigh was still persisting in her contrite deification of Phil, and while I understood the true dishonesty to lie squarely on his shoulders, I also had higher expectations of her. I found her unwarranted atonement almost as infuriating as his unwarranted pedestal. And while I knew our friendship and her marriage were no more zero-sum than mine, her pendulous credence on the matter of Phil’s fidelity put us in an increasingly awkward position I feared distance would only exacerbate: The closer I came to confirming my intuition, the farther she flew from consulting me.
So I feared the narrative proximity I’d gain in accepting Phil’s offer would come at too steep a price. It would mean significant time in California, and the treacherous, Sunny clarity I’d inevitably find there would pull me ever further from my ability to impart it. And this was if all went well, assuming Phil didn’t ever want to “take a step back” or “talk about it next cycle” or outright cut ties on the soft, pliable ground of style. I could lose both the subject and object of my fascination in one fell swoop. Which was why I needed to talk to Raleigh. Art on the order of life is always, to some extent, a sacrifice of the latter, and one I regularly make with pleasure. But my relationship with Raleigh was of such irreplaceable singularity I needed to hedge here in order to consider it. I at least needed her assurances that, if Phil and I ever fell out professionally, our friendship would remain intact.
* * *
—
I found Raleigh in the white Beaux-Arts family room reading a novel I’d recommended to her about spontaneously combusting children.
—How can a book about exploding kids be this accurate? she exclaimed.
—How could it not be? I countered, reclining next to her like a Titian nude. But I need to talk to you about something else. Phil called me today.
—I know! You will do it, won’t you Cassandra? I’m positive that with you on his side, he couldn’t lose—
—I wouldn’t be so sure—
—He’s been putting so much pressure on himself; I’m worried about him. Having a real friend on board would terrifically lighten his mood.
—Would Phil call me his friend? I think he merely tolerates me as yours.
—How can you say that? Does Miles merely “tolerate” me?
—No, of course not; he adores you.
—Why do you think it’s any different with Phil? Raleigh pressed. You rib him as much as he ribs you. That’s how you two show affection—it’s, like, a brother–sister thing.
—Even supposing you’re right, do you think he’d listen to me? You know people don’t always like what I have to say.
Raleigh considered this.
—All the more reason you should tell him, she decided. People often don’t like hearing the things they need to hear.
—Mm, I said.
—You don’t seem convinced, she pouted. At least talk to Phil again before you decide. Tell him all your concerns. I’m sure he’ll give you every assurance—
—It’s yours I need, Raleigh. I need to know that our friendship isn’t contingent. That I wouldn’t be risking it.
—Oh my gosh, of course not!
—You say that, but—
She looked injured.
—You don’t believe me?
I did though.
—Okay, I said. I believe you.
And I placed the call, Raleigh on speaker. My heart was going like mad.
—Hello? said Phil.
—Yes, I said.
—Seriously? said Phil.
—Yes, I said.
—You’ll fly out here tomorrow?
—I will, yes.
DECEMBER
By the third week of December, the Virginia men’s basketball team was 9–1, and Phil was leading in every meaningful poll. FiveThirtyEight had him up five percentage points over Maria, though the “Crystal Ball” was more circumspect. Phil was outspending her and Cynthia combined many times over—and his message was resonating. He painted Maria a communist and Cynthia a fascist, drawing significant support away from both of them. Phil: For Every Californian, his most-run ad read, though A Middle Road tested even better in more conservative areas. Republicans who didn’t still support the impeached president, now awaiting Senate trial for abuse of power and obstruction of Congress, seemed willing to vote against party lines for a man who had “put country first” and switched himself, as Phil told it, on account of these high crimes. Democrats, foreseeing how the Senate trial would go in the new year, were wary of asking too much, and likewise inclined to compromise. Phil’s absurd wealth, while unearned, at least hadn’t been problematically built on the backs of everyday Americans either—quite the opposite. Above all, they wanted someone safe. As did corporations. A Republican in the guise of a Democrat? Phil was a wet-dream candidate for them, like the heterosexual anthropomorphosis of Pride Month branding. Invigorated by his success (and the after-hours visits from Sunny), Phil made himself similarly ubiquitous, actively campaigning full-time while Maria balanced her congressional duties. The press circuit following the tournament had been remarkably good preparation for this, and there were points when he demonstrated something close to charisma.
And so, while Phil was spending a lot, we were also raking it in. Everyone left of MAGA was just desperate for stability, for a reality they recognized. For the carefree days of 2015. Phil endorsed Joe Biden—and was feeling so carefree himself in the festive lead-up to the holidays he snuck in a cozy weekend with Sunny in Beverly Hills before meeting Raleigh and Virginia in New Orleans.
* * *
—
—What should I get Raleigh for Christmas? he’d asked me a couple of weeks earlier.
