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The man Ludwig is projected to lose to in the most important political race of his life has on the cheapest suit he’s ever seen in his thirty-five years on this Earth.
It’s too long in the arms, flopping slightly when he would lean over to shake people’s hands and smile. It’s obviously meant for a slightly taller man, bought too hastily to make any adjustments other than adding some shitty leather belt. He looks ruffled, he looks worn, he doesn’t look right for the part. That’s what Ludwig had been saying to the press these last few weeks, trying to nail it on the head and make it obvious what it was that he saw.
My opponent in this race, Jeremy Harrington, does not feel like your next president, America.
Sitting in this dark bar now, watching as Jeremy Harrington finishes a phone call outside of the restaurant, he can freely admit to himself that he does. His hair is Kennedy-dark blonde, his chin very sharp, his cheekbones strong. Not that Democratic Party candidates have a large history of being hot, but he invokes enough old-school charm that Ludwig can see it.
Ludwig adjusts his own tie, which was picked over a thousand other ones chosen by his campaign team. The last ten presidents had red and black and navy ties, so Ludwig has red and black and navy ties. It’s simple in his brain — appeal to the largest common denominator and see his numbers go up. He is charming enough for the part, and he has rehearsed enough talking points that he can talk his way out of a paper bag. He hasn’t been stumped once, either by moderators, the other candidates, or Jeremy himself.
Jeremy, however, stays getting stumped. He trips over words and phrases and makes weird ass metaphors. He’s constantly sweaty — one of their last debates had him take off his blazer and lay it over his pedestal as he tried to explain the difference between debt relief and nationalized debt reduction to an audience of bemused journalists. Ludwig had proudly patted himself on the back as he watched Harrington stutter and sweat, but he stopped when he saw that he was trending higher than Ludwig ever had.
“What does he know about 18-32 year olds?” Ludwig mumbled to his campaign manager, Anthony, who shrugged and checked his Apple Watch. They were in his headquarters, watching the numbers from the latest projections tumble higher on one of the many flatscreens they have. “Seriously, does he hit some demo I don’t know about?”
“Dude, I don’t know, but you have to get some of that right now,” Nicholas, not his campaign manager or his assistant but Nick V., the camera guy for the subsequent documentary they’re filming, said from next to him. “He’s not hitting as phony. It seems like he’s actually for real.”
“Great. A Bostonian Bernie Sanders,” Ludwig said, rubbing his brow bone. “Is there anything we can, you know, put in the press? Hypothetically? Was he also in the 1960’s race riots? Is he that fucking old?”
“He’s got a good foundation,” Aiden, another campaign manager, says, checking his phone. “I don’t think he’d be that hard to crack though. Give him an interview on Fox and he’d start tearing his hair out.”
“How does he have so much, anyway?” Ludwig mumbled. It’s low, morally, but he’s losing and he’s allowed to complain. “Hair, I mean. He’s old as shit. We talking propecia? Finasteride?”
“Hey, Mr. Ahgren,” Anthony said. “Someone might hear this as conjecture, you fucking bum.”
“Whatever,” Ludwig said, waving that thought away. “It’s not like he’s going to retaliate. He has the spine of a paper bag.”
“Yeah, but you’re supposed to look, like, nice, dude,” Nick said. “Not calling someone bald for no reason.”
“You’re implying that something’s wrong with that,” Ludwig said smoothly. “My campaign manager is bald.”
“You know what, Ludwig? I’m going to jump over to Harrington’s team, he’d respect me,” Anthony said, grabbing the remote and clicking the big screen off. And he probably could, if push came to shove. Harrington and his team bought all of the Democrat candidates doughnuts and coffee and delivered it to their hotel room doors before their last debate, in the early hours of the morning usually spent freaking out and doing lines.
What an ugly world buying votes is. Despicable. Not that the flowers Ludwig bought the delegates is any different, but God, Dunkin donuts and coffee? Seriously? How blue collar.
“You wish. You wouldn’t get paid at all,” Ludwig said, taking a sip of his lukewarm black tea from a shitty styrofoam cup. “You’d have to live in my closet again.”
“If I remember correctly, Senator,” Anthony says, poking him in the chest. “It was your closet, and I fucked bitches AND hoes within it. So I’d be more respected as a man, as well as monetarily savvy.”
“Heard Harrington does group jerk-off seshes too,” Aiden said. “Great for morale.”
“You guys want hand jobs, I can give you hand jobs,” Ludwig said, blasé. “That’s the easy part. The hard part is getting the nomination.”
“You’ll get it,” Slime said, waving him off. “You’re the youngest person to ever be the senator of New Hampshire after growing up in a broken home with a first-generation immigrant mother. Educated by the harsh streets of Tempe, Arizona.”
“Immigrant from France, by the way, and from ASU, what a braintrust,” Ludwig said, sitting on the edge of one of the folding tables full of stale donuts they have propped up.
“Harrington has what? Senator of Nevada for a year, sure, but came from nowhere as a college dropout. Did minimum wage jobs until he could run for mayor, then Senate. Can’t string two sentences together. Loves you.”
That was another problem. Harrington obviously thought they were friends — chummy enough to joke with after the debate, extending endless invitations for dinner and coffee to chat after, messaging him on Twitter sometimes. Ludwig wanted to message back to tell him that this isn’t normal behavior, but nothing about him is normal. It’s unheard of. And it’s seemingly just towards him. Their third and fourth rivals for the Democrat nomination are a younger man who seems so far left he’s basically buddies with Mao and an older woman with a platform centered on climate change.
All of them are good candidates, but none of them are Presidential. Except for him, obviously.
And maybe Harrington.
He said yes to dinner with him right before the primaries, at a bar just outside Georgetown that was his suggestion. The usual crowd is a lot of political pundits, some news anchors, and usually some celebrities that were particularly politically motivated. Here is where he watches Harrington take his phone call, his suit still a little baggy.
The waiter comes over with their jug of still water, and Ludwig cheers him with a glass of it as he leaves. Whatever Harrington is doing seems like an important call. Maybe he’ll come in and say he has to ditch. He checks his phone as he waits, his legs crossed under their table. It’s a private one, unofficially known as the Presidential Suite to regulars.
Perfect for him, President Ludwig Ahgren. He’s just an idea man. He knows what’s right for the American people like little other people do. He cares, for one, not like these other chucklefucks. Like, actually super cares.
He’s shoving his phone back in his pocket as Harrington comes from outside, texting one-handedly as he shoves a hand through his hair. It seems to dry the way it does, no product needed. Lucky bastard.
“Sorry about that, man,” Harrington says. He slides into his side of their table easily, and the waiter, heavily trained, swoops in to put their drinks on the table — a Sauvignon blanc for him, and a glass of Yamazaki 25 for Ludwig. Harrington nods thankfully as the waiter pours a sip for him to taste, and Ludwig watches as he takes an appreciative taste, ponders, and gives the okay for the waiter to pour the rest.
“It’s great, thank you,” Harrington says quietly as it fills up. The waiter smiles and leaves wordlessly, and all the air bursts out of him like he’s a balloon.
“I don’t know anything about wine,” Harrington says before peering at it miserably. “I ordered it so you’d think I was cultured and, like, knew my shit about wine.”
Ludwig raises his eyebrows. There’s the Harrington charm. “You admit that out loud off rip? Brave of you.”
“What, you’re going to tell someone?” Harrington says, leaning in slightly and smiling. It’s immediately disarming. All the professionalism that was probably drilled into him during press training must’ve not sunk in yet. “You’re going to what, tell the press?”
“You should never know who to trust,” Ludwig says cryptically. The effect is slightly dampened by him putting his glass down too hard so the sound ricochets around the room loudly. “Sorry. Uh, you never know who’s gonna fuck you.”
“You’re gonna spread the rumor that I doesn’t like wine?” Harrington says, leaning back in his chair. The dim lighting in the bar makes it look like he’s the star of a detective noir movie. It’s weirdly relaxing, being this close. He smells like nothing. “That’s all you got?”
“Okay, so tell me more about Jeremy Harrington, then,” Ludwig says. His name, Jeremy, fits awkwardly in his mouth as he says it. It’s easier to call him Harrington, or Mr. Dunkin. Jeremy is so intimate. His mother probably calls him Jeremy.
“I don’t really do much, man,” Harrington says, leaning back and fiddling with the napkin on the table. “I get up, I check polls. Sleep.”
“That can’t be all you do,” Ludwig says. “Sure, I do all that. But I also, y’know, watch the Pats game. Read something. Play with my cat.”
“Yeah,” Harrington says, waving him off. “I do that stuff too.”
“I actually don’t believe you,” Ludwig says. “You just said all you do is check the polls.”
“That other stuff is implied,” Harrington says. “Isn’t it? Like I don’t look at polls every single second until my fuckin’ eyeballs burst. I eat too.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of weird?” Ludwig says, offhandedly. He doesn’t feel like he’s talking to his political opponent. He feels like he’s talking to one of his old Smash buddies. It’s unnerving. Maybe this is a ruse by his side, fishing for information and weak spots. It’s a little late in the game for that.
“Weird? Really?” Harrington asks like he can’t believe it. He doesn’t meet Ludwig’s eyes and he’s fiddling with the table cloth — he looks actually hurt, like calling him weird actually hurt his feelings. He’s been called worse by thousands more to his face, and Ludwig calling him weird is the kicker. “Weird, I don’t think weird.”
“Dude, you know no one else has invited me to dinner, right?” Ludwig says. “Not Hasan, not Susan. Just you. Not that I’m complaining, of course, but it’s weird.”
“Well, you know,” Harrington sputters. “It’s friendly! It’s all friendly. We’re on the same team, I think.”
“Are we?” Ludwig says incredulously. “Hasan thinks America should go under communist rule tomorrow.”
“Well, not all of us. I meant you and me, man,” Harrington says, bumping his shoulder. “You get me. What I’m trying to say. What I stand for. You’re cool.”
Ludwig looks at him seriously, seeing the crack that must be forming in his veneer. Whatever the inner Jeremy Harrington is, under this sheen of barely-formed friendship. But he can’t see one. It’s just him all the way down.
“Thank you,” Ludwig says, dazedly. He would never admit it to anyone, but God, it hits something in his chest. Compliments are fake by creation and necessity, but Jeremy sells them like he means them more than anything has ever meant to him in his entire life. He is cool. Jeremy Harrington thinks so.
“No problem,” Jeremy says. “I know I’m like, a hundred, but I hope it’s still like. You know.”
“Sure,” Ludwig concedes. “You know. What was the phone call about, by the way?”
“Oh,” Jeremy says, looking vaguely surprised that Ludwig noticed. Kinda insulting. “You know. Campaign stuff. More donut buying.”
“You are so,” Ludwig says, shaking his head. “So twee. Too good to be real, man.”
“That’s definitely not true,” Jeremy says. “I’m not that good, and I am very real.”
“Oh, says Mr. I think everyone should get a good education for free, with help for their specific needs, because I understand what being left behind feels like.” He does a semi-offensive impression, one that usually stays in the confines of the Ahgren stronghold that involves a lot of arm-waving.
“You remember,” Jeremy says, squinting his eyes. “My speech from the nominee conference.”
“Of course, dude. It was the only one I actually listened to,” Ludwig says. The tip of Jeremy’s cheeks go red, the apples of his cheeks, his temples. He’s not grey, not yet — but something is almost there, streaks of reflective white amongst the dark blonde.
“You’re flattering me,” Jeremy says. “Bad strategy, because I can’t vote for you.”
“Why not?” Ludwig says. “What about my policies and beliefs are so different than yours? Sorry I can’t promise everyone nationalized healthcare, or whatever you’re peddling.”
“Your politics aren’t the problem — although I disagree with the proposed tax cuts for influencers? — it’s just that you’ll be voting for me instead,” Jeremy says, cockily, taking a sip of his wine as he says it. He holds his eye contact a second too long before flitting his eyes around the restaurant and blinking rapidly, like he shocked himself.
“Oh,” Ludwig says. He readjusts his legs when he feels the numbness creep into them. “So you think it’ll be easy to win?”
“I never said that,” Jeremy says immediately, looking up at him and crossing his arms on top of it. “I just mean - however it ends up, I don’t - You’ll probably win, if we’re honest.”
“Kind of you to say,” Ludwig says.
“It’s true, man,” Jeremy says, inclining his head. “You’re young, you’re passionate, and you have your head on straight. They’d be idiots not to vote for you.”
“Dude,” Ludwig says. “You are running too, just reminding you.”
“Yeah, I was talked into it,” Jeremy says, looking down at his wine. It’s a very very pale yellow, reflecting white on the table. “I don’t think I could handle Las Vegas, then I didn’t think I could handle Nevada, and now here I am, trying to handle the whole, uh, thing.”
“If you’re sweating it, it doesn’t show,” Ludwig says, smile itching at the corners of his mouth. It’s a friendly lie. “You’re composed.”
Jeremy peers up at him under his lashes, smile on his mouth like he’s waiting for Ludwig to crack and start laughing. The joke they’re both in on. The strangeness of their first inside joke.
“Thank you,” Jeremy says lamely when it’s clear Ludwig isn’t going to laugh, and takes another drink from his glass. “I would say you are as well, but you - you know, you know that. Already.”
“My campaign manager said my balls are in a vise,” Ludwig says. He is aware that he looks like a douchey frat guy, so he doesn’t smirk while he says it. But emotionally he’s smirking. Balls.
“I get you, man,” Jeremy says neutrally, raising his eyebrows as he shifts in an effort to sit up straight. His cheap lapels shift wider apart on his chest and his Apple watch buzzes mutely on his wrist. “Balls.”
Ludwig stills while he watches him move, licking his lips after he puts his wine down. It’s a passive instinct to want to flirt, to leer a little bit. He’s been doing it for years without thinking — schmoozing representatives, going out to dinner with tight tank tops, getting older men drunk, everything. Saying he slept his way to the top would be demeaning and fundamentally untrue, because every man that he’s fucked has not gotten him anywhere he wanted to be. But he has dabbled.
He wonders if Harrington has ever slept with someone like him to get where he is. Or if he’s ever had to do it himself. He’s attractive, but he’s small. He’s might’ve had to suck a dick or two for an internship. What did Slime say? He worked minimum wage jobs to get where he is. From Boston to Nevada to the Presidency.
Maybe they aren’t too different after all.
“I’m sorry, man,” Jeremy says, looking up from his Apple watch and gazing at Ludwig with big sad blue eyes. “I have to run. I have a meeting with headquarters every night before the vote counts get released next week and I can’t miss it.”
Ludwig even believes that he doesn’t want to go — they’re both important people. He himself has a car due to pick him up in twenty minutes It’s stupid. They’re not even friends. But he sort of hates that it had to end. As if this is their Christmas Eve truce and tomorrow he’ll have to gear up to hate him again.
“Of course. I understand completely,” Ludwig says, extending his hand and getting up. Jeremy reaches over and shakes his firmly. A gentleman’s handshake. His hands are a little too soft to be completely believable though, for this whole All-American image he’s presenting.
Ludwig withdraws it, smiling. What else can he do but pretend to believe it, huh? If he’s lucky, maybe Harrington will jerk off tonight thinking of him, open mouth, gasping in that cheap suit. Maybe if he’s lucky, whatever girl or guy he brings with him has dark hair and dark eyes and a decidedly more hip way of speaking. They both stand up after Ludwig scribbles in the air towards their water, putting it on his tab. Future presidents don’t have to tap here.
“Actually, Ludwig. If you don’t mind,” Harrington says as they stand on the curb, waiting for their respective cars. He’s watching him as he gestures forward with two fingers, pausing until Ludwig hesitantly shuffles in within hearing range.
“You’re going to win,” Harrington says. It sounds like he’s soothing him, like he actually believes it. That he’s couching himself for the inevitable defeat. His hand awkwardly pats his shoulder, before skirting his hand around the bottom of his blazer for a second, hung there like he forgot something back there, in the bar, near his pants.
“We’ll see,” Ludwig nods tightly. Harrington nods back at him, before slipping into the Range Rover that pulls up at the corner, greeting whoever it is with a bashful-looking nod. Ludwig waves him away, using the good manners that Paloma taught him.
“Well,” he says out loud, to an empty street save for a tired-looking valet and a cook chain-smoking in the alley beside them. “Okay. That was weird.”
Ludwig pats himself down, looking for his phone, as soon as his own car rounds the corner. He pulls it out, but some sort of slip of paper comes out with it. Probably some stupid receipt for one of Slime’s stupid purchases. A single two-liter bottle of Squirt. Extra small condoms.
It’s a business card. It’s fucked up and curled at the edges, like someone’s been playing with it, trying to tear the two sides of it away from each other. On it, scribbled in blue, is FAIRMONT, 1104 in shaky letters. Under that, smudged, is a phone number.
Ludwig squints at it uncomprehendingly. He turns it around. It’s a business card for a suit manufacturer, complete with fancy embossed print. What the hell? Did someone reverse pick-pocket him?
The realization hits as soon as his own Range Rover pulls up. He opens the door and Slime is already there, typing. His suit is a lurid shade of hot pink.
“Harrington wants to fuck me,” Ludwig says in lieu of hello. Slime makes a note of appreciation, still typing in his phone. Ludwig slams the door behind him and his driver steps on the gas like he’s John Wick. “He gave me his room number.”
“That’s so baller, dude,” Slime says, laughing. “That’s so tight.”
“It is not tight,” Ludwig says. “It’s fucking not tight. We’re both running for president literally tomorrow.”
“He’s so fucking cool, dude,” Slime says. “He’s the GOAT.”
“Am I on crack?” Ludwig says. “Am I? Yingling, am I on crack?”
The driver shakes his head in the mirror.
“You wish you were on crack,” Slime says. “You’d be so much cooler to our demo.”
“No, I wouldn’t be fucking cooler,” Ludwig says. He puts the number into his phone carefully, making sure each digit is correct. “I’d be - I’m not entertaining this.”
“Harrington or the crack?” Slime says. “If I were you, brother bear, I’d pick both.”
“He’s probably not even gay,” Ludwig says. It sounds bad when he says it out loud. Like a sad little kid. Gross.
“How rude of you,” Slime says. “You know, it’s 2024. What would Aiden say?”
“Aiden can go fuck himself,” Ludwig says. He types a super-regular “Hey” and sends it without thinking too hard about it.
“Alright, I’m telling him,” Slime says. “But seriously, go for it.”
“No,” Ludwig says.
“Alright, man,” Slime says, returning to his phone. “Whatever you say.”
Harrington wins the presidency and sends him an unsolicited dick pic the next day. It’s a big 24 hours for him. Not an entire loss. He’s now the gay version of Marilyn Manroe or something.
He send one back in between all the pity party his managers throw. He’s six whiskeys deep. He figures why not. The President texts him, “now?” He sends a thumb;s up.
He doesn’t think he’s too torn up about it. There’s always next time. Maybe Harrington will let him be in the cabinet. He’d be stupid not to. Maybe he could be vice, actually. He’ll bring that up.