Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [31]
Each showed a small crowd—in a bar, in a living room, in a church—clad in shirts and baseball caps, holding banners and pennants, chanting loudly. Their refrain matched the single word that adorned all their paraphernalia, and it resounded from the monitor and seemed to be picked up by the in-studio audience. A low rumble began to bubble through the air as if a geyser were about to blow: Taft. Taft. Taft.
“What you’re looking at, Mr. President, is breaking news. A Raw Talk exclusive. Our investigators have uncovered these groups—small, grassroots, spontaneous—that have sprung up across this great nation of ours, and they’ve gathered in dozens of spots today to watch this historic broadcast. Your coming out, as it were. They’re just beginning to blog and network, and they seem to come from all walks of life and political viewpoints. But they have one thing in common: They want a new direction. They want a return to values and tradition. They want new leadership, one driven by reasonable common sense rather than ego or ideology.”
Her voice swelled to a crescendo just as the audience broke into a raucous applause.
“In short, they want you.”
Taft slumped in his tight-fitting chair, dumbfounded. This was not what he’d seen coming. Pauline Craig, on his side? He wasn’t even sure he was on his side. But he couldn’t deny the wash of emotion and adulation that poured over him, how alive it made him feel, even as a corner of his soul screamed out in panic and protest.
“President Taft,” she announced as the monitor flashed image after image of cheering, fist-pumping Americans, “meet the Taft Party.”
TAFT HAD ENDURED greased fingertips and frigid implements inserted into unmentionable places during the battery of medical examinations that followed his reawakening. It had been less than pleasant. None of those intrusions, however, compared to the anguish and indignity of the cameras.
Outside the exit of the television studio had assembled reporters in multitude, a babbling gaggle of ravenous interrogators with a battalion of cameras in tow. They yelled. They cajoled. They pleaded and promised and persisted. Some even threatened. As they did so, the inhuman lenses bore down on him like the sinister, waving eyestalks of some invader conjured by H. G. Wells. The evening air was cold, and a light snow had begun to whirl through the Manhattan twilight. In simpler times, Taft might have been swept up in poetic reverie, just watching it fall, his mind whisked far away from his worries. Tonight, though, his worries were being distorted, reflected back at him, and shoved into his face.
“Mr. Taft, did you know about the Taft Party? Is this all a stunt?”
“Are you announcing your candidacy?”
“What will you tell the GOP?”
“Have you looked into the legality of the situation?”
“Do you really think your politics are pertinent to America today?”
“How big is this Taft Party, and who’s running it?”
“How does the congresswoman factor into your plans?”
“How is your health holding up? Are you on any diets?”
“What about your sex life?”
Taft wanted to roar, to somehow clear this rabble before him like rubbish in the face of a hurricane. But all he could think about was Susan standing behind him, taking shelter from the onslaught of light and heat and questions.
Before he could collect his wits, Kowalczyk was there. Within moments, a contingent of dark-suited Secret Service agents had cleared a path through the reporters. Four of them, led by Kowalczyk, flanked Taft and Susan and hustled them through the throng toward their nondescript sedan. “Everything’s under control,” he yelled, although his voice bore the slightest edge of distress.
They were halfway through the mob of reporters—all of them now baying in protest at being held back from their prey—when a raucous sound like a crashing surf pounded against them.
Those on Taft’s left turned to look behind them. Placards and