Twitter Girl. Nic Tatano

has never looked better. He’s obviously dressed down for the locals, but I know he could seriously do justice to a tuxedo. Thick sandy hair and deep-set pale blue eyes give him a bit of a beach boy look, while huge dimples come into play when he smiles.

      Which he does as he gives the waitress a soulful look with those eyes. He gives his order with a deep voice smooth as silk. She turns while staring at him and walks right into a table. Her face flushes as she scurries back to the kitchen.

      “You’re a natural flirt, you know that?” I say.

      He shrugs and furrows his brow. “What did I do?”

      “Oh, nothing, you just make a patty melt sound like phone sex. If the waitress was named Patty, she’d melt.”

      “Well, Frank was certainly spot on about you.”

      Now it’s my turn to shrug. “What did I do?”

      “You’re not shy about saying anything, even to people you just met.”

      “Part of my charm. That’s why you guys hired me. I basically have no filter. Although, as you’re aware, the lack of said filter got me fired from the network.”

      “Well, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen here. Anyway, in regard to your phone sex comment, I used to do commercial voice-overs before I got into politics. I was blessed with a good voice, which will come in handy when I’m too old to do anything else.”

      “Hey, I know how you can lock up the election. Call up registered female voters and ask, What are you wearing?”

      He leans back and laughs. “Twitter Girl, you are something else. I’ve run into some characters in politics, but you are definitely one of a kind.”

      “I’ll take that as a compliment, Andrew. So, how does one become an advance man?”

      “I was working in the Senator’s office and a few times he was late for a few events so I had to basically keep the crowd warm.”

       I’m sure he could keep any girl warm…

      “Anyway,” he continues, “Becker thought I’d be good at getting the locals primed before his arrival because I’m from a small town and can relate to Joe and Mabel Sixpack. He calls me the redneck whisperer.”

      “Cute. Though you sure don’t look like one.”

      “Well, for whatever reason, people open up to me. I grew up on a farm with a lot of blue collar folks. A lot of advance men show up in thousand dollar suits, and that screams New York carpetbagger. I try to blend in and get a sense of the mood so I can brief him before he gets here. I spend a lot of time in coffee shops and diners.”

      “Interesting. So you’ll always be one day ahead of me?”

      “Yep. Soon as we’re through with lunch I’m off to Cedar Rapids. So I’ll always have a little time to brief you when you arrive, but we’ll always be sleeping in different towns.”

       So much for Plan B…

      “Does that make you feel detached from the campaign?”

      “In some ways, yes, but I do get back to the New York headquarters quite often, since I live in Manhattan.”

      What the hell, take a shot. “So at some point when we’re both in town we might actually have dinner instead of lunch.”

      “Or… breakfast.”

      Talk about not being shy about saying anything to someone you just met. His last words are followed by a smile that makes my heart flutter. Until he follows it up with…

      “I love having meetings over a good power breakfast. I get a lot of ideas late at night and need to get them out of my head right away. And I know every great pancake and Belgian waffle place in the city. The way to my heart is covered with pure maple syrup.”

      Oh.

      My phone chimes. “Excuse me,” I say, as I pull it from my purse and see it’s a text message from Ripley.

       Not fair. You’re getting a head start on Becker.

      I quickly tap the keys and write back.

       Don’t worry, the runner-ups are spectacular.

      I slide the phone back into my purse. “You getting all snarky already?” he asks.

      “No. Quick note to my best friend. She, uh, wanted to make sure I’m keeping warm out here.”

      “Stick with me, I’ll keep you warm.” Another sly smile.

      Aha.

      “I grew up in Minnesota, so I know everything you need to know about dealing with seriously cold weather.” He cocks his head at my coat. “You need something like a down coat from Eddie Bauer. It’ll make you toasty even when it’s twenty below. The one you’ve got isn’t gonna make it.”

      Oh, again.

      ***

      Frank and I are in a small room just off the auditorium stage, seated at a table in front of a monitor as the Iowa debate is about to begin. He has a yellow legal pad in front of him along with a laptop while I have fingers at the ready next to my own laptop, Twitter account already open and buzzing. My followers have been burning it up waiting for whatever darts I’m about to throw at the other candidates.

      A digital clock shows there’s one minute to go till the ninety minute debate begins. “You ready?” asks Frank.

      I crack my knuckles. “Absolutely.”

      And then something happens that has never, ever happened to me on television.

      My heart starts pounding.

      Talking live in front of millions, I’ve never had a problem. Seated in a room with one guy ready to launch barbs at a bunch of sleazeballs with no souls, and for some reason I’m nervous as a virgin on prom night.

      Probably because there’s more at stake here. Let’s face it, television news aint gonna cure cancer and if you screw up on the network no one is going to die. But what I’m doing could conceivably affect the future of the country. If you look back at previous presidential races, you’ll often find one sentence that defines a campaign. The famous headline in the New York tabloid (“Ford to City: Drop Dead”) during the race between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford is widely accepted as having had a huge influence on the outcome. “Read my lips” sank the first George Bush like a stone. A few words, history changed. Just like that. And if I end up providing what turns out to be the key words of the campaign, that’s a potentially large gorilla on my back.

      Luckily Frank is here to act as a filter in the unlikely event that I need one. (Oh, stop laughing.)

      The monitor fills with a red, white and blue graphic and Frank says, “Here we go.”

      The music fades as the face of the moderator, public television anchor Jarvis Jones, greets the audience. Jones, who is probably in his mid sixties with a personality as dry as a rice cake, shows no emotion at all as he announces the names of the candidates.

      “Hey, Frank, why do they always have these public TV bores as moderators?”

      “Yeah, I hate it. Supposedly they’re unbiased, but that’s a bunch of bullshit. They’re liberal as hell.” He cocks his head at my laptop. “Go ahead. Fire away.”

      “The debate hasn’t started yet.”

      “I meant throw a zinger at the moderator.”

      “Really?”

      “Sure. His eleven fans probably won’t mind.”

      I lick my lips as my eyebrows do a quick jump and I begin to type.

       #IowaDebates

       @TwitterGirl