The things one hears on the road to the RNC
The seat next to me on the northbound train was occupied by a People magazine and a green notebook upon which someone had written, in thick black marker, the word "Notebook." Innocuous enough, I figured. Female, twenties or thirties, with a tendency toward the redundant. And for the moment, at least, she was the perfect seatmate: She wasn't there.
I settled in with my book and my iPod, and for the first 15 minutes of the ride, it was just the three of us. Not including cover-gal Lindsay Lohan and the notebook. I started to wonder whether my sole companion for the trip would be these modest sheaves of paper, abandoned (if not forgotten). Alas…
At the 16-minute mark, the notebook's owner returned, water bottle, cup of ice and bottle of OJ in hand. Black Reef flip-flops. Black faux-chiffon skirt with big white flowers. Jean jacket. Red hair. Probably 23 years old (bingo).
I didn't acknowledge her—not that it mattered, since as soon as she sat down, out came her busywork: another notebook, a white binder, a cell phone and a BlackBerry.
The second notebook was labeled "Republican National Convention."
The cell phone played "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik." Loudly.
The BlackBerry she almost managed to juggle with the rest of her accoutrements, in between slugs of OJ and trying to give directions to Mary Matalin's driver.
That's right. The Mary Matalin.
That was the label on the white binder: "Mary Matalin." At first, I figured this gal was some kind of RNC groupie—a recent graduate, or a grad student, or a junior flack who planned to get in Mary's face.
But then, she fielded her first phone call…
Cue Mozart: "DAHHH-da-DAHHH-da-DAH-da-DAH-da-DAHHHHH!!!"
Cue seatmate: "This is Ellen. Oh, hi!"
And guess who the call was from? Yup. Mary. Who just happened to be Ellen's boss.
Bullocks. Bollocks. [Thanks to the charming e-mailer who pointed out to me that I am, indeed, a no-talent ass clown. Also: For giving me an excuse to finally learn the strikethrough HTML tag.]
So much for the peaceful train ride.
The conversation was impossible to ignore, and not just because of the mild ooh-potential-for-juicy-tidbits factor:
Ellen was a loud-talker. And the volume on her cell? Set to "high."
Even with Oscar Peterson playing my earbud serenade, I could hear the nasally voice on the other end fairly clearly. (Mary's whine apparently worked its way into my subconscious during those first few episodes of "K Street" I watched, like a good Washingtonian, until I couldn't stand it anymore, and oh, to this day how I lament wasting those 30-minute installments of my time on this planet.)
Ellen may be going deaf, tragically, at the tender age of 23. But my money's on Ellen being so proud of the fact that she's Mary Matalin's bitch that she wanted the whole train to know. Which is odd. Because I figure that if I'm Ellen, and my boss is who she is—i.e., a powerful woman in a powerful position who probably doesn't want all her powerful secrets aired to the multitudes of non-powerful people sitting within easy earshot of her loquacious personal assistant—then I know better than to hold every conversation at crazy-guy-proselytizing-from-the-street-corner decibels.
And yet, that is exactly what she did. Which means that now, dear readers, you get to benefit. Call it payback for the interminable "Eine Kleine" interruptions. I give to you snippets of the many conversations I couldn't help but overhear during my two hours as Mary Matalin's assistant's neighbor:
Ellen finds a driver
Ellen: "Your driver's downstairs, and his name is Ivan."
Mary: "Ivan? [Long pause.] Is he American?"
[Me: No. Way. She did not just say that.]
Ellen calls the hubby
E: "Hi, James? [As in Carville.] This is Ellen, Mary's assistant."
James: "Blleiujngvmvnb…" [James not nearly as easy to hear over the cell phone as his wife.]
E: "Hi. I'm just calling to let you know that Mary wants you to meet her at the party at 7 o'clock."
J: "Gghjieovjojmkl?"
E: "That's right. Seven o'clock. Her driver's picking her up at 6:30, and she's going to meet you at— Hello? Hello?! SHIT."
[Call lost. Ellen slams phone shut. Me: My, Ellen, what language! Naughty, naughty Ellen…]
Ellen plays with her BlackBerry
Tap-tap-tap-tap. … Tap-tap-tap. … Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-"SHIT!" [Ellen, gettin' all vulgar again, drops BlackBerry in the aisle as passengers disembark at Podunk station. Sadly, the BlackBerry survives.]
Ellen cancels an appearance
E, to Mystery Caller No. 1: "Hi, this is Ellen, Mary Matalin's assistant? … Yes. … I'm fine, thanks, but I'm afraid I have some bad news. … Unfortunately, Mary's not going to be able to make it after all, because she's got to attend something with the Cheneys. She feels absolutely horrible about this, as do I. … Yes, she's really, really sorry, but she just couldn't get away. The vice president personally asked her to attend, so. … Yes. … Yes, that's right. … Again, she extends her sincerest apologies, as do I." [News flash, Ellen: They don't care about your apologies.]
Ellen exploits her position
E, to Mystery Caller No. 2: "Yeah, my new furniture is supposed to arrive this Tuesday, but I'm not going to be there, and Marissa [the housemate] was going to take off work to be there, but now it turns out she's got a meeting, so she can't. … Well, I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but then I realized: Since Mary's in New York, she's not using her driver here. She's got some other driver in New York. So I shot her regular driver an e-mail asking if he'd wait for my furniture on Tuesday. Why the hell not, right? … I told him I'd buy him a martini when I got back. … Yeah, he really, really likes martinis. He drinks a lot of them."
Hmmm… Driver … martinis. Driver … martinis. Das not compute, Ellen!
