The Candidate knew he was courting disaster, but he couldn't deny his feelings: he wanted some ice cream.
If he did go out to Baskin and Robbins, the 18 reporters staked out across the street from his house would know. The headlines in papers across the country the next day would read, "Candidate unable to control appetite" and "Ice Cream Cravings Set Bad Example for Our Children." Editorials would question his judgment ("Can we trust a man who eats Banana Fudge Ripple to deal swiftly and mercilessly with our enemies?") Nightline would devote a week of episodes to the question of whether or not it was morally acceptable for a president to be overweight.
It would mean the end of the Candidate's political career. So, despite his feelings, he went without.
The phone rang. It was Euphonia Dale, and old friend from the Candidate's college days. "I was thinking of giving a dinner party," she told him. "Nothing big...just a few intimate friends. Would you like to attend?"
"I'll have to think about it and get back to you," the Candidate replied without enthusiasm. He meant he'd have to talk it over with his Campaign Manager, but he knew the score: any candidate who met with a group of less than 50 people let himself in for allegations of sexual misconduct that would have made Caligula blush like a naughty school girl.
The Candidate felt like having a cigarette, but he had given them up years ago at the urging of the Party faithful. He threw himself on a couch and turned on the television, momentarily forgetting that it had been fixed so that it could only receive PBS, CNN and C-SPAN. Throwing the converter to the floor, the Candidate shouted, "Hypocrites! How dare you set moral standards for me which you aren't willing or able to follow yourselves!"
The Candidate immediately put a hand over his mouth, horrified. He was pretty sure the press hadn't bugged his house, but they might have gotten hold of a device which could tell what was being said in a room by the vibrations of the glass in a window, bought surplus from the CIA. Some newspapers were even rumoured to have clairvoyants and other skilled mind readers on the payroll...
Candidacy breeds paranoia.
The Campaign Manager breezed in. "How are things, Charles?" he asked, checking under lampshades and inside the fireplace for hidden microphone. The room was swept twice a month, but, you know...
"I've been thinking about going out for some ice cream..."
The Campaign Manager straightened up, wiping soot from his face. "Ice cream, Charles? What are you trying to do? Destroy the image we've carefully created for you? What did the team do - what did I do - to deserve that?
The Candidate did not return his gaze. "Having one ice cream does not make a person a blimp," he weakly stated.
"Of course not," the Campaign manager snorted. "But, that's just a fact. Since when has anybody been elected because they knew facts? Just the hint of impropriety, blown out of all proportion by intense press scrutiny, is enough to demolish a candidate, even if the candidate has done nothing wrong. Look at Gary Hart, for heaven's sake!"
"But, Ralph, couldn't we...couldn't you sneak some ice cream into the house? Nobody need know..."
"We can't take the chance, Charles - the press has started patting me down at the door. Who do you think would vote for you if it ever got out that you were potentially...fat? Who do you think would volunteer on your campaign? Even the people who are 100 per cent behind your policies won't help you if they don't think you have a chance to win. And, if you get caught in a morally compromising position with a tub of Hagen Daaz, you won't have a chance to win."
"Dammit, I have the best policy positions. What about the issues?"
The Campaign Manager shook his head sadly. For a smart man, the Candidate could be awfully obtuse sometimes. "Charles, you're great on the issues. We all know that. But, most people won't vote for you because of your position on the issues. Most people don't understand your position on the issues. Most people zone out if you even look like you're going to explain your position on the issues. But, going out for an ice cream when your waistline can't afford it - that, my friend, is something most people can understand."
"But, that's just crazy. Auto workers aren't judged by how much they like Pralines and Asparagus. Nobody cares if stock brokers are really into Industrial Strength Peach Surprise."
"So, be an auto worker."
"As long as I can do the job, why can't my personal life be my own?"
"It's a matter of judgment," the Campaign Manager impatiently explained. "If you can't be trusted to keep your hands off the Vanilla Prune Sundaes, how will people know if you can be trusted with Welfare reform?"
"There's no connection," the Candidate muttered. "Sometimes, the press goes too far." They had had this argument before, so they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence for a couple of minutes. The Campaign Manager finished sweeping the room for bugs.
"Umm, Doreen and I have been thinking," the Candidate hesitantly stated. "Our sex life has been, well, waning, and we'd like to try something...different. You know...to spice things up?"
The Campaign Manager rolled his eyes. "Charles," he whined, "can't you control yourself until after the election?"
