Country politics

Gray clouds hovered over the horizon, relaying a message,"We're on our way." Although slow moving, the smell of rain also promised their arrival.

You've never truly smelt rain until you moved to the farm country in North Carolina. You sometimes miss the city life. The fast paced, ambitious atmosphere of Dallas, where the smell of hairspray, cigarettes and perfume greet you at different high rise offices. People sitting on leather chairs, their $800 loafers resting under the long wooden tables, so shiny you can see the reflection of the faces. Short bobbed haircut, ash gray blonde, with tan or beige suits for the women. Blue, pressed shirts, gray hair with brown speckled in it for the men. Voices a little too loud, booming through the clear glass of the meeting rooms.

You blink and suddenly you are back to reality, sinking in a muddy field. You're not sure if this is even a farm, there's a huge sign that says "CAROLINA SWEET GIN" on the side of one of the buildings.

Dallas life is like a carousel ride, the days get quicker with each new spin, and sometimes people can't handle it. So they hop off and find a trash can to puke their guts out. You feel sorry for them. And a little for yourself. You didn't hop off. You got thrown off.

There's a part of you that aches for the past, where a high rise office assistant asks for your coffee order...An older divorcee who wears too much make-up and with business attire from the nineties, or a younger college student desperately trying to keep up with all their tasks.

You stare at the old barn in front of you. There's supposed to be some sort of luncheon here. One of the state senators is supposed to speak. You question whether he's actually coming here - the barn looks like it has the space to hold a luncheon, but the falling paint chips and rusted tools do not promise any safe haven for this rain.

You jump back into your car and decide to wait until more people show up. Catering's here as well. There's no signal out in the country, so your only source of entertainment is clearing out old space from your camera so you can take interviews and video. If you're lucky, the event will be cancelled and your news assignment for the day will be finished. You get to go home early.

*BANG BANG BANG*

You jump in your seat, heart racing. You see a smiling face through the window, blue eyes shining bright, and wide grin peaking through his beard. You recognize the face, and look behind him to see a smaller, bald man struggling to walk across the mud. These are the county commissioners. There's lots of drama between these two and the sheriff. There's one incident caught on tape where the sheriff stormed into one of their meetings, right after the smaller, bald man was chastising the deputies. This county's small, but there's enough drama to fill a whole television series.

You roll down your window and act cordial. You're trying to remember their names but you're drawing a blank. "Well, hello there," you say.

"Channel 5, hello," says the bearded man. The bald man didn't even turn around, scurrying away with his hunch back, heading to the barn to try to make it in there before the storm starts.

"Are you ready to hear the senator speak?" you ask.

"Yeah, I got a few questions. I'm here as the media," he lifts up a badge. You squint, and sure enough it's his face with the words "MEDIA" printed across the top. It's homemade, you can tell. It's still more than what you have, your new job never gave you one.

"Well interesting," you say, "What kind of questions are you going to ask?"

"Oh, I'm not going to give you any ideas." You both laugh. It starts to sprinkle a bit. "Well, I need to grab my gear but I'll see you inside."

He walks away, laughing. Catering is still setting up, and more people are arriving. You see one girl in heels and a dress. She must be one of the Washington people, probably a communications coordinator. Those heels aren't doing her any favors, and there's a speck of mud on her dress.

You grab your gear and head in. You set up as discreetly as you can, scoping out who to talk to. This is the part you're good at. Your writing's not so good, and you're not as dramatic as the other reporters when you go live...But you can go up to people and get them to talk to you.

You go up to a man with a little girl, "Hello," you say. They both look at you and smile. "I don't know about y'all, but I just saw catering bring in a huge platter of peach cobbler. I might skip the line and go straight to that."

The man laughs politely, and the daughter really isn't paying attention. You've always trust kid's reactions. They don't know these polite mannerisms that people abide to in society.

I tell the little girl, "I don't know about you, but this rain's scaring me." She gazes more intently at me, her blue eyes magnified by the pink frames she's wearing. "Why?" she asks.

"Because of the thunder, I don't like loud noises." She laughs and says, "Don't be scared."

I laugh with her, not to scare her with my own anxieties. I keep it light hearted, "Well, I am glad that there's at least peach cobbler here." You re-direct the question to the man, "Are you going to hear the senator speak?"

He looks over your way, "I'm with the Farm Bureau, I was just told to be here." You raise your eyebrows. "Would you be willing to do an interview after?" you ask. He says sure.

You walk away, promising you'll find him after the speech. The barn's starting to get crowded. And the rain's coming down strong. And loud. As it starts to pour, it gets harder to hear anyone speaking. The loud banging of the tin roof from the water makes it sound like drums. And the paper plates are starting to fly away, along with the lemonade cups. It's hectic.

But, the farmers don't look worried. You overhear one of them say, "This is a million dollar rain." Interesting.

As you gaze across the barn, you get a glance of the senator. Oh, he's been here. He's been working the crowd, shaking hands, kissing babies...eating cobbler. Whatever politicians do.

You look for his PR person. A guy in a polo, pressed pants, and loafers is hovering about two feet behind him. Yup, that's a DC person. You head over there and greet yourself.

"When would be a good time to talk to the senator?" you ask. He looks over, almost bored. "After his speech." You take note of the tucked in polo, brown eyes and the 5 o'clock shadow he's got on his face. Brown, curly hair cropped a little short. You're trying to figure out how old he is, maybe late twenties. You realize you might be staring a little too long and say thanks and walk away.

Now the only thing you have to do is wait until the senator speaks. There's rusted tools in the corner, and there's a damp patch near one of the entrances.

You're overhearing the conversation of the people next to you,

"We're out of migrants here."

"I hear you buddy, no one's got people for us."

"It's a damn shame, what's with this border wall stuff?"

Your interest is peaked.

"Well, I don't know but the senator's told us he's trying to get us the work visas we need for that."

"Yeah but that's on DC time. Never. Gunna. Happen." Each word in that last sentence was punctuated through a full mouth of food. You want to turn around to see who's talking, but you don't want to make it obvious.

You walk across the room and set up your camera, turning your body to see who was behind you. It was a group of men in business casual attire, definitely not with the folks that drove in with their tractors.

Suddenly, there's commotion near a table where they got the drinks laid out. An old man wearing a yellow polo and blue jeans starts to fall, crashing into the table. The drinks spill out all over the place. Someone starts to run over, but almost slips on the wet floor.

"SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE," you hear. You see some phones out but the cell service isn't great, so you're doubtful how that's going to help. The senator cuts it clear across the room, towards the fallen man. He's older too, but you can tell he keeps in shape. You're debating if you should get this on camera. You press record but don't make it obvious that you're filming. You angle it towards the commotion, wide lens, and step a few feet away.

"Who is it? What's going on over there?" you overhear from that same table of men in business casual.

"Oh, that's the senator's bunk mate."

Bunk mate? You're questioning what that means.

"I hadn't seen them talk to each other this entire time."

"That's cause they're still trying to pretend people don't know."

"WHERE'S THE DAMN AMBULANCE?!" The senator starts SCREAMING. "WE NEED SOME HELP HERE."

"You're not going to head over there and see what the issue is?" says a man in circle glasses to one of the people sitting at the table. There's a brief pause and the man says no.

It gets silent at the table. These men are just watching the commotion unfold. Now there's a group of men carrying the passed out, limp body of the man in the yellow shirt. They put him in the back of a four door, one man getting in the back, cradling his head to make sure it doesn't hit the door. The bright yellow shirt is soaked, now looking more like a mustard color.

They take off. The senator yells at his DC people, telling them to get in the car. They follow after them.

Well. Now what? Do you send this video back to the station? How do you write this story?

People are looking at each other, trying to figure out where to go from here. Finally a lady steps up to the podium.

"Hello everyone. We're going to go ahead and cancel the event, but feel free to take a plate of food with you. We can't let this go to waste."

People start heading out, booking it to their tractors or trucks while the rain keeps pouring. The table of men wearing business attire are packing up to.

You pause. You want to go over there and ask them what they know. Half of them are already on their way out. Two of them are still sitting while the other two are grabbing their rain jackets.

You take the chance and head over there.

"Excuse me," you say. "I'm with Channel 5, and I'm wondering if y'all happen to know the man who was taken out of here?"

They're both looking at you, taking you in with guarded eyes. They're both leaning back, but you can see they're tense and trying to size you up. They're both very tan. The one crossing his arms has skin that looks like leather, and the other has more blotchy skin with a sunburn across his nose.

"That's the senator's bunk mate," says the man crossing his arms. His friend raises his eyebrows, but stays still.

"What do you mean by that?" you ask.

"Well kid," the guy says as he starts to stand up, "I'm not going to tell you more than this, but the senator's gay, and that guy in the yellow, was his mate."

"Excuse me?" you ask, head swirling with this information.

"I'm heading out here, and I don't want anything to do with this. But you do with that information what you will."

They're both standing up, putting on their jackets, getting ready to brace the rain.

You've met the senator's wife. You know he has kids. He's a grandpa, too.

"Do people know?" you decide to push it with one more question.

"People in these parts know," says the sunburnt man, turning his back towards you as he walks out. The first man was already walking out, as if he's got all the time in the world. Even in the rain, he was taking a casual stroll towards his truck.

Interesting. You realize you can't do much with this information. There's no verifiable source that'll go on camera to talk about this. But, you do have the recording you can send back to your station. You realize you didn't even get the name of the guy. Well, you can make phone calls later on that.

You pack up, and book it to your car with gear in hand. It's gonna be a rough drive back to the station. You contemplate what just happened. That man in the yellow shirt is gone, you're sure of it. You've reported on enough tragedies to know a dead body. You look forward, at the skinny, two lane country road. Only the sound of the wind shield wipers breaking up the steady sound of raining pouring down.

You contemplate what to do with this little secret. But you have tons of secrets like these you keep, from doing these stories. And you keep them to yourself. You decide to also keep this one to yourself.