Running

Self-made millionaire Phil Richardson sold his tech support company to Google for $275 million. He told people that, after taxes, it really wasn’t that much money.

And— he didn't tell people this part— his wife took half and moved to Europe, saying after Phil spent his whole life working, he wasn’t very fun when he wasn’t.

So, he stayed in California and decided to do what he knew best and keep working to give back to his community. He ran for alderman and, surprisingly, won. Next, there were positions as Deputy Mayor, Mayor, and State Representative. Now he was running for California’s 7th Congressional District.

Hr was driving to one of the biggest political events on the calendar, the Democratic Caucus in San Jose, when his mobile buzzed on the passenger seat: Greg.

“Hey bud, hope it's ok I finished all the soy milk,” Greg said. “Sorry about that.”

It was Greg's third call of the morning. The first had been about how to turn on the TV. (the big “on” button on the remote). The second was about the location of the cat food. Phil had prayed that the cat simply hid under the bed and avoided Greg entirely

“Not a problem,” Phil replied to his soy milk being consumed, holding his voice in a practiced gubernatorial tenor. “Help yourself to anything you want in the house.” Until you get the hell out.

Greg was Phil’s oldest friend, in the literal sense that they grew up on the same street in Fremont, played the same computer games, were both in the science club in high school. Then, one built a software empire, the other drifted between beaches, ski slopes, odd jobs and ringing friends at midnight to tell them about whatever TV show they just watched.

Twenty-eight minutes later, his phone vibrated, again. A text message, mercifully. Phil exhaled. Texts were better. Texts did not ramble on for an hour about a dream about sailing to Mexico.

[Greg]: I took $20 from the kitchen drawer to replace your soy milk. And got us a bottle of Jim Beam, for later. Hope that's cool.

Phil read it twice.

[Phil]: “Knock yourself out.”

Twenty dollars was a steal. A drunk, horizontal Greg watching History Channel shows about aliens building the pyramids was perhaps the best possible outcome for today for Greg.

He had been staying at Phil’s place for eleven days now. He was supposed to stay for three “until Jane got her place ready.” He hadn’t mentioned Jane in days.

Phil was on the I-280 when the next text hit.

[Greg]: I logged into your computer and updated your dating profile. You looked like a hostage in that photo.

Phil set the phone face down and stared at the road. Somewhere deep beneath Greg’s paunchy Patrick Starr exterior, a real brain still existed. He’d guessed Phil’s password.

Phil sent back a voice note: “Isn’t Maria around?”

Maria was the housekeeper. She came on weekdays and over the past two years since Liz left, was the primary reason Phil's apartment was livable. And not like how Greg would live.

Greg called back immediately, another voice call as Phil barrelled down the I-280 at 70 mph. "Maria! Great woman, Phil, I've really gotten to know her. She hasn't seen her kids in Guadalajara in almost five months? Five months. I mean, that's—"

"Greg—"

"I gave her $200 to go back for a couple of weeks. She lit up, man. You would've cried."

"Who," Phil asked gravely, "is going to clean my apartment?"

"Your new roommate, bro! I found the vacuum. You have nothing to worry about."

The San Jose Democratic Caucus was held in a converted movie theater that smelled like mildew, even after being aired out all morning. Phil arrived fifteen minutes early, because fifteen minutes was on time to get in sound bites with journalists and social media influencers.

He was soon swarmed by smiling volunteers, union reps, and people in “Phil Richardson 2026” T-shirts. He tried to play the part of being a leader they could respect, despite his phone buzzing against his ribs.

[GREG] Hey should I come? Sounds fun.

Don't respond, Phil told himself. If you don't respond, he will forget.

[GREG] I could take the Caltrain.

If he told Greg he didn’t belong there, he would show up just to prove he did. Phil thought quickly.

[PHIL]: It’s an alcohol-free event. Dry as a bone.

[GREG]: Sounds lame. Never mind.

Phil sagged with relief. Greg on a computer browsing the internet, was fine. Greg had the attention span of a golden retriever.

He turned back to the room and began working the crowd again, shaking hands, making meaningful eye contact, performing the careful theater of electability.

His phone buzzed.

[GREG]: Since you have more followers than me, I posted some stuff about Gavin Newsom on your X account. You’re welcome bro.

He was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the governor's delegation, holding a cup of coffee.

And then an emcee announced, “And now, a word from California’s rising star Phil Richardson!”

Phil didn’t dare look at his phone. He took to the stage, and went through his carefully rehearsed spontaneous conversation about the 7th District Future and its amazing people. The crowd roared with wild applause.

The high of his successful speech was shattered the second Phil stepped off the podium and saw his Press Secretary's face.

Phil opened X.

He closed the app. Then opened it again.

The posts were unhinged. One featured a photoshopped image of him and Gavin “New Scum”. It already had 300 retweets. Journalists were quote-tweeting.

He typed with shaking thumbs.

[PHIL]: “I am running for CONGRESS,”

[GREG]: That’s why I did it. Also from the replies… might not be happening anymore. Chill out bro! Life is short.

A reporter cornered him, microphone stretched out. “Can you comment on the posts from your account about Governor Newsom?”

Phil smiled the serene smile of a man who had nothing to worry about..

“I’ve been hacked.”

The reporter didn’t blink. “You’re saying the congressional candidate for Silicon Valley, from the tech industry, has weak cybersecurity?”

Phil adjusted. “It was my friend. He had access to my phone.”

“A friend posted those things about the Governor?”

“We grew up together,” Phil mumbled apologetically.

“Are you still running for Congress?”

His phone rang.

Greg.

“Sorry,” Phil said to the reporter. “I have to take this.”

He stepped away to answer.

“Hey,” Greg said casually. “It’s getting dull over here and I need to get some exercise. Didn't you say you were running in San Jose today? Can I join?”