Friday, June 25, 2010

"Lunchus Interruptus"

Ten chapters completed in Bianca Reagan: Where The Action Is! An excerpt from Ch. 05:

“What is your role in The Good Senator’s office?” I asked Benjamin.

“Bianca.” He took a chomp of his Philly cheesesteak.

I waited for him to chew and swallow. “Benjamin?”

“I’m The Good Senator’s right hand man.”

“I thought you were Cassandra’s assistant.”

Mike snorted grains of garlic rice out of his nose. Cassandra tried to hide her amusement by looking away from Benjamin and fixating on her meal.

“I don’t like to limit myself with labels. I work with Cassandra, so it’s a team effort, per se. She rocks out the day-to-day stuff. Right, Cassandra?”


“On the flipside of that coin, I’m more the action guy. Innovation. Synergy. Git ‘er done. That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Hmm,” I packaged the rest of my food in an eco-friendly take-out box for later.

“I’m a forward thinker. In other words, I move the team forward,” Benjamin gesticulated. “Inasmuch as I’m involved with The Good Senator during that point in time, and so forth.”

“Very important work,” Cassandra winked at me.

Benjamin ingested more of his greasy sandwich. “At the end of the day, we make laws.”

We? I didn’t consider myself a C-SPAN enthusiast, but during the few times I had watched what I liked to call The Men’s Wearhouse Security Camera network, I had never seen Benjamin deliberating on the Senate floor.

“I’m taking The Good Senator to a whole ‘nother level.”

“What level would that be?” I asked him. A squeak escaped from Mike, followed by a series of forced coughs from Cassandra to cover her guffaws. Benjamin was too busy building momentum to notice.

“We're going viral. We're taking it to the streets. He’s going to be a national figure on the main stage. I want every family in America talking about Senator Nate Summerfield, make him a household name.”


“Coke. Nate Summerfield.” He drew Venn diagram circles in the air. “Nike. Nate Summerfield. McDonald’s. Nate Summerfield.”

“Just do it,” I said with a straight face. “I’m loving it.”

“We’re shooting to the top, Bianca. President Nate Summerfield.” His pointer finger stabbed the tabletop with each word. “That’s what I’m talking about. Like I always say—”

“So, Bianca,” Cassandra cut in. “Mike tells us that you work at Shake?”


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