It was election night, and my friend Amanda and I had worked pretty damn hard on trying to get a bisexual lady elected to Congress. If she won, she would be the first openly bisexual lady, ever, elected to Congress and coming out of conservative Arizona, which was sort of big deal.
Amanda and I worked out of a couple of different offices during the election, but we decided on election night, we would be going to two specific places. One was the office we spent most of our time, located in Tempe. Tempe is college town, and the office attracted a younger, more liberal crowd. Our kind of people, we called it. In there we had called people, more or less begging them to come and volunteer for us. We spent sometimes up twenty hours a day in there. We ate in that office. Sometimes, we even got underneath our desks and took a nap.
The office was located in between an adult shop, and a reptile store. The on-going joke was that the reptile store was a drug front. In all of my life I had never seen so many people lined up outside of a reptile store before they opened. And the folks that were in and out of there looked like a more adventurous crowd. But maybe they loved their pet snake or lizard more than I could understand.
On election night, Amanda and I stood, watching as the results came in for our bisexual lady, as well as the other candidates in the area. While we were specifically working on the bisexual lady’s campaign, we had gotten close to the other, more local candidates and were excited to see they were winning. As soon as one of them had been declared victorious, folks started pulling out the booze.
Being a recovering addict, I know what other addicts look like. But on election night, everyone in that office looked like an alcoholic. Bottles of whiskey were pulled out of boxes where I thought political yard signs were kept. Beer appeared by the case. And Amanda and I pulled out of our backpacks a bottle of whiskey (Amanda’s) and a bottle of Champaign (mine).
We opened out bottles, poured ourselves a decent serving, and took giant gulps, finally free of the campaign work that we were in an abusive relationship with. Amanda and I kept an eye on how our lady was doing, but the race was still too close to call. Figured, we said, and drank more as other candidates in the office were declared winners.
About half-way through each of our bottles, we decided it was now time to go on to the next election night party. This party was one that we had been given VIP passes to, and we had to make an appearance, though at this point, neither of us should have been driving, especially from Tempe to Central Phoenix.
That aside, I followed Amanda’s directions to the hotel we believed the VIP party was at. We pulled into a parking garage of a fancy Downtown Phoenix hotel, and parked. We then proceeded to the elevator, and attempted to find the party.
“I need to pee,” Amanda said. I did too, and so once we arrived to the fifth floor, where we were told by the parking attendant the party was at, we stopped by the bathroom.
Now Amanda, unlike me (usually) is not shy about which bathroom she uses. She will use whichever damn bathroom she pleases. I am more or less a little more concerned, but mostly because a guy in a girls bathroom is how guys get arrested.
It should have been an indicator to us that we were at the wrong party by the red balloons, and giant signs supporting Mitt Romney for President that we plastered throughout the hallway to the bathroom. But we were both a half-bottle, or more, in, and paid no mind.
Maybe the Democrats (us) and the Republicans (them) were having their party’s at the same hotel.
While Amanda peed, I peed, and like every other boy out there I was done long before her. So we shot the shit for a minute while she finished up.
“Do you think she’ll win, I mean it’s so damn close,” I said, nervously. I mean I had moved 2,600 miles back to Arizona to work on this bisexual lady’s campaign.
“I think she will,” Amanda slurred, “but they won’t be done counting those ballots tonight.”
Drunk or not, Amanda was smart, as that was the case. As we finished up in there, three guys, bro-types walked in, each holding a Mitt Romney for President sign.
“Is that a girl’s voice,” one said upon hearing Amanda from inside the stall.
“I don’t confine to gender norms,” she shouted as she opened the stall door. The guys looked at her, unsure what to make of the five foot five blond girl, with dreads and an Obama tee-shirt on. She marched right past them, and to the sink to wash her hands.
One guy looked at me, and whistled at her. She paid no mind, and since I was gay and Amanda I were just friends, I took it as a compliment…for me.
Once we excited the bathroom, Amanda and I sobered up slightly. We looked around. There was no sign of a Democrat on this floor. We asked one of the hotel men standing outside of the elevator if the Arizona Democratic Party was being held here.
“No, ma’am,” she said to Amanda, who is better at acting sober than me. “This is for the Arizona Republican Party.”
“Fuck,” I muttered and picked up my phone, dialing one of my friends who I knew was at the Arizona Democratic Party.
“You’re at the wrong hotel,” she said as soon as I told her where we were.
“What the fuck do you mean; we’re at the wrong hotel? Amanda how did this happen?” I said, hanging up on my friend and turning my attention back to my co-conspirator.
“You drove,” she said.
She pulled out her phone, I gave her the right hotel’s name, and we drove the third of the mile it was to the right hotel. Upon arriving, we found out President Obama had been re-elected President, our bisexual lady was still too close in the race to call, and we watched the President give his speech, declaring victory for a second time.