I’d made it through Burbank Airport security without my driver’s license. As I put my shoes back on, a TSA agent read my shirt aloud. “Angelyne for governor,” she said and smiled. “I’m her campaign manager,” I proclaimed proudly. I continued on, waving goodbye. I had a plane to catch. Sacramento was waiting.
While pumping gas into Angelyne’s iconic pink Corvette the previous night (she never pumps her own gas), I received an urgent email. Apparently, 18 pages were missing from the required five years of tax returns. It was July and the deadline for all candidate paperwork to be filed was less than 24 hours away.
There was only one way for Angelyne to appear on the ballot: someone would have to go to her accountant at 9 a.m., grab new copies of all the tax documents, and fly to Sacramento. So that’s exactly what I did—in a pink sequined skirt. “I love your skirt. Are you going to Vegas?” a stranger asked in the line at Hudson News. “No,” I responded, all business. “Thank you.” I boarded the plane with my newly purchased Perrier (Angelyne says Perrier is good luck). After landing in Sacramento, I hopped into a taxi. No time for Uber or Lyft when every minute counts.
In the cab, at Angelyne’s behest, I began making calls to the Secretary of State’s office to let them know I would be there soon. They would need to meet me in the lobby. I wasn’t allowed upstairs due to COVID, no matter how cute I looked. In the lobby, looking over the paperwork, I went into panic after noticing Angelyne didn’t sign an important document. I called her immediately. She told me to sign it. I said, “That’s forgery.” She said, “Not if I tell you it’s OK. Just sign it.”
The elevator opened and I was met by someone from the secretary’s office. I handed her the paperwork, hoping she didn’t notice the signature, but she did notice something: my shirt. She pointed and said, “Angelyne. She’s the cool one.” She took the paperwork and disappeared into the elevator. I breathed a sigh of relief, adrenaline still pumping. I looked forward to getting back home.
Guess what? No return flights for hours. I called Angelyne. She said, “Go to the park.” Dutifully, I Googled “park near me.” One Lyft later, I found myself at the 160-acre William Land Regional Park. There was a zoo! Pony rides! An amusement park named Funderland! Funderland’s entrance was wide open and there were no ticket takers. “I can’t believe this is free!” I thought to myself as I wandered in with glee, eyeing mini roller coasters and hot dog stands. Hot dogs are Angelyne’s favorite.
I hopped on the carousel and rode ‘round and ‘round dreaming of Angelyne’s name making the ballot. As my ride ended, so did my time at Funderland. An employee kicked me out, informing me that the park stopped selling tickets, and that I needed a ticket to be in the park. I called Angelyne to give a full report on our future home’s largest park. “It was vast, beautiful, and mostly empty,” I described. She, like always, had an idea. “What if we put all the homeless people in the parks? There’s plenty of space,” Angelyne said. I loved her idea.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 8 p.m. It got delayed until 9. Then 10. 11. Midnight seemed promising. Finally: 1 a.m. During my seven hours at the Sacramento International Airport, when I wasn’t working, I was pacing, sweating bullets, wondering if Angelyne made the ballot. Once, during a pacing session, a woman saw my shirt, stopped, and said to her friend, “Angelyne for Governor.” Suddenly, there was a crowd, people wanted to know where to get my shirt. I loved it. I helped by directing them to Angelyne’s campaign website.
Finally, I found myself on a plane to LAX, landing at around 2:30 a.m. To reward me for my efforts in Sacramento, Angelyne let me use one of her cars. Don’t worry. I’ve got my license now. When you see me on the road, make sure to wave. Like our future governor, I love attention.
“I know you would have gone to the moon, the stars, and Mars to make me governor,” she told me as she handed me a set of keys.
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