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So after every live appearance or mail inspection, I'd do the sifting in a hurry and then find some hand sanitizer. The craziest stuff I'd give to Alex and she'd pin it on a bulletin board in our WRGT studio office. That bulletin board now takes up an entire wall, and on it, you'll find some insane stuff. I never mention this on air because if I told people they could end up on my wall just by mailing nutty things I'd probably need a storage locker.

But a few years ago, I'd read and saved something that was stuck in my hand by someone at whom I never got a clear look. It was at a WRGT Gadsden flag rally in Pinellas Park. As was
often the case, after I spoke, I posed for a few pictures with listeners and signed some flags. And before I knew it, I found that I'd accumulated a stack of nicknacks given to me by attendees. Anxious for a quick exit, I tossed the stuff in my car and forgot about it until I arrived home. There, I scooped it all up and headed into my condo where I figured I would toss most, if not all of it, right down the garbage shoot.

When I got inside, I saw that the stack contained a nondescript, white, No. 10 envelope with no return address. My name was emblazoned on it in block style
handwriting
. Strangely,
typed
, it then said “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.” I figured it was a crank. Make up your fucking mind. Who writes
and
types? If you'd have asked me before I opened it, I would have guessed that it was another of Obama's Kenyan birth certificates, or maybe an image of him “refusing” to salute the flag. Once, I even received what was supposedly Obama's transcript from his brief time at Occidental College, where he had excelled in a course on “black liberation theology” overlooking, of course, that no such course had ever been offered. All fake. But like I said, every now and again I'd be handed something of value in such missives. Like the time I got a state senator's DUI paperwork, or when somebody handed me a vintage ticket stub to Woodstock! And besides, even the stuff from crackpots was usually good for a few shits and giggles, which I'd either show to Rod Chinkles acting as if we were co-conspirators, or to Alex just to get a rise out of her, before it'd get pinned up.

But this particular item purported to be the notes from an “audit” of a member of the Church of Scientology. I'm not talking IRS audit. I mean a Scientology audit, as in the sort that members of the church routinely undergo that is akin to another church's confessional—only in Scientology the person being audited isn't inside a booth speaking to a priest through a
screen. Instead, the person is holding two cans connected to a lie-detector type of device called an E-meter.

The document had a date, time and location, but the name of the person who had been audited was blacked out. In paragraph form, it was a summation, not a transcript of what they'd said—namely that they feared a fellow Sea Org member was married to a “Potential Trouble Source.” That's Scientology speak for a possible turncoat. The auditee was concerned that this PTS, whoever she was, would seek to convert her husband away from Scientology, because she was worried that her husband's affiliation with the church would “jeopardize his political career.” Neither the politician nor his PTS wife were named.

I remember that when I first saw the document, I had no idea what I was looking at. I had never heard of audits, E-meters and potential trouble sources. But Alex was in the loop. Her roommate had first come to Clearwater as a member of Sea Org, the most loyal of Scientology followers, but had left the church because she found it to be intolerant of her lifestyle. Alex deciphered what I'd been handed at the event. We thought it was sufficiently whacky to make the bulletin board, where it had remained to this day.

But now, sitting across from Susan, a light bulb went off in my head. Suddenly I desperately wanted to get to the studio and pull that crackpot piece of paper down off the wall and examine it. Could it be? If the reference was to Tobias, it would sure explain a lot about his reluctance to toe the line on religion. But then again, it seemed farfetched. Too farfetched. Why would I be in possession of such information without a whiff of confirmation elsewhere? Rumors are a dime a dozen online and while there was plenty of speculation that Tobias was not a man of faith, I'd never heard anyone even hint that he worshipped at the altar of Tom Cruise and John Travolta.

“To Willy,” I said, when her wine arrived.

Susan didn't respond, nor did she take a healthy sip. In fact, while I was always game for a refill, she nursed one drink the entire time we were together. Her lack of libations was a quick sign that while I was hoping to close a few old loops, the woman in front of me was all about the future. But at least her silence didn't last. And what unfolded was more substantive conversation in 60 minutes than we'd had in our 60 days as fuck buddies.

“I never figured you for a Tea Party guy,” she told me.

I quickly debated whether or not to explain to her the difference between Stan Powers and Stanislaw Pawlowski. I passed. For now. She didn't wait for an answer anyway.

“I'm sure you have your reasons, but the nation's fucked up right now, Stan, and as you well know, the outcome of this election is going to be settled right around here.”

Her casual dropping of the f-bomb gave me instant wood.

She told me she'd become aware of my new persona in 2010 when I was getting all the visibility with the Gadsden flag events sponsored by WRGT. That mystery was now solved.

“Quite a change from getting ‘Stanned in Pittsburgh,' ” she said with a wry smile.

Part of me loved that she'd either been following my career or had recently looked into it, but I wasn't sure what to make of that comment. Maybe she did have the whole thing figured out. Or perhaps that statement was a bit of threat, I didn't know. But I stayed in character, assuming that she figured that she was in the company of a true believer, a conservative ideologue, who must have had some epiphany in life after getting high and getting laid in redneck bars. Besides, I was too embarrassed to say otherwise.

Anyway, this was not a night for nostalgia. In fact, every time I tried to steer the conversation in a personal direction,
she resisted. She was all business. All campaign business, that is. She rattled off the upcoming caucus and primary dates like they were family birthdays.

“Winning Florida was big, but not a big surprise. The next 30 days will be key. Vic Baron is getting lots of support in Nevada but we will take Colorado. A state that votes for Wynne James as its governor can live with Bob Tobias.”

“James is impressive,” I offered in an effort to suggest that I was no crackpot.

“Impressive? He's the one Republican no Democrat can defeat.” Then she continued with her assessment of the field against her husband. “Vic Baron is a very successful governor, but his slick, trial-lawyer image is just too smooth to have broad appeal outside New York.

“Evers is going nowhere, and I think we have a real shot in Pennsylvania—our polling shows that Coleman Foley is winning
only
his congressional district. Nice guy, but zero nationwide appeal. Same with Roy Yih in California. No one in Congress has even heard of the guy.

“Bill Brusso is a blowhard; there's a reason that despite his $5 million in contributions to the party he was appointed to Luxembourg and not the Court at St. James.

“And while Laura Wrigley could take her home state, she could never win outside of Vermont.

“So you see Stan, this thing has really broken our way. It's a crowded field, but not a strong one. Apart from Bob.”

She ran through the recent polling data like a pro, and when she finally shut up long enough to take a meager sip of her drink, she revealed a supreme confidence in her husband's ability to get the Democratic nod and that the campaign was already looking toward a general election.

“November is far more tricky,” she confided.

She then proceeded to give me a tutorial on the numerology of presidential politics that would have made Tim Russert proud. She spelled out calculus after calculus by which Bob Tobias could receive the requisite 270 electoral votes, assuming he was the Democratic nominee. In one scenario, Tobias capitalized on his relationships with Cuban Americans and turned it into a Hispanic juggernaut that enabled him to capture the Southwest: Colorado, New Mexico and Nevada. In another scenario, he was the Robert E. Lee of the cycle. In other words, it was all about the South, or more specifically, what the pundits called the New, or Upper South: North Carolina and Virginia. Still another scenario had Tobias winning the Midwest, including Indiana and Ohio. By the time she finished spouting off states and electoral votes my head was spinning. But in every scenario she offered, the critical mass was Florida. And to win Florida, she knew they had to win the I-4 corridor. And to win the I-4 corridor, they needed to win—or at least neutralize—me.

After playing a hot, female version of David Axelrod or James Carville, Susan shifted gears and became a policy wonk. She launched into a diatribe about Keynesian economics and why austerity wasn't working for the Europeans before trashing the Republican weaknesses when it came to de-fanging Iran. She spoke with such specificity that I just sat there, drowning in shots of Jack, and not wanting to reveal the superficiality of my views.

“You can tune in tomorrow if you want to hear what I have to say about that,” I mumbled a time or two like an idiot.

Susan also confided her husband's worst fear: that if and when he'd eventually disposed of Vic Baron, he'd have to deal with Molly Hatchet.

“She'd play well down here, Stan. Your hardcore types love
her. And those good looks will go a long way toward masking her far-right positions.”

Even as she spoke about Margaret Haskel's attractiveness, I couldn't help sizing up Susan's features. Still flawless skin. High cheekbones intact. A perfect nose. And the eyes. The years had been kind to Susan Miller. All of her political banter was wasted on me, because I was more interested in erection than election strategy. Like a sophomore in high school, I sat planning my next move. A hand on her knee under the table? A touch on her hand as it cupped her drink? What the hell—why not a flat-out suggestion of a “freezer run” for old time's sake? I'd had years to prepare for this moment but sadly, no plan.

“Of course, the candidate we'd struggle the most with is the one they're working so hard to bury. Wynne James is a friend of Bob's. They met at some gubernatorial retreat and really hit it off. We just cannot understand why the Republicans cannibalize the guy at every opportunity. How do they not see that he is the best shot they have?”

On this we agreed but I wasn't about to tell her so.

“You think Wynne James is the Mike Castle of this race?”

“Exactly, Stan. Mike Castle would be in the Senate today if he hadn't lost a primary in the midst of all that Tea Party craziness stirred up by your brethren.”

Mike Castle was a moderate governor and congressman from Delaware. A couple of cycles ago, he had been opposed in a primary by an opponent with a checkered financial past who couldn't hold a candle to his qualifications. The most attention she'd gotten previously was by telling Bill Maher she'd once dabbled in witchcraft. But in this campaign, she'd kept her broom in the closet, spouted off all the Tea Party bullshit and upset Castle when virtually no one showed up to vote in the primary. The few who did were fringe-worthy and they
managed to retire a pretty good public servant in the process. It was the first of a string of similar defeats of Republican candidates who could have won general elections, but had not survived the primaries. Wynne James was shaping up to be this type of a candidate on a national level.

“He could have a shot if the other four split the conservative vote.”

“I doubt it Stan, there is nothing left in your party
but
the conservative vote.”

She had a good point. I went back to undressing her with my eyes and trying to plot my next move. While I dithered, Susan checked her phone, noted the time, and said she had to get going.

“Good to see you Stan. I'm very happy for your success.” She smiled. “And we both know who told you your future was behind the microphone.”

I smiled back, but I was baffled. There was no ask. No “Lay off, Stan,” or “Trash Margaret Haskel.” Nothing requested.

She stood up to leave. I looked at her from head to toe one more time. And like a clumsy bastard, I half rose from my seat, just as I'd done in the studio a few weeks prior when she visited with her husband. But I still didn't get it quite right.

I watched her walk past the bar. With some kind of sixth sense, Ralph looked up and met her gaze as he was pouring a draft. Clay and Carl paid her no mind. And then she vanished. Susan Miller was gone.

I sat there for a few minutes wondering, “What the fuck just happened?” Then I joined the boys for another round.