Waiting for Karl Rove is political satire masquerading as a road trip memoir. It has over 600 footnotes, but for the purposes of this excerpt we’ve put them in parenthesis.

~Chapter Twenty-One~

The sun was setting as we exited the hospital. Kat licked a soft-serve cone she’d gotten from the cafeteria while I blew up my parting gift - an inflatable donut.

“The nurse told me about a little motel down the street. We’ll stay the night there and get on the road bright and early. But I’m driving tomorrow. We’ve got some serious time to make up.” Kat plopped into the driver’s seat and I crawled into the passenger side, nervously hovering over my new blow-up friend. I grasped the window frame with one hand and the dashboard with the other, afraid to lower the boom.

“I’m scared to put any weight on it.”

Kat started the car and looked at me with her lips tightly pursed, presumably to keep from making a comment about my fat ass.

“Don’t even say it,” I growled.

“What?” she said, feigning innocence.

“I know how you think, Kat Nove. You think like me, and I know what I would have said.” I slowly descended onto the inflatable seat. It wasn’t as bad as I thought until Kat proceeded to hit every pothole and bump on the two mile trek that ended with us pulling into the small parking lot inhabited by a single-story strip of doors attached to an office.

“This doesn’t look so bad.” Kat turned off the ignition.

I waited for a tumbleweed to roll by with the next gust of wind, accompanied by the howl of distant coyotes. The Lajitas Motor Lodge. I imagined the pitch line on the brochures: A quiet stop for respite and not much else. You won’t be bothered here.  (Clearly they don’t have brochures. People don’t come to places like this unless their car breaks down or they need a quiet place to dismember someone before bagging them up and mailing body parts around the country.)

We made our way into the dingy office by stepping over a hound dog sleeping in front of the entrance.

As soon as the door opened, we were welcomed by the distinct smell of burritos and a slightly shrill musical version of La Cucaracha which served as the doorbell.

Immediately, an age-spotted hand darted out from behind a curtain, pushing it aside. Soy Milagros! her purple ball cap announced, and she was noventa, if she was a day - gaunt with sunken cheeks puffing in and out around her dentures as she mouth-breathed. Her faded yellow housecoat had what looked like a dollop of refried beans just above her right breast. When she saw me staring at it, she looked down, and without a hint of embarrassment, swiped the brown mess off her shirt with a thumb and sucked it off.

"Hola, como estas?” I asked. Despite the unfortunate incident with the Mexican clerk at the bodega, I decided to continue using my seventh grade Spanish in order to respectfully commune with the natives.

“Bien, gracias. ¿Necesita una habitación?”

Er… I knew about ten more words and none of them involved the Spanish equivalent of room, night, sleep, or most importantly, Please tell me you have cable TV.

Kat crossed her arms over her chest and let me continue making a fool of myself.

“Uh, sí…nosotros necessita un…rooma for la noche, por favor.” I clapped my hands at my amazing ability to communicate en Español. With her eyes, Kat was able to impart the fact that I looked like a special needs kid after reciting the alphabet for the first time.

Milagros pulled out a registration form and slid it across the counter. I immediately slid it over to Kat.

“Fumadores y no fumadores, cama doble o dos camas dobles, y qué se necesita una salida tardía?” Milagros asked.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, back the hell up, abuela. “Um…no comprende.”

“Smoking or non-smoking, queen bed or two doubles, and do you need a late check-out?”

“Hey…you speak English!” I said, irritated.

“Hey, so do you!” She mocked my tone in her thick Spanish accent as she took the registration from Kat. “I need a driver’s license, por favor.”

“Smoking, two doubles, and no late departure,” Kat said, handing the woman her driver’s license.

Milagros nodded and pulled a room key from the peg board behind her. “Forty-five dollars.”

I pointed to Kat and pulled out the cash. “She’s a senior citizen, do we get a discount?”

“¿Perdón? No comprendo.” Milagros laughed heartily, which set off a phlegm-induced coughing jag. We watched as the jag turned into a dilemma and escalated quickly into a possible crisis, including a red face, gasping, and severe chest pounding. Kat grabbed our key and I waved adios before Milagros hacked up anything more substantial. (I know I personally wasn’t prepared to do any sort of resuscitation on someone who had just consumed a burrito.)

Exiting the office of El Motel de Cucarachas, we headed to the car and retrieved our bags before schlepping to our room.

“Do you know what Milagros means?” Kat asked.

“Tuberculosis?” I guessed.

“It means miracles.” Kat unlocked door number seven and pushed it open. The faint aroma of death hovering in the air hit us immediately.

“As in, it’ll be a miracle if Milagros lives another day and another miracle if one or both of us doesn’t end up with crabs after tonight?” I followed her inside.

“Are you always this pleasant?” Kat asked.

“Only when I have a million little splinter holes in my ass,” I responded. (Like the million tiny little lies in a certain best-selling fake memoir. Note to Writers: Fabrication + Embellishment = Fiction.)

Kat tossed her bag on the bed nearest the window and pulled out her cigarettes, lighting one.

I set my bag down and took a cursory glance around the place. Two beds with lime-green blankets, one bathroom, a television atop a single dresser and a picture of Mexican Jesus hanging on the wall. I was sure someone had spent their last hours in the room before committing suicide and was discovered days later, only after their body had plenty of time to putrefy and ensure its essence would forever remain part of room seven. It wasn’t pungent, just enough to let you know that something untoward had happened at some point, and the essence wasn’t giving up its ghost.

Kat switched on the television. “Hey, we’ve got cable.”

“It’s a milagro,” I said, unzipping my bag and retrieving my laptop. “I’m gonna pull up the net to see what’s happening in the rest of the world.”

“Hey, look!” Kat stared at the screen.

There I was being interviewed by the perky blonde from CNN. I held the microphone and looked directly into the camera. “Read my lips. There was no crash. There was an in-flight scuffle that led to a hard landing because an idiot misunderstood something another idiot on the plane said, and suddenly people were screaming.”

Cut to footage of Kat being tasered twice before dropping like a sack of Idaho’s.

“Hey! They didn’t even put our website addresses on there! They cut the important part! And did you see how fat I looked? Damn, I wanted people to think Jeni Decker was a famous author who was wasting away at ninety-nine pounds - at least until we end up on David Letterman.”

“Fuck Letterman. I'm shooting for the Daily Show. I'd ignore my menopausal tendencies to sit next to short little Jon Stewart and fantasize about his circumcised Jewish penis. I'm certain it must be massive.” Kat continued clicking channels.

“I don't care to ponder the length or girth of Jon Stewart's penis, circumcised or otherwise, but I'd be happy to genuflect before his greatness, with you by my… ”

“TERROR SUSPECTS IN SAN ANTONIO.” Bill O’Reilly’s pugnacious tone assaulted my very core.  (Like being fisted without the benefit of lube, though I have no personal knowledge of said activity. )

“No!” I screamed. “I have to draw the line at watching that blathering idiot, Kat. Change it.”

“Wait, look…” She blocked me as I lunged for the television.

“I can’t bear it - anyone but him.” I belly-flopped onto the bed, still wary of my backside trauma, and covered my ears, singing, “Lalalalalalalalala.” But curiosity got the better of me and I rolled over on my side, opened one eye and uncovered my ears.

The unmistakable voice of Geraldo Rivera battered my reality for the second time that day. “Two women single-handedly brought flight activity at the San Antonio airport to a grinding halt yesterday, for over two hours. My sources tell me that not only did one of the suspects flee the scene, where she and a young male were awaiting questioning by the F.B.I., the second suspect conspired to fake a bomb scare on her flight from Michigan to Texas.”

“Hey! That wasn’t me!” I screamed at the television. “That was Miss Puerto Rico!”

Geraldo stood in front of the visitors’ entrance at the Alamo, speaking into a dick-like microphone just before they cut to footage someone had taken the previous day. It wasn’t pretty. Dancing Queen was conspicuously peeing on a tree at the entrance as Kat dry-humped one of the teabagger’s legs.

“You can’t put a price on that kind of footage, Kat.” I plugged in the laptop and waited for it to boot up.

Kat groaned. “Did you see how stupid I looked? Fat and stup…  OH MY FUCKING GOD!”

My head snapped up. There in black and white was Kat rolling around on the ground at the airport. The camera panned in on her ass as Fox News dubbed pig noises over the soundtrack of her moaning. Suddenly, the screen went to a two-shot. Geraldo and Bill O’Reilly guffawed raucously.

“We’re laughing, but it’s not funny, Geraldo,” The Ultimate in Hubris (I will not use his name again. Seriously, he’ll get not one more mention from me) said, instantly becoming dire.

“You’re right, Bill.”(Unfortunately, Geraldo had to fuck that plan right up.) Geraldo shook his head, “From the information we’ve been able to glean, it appears Kat Nove has ties to North Korea, is a radical liberal, and my sources tell me the F.B.I. is seeking both she and Jeni Decker for further questioning.”

Grainy airport security footage showed Kat dragging me out of the baggage claim area by the arm behind an undisclosed male; thankfully Dancing Queen had again escaped having his mug plastered all over the airwaves.

“What we know is this: Yesterday, a flight from Michigan to Texas was forced to make an emergency landing when passengers became panicked after someone made a bomb threat. This, only minutes after another terrorist activity occurred within the terminal. Kat Nove and her companion, who were being held for questioning by the F.B.I., managed to escape in the confusion when an alert went out notifying employees of the plane crash. Are these two separate incidences a coincidence, or part of a larger conspiracy?”

“A coincidence!” Kat and I screamed at the television in unison.

“Thanks for the update, Geraldo. Keep after those two America-haters. Next on The O’Reilly Factor… ”

Kat smacked the button, turning the television off. “This is bullshit. Did you see what they did? Those pig noises? Panning in for a close-up of my ass and you fucking know they did that in editing because the airport security camera doesn’t pan in for an ass shot. That was the same fucking footage we saw earlier. Fox just cut it tighter to humiliate me.”

She had her priorities straight, I’ll give you that. Who gives a rat’s ass if all of America thinks she’s somehow affiliated with Kim Jong Il? (She did write a birthday poem about him once and we will show it to you after this chapter. ) Fox News took a wide-shot of her ass and put it on national television! And even though we were watching it on a tiny, black and white screen, in millions of houses everywhere across the globe,(I bet even the news anchors at Al Jazeera were having a chuckle over it.) others were seeing it in High Definition, some on a wide screen. That was a tidbit of information I decided to keep to myself. Then I changed my mind.

“I bet that looked bad on a wide screen.” Kat shot me a look and because I had spent so long trying not to laugh, it exploded out of me. “I’m kidding. It wasn’t that bad. Really.”

“I think you’ve forgotten the footage I have of you in the emergency room. Stills and video.” Kat lit another cigarette, trying to chain-smoke her humiliation away.

“How about we Photoshop Kim Jong Il’s head coming out from between my legs and e-mail it to Geraldo?” I rolled around on the bed for a good five minutes, laughing until I could barely breathe. Sometime during that five minutes, Kat headed off to take a shower and I seized the laptop, prepared to deliver a video rebuttal. The news media wasn’t going to get away with this crap. CNN could bite me. They weren’t getting the rest of the footage I promised. I’d put it to better use.

With my handy-dandy editing equipment, I quickly composed a little montage of Americans at their worst, pushing and shoving - everything that happened on the plane from the moment I turned on the camera, through my explanation to Fake Honoré on the tarmac, and him cutting us loose after realizing the error. Let viewing Americans get a load of their tax dollars at work, not to mention some not-so-neighborly reactions to a fake bomb scare: Redneck Cowboy slamming Turban Man into the emergency door, Brunette Flight Attendant sinking to the floor and sobbing outside the cockpit, the inflatable slide dragging down the runway, Christine pulling out her fake weave - it was all there. Because I have stock music footage set aside for just these types of events, I scored the entire thing to Flight of the Bumblebee and sped it up a tad for a more amusing viewing experience.

I plugged my phone into my laptop and pulled up The Daily Show website.

“What are you doing?” Kat asked, coming out of the bathroom.

“Platform.” I said.

“Huh?”

“You know how we need a platform for this book?” (Agents are OBSESSED with platforms. Platform, platform, platform. In my head they sound just like Jan Brady whining, Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! Basically a platform is a strong marketing plan integrating internet, participation in online and offline communities, etc. Publishers and agents want you to ALREADY have a loyal following of people who will buy your book, and a plan in place to market that book. (READ: Do their job for them.) Since my legal name is Jennifer Lopez and I was born the same year and have the same middle name as Jenny from the Block, my platform consists of trying to figure out how I can hitch a ride on that gravy train. )

“You mean the book that hasn’t been written yet because we’re still living it?”

“Exactly.” Then I gave it my best John Wayne impression. “Well, I’m about to rustle us up a platform, partner.”

“How?”

“One word: Jon Stewart.” I waggled my eyebrows mischievously.

“That’s not one word, that’s two and technically it’s a name,” Kat corrected.

“Kat! Way to fuck up the good hook ending for this chapter,” I whined. “I wanted to end on: ‘One word: John Stewart.’ It’s mysterious and it will make the reader turn the page faster.”

“Well that’s stupid because Jon Stewart is a name, not a word!”

“Ughhhh!” I groaned.

~*~

Nutjob Birthday

by Kat Nove

Happy Birthday Dear Leader

On the day you were born

Nature bent and fruit trees bloomed

In winter.

On this illustrious day

A halo appeared over the moon

In your honor.

Remember that first game of golf

You played?

Eleven holes in one

Makes a Tiger crouch in shame.

Your people danced in the streets today

In honor of your glorious being

They didn’t seem all that happy

But what does a foolish woman know?

I wonder how many missiles you launched

And how many directors you kidnapped

Today.

Happy birthday Kim Jong Il.

If you blew out those sixty-seven candles

And then choked on your cake

It might be karma

You nutjob.

~*~

~More Conversations from the Third Level of Hell~

February 11, 2006

Karl Rove screams at a speaker on his desk.

ROVE

Are you kidding me Dick? You expect me to sell that you, the guy with the fragile ticker, were with a Texas attorney and a group that included your friend, the US Ambassador to Switzerland and you were hunting. Sure, if hunting means …

Dick Cheney’s voice bellows from the speaker-phone.

DICK

garble, garble, favor…

ROVE

Fine, we’ll handle the fallout, thanks for your help.

Rove hastily pushes a button on the speaker phone and Dick is cut off in mid-garble. A speechwriter holds a paper in front of Rove for his perusal.

ROVE

No you idiot. Something like: ‘Mr. Whittington was struck in the face - ’

CONDI

…and neck…and chest.

ROVE

(glares at Condi) …face, neck, and chest by the Vice President's wayward birdshot.

CONDI

Nice. Because we wouldn’t want to say the VP shot a Texas attorney in the face. It’s the wayward birdshot’s fault.

As the speechwriter walks away…

ROVE

And NO ALCOHOL was involved. Get that in there!

CONDI

Oh Lord, he was drinking?

ROVE

One beer at lunch. No biggie.

***

Meanwhile… in the White House Briefing room, off-camera, amid a teeming hoard of hungry reporters:

DAVID GREGORY

(NBC) - We don't care if some ranch owner calls a local paper. We’re the national media! Why the delay of more than twelve hours?

MCCLELLEN

Hold on. The cameras aren't on right now. You can do this later - for an audience. And you don't have to yell.

GREGORY

I will yell! If you want to use that podium and try to take shots at me personally, which I don't appreciate, then I will raise my voice, because that's wrong!

MCCLELLEN

Calm down, David.

*Waiting for Karl Rove is available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.com.

Jeni Decker

http://closetspacemusings.blogspot.com

Kat Nove

http://katnovian.com