Young Mitt Romney, or “The Mitt” to friends and family, stands aboard a speedboat zipping into the blood-orange, half-circle setting sun on the western horizon. Miami is in the distance. The wind blows his hair back (but not too back). There are two other passengers: Chip, his stockbroker buddy in Bermuda shorts and expensive shades (Chip has nothing of relevance to say…ever) and a woman—not his wife—blonde, beautiful, straddling a fruit basket in the boat’s front seat. The year is 1981. The Mitt is young (single), rich, handsome in a Northeast-prep school sorta way, and appears confident, as if God himself had just whispered into Mitt’s ears when no one was looking: “you’ve fucking got this, Mitt.” A cigar is in his pocket, too. Purely decorative.
Chip (C): Why ya even bother with it, Mitt?
The Mitt (M): Aww, come on, Chip! The first million by 30. The second million on the cab ride home from the first, huh?
C: I just don’t want to see you, ya know, waste this. (Chip gestures to the open water. He then swigs a craft beer.)
The Blonde (B): Chip, shut up. He’ll own this someday. He’ll own you. Isn’t that right, Mitt?
M: That might not be the only thing I’ll own (He gives her oneofthoselooks).
The boat party approaches its destination, a white yacht, where a dinner party seems to be commencing.
B: Did you RSVP for me? She asks, leaning on his broad shoulders with both hands.
M: (whispering) That shouldn’t be a problem. You come to expect a little more with me.
C: So I’m covered, too?
B and M together: Shut up, Chip.