“I don’t care if you’re black, white, brown, or yellow. I don’t care if you’re homosexual, heterosexual, or asexual. I don’t care if your family has been in the United States for generations, or if you just got off a boat from the far-east yesterday. If you wanna work hard, and you wanna make some money, we want you.

“If you’re doing ethical, legal business and your social life is conducted with consenting adults, welcome to Texas and the Republican Party! We’re here to do business, and leave the state in better shape than we found it!!”

Sophia “Tia” Martinez-Bahn is feeling her power today. She enjoys the sound of her voice as it fills the elevator.

Olee Olye chuckles and shakes his head. He has worked for Martinez-Bahn for more than a decade. As the child of immigrants from East Timor, and a third-generation small-business owner, he is proud to share her values and count her among his clients.

He smiles warmly, and she returns the gesture with equal affection.

“That’s the best event we’ve ever had,” Martinez-Bahn says with a satisfied sigh.

Olye nods. “Not bad. I didn’t see many checks in the hat, though.”

“Patience, my friend.” She knows he worries about her finances, and she likes that about him.

As they exit the elevator, Olye receives an update. He scrolls through a series of messages on his mobile.

“The car service was alerted when we left the meeting, but they had trouble picking up the bags at our hotel.”

“How long?” she asks, checking her own mobile as they exit the building.

“Five minutes.”

They sit together on the bench outside of the building’s entrance, watching the morning traffic. Martinez-Bahn is nervous: tomorrow is the start of early voting for the upcoming primary, and she wants to be back in their campaign war room by noon. If they miss their flight, she will miss her opportunity to address the troops before the afternoon push.

As people stream into the building, two young men exit, talking excitedly.

Olye recognizes them as attendees of the Middle Class Republicans breakfast at which Martinez-Bahn spoke. Olye remembers that one young man is a project manager at a mobile platform development firm, and the other is an associate at a boutique law firm that specializes in green energy.

“Why do you think it took so long to win their support?” he asks.

Martinez-Bahn watches as the two young men walk away. She seems on the verge of commenting when her mobile pings, announcing a message from her daughter. She immediately types a response. Olye’s mobile pings a moment later, and their car pulls up at the curb.

Martinez-Bahn continues typing as she walks toward the street. Olye watches as a politico headed into the building stops to let her pass. If he hadn’t stopped, she would have run him down.

The encounter reminds Olye of the first time he met Martinez-Bahn – the January after the residents of Denton voted to ban hydraulic fracturing.

She was the Parliamentarian of the Texas Senate at that time, and her tiny Hispanic body belied the arm-twisting power that went side by side with her savy and explosive persona.

Lawsuits followed Denton’s decision, and there was panic as other cities proposed similar bans. All of the associated interests flooded the Texas Capitol with their requests for assistance, and Martinez-Bahn ended up playing a pivotal role in brokering the deal that allowed municipalities greater authority to regulate oil and gas activities within certain jurisdictions.

Martinez-Bahn finishes typing her message, then she settles in the car. Olye follows a moment behind.

“What did you want to say?” she asks, patting Olye on the knee as the car pulls away from the curb.

Olye doesn’t hear her. He is remembering the first time he saw her that session after the Denton meltdown. They were both attending a stakeholder meeting being held in the Lieutenant Governor’s Reception Room. It was an exhausting two-hour discussion, but near the end of it, Martinez-Bahn found the strength to shout down a room full of powerful oil and gas lobbyists to give a clueless suburban mayor the chance to say his uninformed peace.

Olye notices that Martinez-Bahn is smiling at him, and waiting. Her hand is on his leg.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks.

“Back there, outside of that building, you saw those young men from the breakfast and you started to say something.” Her patient interest is genuine; the value of Olye’s counsel is well established.

Olye tries to recall his earlier thought without success. He is caught up in a state of reverie. “I don’t remember; I’m sorry.” Martinez-Bahn shrugs and looks away, out the window.

After riding in silence for several minutes, Olye suddenly speaks.

“When I was a boy growing up in a middle class suburb, there seemed to be this feeling that we were all missing out on something. That our station was acceptable, but somehow also inferior.”

Martinez-Bahn turns her head toward Olye and leans back against the headrest. It is unusual for Olye to speak without a filter. She watches him patiently, silently.

“I don’t know what I mean.”

Martinez-Bahn nods sadly. “My father used to talk like that. He said that some of us had failed to read our history. Our place in the middle class is not guaranteed, but something has convinced the middle class that they are holding a station that no one else wants. He always called it ‘middle-class shame’.”

She started to engage her mobile, but she stopped suddenly and spoke: “As if that explained everything.”

Olye looks over at her, as if she might be teasing him.

“Maybe,” he concedes.