Off Message

by A. C. Fuller

"Are you going to decide how you answer my questions based on the angle you think I'm taking?"

  I smile weakly, but I'm growing more annoyed by the second. I should have canceled.

  "I'm trying to look at Ameritocracy in the context of other popular movements in American politics," Gretchen says when I don't respond to her question. "You're using the internet to do it, which of course is new, but I want to look at the spirit of the competition and see where in American history that spirit has shown itself."

  Even though I resent doing the interview, I respect Gretchen's thirty years of experience, and I assume she knows as much political history as I do, possibly more. "And?"

  "And what?"

  "What have you found so far?" I ask.

  "Well, there was the People's Party in the late 1800s, but they got folded into the left wing of the Democratic Party. They were mostly southern and midwest farmers arguing against the banks and railroads, allied with the labor movement. There was Huey Long's Share Our Wealth movement in the 1930s. There have been many. Some people frame the rebellion against the British as a populist uprising."

  I'm familiar with the movements she mentioned, but only vaguely, and this makes me uneasy. Like she's got the upper hand. Plus, I know that the subject of DB isn't far away, and I'm nowhere near ready to talk about it. "When I started Ameritocracy, I wasn't really thinking of the historical context."

  "Oh, I know," she says, with a hint of condescension. "But that doesn't mean you aren't part of that history."

  There's an awkward silence. She's waiting for me to fill the space, but I'm not going to do it.

  "Fine," she says. "Can we start with David Benson?"

  "Fine."

  "You've already shared your thoughts on his death, so I won't ask you to rehash that."

  "Thank you." In the last few days, I've done three live TV interviews about his suicide, and spent three hours with the LAPD going over the details of the call and describing exactly what I heard on the line before he shot himself. The last thing I want is to go over it again.

  "I want to ask you about his candidacy, and what it says about your competition, and about America."

  "Fine," I repeat, sipping my juice. She's trying to draw me out, but I'm not going to give her any more than I have to.

  "When Mr. Benson entered the race, many wondered what it said about America's addiction to celebrity. And it echoed what some were already saying about Ameritocracy. In fact, some feared—"

  "You know I worked with Alex Vane for years, right? I know how journalism works. Do you really think you can come at me with 'many questioned' and 'some were' and 'some feared'? C'mon. Just say what you thought."

  "It's not only me, but, fine. My concern when I first heard the idea—and it was heightened when David Benson entered the competition—is that America has a long history of rejecting elites in favor of the 'people's champion.' Leaders of the Democratic and Republican parties got there through years of public service, years of working within the political system we have, not the one we wish we had."

  The condescension drips off her tongue, but I don't mind because I've already planned my counter. First, I'll let her hang herself.

  "In most areas of our lives," she continues, "we want experienced experts, right? You want your children to go to elite colleges. You want your football team to land the very best quarterback prospect, not some random guy picked by an internet poll. You get cancer and, who do you choose, an elite surgeon who's been at this for twenty years, or a Hollywood actor who you've had a crush on ever since he played a hot doctor on TV?"

  "Were those rhetorical questions?"

  "They were, but here's my real question. What does it say about Ameritocracy that a celebrity like DB could rise to the top in two months without any political experience? And doesn't the two-party system exist partially to have public vetting of candidates, to get the dirt about them before they rise to the top?"

  "Historically, political parties have protected their own. Vetting is the job of journalists."

  She smiles. "Touché. That is our job, but parties do their own work vetting candidates as well. But to my other questions..."

  "Indeed," I say. "Your other questions. DB did rise to the top quickly because of the power of the internet, but once he did, that same internet—not the traditional media—gave him a vetting that…" I hesitate, unsure if I want to say the next part, but it's true, "...that he didn't survive. The video was enough to drop him out of the top spot, and he was falling like a rock when he…when he..." I look down at the table.

  "Killed himself?"

  "Yes."

  Gretchen takes a long, slow sip of iced tea, studying me. "But isn't that just it? Your competition assumes that centralized control by the two parties is a bad thing, but if David Benson had never entered, maybe that video never comes out and he's still alive."

  I've had the same thought a hundred times over the last week, but I'm not about to admit it. "We don't know why the video came out when it did, or who leaked it. We don't even know who recorded it."

  "Wait a second—"

  "No, let me finish. You know as well as I do that the video could have been leaked by someone at a rival studio to sink the Atlantis movie. It could have been a spurned lover. Could have been a prank. And yes, it might have had something to do with him hitting the top spot in Ameritocracy, but I don't think you know. I don't think we'll ever know."

  She looks at me skeptically, but doesn't press it. "Okay, but what about the general concern that some people have—"

  "Gretchen, c'mon."

  "Okay, the general concern I have. The concern that your competition represents an irresponsible rejection of the elite, a dangerous embrace of populism that, while rooted in some ways in the American tradition, is potentially dangerous. Throughout American history, populist movements have often been tied to nativism and white nationalism, and susceptible to demagogues."

  This is where I knew we'd end up, and I'm ready for it. "Who's our top ten right now?"

  She squirms in her chair, but doesn't stay uncomfortable for long. "Well, now that your top candidate has taken his own life, your top ten is…wait lemme think…Robert Mast is number one. Maria Ortiz Morales is number two. Tanner Futch is number three."

  She says Futch's name with disdain.

  "I'll give you Futch," I say. "He's more of a personality, a performer, than anything else. And, of course, he's an example of the way populism can use coded racism and nativism. But Reagan was a performer, too. He—"

  "Please don't compare Tanner Futch to Ronald Reagan. Futch would drag me across the border to Mexico by my hair if he could. And I was born here! Reagan at least—"

  "You're right, bad comparison. I was mostly saying that Reagan had an acting background and Futch is, essentially, a performance artist. But what about our top two? Both are veterans. Mast is a three-star general who's been courted by—and rejected—the Republican establishment. Morales is a hero of the war in Afghanistan, a woman who lost a leg for her country, lost her husband to cancer, then got herself elected as a left-leaning independent in a historically Republican district in Ohio. Not to mention, she's the first Latina elected to national office in Ohio."

  "Agreed," she admits. "But what about Marlon Dixon, Cecilia Mason, Beverly Johnson, Wendy Kahananui, and Orin Gottlieb?"

  "They're at numbers four, five, eight, nine, and ten right now. And I concede, none of them have political experience. None of them have military experience. But Dixon is one of the most respected Christian activists in the country, Mason is a billionaire who's created ten of thousands of jobs in New York and New Jersey, and…"

  I trail off because Johnson, Kahananui and Gottlieb are harder to defend against accusations of inexperience. "I'll point out that you skipped a couple of our top ten. Justine Hall and Avery Axum. Hall is running one of the largest cities in the country, and Axum served three different presidents over twenty years in Washington D.C."

  "And I stil
l think Axum may have bored two of those presidents to death."

  It's a good line, and I try not to smile, but it's no use. Esposito smiles at me, and I can tell that she wants to break the tension.

  I break into a smile. "I hope you're not positing that Avery Axum is some kind of assassin who kills via long digressions about constitutional law. Please don't start any rumors. I don't want to lose another candidate."

  She reaches across the table and clicks off her recorder. "Mia, you know it's my job to ask hard questions, right?"

  "I know," I say. "I just hope you're asking questions this hard of the Democrats and Republicans who, as we speak, are greasing palms all over Iowa and New Hampshire, making promises they'll never keep, and doing everything they can to lie their way into a win in the primaries."

  Gretchen gives me a stern look. "Believe me, I am."

  The sun has moved behind a building, and I take off my sunglasses. "I believe you."

  "And Mia, don't worry. My piece isn't going to be too hard on you. I think it's important for you to answer tough questions, and I believe it's important for Americans to see Ameritocracy in the context of American populist political movements, but I'll be registering on your site. And I'll be voting. I want you to succeed."

  "Thanks. When will the piece run?"

  "About ten days from now. The last event I'm going to cover for it is Peter's birthday party on Saturday."

  "He invited you again?"

  "He did."

  Peter announced the party months ago and considered canceling after DB's death. In the end, he decided to go forward with it so as not to inconvenience the hundreds of attendees who'd already made arrangements. He'd also promised me that there would be potential Ameritocracy donors there. "Do me a favor," I say as she gets up to leave. "Since Peter is giving you all this access. Do your best to get someone on the campaign trail to cover our first debate."

  "In Iowa, right?"

  "The night before the Iowa caucus. I know you know reporters who will be there. Can you get a couple to cover us?"

  "I'll do better than that. I'll cover it myself."

  7

  On an ordinary day, Peter's house is the most luxurious I've ever seen. Today, it's something more.

  After passing through the gate, where even the security guard wears a tuxedo, I park Bluebird between a black Bentley and a yellow Lamborghini. Stepping out, I smooth my red evening gown and stop in my tracks. A peacock stands next to the custom rim of the Bentley, staring at me like I've just taken his parking spot. Beyond the parking area, another peacock struts just out of reach of a white tiger who is, thankfully, chained to a tree.

  I grew up eating leftovers from the diner my mother worked at fifty hours a week. I thought BLTs came with ketchup—and I still eat them that way—because we rarely had the money for fresh tomatoes. So I've been slow to adjust to Peter's money over the last few months. Under normal circumstances, this level of ostentatious wealth would put me off enough to get me to crawl back into bed and binge-watch The Good Place with Steph.

  Peter assured me the party would be filled with Ameritocracy donors, though, so I put on my best smile, tell myself I'm doing this for democracy, table the question of how one goes about renting white tigers, and trudge up the steps. The French doors are open. The party spills out from the living room onto the lawn, where LED torches flicker in a strange rhythm in the cool evening, like they're trying to mimic the random dancing of real fire.

  Through the crowd of well-dressed men and women, most of whom I don't recognize, Malcolm stands out in a sharp tuxedo, chatting with a young woman near a large abstract painting. She looks like a teenager, and my guess is she's the daughter of one of the rich people in the room. Once again, it appears Malcolm has been drafted as a babysitter.

  Steph and Benjamin stand beside a string quartet in the corner.

  "You're late," Steph says as I approach. "That's two parties in a row."

  Benjamin hugs me awkwardly. He's over six feet, though only a few inches taller than Steph, and together they make me feel tiny. With his mop of dark hair and three-day beard, Benjamin is scruffier than most men in the room, but Steph forced him into a white tux and, I have to admit, he looks better than usual. I still can't get used to the fact that Steph, my best friend and Executive Director, chose to date Benjamin. But since moving to California, little has gone as expected.

  "I thought you were always on time," he says. "A bit of a Monica and all that."

  Before Ameritocracy took off, I ran the office of The Barker, an online magazine that's like a smaller, less political version of HuffPo. People there used to compare me to Monica from Friends because I was particular about my office systems, and bossy when people didn't follow them. And I was always on time. The thing about getting famous and running your own business, though, is that there are more demands on your time than you ever thought possible, so every day it's like a little piece of my punctuality dies.

  I glance around the party. "I think I was dreading another party. Have you seen Peter?"

  "He was around earlier," Steph says.

  "You probably don't want to talk business," Benjamin says, "but one quick thing. Tomorrow we're upgrading the entire office system. Four new machines and new security. So our email servers will be offline for an hour or so—maybe around noon."

  "That's fine. Remember I'll be up in Seattle tomorrow anyway."

  "Just for a day, right?" Steph asks.

  When I moved to California, I put most of my stuff in storage, figuring I'd go back and get it once I found an apartment. Or I'd return to Seattle once the Ameritocracy competition ends in July. I never found an apartment, but I'm pretty well established in one of the corner rooms on the second floor of the office, and my six months of pre-paid storage is about to run out. I planned a day trip to Seattle to deal with it.

  "Right," I say. "You guys can hold the fort, right?"

  A tap on my arm makes me turn my head in the direction of a tiny woman with gray hair and a blue dress. I have to look down at her, a rarity for me. Her face is weathered and wrinkled, but her bright blue eyes are clear and sharp. She squeezes my arm weakly. "Are you Mia Rhodes?"

  "I am, and who might you be?"

  Slowly, she turns me away from Benjamin and Steph, who take the hint and meander to the other side of the room.

  "I am Betty Dunbridge."

  "Dunbridge, as in Dunbridge Financial?"

  She smiles, pleased that I recognize her, or at least her name. "The very same."

  Peter mentioned she might be here, and I did my homework. Dunbridge was born Beatrice Baker, but married Theodore Dunbridge in the 1950s when he was already one of the top investment bankers in New York City. She refused the New York City socialite scene, choosing instead to start her own financial investing firm.

  I shake her hand slowly. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dunbridge."

  "Call me Betty."

  "Okay, Betty, it's great to meet you. How do you know Peter?"

  "My grandson Kevin now runs our firm. He's handling the loan agreements for one of Peter's solar deals in China." Her shoulders seem frozen in a permanent forward hunch, so she tilts her head back slowly to meet my eyes. "I was the first woman to take a financial firm public, and I feel strongly that we need a woman president next time around. And since the DNC and RNC can't get their—pardon my language—their shit together, I'm banking on you."

  I can smell a donation in the near future, but I play it cool. "Are you?"

  "Well, I'm banking on Cecilia Mason. I'd settle for Justine Hall or Maria Ortiz Morales, maybe even Beverly Johnson, though it's hard for me to respect someone who's never had to work for a living."

  I consider telling her that Beverly Johnson did work before she got married, and now volunteers widely, but the first rule of raising money is to let the donor think you agree with them, or at least let them say their piece. "All four are strong candidates."

  "I won't be voting myself. I haven't the time
nor the inclination to figure out those damn machines."

  I assume she means computers and cell phones. "You can have someone register for you."

  "Maybe I will. Maybe I will. But, I wonder, isn't there anything you can do to give these women a leg up?"

  I step back and study her face, trying to gauge whether she's serious. She looks at me with a wry smile that I interpret as, throw some votes toward the ladies, I won't tell if you won't. "I really can't, Mrs. Dunbridge…I mean Betty. We've promised to be completely neutral about the outcome."

  "I did business with Cecilia Mason back in the eighties, before I retired. She was the hot young thing in real estate in New York and we handled her IPO. Imagine what it would be like for little girls to see a woman CEO in the White House, or even coming close. Not some career politician, but someone who actually built a company from the ground up."

  "Well, Ms. Mason did start out with a ten-million-dollar inheritance from her father."

  "And she turned it into a billion!"

  "True, but she's not exactly self-made, like you were. Didn't you grow up on a dairy farm?"

  "I did. First woman in my family to leave Missouri. First to go to college. I guess you've done your research, haven't you?"

  I have, and I use her bio to launch one of my prepared pitches for potential donors. "You know how it is when you're barely making ends meet? You feel powerless and you wish you could do something to make a real change. You got off that dairy farm. You changed your own life, and you've achieved so much. Justine Hall came from nothing. Mom's a nurse, dad was a professional wrestler, of all things. Maria Ortiz Morales joined the service because she couldn't afford college. I'd say you've got more in common with those women than with Cecilia Mason."

  "Maybe. But—"

  "And as much as I might be tempted to, I can't give preferential treatment to any candidate, even if you and I both know who we'd like to see under a cascade of red, white, and blue balloons on July fifth. Preferential treatment is what got us into this mess as a country in the first place, isn't it?"

  I give her a little wink as I say this. She winks back. I don't know whether we'll have balloons fall from the ceiling when we crown our winner after the final debate, but it's a nice image, and it seems to have worked.