Off Message

by A. C. Fuller

  "Nah, it's not that. It's something about the debate. I could control the big rally back in November. The candidates needed me, needed Ameritocracy. They still do, but now they've become celebrities in their own right. This debate is going to be like a downed power line. Full of energy, but unpredictable. I feel like something's gonna go wrong. Something—"

  I stop mid-sentence when a white plate slides toward me, a sandwich placed perfectly in its center. "What is it?"

  "Lobster salad with tarragon, pickled apple, and arugula. On fresh-baked focaccia."

  "You baked focaccia?"

  "Well, no, I'm not saying I baked it. But someone did, and I assume it was recently."

  I bite into the sandwich, which is soft, crunchy, rich, and tart. Perfection. The deliciousness, combined with the cognac, temporarily distracts me from the stress. "This sandwich is insanely good."

  He does a slight bow. "Thank you."

  "Do you mind if we turn on the news while I eat? I need to remember not everything is about my damn political website."

  He grabs a remote from the counter and flips to CNN on the TV mounted on the kitchen wall, then takes a seat next to me. It's on commercial, so he tries Fox News, then MSNBC, which shows footage from a speech Robert Mast gave earlier that day in Iowa. He wears a dark brown suit, a red tie, and a crisp white shirt. Steph thinks he wears brown suits to remind people of his army uniform, but his buzz cut is enough to do that.

  Peter raises an eyebrow as if to say, is this what you want to see?

  When I nod, he turns up the volume.

  "America is the indispensable nation," Mast says, "and has been since we freed Europe in World War Two. But our might alone does not make us right. America must use its might to serve the world, to advance the world, to protect the world. We must use our might for right."

  I grab the remote and mute the TV as he continues. I've felt uneasy about Mast for months, but haven't been able to pinpoint why. It's not only that he seems to be running a 20th-century political campaign and shunning much of the online media the other candidates are using. It's that he literally seems to be from a different era.

  "What do you think of him?" I ask Peter.

  "Mast? I don't know. With DB out, I'd say he's the favorite, but I'm a little skeptical of his campaign. I know he has a book and gets speaking fees, but he seems to be spending a lot of money."

  "That's exactly what I've been worried about. Ameritocracy candidates can only spend their own money. But if he has that kind of money to spend…"

  "Does he, though?"

  "Steph looks over the expense reports of the top twenty candidates personally every week, and they're required to file them weekly. That Gadschmidt thing from earlier has me worried but...I don't know."

  Peter looks skeptical.

  "What?"

  He doesn't say anything.

  "Peter, what?"

  He points at the sandwich. "You need to eat."

  He's right, and I finish my sandwich, then wave my empty glass at him. He fetches the cognac and pours me another.

  I sip it slowly, eyeing him.

  "How close are you and Steph looking?" he asks at last. "I guess I wonder whether he has money coming from somewhere else, from outside sources."

  "Have you heard something?"

  "Just whispers. If Steph is looking at the records though—"

  "Tell me what you've heard."

  "Just whispers, like I said."

  I hit the counter with an open palm. "Damnit!"

  Peter puts a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sure it's nothing. I wasn't sure if I should even bring it up."

  "No, I'm glad you did. If there's anything wrong with him, I need to be the one to find out. But I can't do any more tonight. Can we go watch TV?"

  Peter points at the screen, now on commercial. "We're watching TV."

  "No I mean nineties TV. In bed."

  After a couple episodes of The Drew Carey Show, I rest my head on his shoulder. "I never told you this, but when we first met, I thought you might be offering me the money just to sleep with me."

  "You're paranoid." He runs a hand through my hair, the way he knows I like. "Plus, if I wanted to sleep with you, I could have done it for a lot less than five million dollars."

  I pull away and punch him on the shoulder playfully, then kiss him on the cheek and rest my head on his chest. "Hey, I wasn't gonna bring it up, but I accidentally overheard you and Malcolm arguing earlier."

  "Huh?"

  "I was out in the garden and your voices carried out the window."

  I feel his body tense up slightly, then relax.

  "That was nothing. What did you hear?"

  "Nothing, just sounded like you were arguing. I thought Malcolm did a great job for you."

  "He did. He does." He kisses me on the forehead. "Really, it was nothing. Boring work stuff."

  He sounds like he wants to move on, which I'm happy to do. Malcolm is a friend, but what happens between Peter and him at work is none of my business.

  Tilting my head back, I kiss him again, planning to leave it at that. But his hand is on the back of my head, pulling me in and kissing me more deeply. He bites my lip just a little, and I kiss him back, harder this time, as I roll on top of him. His black hair falls perfectly behind his ears, his widow's peak even more pronounced than usual.

  I pull off my shirt, then his. I'm in the sweet spot where the alcohol has hit me but I'm not drunk, and I kiss him hard, with as much passion as I can muster at one in the morning. But he seems hesitant.

  After another minute of less-than-stellar kissing, he rolls me onto my side and pecks me on the cheek. I can feel that he's not all the way here. "What's wrong?" I ask.

  He flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "Nothing. Tired from the party. Plus, I'm old now." He chuckles. "Almost forty."

  "You sure you're okay?" I ask.

  He's quiet for a moment, then rolls on top of me, eyes closed. "I'm sure," he says, leaning in to kiss my neck. This is the Peter I recognize, and, as I slip out of my underwear, I know that despite everything, this night is about to take a turn for the better.

  Part 2

  9

  Seattle, Washington

  Sorting through old memories on a rainy day in January is exactly as depressing as it sounds.

  Peter was on the phone when I awoke, so I grabbed a cup of coffee, pecked him on the cheek, and drove Bluebird to the airport to catch my flight to Seattle. Other than a brief encounter with two teenage girls who asked if I could get Marlon Dixon to autograph a Bible and send it to them, the flight was uneventful.

  When I arrived at the storage facility, I told myself, "I'm gonna get this done!" and "I can't wait to see the great memories I left behind!" and "It's gonna feel awesome to let go of objects I no longer need!" Turns out I don't have many great memories—not ones that can fit into a storage unit—and letting go of objects I no longer need is harder than expected. I've been here two hours, and each hour my mood has worsened by about fifteen percent.

  I spend the next hour thumbing through old yearbooks. Instead of reliving fond memories of exchanging windmill high-fives with my besties, I end up missing Connecticut, where I went to high school, and that makes me miss my mom. The last time I saw her was at the first big Ameritocracy rally, but we barely got a chance to talk.

  Setting the yearbooks in a box labeled "KEEP," I rummage through old pictures of my mother. Here's one of her behind the counter at the Greek diner where she worked since before I was born. Her hair is tied up in a wild, curly bun, and she stares at me as I sit on a stool at the counter, drinking a milkshake. What strikes me about the photo now is how serious I look. As though drinking the milkshake wasn't a joy, but an important task that had to be handled correctly.

  Next I find a faded photo of us on the Cedar Lake beach, where we spent most Sunday afternoons during the summers. My mother's bright pink suit contrasts with her dark eyes and she looks every bit the stunning Greek woman who
could stop traffic in our small town. I'm in a red one-piece that was too tight on the bottom, too loose on top. I remember standing outside the dressing room of the local Wal-Mart as my mom implored me to find a better-fitting suit, but I insisted because the red one was covered in Power Rangers.

  I study a photo of us from my high school graduation, a couple months before I moved across the country to attend the University of Washington.

  I'm pretty sure my friend Becca took the photo of my mom and me at the beach because Becca often came with us when her mom worked the weekend shift. And I imagine that my mom's boss took the one at the diner because he always took pictures. But I have no idea who took the graduation photo. Probably just a random stranger. Mom was always asking random strangers to take our picture. Before selfies, that's what you had to do when it was just the two of you. Because my father wasn't around, it was usually just the two of us.

  Thinking about my father is never good for my mental health. I wonder what it would have been like to have a dad standing nearby, watching the scene lovingly and snapping pictures. I don't know if my mom ever sent him any of the photos. I doubt it. I've never met him in person, but I don't know if he knew what I looked like before Ameritocracy blew up and video of me became a regular part of cable news.

  I'm close to tears as I ponder this. For eighteen years he lived within fifty miles, and I have no idea whether he ever saw me. I have no idea whether he wonders how I ended up with rich auburn hair when everyone on my mom's side has curly black hair. It's a silly thing to wonder, in the grand scheme of things, but I do.

  I've tried to live my life thankful that I had a loving mother who would do anything for me. That's more than many people have. It's a lot.

  As I thumb through these old photos, though, rain drumming on the thin metal roof of the storage container, I'm acutely aware of my father's absence. When I was a little girl, I had a vague feeling that something was missing. I wondered why most of my friends had a dad who dropped them off at school, or barbecued for a weekend sleepover, or at least sat glumly watching TV while I played dolls with my best friend on the kitchen table. I convinced myself that, when I grew up, that feeling would go away. That time and independence would be a salve on my loneliness, and would answer the unanswered questions.

  The opposite is true. The older I get, the more successful I am, the more stable my life becomes, the more my father's absence hurts. It's not that I can't deal with the sadness. I can. But I couldn't when I was a little girl, which is why I have to do so now.

  My dad is Payton Rhodes, a former US senator from Connecticut and now an influential insurance lobbyist. We've never spoken, but as Ameritocracy grew, more journalists looked into my past and lately our names have been linked in news story after news story. My father has been great in the press—praising me and Ameritocracy, while still displaying regret over his affair with my mother that, along with my existence, cost him the 1988 Democratic nomination.

  I still haven't spoken to him. Not once. Something about being back in Seattle makes this harder than it should be.

  Despite the difficult emotions, I'm ready to get rid of much of my old life. I discard a box of trophies from my middle-school debate team, recalling the fear that accompanied each debate but appreciative that I now feel comfortable in front of crowds. I come upon an NSYNC poster I've been embarrassed about for fifteen years but haven't been able to part with. Folding it neatly, I place it in a trash bag.

  Next I find a box of mildewed yarn and crochet hooks, along with half a sweater I abandoned during a two-week crocheting phase in college. I carry the whole box to the dumpster.

  On a roll, I pack two boxes of clothes for Goodwill, discard the crockpot my roommate gave me after our freshman year, and, over my own objections, keep a folder full of cards from my ex-boyfriend Aaron.

  Getting rid of objects is freeing when it's not a rejection of who I used to be, but rather an embrace of the new person I've become. I may not yet be ready to let go of the pain of my father's absence, but I'm off to a good start.

  By late afternoon, my storage unit is empty. I've packed six boxes of stuff I want to keep and thrown another six in a dumpster. I've given away a ratty old armchair I never should have stored in the first place and sold a half-decent sofa for fifty bucks to a man in the unit next to me.

  I order an Uber XL, load my boxes, and ride to a post office in downtown Seattle, where I arrange to have them shipped to Santa Clarissa.

  Satisfied, though still a little down, I walk to The Barker, the online magazine where I used to work. I've got a few hours to kill before my flight. Maybe seeing my old colleagues will pick me up.

  I recognize the smell the moment the elevator opens. It's not a powerful scent, more of a neutral odor left behind by the high-powered air filtration system, with a tiny hint of cedar from the bathroom air fresheners. I haven't been back since my last day at work in July, but the place looks the same. A large open floor where around seventy employees work behind sleek desks and lounge about in ergonomic chairs. Along the exposed metal ceiling beams, high-speed internet cables of Seahawks green and blue carry millions of megs of data back and forth every day.

  I texted Bird on the ride over, and he meets me near the front desk. "You're back!" He gives me a quick hug.

  "Visiting," I remind him. "Where's Alex?"

  "In his office."

  "I want to chat with you two, but lemme do a couple laps first."

  When I ran the office, I spent half my time at the desk and the other half doing laps around the office, checking in on staff and fixing problems. Bird follows me as I weave through the marketing section, past the area shared by the core team of writers and into the back where the coders and tech people hide. I still feel at home among the people here, and it's good to be back.

  Alex's office is a glassed-in room overlooking Pioneer Square, and he's frowning at his laptop when we walk in.

  "What's wrong?" Bird asks as we take seats across from Alex.

  "Robert Mast. Looks like he's staying steady at number one. And I'm surprised Beverly Johnson dropped all the way to ten."

  Bird hops up and scuttles around to Alex's side of the desk. He studies the screen. "Johnson dropped to ten? Damn!"

  "Wait, you're on my site?" Alex was never an especially political guy and he's the last person I expect to be studying my top ten. And I had no idea Bird was into Beverly Johnson.

  "I obsess about your damn site," Alex says. He leans across the desk and offers an awkward half-hug. He's lost a little weight since his heavier days a few years ago, probably because he got back together with his wife, but he's still more than twice my size.

  "Really?" I'm flattered and a little confused, but Alex's eyes are back on the screen.

  Bird sits down next to me. "He's serious. I think he spends half his day in here refreshing that damn thing. And I spend way more time than I'd admit to anyone but my mama and you two." He smirks. "You've taken the most addictive aspects of technology and integrated them into our elections. Well done."

  I do a little bow in my chair. "Thank you. I did learn from the masters."

  Alex closes his laptop. "Seriously, though. Does Mast have this thing sewn up? I know there's some time left, but with David Benson…out of the picture…he's the guy to beat, right?"

  "He's done a brilliant thing," Bird says. "Since the Republican brand has been tarnished in many people's minds lately, he's essentially taking the positions the party long held and articulating them without the stigma a party insider would carry. He's able to be an outsider while espousing fairly traditional positions."

  Bird is right. I never articulated it that well, but that's exactly what Mast is doing, and it's exactly why his lead is so strong. We don't post vote totals on our site—just the leaderboard—but he's up nearly forty percent on Maria Ortiz Morales, our number two candidate. His lead will be tough to carve into.

  Alex looks up. "It's a little like what Benson was doing, except that he was
espousing views in line with the Democratic establishment."

  "Alex!" Bird scolds. "I'm sure Mia doesn't want to talk about David Benson."

  Alex was a pretty good boss, but he can sometimes be thoughtless, and this is one of those times. "Thanks, Bird, but it's okay. The DB thing is hard but...Alex is right. And you're right. It's strange that in a wide open primary, the two leaders were in line with the standard positions of the two parties. Ugh! Maybe someday someone will write a PhD thesis about why that happened." This conversation is getting deeper than I intended, so I pivot. "You two have favorites?"

  Alex lights up. "I'm not following all the speeches and videos and position papers, but I'm rooting for Beverly Johnson because she's local. She's from Kitsap County. I grew up twenty minutes from her."

  I give him a look. "You're rooting for her because she's local? Not because you actually agree with her?"

  Alex shrugs. "I'm not real political."

  Bird slaps the desk, then gestures toward him with a sweep of a hand. "I give you: The American Voter. Relying on old, tribal, us-versus-them thinking because he's too lazy to research the candidate's positions."

  I laugh and watch Alex to see if he's offended. But he and Bird are close enough that they get to make fun of each other, and he lets it roll off him. "I haven't even voted yet. Don't worry, I'll do some research before I vote. Plus, I did give a million dollars."

  "Who's your favorite?" I ask Bird.

  "Beverly Johnson, but for different reasons."

  "Seriously?" I watch him, trying to figure out whether he's serious. We never talked politics in the office, but as a gay black man from the South, I guess I always assumed he'd lean more left.

  "For years I've been yelling at people that if we don't get education sorted out, everything else is just jerking around. She's the only top-ten candidate who agrees. She said something I liked, I forget the exact phrasing, but it was something like, 'Until we can walk into a public school in the poorest district in Mississippi, and one in the richest district in New York, and not be able to tell the difference, we can't talk about equal opportunity.' And, I like that she wants to focus on how to keep kids safe from this epidemic of school shootings."