Off Message

by A. C. Fuller

  I assumed that Beverly Johnson's final line would be the viral clip, but I was wrong. Instead, everyone landed on the line, "The next president of the United States will be the winner of Ameritocracy." People love predictions and bold proclamations, and Johnson's line gave them something to debate.

  I couldn't be happier. Just having people repeat that sentence over and over makes it true in people's minds, even if the next sentence is, "Of course that's nonsense." As debate over Johnson's prediction rages online and on cable news, all it can do is raise the level of interest in our debate, which is about to begin.

  The main meeting hall at the Cornhusker is nicer than the suite, for what that's worth. There are around six hundred seats set up theater-style and a large wooden stage where my candidates take their seats.

  I stand along the wall to the left of the front row, near enough that I can be on the stage quickly if needed. I scan the audience for Peter, who left early to give me the space I needed to prepare for the day. I expected him back by the start of the debate, but I don't see him.

  Gwen Winters eyes the large clock on the back wall, nods at me, then begins. "Welcome, Iowa, to the first-ever Ameritocracy debate. And to those watching around the United States and the world, welcome."

  Applause erupts from the audience. Gwen gives it twenty seconds before silencing them with a two-handed settle down gesture. She runs a tight ship.

  "Our first ten questions were submitted by the candidates themselves." She nods toward the five candidates on her right, then her left. "Each will have ninety seconds to answer a question posed by one of their peers. The first question was submitted by Avery Axum. Mr. Mast, you'll have one minute to answer, followed by Mr. Dixon, and down the line from left to right from the audience's view. The question is: who is your favorite president of all time, and why? Mr. Mast, your time starts now."

  Mast clears his throat gravely, as though even the act of clearing one's throat must be treated with utter solemnity. From his videos and speeches, I've learned he's a polished speaker, though not on the level of Marlon Dixon or Tanner Futch. "That's an easy one, Ms. Winters. It will take me only a few seconds to answer, so I'd like to thank the audience for attending and welcome everyone watching at home. My favorite president of all time is The Gipper, Ronald Reagan. Why? He defeated the Soviet Union, restored America's status around the world, and brought true conservative values back to America, back to the White House. Next question." Mast smiles with more charm than I'm used to seeing from him. He used barely half his time, and the audience loves it. Like his speaking style, his short cropped hair and brown, army-style suit send the message that Mast would bring an efficiency and gravitas to the White House that other candidates lack.

  "Thank you, Mr. Mast," Gwen says. "Mr. Dixon, same question to you."

  Dixon's head is down, a contemplative look on his face. Briefly, I wonder whether he heard the question, but when he looks up I realize it was part of his performance. "First, I think we should take a moment of silent prayer to remember David Benson, who would have been standing on this stage had he not taken his own life." He closes his eyes for a few seconds, then continues. "There's no question that David was a flawed man. Deeply flawed. And now he has to face God and acknowledge his mistakes. I only wish he'd chosen to live, to face man for those mistakes, and to atone for them. May he rest in peace."

  He lets his comment hang in the air. A quick glance around the silent room tells me Dixon has the audience in the palm of his hand. "Now, to the question. The Gipper? He may have been good for people who look like you, Mr. Mast, but to other people he wasn't quite as generous. That's okay, though. President Reagan did the best he could with what God gave him, and I respect that. I really do. But my favorite President, my friends—and by the way, thank you all for coming on this cold winter day—my favorite President is the man who said this: 'If slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong.'

  "That man was Abraham Lincoln. He isn't my favorite president because he freed the slaves. That would be too easy." He smiles at the audience and it almost looks like a wink. "No, my friends, he's my favorite president because, while knowing the evil of slavery in his heart, Honest Abe was also realistic. Years before he uttered that profound truth, he said this: 'We think slavery a great moral wrong, and while we do not claim the right to touch it where it exists, we wish to treat it as a wrong in the territories, where our votes will reach it.' At heart, Lincoln was a pragmatist.

  "I know some of you may question my ideals, and that's fine. I'm ready to look God in the eye when I meet him at the Pearly Gates. But others have questioned my pragmatism, have questioned whether I can balance my ideals with the complex reality of modern America. I say that I can, just as Lincoln did.

  "Twenty-five years before the Emancipation Proclamation, at one his first public speeches, Lincoln said this: 'Towering genius disdains a beaten path. It seeks regions hitherto unexplored.' Look around you, people. We are here to celebrate Ameritocracy, a hitherto unexplored path. The towering genius part I'll leave up to your imagination."

  Half the audience laughs, the other half applauds. Dixon has a way of charming even those who abhor his political beliefs, a quality that could win him this competition.

  Next up is Maria Ortiz Morales, who is dressed in a dark blue skirt-suit. Her light brown hair, usually tied in a ponytail, hangs down to her shoulders. "Mr. Dixon is always a tough act to follow," she begins. "He's quite the orator." She says the last word with just a touch of mockery. As though he's merely an orator. Given that Morales and Dixon appeal to many of the same voters, using her time to draw a contrast with him is a good strategy.

  "My favorite president?" she continues. "I like Ike." She smiles, looking to the audience for a laugh, but the crowd skews younger and most don't get the reference. "Dwight D. Eisenhower. A man of action. That may come as a surprise to you, given that he was a Republican and I tend to lean left on most issues. But he brought America together after World War Two, he maintained policies that worked and changed ones that didn't, and he invested in America's future. Also, he defeated Adolf Hitler, and that ought to count for something. Like him, I know the importance of service. I lost a leg on a hill outside Kabul, so I can no longer serve my country militarily, but like Ike, I hope to serve the United States of America in the White House."

  The audience applauds politely, but her words don't have the impact she hoped for. The problem with taking shots at Dixon's charisma is that everyone loves his charisma. They're moved by it in a way that runs deeper than reason. Even though Morales has more political experience than Dixon—not to mention the Purple Heart for her service in Afghanistan— résumés don't win crowds.

  Next up is Tanner Futch who, to no one's surprise, names Andrew Jackson as his favorite president, citing Jackson's populism, his personal toughness and military strength, and his willingness to fight for America against all enemies. Also to no one's surprise, Futch doesn't mention the Indian Removal Act, the Trail of Tears, or Jackson's other decisions that history has condemned.

  After Futch is Cecilia Mason who, at seventy years old, is the second-oldest candidate in our top ten. She doesn't look it. The billions she earned in New York real estate are enough to buy her a Pilates instructor and plenty of Botox. Her face is tight and caked with makeup, her dark brown hair pinned in place, and she wears a modern, sleek cut Versace suit. "My favorite president was, shamefully, never a president. I'm speaking of former New York Governor and Vice President Nelson Rockefeller who, if Republicans had been wise in the mid-to-late 1970s, would have stopped the party from drifting so far right that they lost touch with reality. Rockefeller was a moderate, even progressive, Republican. He stood for American values, business values, but he wasn't afraid to flip someone the bird when they deserved it."

  I look at Gwen Winters, wondering whether she'll force Mason to answer the question precisely as it was asked. Her eyes are on the candidate like she's trying to decide whether to do so, but she doesn't. "Rockef
eller was a great philanthropist, giving millions—as I have—to support the arts. Even Gerald Ford admitted that dropping Rockefeller in 1976 was a cowardly mistake. Had he kept Mr. Rockefeller on the ticket, the pair would have defeated Jimmy Carter. After four years as VP, Rockefeller would have won in 1980, probably 1984. Had that happened, the far-right Reagan wing of the party would have faded into history and I'd be proud to call myself a Republican. Instead, I stand here today, a member of no political party, ready to stand for our children, for business, and for the greater good of the American people."

  One of the first things politicians learn at debate prep is the art of the pivot. Don't like the question? No biggie. Answer the question you want to answer. In most settings, you can get away with it. Even though I empowered Gwen to push for real answers, Cecilia Mason just nailed a first-class pivot. She wanted to align herself with Rockefeller, with a faded version of the Republican Party and, though she didn't answer the question she was asked, she succeeded. She cast herself as a businesswoman who can uphold traditional American values without excluding Americans who don't look like her. For much of the last month, I wondered how serious Cecilia Mason was about winning Ameritocracy. Not anymore.

  Next is Justine Hall, who appears to be studying notes on her podium as Gwen introduces her. "Ms. Hall, your time begins now."

  Eyes still on the podium, Hall says nothing.

  Another thing candidates learn during debate prep is to look up, either respectfully at the other candidates, or at the audience. It's okay to show emotion, but not too much. Maybe a slight shake of the head when your opponent says something you disagree with. But the main rule of thumb is to stay engaged on stage, polite but firm, and never to stare for an extended period at the podium. Which is exactly what Justine Hall is doing.

  Gwen leans into the microphone. "Ms. Hall, your ninety seconds is ticking down."

  Looking up briefly, Hall says, "I'm…I'm sorry." She's clearly concerned by whatever she's staring at. "My favorite president? That seems…no I can't. I'm sorry, I can't." Finally, she looks at the audience, then at Gwen. She grabs her phone from the podium and holds it up. "There's a fire happening in Denver right now and I…yeah, I'm sorry." She pulls off her lapel microphone, places it on the podium, then turns and walks briskly to the back of the stage and through the curtain.

  My first response is that this is a disaster for Ameritocracy, even worse for Justine Hall. A candidacy-ending gaffe. I think about running after her, but that might look even worse. A handful of people in the audience bury their heads in their phones, presumably to check Twitter for news of the fire.

  Gwen, always the professional, takes it in stride. "As most of you know, Ms. Hall is the mayor of Denver and clearly, well…we'll try to find out what's going on at the intermission, but for now let's move on to our seventh-ranked candidate, Beverly Johnson.

  I tune out her answer because she's already done a YouTube video naming George Washington her favorite president. And I can't get my mind off Justine Hall's sudden exit. Pulling my phone out of my purse, I open Twitter, where I learn that the fire she referred to is raging at an elementary school in Denver. No deaths have been reported yet, but two teachers are in intensive care after rescuing a group of students trapped in one of the classrooms. Justine Hall's public image is that of a hardworking, effective leader who only makes political calculations when absolutely necessary. She's too busy running a major U.S. city to engage in petty squabbles. Now, she's too busy running a major U.S. city to stay for our debate. The more I think about it, the more I think her dramatic exit might actually help her chances.

  Charles Blass, dressed in a slightly wrinkled gray suit and, for once, not wearing his fur hat, comes right out with it. "Favorite U.S. President? What is this, first grade? It's pretty hard to choose between the slaveholders, warmongers, and robber barons that have held that office. Take Robert Mast's selection, Mr. Reagan. The only American president found guilty of war crimes by the International Court of Justice. Why? He fomented a war of terror against the nation of Nicaragua, a country we were officially at peace with. Nicaragua still struggles to collect on the damages to its economy and people from that war.

  "Or Mr. Futch's insane suggestion that Andrew Jackson was anything more than a genocidal maniac out to annihilate the indigenous peoples, who were here long, long before any of us. And don't get me started on Lincoln." He taps on his podium, thinking. "What makes for an admirable president? What qualities, what capacities raise our collective hope? The man I'm about to describe was a president, though not a United States president. The question didn't ask for my favorite United States president."

  He makes eye contact with Gwen Winters, daring her to stop him. He's right, though. Gwen nods, giving him permission to continue.

  "This man brought down a mighty tyranny. He delivered women's rights and, yes, even LGBT rights to his country decades before the United States. He elevated a nation of uneducated and superstitious peasants and made of them a nation that later beat us into space."

  He surveys the audience, who look as confused as I feel. "I'm speaking, of course, of Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. You know him, if you know of him at all, as V.I. Lenin. The greatest tragedy in history was that his vision was never realized. If Stalin hadn't seized power—"

  "That's time," Gwen interjects.

  "If Trotsky had—"

  "Thank you, Mr. Blass. Mr. Axum, now's your chance to answer your own question."

  Axum's eyes are on Blass, who stares out at the crowd blankly. The audience, too, watches Blass. I can't tell whether it's because they're trying to make sense of the fact that he called Reagan a war criminal, or that he named Lenin his favorite president.

  Axum taps the microphone gently. A soft boom echoes through the room. "Lenin's famine. If we're talking about historic tragedies, it seems worth mentioning that four years into his glorious revolution, much of his country starved to death. Now, the Cold War is over, and I don't want to rehash the reasons communism is a bad idea, but…five million deaths in 1921 alone speak for themselves.

  "A while back, at the first Ameritocracy rally, I spoke about the twin poles of American democracy, the fundamental tension that defines us as a nation. I framed it as a fierce desire for liberty on one hand, and a heart's yearning for equality on the other.

  "Mr. Blass favors equality above all else, as did Lenin. Even if it means the state must seize control of everything for redistribution, and even if it means everyone must be equally poor. Equally miserable. In Lenin's Russia, the bourgeoisie starved right alongside the peasants. As a historian, I should be fair and point out that Lenin himself viewed his actions in Russia as temporary measures that would, eventually, lead to complete communism. He was wrong. Maybe had Trotsky taken over, as Mr. Blass was about to suggest, things would have gone differently, but…well, here I am discussing alternative histories of the the Soviet Union when I'm supposed to be telling you about my favorite president. And…and I will but I can't help it…oh, damn. I can't help but defend the presidents Mr. Blass just ridiculed. Men who were faced with impossible decisions and made them anyway. Men who, as flawed as they were, did their best. It's easy to sit in academia and criticize. Much tougher to get in the ring and actually do something—"

  Blass pounds a fist on his podium. "I've been in the ring fighting for justice my whole life!"

  "No interruptions," Gwen says. "Please. And Mr. Axum, please answer the question."

  "It's alright," Axum says. "Yes, you have, Mr. Blass. And I believe that if we sat down for an hour, we'd probably agree on some things. Not many, and I'm sure we'd disagree about the best way to reach those outcomes, but—"

  "That's time, Mr. Axum."

  Axum flashes a warm smile at the crowd, who seem to be loving his absent-minded professor vibe. "Thomas Jefferson," he says quickly, almost under his breath.

  Gwen moves on to Orin Gottlieb, who names Martin Van Buren as his favorite president, praising his embrace of deregulated f
inances, using gold and silver as money, the elimination of many taxes, and his knack for avoiding foreign entanglements.

  When he finishes, Gwen begins to introduce the second question, but her mic crackles, then gives out. Some shouts of "Can't hear you" and "Turn up the mic" come from the audience. I step toward the stage, chest seizing up. Technology problems make me feel powerless.

  Gwen taps the mic. "Can you hear me now?" she calls.

  We can't.

  A young technician bolts up to the stage, looking confused. He shakes the mic, then whispers something to Gwen, who steps to the front of the stage. "I'm making an executive decision to break while we get the mic fixed. We'll come back with the next question, from Charles Blass, in ten minutes." As usual, Gwen handles a tough situation professionally.

  And a break is fine by me because I did not calculate the needs of my bladder accurately.

  15

  The bathroom lines are five deep. The lobby walls display four large TVs, three of them set to cable news networks running reports on the Iowa caucuses. Steph and I worked the networks for weeks to get them to run our debate live, but none agreed, opting instead to send crews to record it for possible airing later. Even the dramatic press conference last night wasn't enough to get them to change plans.

  On the fourth TV, a local news network shows Destiny O'Neill, YouTube star and once our top candidate. She's in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a fur coat, straddling a decommissioned missile at Fort Des Moines Army Base while waving a cowboy hat over her head. Apparently she's there to promote her new reality show, American Destiny, and spout the catchphrase I've heard her use many times since she dropped out of our competition. "American Destiny is here to raise troop morale. And that's not all I'll raise."

  The bathroom lines are barely moving, so I take the elevator to the top floor and let myself into our suite. The sound of running water comes from the master bathroom. "Peter," I call, "why are you taking a shower?" I know he can't hear me over the rush of water.