Off Message

by A. C. Fuller

  "Sorry but...but did I do something to offend you?"

  "You started Ameritocracy," she says without hesitation.

  "And what's the—"

  "I'm a lifelong liberal, and I don't like that your little moral-purity vanity project is gonna get a bomb-happy neocon like Robert Mast elected. Or, even worse, swing the election to one of the evil clowns in a suit who make up the Republican field. I'm not totally happy with the slate of corporate Dems we're flirting with in the primaries, but I'm not stupid enough to take the position that we should therefore blow up the system."

  "That's not what I—"

  "Anything else?" She sounds thoroughly finished with the conversation.

  "No, but thanks. For the information, I mean."

  I set my phone on the desk and try to make eye contact with Post-it, hoping for some reassurance. He's purring happily on my lap, oblivious.

  Sylvia's reaction to Ameritocracy isn't anything new. I've heard sentiments like hers a few hundred times in the last few months. From bloggers, from pundits, from old friends. Hell, that one dude even spit on my car. When you hear something often enough, though, sometimes it starts to feel true. Maybe it's Peter, maybe it's Mast's shady dealings, or maybe I'm just having a bad morning, but I've never felt less inspired by Ameritocracy.

  Steph sits on Benjamin's lap at his desk, planning a Valentine's Day date. Their cutesy giggle-talk doesn't make me feel any better. "We need to talk," I say to Steph.

  Steph follows me to my office and leans on the wall as I fall dejectedly into my chair. "I just spoke with a lovely young woman at The Barker, and I'm more convinced than ever that someone's giving Mast money by buying thousands of copies of his book."

  "By 'someone' you mean Family Media Holdings, right?"

  "That's what Alex said, but we have zero actual evidence. Why would FMH give Mast money?"

  Steph sits across from me and kicks her feet up on the table. Just like he did earlier with me, Post-it uses her legs as a bridge to her lap. "We've got to stop petting this cat," Steph says while petting the cat. "He's beginning to act like he runs the place."

  "Forget the cat. Tell me the thing I don't want to believe is true."

  "Okay, okay. I think it's clear that Mast's campaign is being funded in secret by one of the most powerful companies on earth."

  "Gah! I know. That would also explain why he's running a more traditional campaign. He's got money to burn on ads and a good old-fashioned whistlestop tour. What I don't get, though, is why?" As soon as I ask the question, I know the answer. Companies and special interests have been backing politicians for hundreds of years, maybe thousands. Even though we'd designed Ameritocracy to make that more difficult, we should have seen this coming.

  Steph sums it up succinctly. "Having your boy in the White House is good for business."

  "So Robert Mast is Thomas Morton 2.0, except that instead of Ukrainian oligarchs it's American oligarchs."

  "Assuming Alex was right about the FMH document, yes."

  "And, we have no proof."

  "Also, yes."

  "So what do we do?"

  Steph puts Post-it on the floor and begins a long slow lap around the office. "What we're talking about here is a violation of Ameritocracy's campaign finance rule, which Mast agreed to along with every other candidate. Everyone has to fund their own campaign, which is why most candidates are focussing on social media. It's cheap. We know for sure that Mast is spending a lot of money, so I see two ways to look into this. The first is to talk to the guy, see what you can get out of him. He's smart, but so are you. Maybe you can get him to hang himself."

  "Maybe," I say skeptically. "And the second?"

  "The second is to look into the money, gather more evidence."

  During the DB scandal I wondered whether I should have created personal behavior policies for my candidates. Now I'm kicking myself for failing to require more detailed financials. Though we require candidates to report all campaign expenses, we don't require tax records or detailed accounting that show where the money they spent came from.

  "I'll do the first part today," I say. "He'll be my next phone call. But how do we do the second?"

  "I'll work with staff to put together a detailed record of his campaign stops, all his ads. Basically, we'll try to recreate every dollar he spent. Then we compare it to the reports of what he's spent."

  "What if they match, though? What if it turns out he spent five million bucks, and that's exactly what he reported? The issue isn't whether he spent money, but where he got the money he spent."

  Steph stops pacing and stares out the window. "Then we have to engage some of Benjamin's friends to look into this matter in other ways."

  20

  When Steph leaves, I call Robert Mast. A secretary answers and assures me he'll call me back when he can.

  Looking for a distraction, I open Twitter on my phone. I scan the list of "Trending Topics" and my heart sinks when I learn I'm one of them. It's no surprise that people love celebrity breakups. To my dismay, Peter and I qualify.

  I click through a few tweets to get the flavor of the discussion.

  @StalkerGrll1987 writes:

  Mia Rhodes was a gold digger anyway. Peter Colton can do better. My DMs are open, Peter.

  But @TommyGun24 disagrees:

  She's better off without him. Mia is a hot young thing who doesn't need Colton's shallow celebrity to make her straight up awesomesauce.

  It's the first time I've been called "awesomesauce," but it doesn't make me feel any better. Turns out that people who don't know me taking "my side" in a public breakup offers zero comfort. Like a car crash or my favorite hate-watch on Netflix, though, I can't look away.

  @Broham_monster

  Mia's a stupid bitch. Plain and simple. Glommed onto Peter's money and success to force her stupid project on the world.

  @Neera_Adir1965

  Can't we leave Mia Rhodes and Peter Colton alone? Why do all these fools have to weigh in on everything!

  @FreedomFightingPatriot

  So what if Mia slept her way to the top? Worth it if we get a Tanner Futch presidency.

  @Feminist_Defender

  Here's an idea. Take her or leave her based on what she does. Not who she sleeps with.

  @Matt_the_Electrician

  No offense to Mia Rhodes (big Ameritocracy fan), but she's not that hot. Hmm, Mia or Rihanna? Mia or Katy Perry? Mia or Scarlett Johansson? Can't blame the dude for kicking her short, redheaded butt to the curb. #OrinGottlieb2020

  I'm tempted to weigh in, to reply that actually, I dumped him. But I don't. Twitter is great for breaking news, terrible for messy truth and nuanced conversation. Plus, I have a standing rule: never reply to personal stuff on Twitter.

  Peter knows exactly how to handle it, and is being cool about the whole thing. He hasn't said a single word about the breakup publicly, but his PR team tweeted a statement that made the rounds online.

  Peter Colton and Mia Rhodes have mutually decided not to continue their romantic relationship. They part as friends, with mutual respect and admiration. Mr. Colton remains Ameritocracy's biggest fan, and wishes Ms. Rhodes nothing but the best in all her endeavors.

  Aside from the part about Ameritocracy, it's practically the same statement his team issued after the last five breakups.

  I'm about to return to hate-browsing Twitter when I get a text from Steph.

  Steph: Get off your phone.

  Me: Why?

  Steph: You're reading about yourself. I can tell because you look like you want to hide under a rock.

  I look up. Steph stares at me from across the office with a half-scolding look. Benjamin follows her eyes to me and smiles. To my surprise, a swell of anger toward him rises up, but I dismiss it, telling myself I'm more pissed at Peter than I've admitted. I don't want to aim that anger at Benjamin.

  Me: Thanks, mom. But what should I do?

  Steph: Come out with me and Benjamin tonight. We're going to a movie, th
en to a club where Malcolm is playing.

  Me: Where?

  Steph: The thing I told you about. Hello Dolly.

  Me: I'll go, but PLEASE don't tell me you're going to find me a rebound man?

  Steph: You need to let off some steam.

  Steph leans over and says something to Benjamin, who hops up and does a terrible dance, something like the running man but without any of the rhythm or precision.

  Me: Fine, text me where and when.

  Steph: And STOP READING TWITTER.

  I meet her eyes and slowly mouth the words, "Too late."

  Luckily, Mast calls back before I fall too deeply into social media hell.

  As usual, he's all business. "Mia Rhodes, how can I help you?"

  "Hello, Mr. Mast. How are you holding up since the shooting?"

  "Fine, fine. Of course, we're a little worried to have dropped out of the top spot. Mr. Dixon certainly knows how to spin a situation to his advantage."

  He doesn't sound especially worried. I wonder whether he knows he can spend his way to the top again while Dixon has to rely on free media and creative use of social media. I don't want to come right out and say it, so I begin cautiously. "A few things have been brought to my attention that I'd like to speak with you about."

  "What things?"

  "Certain…irregularities." I sound like the mealy-mouthed politicians I despise, but I don't have enough proof to feel comfortable accusing him of anything directly.

  "Ms. Rhodes, with all due respect, I'm a busy man. We're hitting four states in five days and—"

  "That's just it, Mr. Mast. I noticed a long time ago that you're running a more traditional campaign. TV ads, stops in swing states, little use of social media. Why?"

  "It's working, isn't it? Your platform is powerful, but millions of regular Americans still get their news and information from traditional sources. I think we've done a good job of reaching those Americans."

  Post-it is done with his morning of lounging and now digs in the dirt of a large potted plant in the corner. "Post-it, no!" I say under my breath.

  "What?" Mast asks.

  "Sorry," I say as Post-it paws dirt onto the carpet. "Mr. Mast, you signed an agreement when you entered the competition to only use your own money to fund your campaign."

  "I did."

  "And you've stuck to that rule?"

  "Absolutely. We've spent money, sure, but it's all my own money."

  "And you haven't taken any donations from…outside sources?"

  "Absolutely not. I have to say, Ms. Rhodes, I'm offended by the question."

  "I apologize. I'm asking all the candidates the same thing. We want to make sure that everyone is clear on the rules as we enter the home stretch."

  It came out before I knew what I was saying, and I'm mad at myself for lying. What the hell was I thinking with this call? I've got nothing but rumors and a theory about Amazon reviews. I can't accuse a decorated general without more. Much more. I've come to a sword fight wielding a broken mop handle.

  Mast says something to someone else in the room, like he barely knows I'm on the line.

  "So, Mr. Mast, you're clear on the rule." I say it just to feel like I'm still part of this conversation.

  "Crystal clear, honey."

  Before I can respond, he hangs up.

  Hello Dolly is located in an old building that, judging by the metal sign attached to the red brick facade, was once a cardboard box factory. I text Steph and Benjamin, who meet me out front and usher me past a long line and an imposing bouncer. Apparently, Malcolm added my name to the list.

  "This was the hottest gay club in the East Bay for like ten years," Steph says, pulling me through a long narrow hallway into the club. Twangy guitars and a deep southern voice fill the room—a regular country song I've never heard. Definitely not Malcolm's music. "Then the club went country and got so hot that straight people started coming here. Now everyone comes here."

  "East Bay liberals have re-appropriated country music and so-called redneck culture," Benjamin says. He sounds like he's repeating a blog post he read recently.

  I've never been one to keep up with musical trends, and I feel even more behind the times than usual. "So, the 'Dolly' in the name is—"

  Steph points to a large velvet wall hanging of Dolly Parton, wearing a white leather cowgirl outfit. "Yes, but it's more of an homage. She's not actually involved in the business."

  We stop at the bar, where Steph orders three tequila shots and three beers.

  "To being single!" She hands me a shot.

  "Hey," Benjamin objects.

  Steph winks, then wraps an arm around his waist and hands him a shot. "I mean, to Mia being single."

  They're an odd couple, but cute, and I'm happy she's happy. "To you guys, and to tonight. Thanks for making me come out."

  "Why were you late?" Steph asks.

  "Ugh! Don't ask."

  "Twitter?"

  "I got sucked in again. It's so weird to watch thousands of people have opinions about me when they don't know anything. What's weirder is that they don't want to know the truth. The truth would get in the way of their hot takes."

  "Best and worst thing about the internet," Benjamin says. "Everyone gets a voice. But, everyone gets a voice."

  Steph eyes me suspiciously. "You're an hour late because of Twitter?" She always knows when I'm lying because I'm so bad at it.

  "I was researching Mast, too."

  "Girl, no. We said we'd deal with that tomorrow."

  "I'm freaking out because I don't know what we're gonna do. We have zero proof, and Mast is no Thomas Morton. He's smart, compelling, and powerful. He was powerful before Ameritocracy and if they're cheating, they're good at it."

  Steph gives me her that's enough look and holds up her glass of tequila. "Now!"

  We shoot the tequila, then chase it with beer. Leaning against the bar, I take in the scene. It's a pretty basic space, about three thousand square feet with a raised DJ booth in the back and a boisterous crowd dancing to what amounts to a mixtape of nineties country hits. Garth Brooks, Shania Twain, Brooks & Dunn.

  "I thought Malcolm was playing." I sound more disappointed than I intended.

  Steph narrows her eyes again. "No. Malcolm cannot be your rebound guy."

  "I'm not here for a rebound guy. And…what? I wasn't saying…I just…I thought he was DJing."

  "Sounded like you were missing more than his tunes," Benjamin adds, laughing.

  "Shut up, you two."

  Steph says, "He's in between sets. He'll be back soon."

  I sit at a barstool as a deft bartender flips bottles and pours shots, doing his best Tom Cruise from Cocktail impression. He's got good hair, and the rhythm of his hands is hypnotic. "Nice!" I call, feeling loose as the tequila hits my bloodstream.

  When he finishes a set of four pink cocktails, he comes over. "What can I get you?"

  "Oh no," I say awkwardly. "I was just saying, nice flip of that bottle. The way you flipped it was especially…"

  "Oh, God," Steph says quietly but loud enough for me to hear. Her judgment burns through the back of my head.

  "So, you don't want a drink?" the bartender asks.

  "She was trying to flirt with you," Steph says.

  "I was not," I object, but the sad part is that I don't even know if I was or not.

  The bartender smiles at Steph, then winks at me and does a little double tap on the bar. "Just give a shout if you need anything."

  I bury my head in my arms on the bar. "That was soooooo lame."

  Steph pats me on the back like a coach consoling the worst player on his Little League team after a big loss. "Your heart wasn't in it, that's all."

  The crowd erupts behind us and I turn.

  Malcolm has taken the stage, dressed in black slacks and a blue blazer over a white Golden State Warriors t-shirt, his usual DJ outfit. He's also wearing a white cowboy hat. Following Steph and Benjamin in their rush for the stage, little details come into
focus. The hat is studded with rhinestones and is at least a couple sizes too small.

  We wedge our way to the front as Malcolm starts a low track, a steady bassline I don't recognize, quiet and looping. He grabs the mic and leaps onto the DJ table. "Backstage tonight, we have a special lady." He takes off his hat and holds it up, like Rafiki presenting Simba to the adoring crowd. With his left foot he taps a switch on the mixer and the song changes. Instead of "The Circle of Life," though, it's the opening of Dolly Parton's "Jolene."

  The cheers turn to hoots and out-of-control screams. People wedge themselves in front of me, including a huge dude in a leather jacket. Dozens of people take out cellphones to record whatever is happening on stage, which I can no longer see because I'm the shortest person around. I tug on Steph's arm, trying to get her attention. She sees what's happening and pulls me between her and Benjamin, then nudges me to the front. It's a little embarrassing, but it was that or miss the party. An easy call.

  Now I can see what all the fuss is about. Dolly Parton, the woman herself, is on stage, dressed in a white rhinestone outfit that matches the hat Malcolm waves over his head. The opening riff of "Jolene" plays on an insane loop, getting higher and higher and higher as Dolly begins to dance in place.

  Just as the crowd reaches a fury, Malcolm drops the beat, a distorted drum track that's more rock and roll than his usual style. Backed by a chunkier, upbeat version of the original "Jolene" music, Dolly starts singing and the crowd settles into the song.

  The scene is surreal. Malcolm dances in place while doing old-school scratching on his turntables as the country music legend belts out a performance that is both classic, because of Dolly's voice, and completely revolutionary, because of Malcolm's music.

  A few minutes in, I get over myself and have a good time.

  Malcolm is sweaty when he jumps down from the stage an hour later. Dolly is halfway through a rendition of her classic ballad, "I Will Always Love You," as he cuts through an adoring crowd and finds us along the perimeter. He hugs me and Steph, then one-arm bro-hugs Benjamin. The four of us step into a corner.

  Malcolm smiles from ear to ear. "Thanks for coming."