The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  As an up and coming congressional staffer, long hours are usually the first requirement. However, while performing duties for our bosses may be the order of the day, just as much business is conducted at night. The area around the Capitol is rife with establishments where young congressional staffers, lobbyists, and government types gather after the official work day is concluded. To that end, I spend an inordinate amount of time at places like the Hawk and Dove and Capitol Lounge developing contacts and trading information.

  On the rare nights when no work responsibilities demand my attention I head to the Adams Morgan section of town. The intersection of 18th Street and Columbia Road is the place to be if you’re in your twenties and living in Washington. With neighborhood spots like the Toledo Lounge and Millie and Al's, nightclubs like Heaven and Hell and Habana Village, the area trumps the college crowds you find at bars in Georgetown. While Wisconsin and M streets offer a great nightlife, the crowd is a little too young and touristy for my tastes.

  For tonight’s outing, I could have chosen to meet at a place around the MCI Center. As hip as they are, brew pubs like the Capitol City Brewing Company or Gordon Biersch are also favorites of Roger and Congressman Beaumont. Since all I wanted was a quiet night out with the lovely Madison Roberts, I thought a romantic Monday dinner in a small Arlington bistro would be perfect. I hold her hand across the table as another round of drinks is delivered by an all-too-eager waitress.

  “How’d it go in Connecticut?” There is a dual purpose to my question. As always, I’m looking for information, but also want her to know that I missed her these last five days.

  “It was fine. All the media outlets are on board. Pretty much everyone knows this election is going to be a joke,” she says as she sips her Merlot. “Had any more fireworks with the Ice Queen since I’ve been gone?” The Ice Queen being the malevolent Deena Shilling.

  “Took her a few days to talk to me after my brilliant stunt when I was late last Monday, but she got over it and returned to her typical peppy self,” I reply, with not just a little sarcasm.

  “You were lucky you dodged the proverbial bullet that day. What would you have done if Marcus wasn’t finished with the poll and the opposition research?”

  “I’m not sure, but I am supremely confident in my abilities. I would’ve come up with something.” Plan B still would have been brilliant, if not as elegant as Plan A turned out.

  Dinner comes and Madison and I continue the small talk about the staff, campaign, and what will happen following the impending victory of our liege. In her role as press secretary, she can never really turn off the propaganda. Everything is pro-Beaumont all the time, and she absolutely believes every word she utters without reservation.

  My views may be a little more jaded, since the allegiance I swore to Beaumont hinges on his ability to advance me to the next level. I will play along with Madison tonight, because it advances that ambition. My unqualified support of Congressman Beaumont will get back to him through her, while serving the dual purpose of helping me explore a separate agenda after I bring her home.

  We share a dessert after our meal, partly because as a beautiful woman in the public eye she is always concerned with her physical appearance. She may not want the added calories, but I just think it’s romantic. So before we finish the final bites of a decadent chocolate mousse cake, I broach a subject that I need to learn more about with extreme caution.

  “On a more personal note, have you spoken to your sister since ...” I let my voice trail off on purpose.

  “Since she was fired from The Times? No. You know we have a complicated relationship, and this will only make that worse.” Madison is clearly uneasy, but I am not sure why. I knew her and her sister were not close, which is surprising since the fields of journalism and public relations are not that far removed.

  “You think she’ll find out we were behind it?” I try to ask as matter-of-fact as I can.

  “Let’s hope not, but if she does, it won’t be because I tipped her off.”

  “Has she found another job yet?” I ask, not really caring, but at the same time acting like I do.

  “I’m sure Mom will tell me when she does. Knowing Kylie, she’ll find something before too long. Look, I don’t want to talk about my sister anymore. I want to talk about us.” She flashes the brightest smile I have ever seen. “More specifically, Mister Peoni, where exactly we are going after dinner?”

  I return her smile. Work is done for the evening, so let play time begin. “As in, are we going dancing or for a romantic stroll in the park?” She reaches across the table and squeezes my arm.

  “No, I was thinking more along the lines of your place or mine?”

  .

  -SEVEN-

  KYLIE

  The big problem with being married to your work is the divorce is ugly. When you devote as much energy, time and resources to the job as I did, a sudden change like getting fired leaves behind a colossal void. My career was everything, and without one for almost a month now, I feel like I‘m trying to fill the Grand Canyon with pebbles.

  It took about a week to pull myself together after my termination. At least I had better luck than all the king’s horses and men had with Humpty Dumpty. I finally called Mom back to face in the inevitable inquisition and sermon rolled into one. The conversation was not as bad as I feared it would be. Perhaps she heard my melancholy tone and took pity on me.

  I was vague in my explanation to family and friends, except for one in particular. Bill Gibbons has been a long time acquaintance of mine and exactly who I needed to confide in. And he is the reason why I am sitting in a Starbucks on Madison Avenue right now, sipping a five dollar café latte while collecting unemployment.

  I am managing to score a little freelance work on occasion, but after being blackballed by my boss at The New York Times, landing something steady has been more of a challenge. The news business is a small world, despite the number of possible employers. So when an editor makes it known to his friends and colleagues that hiring a rogue journalist like me would be an incredible risk, they listen, and I remain jobless. The question is, why would he do that?

  Firing me is one thing, but punishing me by sabotaging chances to find work anywhere else is quite another. I enlisted Bill’s help to find out why I am persona non grata in journalism circles. I didn’t notice him walk in, and am startled when he comes up behind me with a tall cup of coffee in his hand. I must be off in my own little world, since this particular Starbucks is not large.

  “It’s a nice day. Let’s take a stroll,” he almost whispers, nodding towards the door. Since I have no real job, no real life, and no other place to be, I grab my purse and coffee and follow him out the door into the pleasant mid-May Manhattan weather. We turn and begin walking toward Bryant Park, moving with the flow of office workers escaping their cubicles to enjoy one of the nicest days of the spring so far.

  “So are you just keeping me in suspense or did you come up empty?” I ask.

  “I assumed the story you were working on about modern politics was a puff piece,” Bill says, stroking his hair and admiring a woman in heels and a short skirt breezing by. “But it was bigger, wasn’t it? You had dirt on people.”

  “Yeah, some, but the majority was innuendo and hearsay and was not printable using any journalistic standard,” I defend. Okay, so that’s not the whole story. Bill doesn’t need to know I had much more than simple rumors and a piece on the cusp of being ready for print. He is a friend, but nobody is registering well on my trust meter these days.

  “Well, someone thought it could be.”

  I stop dead in the street, the stark reality finally dawning on me. “Are you saying someone got me fired?”

  Bill realized a few paces later that I was no longer next to him. He turned, retrieved me, and said nothing until we made our way into the park. The small space, a stone’s throw from Times Square, is packed with the lunchtime crowd on this beautiful day. Improbably, Bill finds what must be th
e only small green table and chairs available, and we sit down. People are moving all around us, some leaving their seats to return to the mundane tribulations of work, but most desperately searching for a place to enjoy their lunch.

  “Look Kylie, I only know what I was told. A friend of a friend said someone squeezed your editor. A player with significant clout in Washington, and a good enough relationship with your former paper to get you fired.”

  Bill has never been notorious for his focus. He possesses an uncanny ability to notice everything going on around him, which is probably why he is good at his job. But right now, in this instant, I have his undivided attention even with the leggy women in high heels walking by. Bill is a good-looking guy, tall with a square jaw and on-camera looks. I am surprised he chose print instead of television journalism.

  “Who did you talk to about this article?” he asks.

  “Other than my editor?” He nods. “A few coworkers and possibly a friend or two.”

  “One of them talked to the wrong person. Not sure if it was malicious or harmless, but you are living the result.”

  I don’t what to think about this. On one level, I’m stunned someone would do this to me, whether they meant it or not. Journalism can be a cut-throat occupation, especially when mixed with politics, so I shouldn’t be too surprised however. I feel a resurgence of last week’s anger at my editor, but I also want a new target. I want the person responsible.

  “Can you find out which slimy piece of crap did this?”

  Bill exhales, and for the first time breaks eye contact with me. I am not sure why exactly, but he looks conflicted. “I could, but I won’t.”

  “You know, don’t you?” I study his face, looking for the small tell-tale signs you can see when a person is about to lie to you.

  “You have a remarkable gift Kylie, and if you want to waste it by running off half-cocked chasing powerful men, I can’t stop you. But the end result is you are going to end up right back where you are now.”

  I scoff at his portrayal of me running off half-anything. My mantra has always been anything worth doing is worth doing one-hundred percent. After all, you can’t get a little bit pregnant. But I let him finish.

  “Let me give you a piece of advice. You can find out on your own who is responsible. The pieces are there for you to put together. And if you really want to bring … whoever … down, I’m sure you can find a way. Of course, you will also destroy yourself, your credibility, and your career in the process.”

  That’s not what I wanted to hear. He is probably right, but I have bloodlust for some serious payback right now. Some of the information I obtained touched a nerve and has someone running scared enough to get me fired. Now I want to find out what information bothered whom and keep digging until I get what I need to destroy them.

  “I don’t care,” I say, meaning it.

  “Right now you don’t, and I can’t say I blame you. But I would wait. Do what you need to do to get yourself back in the game, and when the opportunity presents itself, get your revenge then.” Bill gets up from his seat and surveys the beautiful greenery of this urban oasis before looking at me. “I need to get back to work. Good seeing you, Kylie. Think about what I said.” With that, he falls in behind a throng of pretty Asian women leaving the park.

  Despite my best efforts not to, I am thinking about what he said. The voice of reason chirps in my head like one of Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games mockingjays. I don’t really want to listen. I have always been driven to achieve a result. Rushing in has served me well, but maybe not this time. Maybe being patient is the right approach.

  “Get yourself back in the game,” I hear myself whisper. Yeah, but how?

  .

  -EIGHT-

  CHELSEA

  “So, I will ask the question again. If the twenty-four hour news cycle existed in 1932, does this country elect FDR? Could he have survived the blogs, cable news, and social media all questioning his ability to lead because he was bound to a wheelchair? Vanessa?”

  Yeah, Mister Bennit is on a roll today. The school year is waning, but he amped up this discussion as if the calendar still read February. With final exams only, like, two weeks away, the class has sort of fallen into a routine of discussing whatever Mister Bennit feels like talking about. The rest of the time he devotes to preparing us for a final sure to resemble a torture worthy of medieval Europe.

  “No way,” Vanessa responds. “His opponents would’ve used the media to humiliate him. And all that would be shared over and over on Facebook, Reddit, and Twitter. People would see him as an invalid and not presidential.”

  I love Vanessa. She’s athletic and confident, but when she isn’t wearing her jersey, looks like a J-Lo starter kit. And in this case, she’s wrong. My hand shoots up to join others who are waving theirs frantically.

  “Good point, Vanessa,” Mister Bennit says. “Chelsea?”

  “You’re not giving people enough credit, V,” I say. “I don’t think it’d matter at all. Before Obama, they said a black man could never be president. Chris Christie was a cheeseburger away from a heart attack before his surgery, and he became governor in New Jersey, of all places. People elected Roosevelt to pull the country out of the Great Depression. Regardless of what the media said, if people thought he was the guy that can end soup lines and get Americans back to work, they’d vote for him.”

  My comments bring on an avalanche of rebuttals. This class can be pretty jaded, so there aren’t too many people in my corner. Amanda is shaking her head feverishly. Brian, the ultimate cynic, is stopping just short of calling me naïve. The rest of the class has broken out into side arguments.

  Mister Bennit is standing in the middle of his stage smirking. At over six feet tall with an athletic build, he doesn’t resemble any other teacher in the school. What strikes me most are his blue eyes. They can be bright and convey warmth and understanding or turn grey and melt steel. With one look, I have seen him completely terrify a misbehaving student.

  Today, his eyes show amusement, and I can tell he loves starting this. Getting a group of generally apathetic teenagers to argue about history must give him a lot of satisfaction. I don’t know how he does it, and other teachers in the school can’t figure it out either. There is just something about him that brings out the best in his classes.

  Mister Bennit holds his hands in the air to settle everyone down. The class dials down the noise level back to a tolerable decibel level.

  “One at a time guys. Em?”

  “All today’s media really cares about is ratings. There are too many mediums to choose from. If they felt those pressures back then, FDR would’ve been trashed 24-7.”

  “You don’t give the media much credit,” I say. “Even they must abide by the rules of political correctness these days.”

  “Oh, good point Chels,” Mister Bennit chimes in.

  “Yeah, but bloggers don’t,” Brian interjects. “There is a whole subculture on the Internet acting like journalists without any standards.”

  “Who has time to read blogs?” Peyton asks.

  “Blogs get shared on Facebook, Peyton,” Brian fires back. “For the more news savvy, there’s also Reddit, Digg, and Tumblr. You know what all those sites share in common? The highest trending articles are always the most controversial.”

  “Excellent points all around. I’m sure you all have more to say on this, so we’ll continue the discussion on Monday.”

  Vince raises his hand. I have never been able to figure him out. He dresses like he's in a grunge band, and all his friends have absolutely no interest in school. There are much easier teachers than Mister B, so I wonder why he is even here.

  “Oh, I feel a nightmare coming on. Go ahead, Vince.”

  “I think I speak for the class. Since we're all going to ace the final, let’s say you just give us an A now and we'll play video games on exam day instead?”

  The class snickers. Vince theatrically mimics working a game controller. I laugh
too, but only because the thought of us all getting over an eighty on this exam is just comical.

  “Vince, I swear you're a case study on the effects of marijuana on the teenage mind,” Mister Bennit replies, probably only half-joking.

  “What if we did all get an A?” I have no idea why I am indulging this, but I guess I am still in an argumentative mood.

  “Really, Chelsea? This is the most intelligent and gifted honors American History class I have ever taught, and I still wouldn't need all ten fingers to count the number of A grades you guys got on your midterms. Now you all think you'll smoke the final? Nice wish.”

  “But what if we did? What do we get?” Amanda asks, keenly interested in the conversation.

  “A grade,” Mister Bennit replies with his usual sarcasm.

  “Other than a grade?”

  “A really good grade.” We all look at our teacher impatiently. Peyton even begins tapping her finely manicured fingernails on her desk. Most teachers don’t like being challenged. Mister B is not one of them. “I don't do bribes, hand out candy, or dole out rewards of any kind. You all know that.”

  “So you, like, don't think we can do it?” Peyton asks, not willing to back down. You would think she is all style and no substance by looking at her. She will be Homecoming Queen and the Prom Queen next year, but under pretty wrapping of designer clothes is a tough, smart girl when she lets it show.

  “Peyton, I have the utmost confidence in the capabilities of this class. In that spirit, no, I don't think you have a chance.”

  “Fine. How about a bet then?” Vanessa just threw down the gauntlet.

  “What, are we at the track now? No, I don’t bet with students.”

  “Chicken.” Oops. That sort of slipped from my mouth.

  “Chels, you may be the only student I have who can get away with calling me that.”

  Vince starts flapping his arms and Vanessa and a few others make clucking noises, resulting in the desired effect.