The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  “Fine, I’ll play your game. What are the stakes?” As much as he was protesting, I think Mister Bennit kind of wants to do this. Or at least hear us out. It has to be something good though.

  “You can buy us new video game consoles,” Vince offers. I roll my eyes. Mister Bennit said good, not ridiculous.

  “You swear off espresso for a month,” Amanda tries. Right, you would have better luck asking the women on the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills to stop getting plastic surgery.

  “Um, no.”

  “A week?” asks Xavier.

  Mister Bennit just starts shaking his head and keeps shaking it.

  “A day?” offers Vanessa.

  “Five minutes?” Brian asks.

  “Thirty seconds?” Emilee meekly adds.

  Vince breaks the string. “Oh, right, and I'm the addict!” Everyone begins laughing, but not me. I am serious about making this bet, I’m just not sure why.

  “Bell’s about to ring. If that’s the best you can—”

  “You run for Congress.” The class hushes as I cut him off. I now have everyone’s attention, which is surprising since I really didn’t think it was that good of an idea. I don’t even know where the thought came from, but I go with it. “If we all get an A on the final exam, you run for Congress in the fall.

  Mister Bennit is one of those teachers who rarely expresses his own opinions. When discussions about politics come up in the course of teaching history, he goes all devil’s advocate on us. I can never figure out what views are his. He is so informed about issues, he can convincingly argue for either side. We have seen him switch positions in the middle of class debate, and it’s wildly entertaining.

  The rest of the room breaks into enthusiastic agreement with my idea. Mister Bennit is über-military and has no tolerance for politics or pandering. He is a leader, not a politician, so it’d be an awfully interesting term in office if he won.

  He stands in the middle of his stage and folds his arms across his chest. “You all clearly lost your minds. Are you that desperate to get me out of here?”

  Vanessa pounces. “Mister B, all year we've listened to you lecture about making a difference in the world.”

  “You said those who have the ability to act have the responsibility to. Those were your words, right?” Brian is practically a human tape recorder. No doubt those words were said at some point during the year.

  “Mister B, we just want to see if you walk the walk as good as you talk the talk,” Xavier says.

  “Be careful, Xavier,” Mister Bennit warns. “I walked the walk and sacrificed more than most Americans ever will. And I can show you the scars from multiple tours in the Middle East to prove it.”

  “Everyone knows you'd be great,” Vanessa almost whispers.

  “Great at politics?” he says with a laugh. “Just so we're clear. You want me to run for office knowing the only thing I despise more than lawyers are lawyers who become politicians?”

  “Nobody expects you to be any good at politics, Mister Bennit,” I chime in. “It’s not about politics. It’s about leadership, and service, and commitment to community. It’s about the things nobody sees in Washington anymore.” Mister B isn’t going to be swayed by calling him out or trying to guilt him into doing something he doesn’t want to do. But he does respond to direct appeals to his sense of duty and to country.

  “You have the honor, integrity, courage, and selflessness we should demand from our leaders. It is the same qualities the American people complain about politicians lacking. Why not be the candidate they claim to want and see what happens?”

  The entire class is floored. They are riveted by my little speech, and that’s saying something for my AD/HD generation. Our attention span can only be measured in tenths of seconds. Everyone turns their focus back to our teacher who, for perhaps the first time since this class began in September, stands speechless.

  When he finally opens his mouth, the words were not exactly what I was expecting. “Clearly, helping you all improve your debate skills this year was a bad idea. But since there is no chance in hell of you guys pulling this off anyway, I’ll take your bet.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Emily says. Of course, she was also drowned out by about a dozen others who ask a variation of the same question.

  “Yes, if you all think you are good enough to score an A on the final, I'll do it.”

  “Ha! We are going to smoke this final just to watch Mister B get humiliated on national television!” Vince exclaims, earning him a playful slap on the back of the head from Vanessa.

  “Funny, Vince. By the way, how do you all plan on enforcing this bet? You are out of here in a couple of weeks.”

  “Most of us signed up for Contemporary Issues with you next year,” Peyton adds in a matter the fact tone.

  “I must be losing my touch. Didn't you guys get enough abuse?”

  “Yeah, but we're sadists,” Vince responds. He’s partially right. The word on the street is that he is much easier on his seniors in that class than his American History students. I am eager to find out whether the rumor is true.

  The bell rings to dismiss the class. We pack up our remaining belongings and erupt into a cacophony of conversation as we collectively head toward the door. I am smiling, pleased not only getting him to agree to the bet, but at the prospect of actually forcing him to pay up.

  As we start out into the hall, I hear Mister Bennit call out to us. “Hey, let's keep this bet between us. Nobody tells Miss Slater. I don't want to end up on the couch tonight!”

  .

  -NINE-

  MICHAEL

  I never make bets with my students. I am not against it in principle, just not of the opinion bribes should be used as a form of motivation. Some teachers swear by these techniques – using bets and bribes to encourage learning. It’s just a tactic I choose not to employ. It is not something Jessica believes in either. Word of this wager will no doubt spread like a California forest fire through the school. I can only hope nobody whispered the news in her ear already.

  I park outside my condo, right next to Jessica’s blue Nissan. I had to stay late at school to get some planning done for finals, otherwise I would have beaten her home. I retrieve my trusty old military assault pack from the back seat and head for the front door. The bag has been repurposed from carrying ammunition and the tools of war to books and other various materials of a teacher.

  Entering the foyer, I drop my keys in a dish on the small table and look up to see Jessica. She looks sexy standing in the entrance to the living room wearing her workout clothes. “I put an extra blanket and pillow on the couch for you for tonight ... congressman.”

  She stalks off down the hall. Uh-oh. I peek into the room and, sure enough, a blanket is folded neatly on one of the cushions with a pillow perched on top. Damn, so much for the class keeping this on the down low. Now it’s time to find out just how much trouble I am in.

  “So, we are skipping the fight and going straight into the consequences?” I ask, and am not rewarded with a response.

  I change into my own gym clothes and we pile into the car in complete silence. In fact, we are almost done with our matching forty-five minute workouts on the treadmill before I even attempt communication. When she slows to a walk and removes her iPod ear buds, I seize the opening.

  “So, which one of my students threw me under the bus?”

  “Does it matter?” she sharply responds, not even looking at me.

  “I just need to know who to fail,” I respond playfully. Nope, she is having none of that.

  “You made the bet,” Jessica replies coldly.

  “As if they have a chance of winning.”

  Jessica stops her treadmill, towels off her forehead and turns to me, an icy look in her eyes.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven't you told me a few dozen times never to underestimate your honors American history class? But whatever,” she says, as she picks up her water bottle, turns and walks away
.

  The dreaded ‘whatever.’ It is the word women use to say ‘I’m right, you’re wrong, and the sooner you realize it, the sooner we’ll start talking again.’ It also means this conversation is over for now, forcing me to wait to find out exactly why this is bothering her so much.

  That’s the only thing I reflect on during our drive back to my place. I can understand her being a little miffed about the bet, but she is more than miffed. She’s pissed, yet not angry enough to head south and stay at her place tonight. Yes, my fiancée has well-documented degrees of anger.

  Jessica essentially moved in with me when we got engaged over winter break five short months ago. My condominium is a full hour closer to the school than her residence down near the Long Island Sound, so it made plenty of sense that she stay with me. My place being far too small to make any accommodation for her furniture and, not wanting to take a chance of her things being ruined in storage, she decided to keep her apartment. Despite my pleadings about wanting to save money, she will continue to pay the rent until we do the post-wedding furniture reconciliation.

  Since she maintains this retreat, if she were upset enough, some geographical distance would be inserted between us instead of simply banishing me to the couch. A skeptic would think that’s the actual reason she keeps it. I’m trying not to be that cynical.

  Once home, we each take showers and then eat in relative silence. After dinner, she retires to the small office originally intended to be a guest bedroom, and I am left with complete control of the television. The eleven o'clock news is on when Jessica walks into the room dressed for bed and sits next to me. She grabs the remote and turns off the power.

  “Why did you make the bet?”

  “Why is it bothering you so much? What does it really matter?” Answering a question with a question is a classic in the art of deflection and usually annoys her, but works this time.

  “It matters because you are doing it again,” she replies, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

  “Doing what?”

  “You really don’t see it, do you? It’s a losing proposition for everyone. If they don't win the bet, they feel they let you down. If they do win, you have to humiliate yourself running in an election you could never hope to win.”

  Jessica has always been critical of the lofty standards I set for the kids in my classes. It has been the source of countless discussions and arguments between us since the moment we met. Once we got engaged, we reached a tenuous détente, but neither of us has changed our minds on the subject.

  “Three years of teaching and I have never had even half of a class all earn an A on any exam, much less a final. You know they are incredibly hard.” True statements, but also a pretty weak defense.

  Jessica takes a moment to think about her words. “You are counting on them losing this bet. But you are underestimating yourself and your class. Did you put any thought at all into what happens if you lose?”

  “It'll be fine, honey. Trust me.”

  “Never trust an old Army sergeant who says ‘trust me.’ You’d better hope you’re right.” It was more of a warning than a statement. “C'mon, time to go to bed.”

  “I can't, you’re sitting on it,” I reply playfully, sensing the worst is over.

  Jessica stands up and reaches her hand out to me. “I'm not asking again. Come to bed, congressman.”

  I flash a little smile, turn off the light, and follow her down the dark hallway. She is right about one thing. I haven’t considered what would happen if I lose this bet. Maybe Chelsea is right and I possess all the principles the American public claim to want in a politician.

  Romantic as that sounds, deep down I realize I could never win. I have nobody willing to contribute money and no connections. Even if I did, I am too direct, loathe the games politicians play, and could never subject myself to the personal scrutiny the modern public figure has to endure. I’m not sure how I could deal with the media’s voracious appetite for news and political enemies who will use any small detail to forge an advantage in the polls.

  “It won't get that far, you know,” I say, more trying to convince myself than my future wife.

  Her reply makes me believe she somehow already knows how this is going to turn out. “I'll remember you said that when it gets that far.”

  .

  -TEN-

  KYLIE

  She almost never comes into the Big Apple, at least not by herself. There are occasions when her boss has some manner of business here, and that is about the only time I see her. It’s a preferable arrangement for both of us, because we can’t stand each other. She has her world, I have mine, and when they collide, two 747s slamming head-on at 30,000 feet is a good metaphor to describe the result.

  She is someone who has gotten used to the trappings of power and the D.C. after-hours political scene, so my first thought was to torture her at one of the many tourist traps the city has to offer. I was thinking maybe something around Times Square, where typical bills of fare are offered up to tourists at obscenely marked-up prices. She would consider any such place beneath her.

  I decided on a different approach. With all the Saturday matinees in the Theater District, it will be too crowded in the restaurants to initiate this confrontation, especially in early June. Plus, I want her to feel somewhat relaxed while still letting her know that she is in my city now. New York is my turf, so I settled on a nice quiet bistro in the Village where I can say my peace. It is charming enough for her to be slightly at ease, while hip and artsy enough to remind her she is swimming in my fishbowl, and not with the rest of the sharks in the Beltway aquarium.

  Now fashionably late, I watch as she saunters up and glides into the seat across from me. “Long time, no see, Kylie,” she says as she places her oversized purse on the floor next to her chair. “How’s unemployment treating you?”

  Apparently the gloves are coming off early. “Hi, Madison. It’s great, thanks for asking. How’s life working for the snake charmer?” I respond in a feint of innocence as she smiles smugly.

  “Same old, same old. Just doing the people’s work and representing the best interests of the district, like we always do.”

  The waiter comes over and asks us for our drink order. “I’ll have the Chardonnay,” I say. “And she’ll have a glass of grape Kool-Aid.” The Jonestown metaphor is lost on the waiter, but not on Madison.

  “And can you slip some hemlock into her drink since she is committing career suicide anyway?”

  The waiter stammers, stuttering something about not having Kool-Aid and asking what hemlock is. I let him off the hook just to make him go away.

  “Just bring two Chardonnays.” And with that, he bolts from our table, no doubt relieved to get away from the crazy women seated here.

  “Well, this is almost like old times, right sis? The two of us trading barbs across the table.”

  “Almost,” I reply. “Except back then, our battles were small and harmless. Not the scorched earth campaigns they are now.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Oh, Madison, the innocence routine may enchant other members of the press, but it stopped working on me in grammar school. So do us both a favor and drop it, will you?” She smarts a little at the comment, but says nothing. A supreme accomplishment for a woman who talks for a living, I might add. “Despite our differences, I never thought you’d be complicit in getting me fired from a job.”

  “I didn’t get you fired from anything, and I resent that accusation.”

  “No, you didn’t, but your boss did. And frankly I don’t give a damn what you resent.”

  The waiter arrives with our wine and asks us for our order. Neither one of us is hungry by this point, so he is promptly dismissed. Once he flees out of earshot, Madison leans forward, a flash of anger in her eyes.

  “He did no such thing, and the mere insinuation that he did is insulting. Congressman Beaumont is an honest and capable servant of the people who would never jeopardize h
is position to force the firing of a second rate journalist making unsubstantiated claims.” Second-rate journalist. That was meant to hurt.

  “Well, this second-rate journalist has it on good authority, from reliable sources, that Winston Beaumont was instrumental in passing legislation favorable to the Lexington Group.”

  “There’s nothing illegal about that, Kylie.”

  “No, but when he personally benefits from it to the tune of over $300,000 in financial compensation not made directly to his campaign, it’s called a kickback. And that, my dear little sister, is very illegal.”

  I just played the best card in my hand. There were only a couple of news outlets that covered the allegation, and none of them put a monetary value on it. I did, because that was the number the two sources gave me. One more person to corroborate and I could have run the story, even in the left-leaning paper I served.

  “You’ve been watching too much Fox News and reading too many right-wing blogs. You got fired because of all the time you spent railing against modern politics. Everybody knows that.”

  “Everybody knows only what they have been told. It’s even what I was told by my editor. But you know what? It just didn’t sit right with me. So I dug, and eventually uncovered the truth,” I say as I lean forward. She looks at me, the anger in her face replaced with another familiar emotion: fear.

  “Madison, you’re either lying, or completely brainwashed if you think for a second that Winston Beaumont didn’t get me fired because I have the story in all its gory detail. Fox and a couple of others made a few reports, but so what, right? Winston Beaumont’s not scared of Fox News. But having it plastered on the front page of The New York Times? That’s another thing altogether.”

  I know my sister. I can read her expressions and mannerisms. Even though we’ve never really been close, I spent enough time growing up with her to be able to decipher her non-verbal tells. And although she’s doing her best to hide it, she just can’t. Not with me.