The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  “Damn it!” Vince shouts as he violently kicks the front fender of his Subaru. “Damn, damn, damn! Stupid!” He starts mumbling to himself, but I can’t really decipher what he is saying. He slams his fists on the hood one final time before collapsing against it. At least he stops taking his frustration out on his poor car. It doesn’t look capable of taking much more abuse after enduring a couple of years with Vince as the owner.

  “You done with your tantrum, Vince?” Mister B asks, trying to diffuse the tirade and failing.

  “I, uh ... I blew it.”

  “Yes, you did. But you didn't swear once, so there was at least one victory.”

  “Actually, Mister B, I think he did,” Xavier offers. Not helpful, X, not helpful at all.

  “What am I supposed to say when reporters ask where you stand on the issues when you have no stance? I got killed because you’re running a virtual campaign and not taking a side on what matters!” Vince practically yells. “But yeah, thanks for reminding me I suck. I couldn't even handle the local online news site that even bothered to cover this.”

  “Are you blaming me for that?” Vanessa shouts, moving toward Vince. I hear Emilee and Amanda start protesting as well. They worked hard this summer, and are taking Vince’s comment very personally. I might too if I were in their shoes.

  “Well, if you had–” Mister Bennit doesn’t give Vince a chance to finish his statement. Part of being a teacher is conflict resolution. When everyone is stressed out, tempers flare and personalities can clash. We are a pretty strong-willed group, so any more drama could turn this into a Real Housewives of New Jersey reunion show. It would also spell the end of the campaign if it gets too far out of hand.

  “Stop! Both of you! All of you!” Mister Bennit shouts, immediately bringing silence to the group. Vince and Vanessa back down, and he commands everyone’s undivided attention. I rarely hear him raise his voice, something most of classmates find shocking, given his military background.

  “All of you listen like you have never listened before. Saint Francis of Assisi once said, ‘Start by doing what is necessary; then do what is possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.’”

  “When did you find religion Mister B?” Peyton asks with a hint of sarcasm.

  “There are no atheists in foxholes, Peyton. And we are all in the same foxhole right now.”

  “Are we?” Vince questions. “Because I don’t think we are all even on the same page. We want to take a stand and do what’s necessary to win. But you won’t let us run that campaign. Now we’re a joke.”

  “Vince, if a tree falls in the woods, and nobody is there to hear it, is it really worth arguing with people whether it makes a sound or not?” Mister B says while studying our defeated faces. We ran things the way we wanted over the summer, but now I get the feeling our mentor is about to step in and set some expectations.

  “Remember what we said at Briar Point?” he continues. “We have to change the game. Now, it doesn’t matter whether we’re pro-life or pro-choice, or for bigger or smaller government. Whatever we say, mark my words, will be spun by and used against us. Winston Beaumont could make Mother Teresa seem like an exploiter and an opportunist.

  “We agreed we would have to change the game or we’d lose. That started today with what happened in there. Press conferences are their thing, not ours. Luckily we don’t have to do one again.”

  “Are you kidding, Mister B? What happened in there was that I was terrible. Is that what you wanted?” Vince asks out of frustration. He is not listening to what Mister Bennit is saying.

  “Vince, stop trying to be the White House press secretary and just be you. That is why I gave you the job. I just need you to be you.”

  “Maybe you shouldn't have. Maybe I’m not for this job.”

  “Vince, I know you’re doubting yourself, but I’m not. I got killed in there too. You are taking this way too personally.”

  “Forget it, Mister B, I'm done,” Vince says as he climbs in his car and slams the door. We all watch him go before the others on the staff say goodbyes of their own. Mister Bennit watches each one of them leave, saying nothing.

  By the time he turns around to face me, a lone tear is running down my cheek. I’m fighting valiantly to hold my emotions in, but it’s a losing battle. It’s hard to stay strong when it feels like the world is crashing down around me.

  “I'm sorry I let you down, Mister B,” is all I can mutter.

  “You haven't let me down once since the day you were just a scared freshman who wandered into my classroom. Today didn't change that, Chels.”

  “We planned all summer. I never guessed it would be this hard,” I lament, looking down at the asphalt to avoid his eyes. ”Or end this way.”

  I feel Mister Bennit give me a little squeeze on the shoulder. I’m surprised at the gesture because he avoids hugs, or any kind of affection with female students. I’m sure he worries how they will interpret it, or for that matter, how others will. But in this situation, I could use a hug. I will settle for a reassuring squeeze though.

  “I’m not sure it’s over yet, Chelsea. Everything is hard before it’s easy. There’s a good chance the fire hasn’t gone completely out on this campaign yet. We just need a spark to rekindle it.”

  .

  -TWENTY-

  KYLIE

  “Hello?” I ask, groggy from the escapades of whatever dream I was just rudely awakened from.

  “You near a computer? I sent you a link.” I reach for my phone and see it is 6:07 in the morning. Being an early riser was a requirement of my old job, but I’m not a morning person. Since being fired months ago, waking up before eight or nine a.m. has been a rare occurrence.

  “Bill? Jesus, do you know what time it is?”

  “Yeah, time to rise and shine. You are going to want to read this,” he says.

  “Okay, at least give me the highlights while I open it,” I respond, groping for the laptop I’m sure is at the foot of my bed somewhere. With no boyfriend in the picture, the small computer is the only thing I share a bed with these days. Finding it teetering precariously a mere inch from the edge of the mattress, I open the top and screen comes to life.

  “Someone entered the race against Winston Beaumont as an Independent,” Bill deadpans.

  “You woke me up for that?” I ask, disgusted. “Some retread cast out of his party and making a run at a firmly-entrenched incumbent is hardly worth calling me for this early.”

  “You open the link yet?”

  “Page is loading now,” I sigh, trying to stifle a yawn.

  The browser opens to an article posted last night by an online news site in the Danbury, Connecticut area. Not a well-written product, but easy enough to conclude the author thinks this campaign is some sort of joke. He doesn’t write a single complimentary thing about the candidate or his election effort. Even caffeine-deprived, I am starting to see why Bill thought I may find this interesting though.

  “He’s a teacher?”

  “A teacher whose students are running his campaign,” I hear Bill point out, almost amused. “Either they don’t know what they are getting into mixing it up with Beaumont, or just don’t care.”

  “Wait! Does this say what I think it does?”

  “You talking about the virtual front porch campaign? Yeah, but the writer doesn’t offer much of an explanation.”

  I reread the article in case I missed something, which I didn’t. Whoever wrote this sorry excuse for a story didn’t spend a second more covering the press conference than needed. Probably a recent college grad, he adopted the ‘write, submit, and move onto the next, hopefully more interesting assignment’ mantra. It happens all the time in journalism, especially on crappy sites like this.

  “No, they don’t, but I think I know where they are going with this,” I say with a smile.

  “What does that mean?” Bill asks.

  “It means I need to track down this Vince Orsini kid and find out. Thanks for the heads up B
ill.”

  “Sure. Good luck,” he says before disconnecting the call.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I’m heading north on the Hutchinson River Parkway toward the small Connecticut town of Millfield. After losing my job, I almost got rid of this little Honda Accord to save some money. Living on the island of Manhattan, there is no real need to own a car considering the mass transit options. Parking in the city can be pricey, but as I hurl north, I’m glad I decided against that particular cost-cutting measure.

  Locating Vince Orsini, or at least where he lives, was laughably easy. It only took a few minutes to get a street address, so I dedicated a little time finding out what I could about him. Not much was available, but that’s expected for a teenager. The bigger surprise was the dearth of information on his teacher, Michael Bennit.

  Only two media outlets, if you can call them that, picked up on his campaign announcement. The rest of my findings showcased his various activities in the school and community. From what I discovered, he is both active and well-liked. There was a clipping from an article that announced something he did in the Army, but the caption was light on details and made no mention of his position or unit.

  I also checked out a couple of ‘rate my teacher’ pages where students get to either praise or lambast them for the world to see. I’m no expert, but a ninety-seven percent positive rating has to be phenomenally good. I thought I would see comments about how easy and chummy he is, but was shocked to read the exact opposite. The phrases most students used to describe him included things like ‘tough, but fair’ and ‘incredibly hard.’

  My last bit of investigating involved a quick background check which yielded nothing of interest. I showered and dressed, thinking I could not understand why this guy would run for a national office. I only scratched the surface during my fifteen minutes of research, but there was zilch that led me to believe he was a political creature. He doesn’t have the connections, pedigree, a particular cause or ax to grind, and neither the money nor the free time to run for the U.S. House of Representatives. Town council I could see, but what is driving this crusade is a mystery.

  It’s just before lunch when I pull into the obscenely small parking lot belonging to the Millfield Public Library and look for an unoccupied spot. I find one, which surprises me because there are only a dozen stalls serving a building this big. Either people park on another street or this place is flat out empty while the residents of the town enjoy the last vestiges of the summer heat.

  Turns out to be the latter, because the spacious library is relatively still, with only two people at the bank of computer terminals and a couple of others reading. A mother stands at the book checkout with her young son and daughter, as a librarian scans out a pile of children’s books. I survey the main room and find no one in their teenage years anywhere to be found.

  I stopped by the Orsini residence when I got to town and Vince’s mom, intent on keeping her garden from wilting under the late-August sun, told me I would find him here. To say I found that highly unlikely is an exercise in understatement. More likely, he told his mom he was coming here to avoid a litany of questions from the parental units, as teenagers are prone to do every so often.

  I was about to give up the search when I notice a young man seated in a plush chair in the far corner near the magazine racks. He is buried in a paperback novel, feet propped up on a matching chair across from him. Bingo.

  “Hello,” I say as I stop next to him.

  “Hey.” That’s all I get from him after a quick once over with his eyes. I must be showing all thirty years of my age these days. He turns back to his book, so I stick my hand out in the way we obnoxious journalists do when we’re not done with a conversation.

  “I'm Kylie Roberts.”

  “Vince,” he states, shaking my outstretched hand half-heartedly. “Look, I hate to be rude, but I’m not really in the mood to talk.” And with that, he goes back to reading his fiction thriller, or at least pretending to.

  “I thought it would be hard for you to find time for pleasure reading, you know, while helping run a congressional campaign.”

  Vince's head snaps around in surprise so fast I half expected it to break right off his neck and roll across the floor. At least I have his attention now, and am not going to share it with whatever teenage fantasy novel he’s reading.

  “I'm not exactly involved in the campaign ... Who did you say you were again?”

  “Kylie Roberts. I'm a freelance political columnist who used to work for The New York Times.” Yeah, I still name-drop from time-to-time. “I'd like to learn a little more about your candidate and his staff if you have a moment. That is, unless you’re not involved anymore.”

  “No, I can help you,” he says, perking up a bit.

  “Great! And I’d like to meet Michael Bennit as well.”

  “Sorry, that you can’t do.” Vince frowns. “At least, not yet.”

  “I don’t understand, why not?” I’m genuinely perplexed. I would expect to be welcomed with open arms considering his campaign has no traction with the media.

  “Miss Roberts, he’s the iCandidate. I’m sure he’ll grant you an interview, but not in person,” Vince says to me, smiling now. “But that’s why they invented videoconferencing.” I get it. If you are going to run a virtual campaign, you might as well go all the way with it.

  For the next two hours, I squeeze Vince like an orange for all the background information I can. He was remarkably forthcoming for someone who is the public face of a campaign, providing as much detail as he could on himself, the other students on the staff, and Michael Bennit. He probably gave me too much information. After bleeding Vince dry of information, we got the iCandidate himself on video chat and it was nothing like I expected.

  On the drive home, everything I had learned over the last few hours swirled inside my head. The students seem amazing, and their teacher even more so. He’s handsome, intelligent, articulate, manly, a decorated soldier, and dare I say, a good candidate. I may not agree with his not wanting to address issues with his voters but I do understand why, at least as a short term strategy.

  Where he lacks in solid positions he makes up for in patriotism and dedication to spirit of what America really is. It is the message that will best distinguish him in every way from a scumbag like Winston Beaumont. The honorable newcomer with no money and a small staff of teenagers battles against the ultimate corrupt incumbent who commands a massive staff and war chest of political riches. It’s the ultimate underdog story. Scratch that, it’s the ultimate American story, one I know I can sell.

  Freelancing has allowed me the time to touch base with dozens of my contacts, and in a few days, I can hand them all a feel good story. Midterm elections are not renowned for high drama, and mainstream media will be scampering for stories to keep viewers tuned in and papers selling. Hell, with a well-worded threat or two to my former editor, maybe even by my old employer. Yes, I can make this happen.

  “Watch out Winston Beaumont, you are about to meet the iCandidate,” I say to myself, laughing. I hope my sister is well-rested, because when I pull the lid off this, she will need all the energy she can muster. I have enough material for a series of stories, each one stoking the fire until it grows into a raging inferno. Yes, I can make this happen. For the first time in months, I feel a genuine smile creep across my lips.

  .

  -TWENTY-ONE-

  MICHAEL

  The Friday before school starts is reserved for faculty preparation. It is the time allotted to have meetings with our departments, get classrooms organized, and otherwise prepare for the start of another school year. Since the campaign disbanded, for lack of a better word, following the disastrous press event last week, I had the time to get my lesson plans ready. With those done, the only unfinished business left is setting up the classroom.

  Preparation activities means casual dress is allowed for the faculty, evidenced by the normally formal Chalice Ramsey wearing blue jea
ns. Of course, whereas she is dressed in a more business-looking top, I am wearing a simple T-shirt. At least I won’t get scolded until tomorrow when I wear roughly the same thing.

  I write the words ‘Welcome Back!’ in big, bold letters with a dry erase marker on the white board in the front of the room. I have already arranged the seats in my custom horseshoe formation, and the ‘stage’ is literally set for another year. I was thinking about grabbing Jess and skipping out when the short, middle-aged man-child I love to hate shuffles into the room and closes the door behind him.

  “Principal Howell, are you paying a visit to criticize my curriculum already? School doesn't start until tomorrow.”

  “A little birdie told me you were running for Congress or something. Not that I found anything on it in the newspapers,” Howell says with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  “Yeah, we kept that secret pretty well,” I respond, organizing the lesson plans on my desk and hoping he would just go away. No such luck.

  “Was there a point where you thought that it might be a good idea?”

  “Good idea to what, run for office?”

  “To ask my permission.” Whoa. Now the little hairs on my neck stand at attention. Either the building just got hit by lightning or my spider senses are telling me this goofy lout just waltzed into my classroom to pick a fight.

  I nonchalantly grab the Magic 8-Ball from the corner of the desk and shake it vigorously. “Should I have asked Principal Howell?” I smirk and show him the result. “My sources say no. I’m not sixteen, Robinson. Your permission isn’t required.”

  “It’s Principal Howell to you, not Robinson. I’m your boss, and anything that affects this school, or the students in it, is my responsibility.”